Luc Sante is—to use that blurb-whore phrase deservedly, just this once—a writer’s writer.
“Writing is a deep-sea dive. You need hours just to get into it: down, down, down.”
Even though I find it ridiculous that Fran Lebowitz has been suffering from writer’s block for the past thirty years, it’s mostly just misdirected anger because her stuff is so good. Her book of essays are like little funny Jewish snacks for your brain.
In Europe I learned many important life lessons. I learned that I don’t like one night stands. That spending the day munching on tapas and reading Patti Smith’s memoir in a local cafe, can be just as crucial as spending the day photographing every inch of the Sagrada Familia.
Yes, video did indeed kill the radio star, at least the unpretty ones creating top-notch pop. I can’t think of one major female hitmaker who has emerged in the MTV era who didn’t have sex appeal or great visuals on her side.
Just Kids is many things –– a cultural chronicle of the rock ‘n roll world of New York City in the late 60s and early 70s; a portrait of the artist –– as young woman, as young man; a series of exquisite illuminations; a handbook of saints; a heartbreaking love story. Most of all, perhaps, it is the spiritual autobiography of a cultural icon whose journey is far from over.