Patti, Patti, Patti. Our relationship is a complicated one, since she is the only author who can write things that are completely beyond me and yet hit me right in the feels. Honestly: Reading "M Train" in retrospect felt like reading gibberish that I just could not... stop consuming?! What WAS that? Patti's musings are esoteric, wondrous, magical. That is exactly what her writing feels like: No plot, no sense, just her astounding mind absorbing the world around her in the most Patti way, that is, in a way that I have yet to experience outside of Patti Smith's books. So I am afraid my review will be just as scattered, just as muddled, but probably not half as poetic as "M Train" was. What WAS "M Train", though? It was brown toast and black coffee, olive oil and well-thumbed paperbacks, it was Mexico and Iceland, grief and love and the poetry of everyday life, of New York stoops and beach cafés, of hotels and bungalows, writers, artists, lovers. It was cats and frizzy hair, polaroids and ball point pens, in short: It was Patti's life, an inexorably creative, connected and love-filled life. And yet, and yet. I don't know why this memoir failed to shake me to my core, all the necessary variables were there, but it just... didn't quite GET me. So 3.5 stars for a beautiful book. A beautiful, beautiful book.