I’ve been re-reading Patti Smith’s beautiful and heartbreaking Just Kids, this time around struck by the layers of nostalgia beneath the surface of the memoir. Smith writes with such affection for Robert Mapplethorpe, even of his more self-centered, distracted, and harmful moments, that the forecast we all know of his tragic demise never arrives; we just have two skinny kids banging around New York City on waves of hunger, bliss, luck, and love. Smith’s details of her blossoming romance/friendsh...