Bread of Angels, by Patti Smith

I have been a Patti Smith fan from the very beginning. I first heard Horses at a Christmas party in 1975, and even as a 15 year-old, I recognized the greatness in it. I’ve been buying her albums ever since, have seen her live several times, and even rang in the new millennium with her at a New Year’s Eve concert in 1999. I’ve read all of her books, and I’m even a subscriber to her Substack, where she casually videos herself on her iPhone talking about books, music, coffee, dreams, and life in general, usually from what looks like a dimly lit bedroom that probably contains more great books than my entire apartment.

So yes, I went into Bread of Angels as a fan, knowing what I was getting myself into. This book affected me deeply. I read constantly, but it’s rare for a book to make me actually gasp out loud or suddenly feel a lump in my throat. This one did, repeatedly.

Unlike Just Kids, which focused largely on her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe and their shared artistic awakening in 1970s New York, Bread of Angels stretches across the full arc of Patti’s life. We see her poverty-stricken childhood, her years as a young bohemian artist, her marriage to Fred Sonic Smith, motherhood, grief, music, writing, and the crushing loss of so many people she loved. Pets, too. The loss of her dog and her cat really tore me up, which shouldn't surprise anyone who knows me who's reading this.

What struck me most is how intimate the book feels. Patti doesn’t write like a celebrity trying to preserve a myth. She writes like someone sitting across from you late at night, remembering things out loud. Because I listened to the audiobook, narrated by Patti herself, that feeling became even more powerful. Her South Jersey cadence, her pauses, her occasional moments of emotion all add another layer to the experience.

And above all else, Patti Smith is a writer. Not a “rock star who wrote a memoir.” A genuine writer. Her prose is lyrical, funny, deeply observant, and often beautiful enough that you stop and reread a sentence just to hear the rhythm of it again. I actually paused the book once or twice and replayed a section just because it was so moving. The childhood chapters in particular are extraordinary, rich with detail and atmosphere. It felt like Dickens, in some ways.

Like Just Kids, there's a lot of name-dropping. In some books, that can get a little annoying and make it feel a bit unrelatable, but not here. I was familiar with the work of those people in her sphere, and I found it interesting, not off-putting.

This book moved me more than Just Kids, which is saying something. Maybe it’s because Patti now feels less like an icon and more like an old friend finally opening the door a little wider.

A beautiful, vulnerable, and deeply human memoir. Truly wonderful.