---
product_id: 130581081
title: "Year of the Monkey"
price: "RM169"
currency: MYR
in_stock: true
reviews_count: 12
url: https://www.desertcart.com.my/products/130581081-year-of-the-monkey
store_origin: MY
region: Malaysia
---

# Year of the Monkey

**Price:** RM169
**Availability:** ✅ In Stock

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- **What is this?** Year of the Monkey
- **How much does it cost?** RM169 with free shipping
- **Is it available?** Yes, in stock and ready to ship
- **Where can I buy it?** [www.desertcart.com.my](https://www.desertcart.com.my/products/130581081-year-of-the-monkey)

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## Description

Year of the Monkey [Smith, Patti] on desertcart.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Year of the Monkey

Review: Stirs my soul. - What can I say? I'm a fan of Patti Smith's work, be it music or literature. And yes, this is literature of the finest kind.
Review: ”…the trouble with dreaming is that we eventually wake up.” - ”Marcus Aurelius asks us to note the passing of time with open eyes. Ten thousand years or ten thousand days, nothing can stop time, or change the fact that I would be turning seventy in the Year of the Monkey. Seventy. Merely a number but one indicating the passing of a significant percentage of the allotted sand in an egg timer, with oneself the darn egg. The grains pour and I find myself missing the dead more than usual. I notice that I cry more when watching television, triggered by romance, a retiring detective shot in the back while staring into the sea, a weary father lifting his infant from a crib. I notice that my own tears burn my eyes, that I am no longer a fast runner and that my sense of time seems to be accelerating.” This often reads as though it were written under a fever-dream and other times the random musings of the poet ”…plucking inspiration from the erratic air”, all the while trying to focus on the things which are established, and her memories of the years gone by. At this point in her life, she has just celebrated her 69th birthday, is contemplating turning seventy in the coming year, concerned over two friends whose health was rapidly fading, the then-coming election, all while drinking lots of coffee, and mourning those who have passed on, and feeling helpless toward those merely hanging on. ”There was work to be done, concerts to perform, lives to live, however carefully.” And the lives of two men that she loved would be gone before another year arrived. ”The wooden bed in the corner of the room seems so far away, and all is but an intermission, of small and tender consequences.” And as the new year starts winding toward the next one, the chants of the coming election seem inescapable, but her thoughts drift more often to her loved ones, both here and gone, the fragility and temporary nature of this one life we are given. Life, love, death, aging, politics, music, poetry, writers, reading, the economy, pollution, all these and more fill and fuel these pages. Some are filled with lovely thoughts, some with frustrations, and some with heartbreaking reminiscences. If you’ve read any of her former memoirs, you may remember of her penchant for including her photographs, ones that typically remind her of a time when someone she loved was there by her side, although there are many that are reminiscent of a place she visited. These things are not just ‘things,’ though, they are real moments in time, captured in some object whose significance may or may not be recognized by anyone else. Like a lullaby, they give her comfort. They are transportation back to that moment, allowing her to relive those feelings, those memories. ”I plodded up the stairs to my room reciting to myself, Once I was seven, soon I will be seventy. I was truly tired. Once I was seven, I repeated, sitting on the edge of the bed, still in my coat. “Our quiet rage gives us wings, the possibility to negotiate the gears winding backwards, uniting all time.” Years ago my brother sent me a box of books, and inside that box was a copy of her ‘Just Kids,’ and then when her ‘M Train’ came out, he sent that, as well – but after reading ‘Just Kids’ I would have bought my own copy, hoping that the magic was still there. I love the way she writes, and her personal stories that she shares. I didn’t think she could match her ‘Just Kids,’ and for some maybe she doesn’t, but I loved this as much, maybe just a smidgen more. I think for some it will be more relatable. ”…the trouble with dreaming is that we eventually wake up.” If you are not a reader who typically read the epilogue, do yourself a favour and make sure you read her final chapter, entitled A KIND OF EPILOGUE.

## Technical Specifications

| Specification | Value |
|---------------|-------|
| Best Sellers Rank | #1,528,275 in Books ( See Top 100 in Books ) #131 in Author Biographies #160 in Rock Band Biographies #18,810 in Memoirs (Books) |
| Customer Reviews | 4.6 4.6 out of 5 stars (1,827) |
| Dimensions  | 5.44 x 0.83 x 8.16 inches |
| Edition  | Illustrated |
| ISBN-10  | 0525657681 |
| ISBN-13  | 978-0525657682 |
| Item Weight  | 2.31 pounds |
| Language  | English |
| Print length  | 192 pages |
| Publication date  | September 24, 2019 |
| Publisher  | Knopf |

## Images

![Year of the Monkey - Image 1](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/91tZTTq1XLL.jpg)

## Customer Reviews

### ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Stirs my soul.
*by M***K on October 4, 2025*

What can I say? I'm a fan of Patti Smith's work, be it music or literature. And yes, this is literature of the finest kind.

### ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ ”…the trouble with dreaming is that we eventually wake up.”
*by C***S on November 23, 2019*

”Marcus Aurelius asks us to note the passing of time with open eyes. Ten thousand years or ten thousand days, nothing can stop time, or change the fact that I would be turning seventy in the Year of the Monkey. Seventy. Merely a number but one indicating the passing of a significant percentage of the allotted sand in an egg timer, with oneself the darn egg. The grains pour and I find myself missing the dead more than usual. I notice that I cry more when watching television, triggered by romance, a retiring detective shot in the back while staring into the sea, a weary father lifting his infant from a crib. I notice that my own tears burn my eyes, that I am no longer a fast runner and that my sense of time seems to be accelerating.” This often reads as though it were written under a fever-dream and other times the random musings of the poet ”…plucking inspiration from the erratic air”, all the while trying to focus on the things which are established, and her memories of the years gone by. At this point in her life, she has just celebrated her 69th birthday, is contemplating turning seventy in the coming year, concerned over two friends whose health was rapidly fading, the then-coming election, all while drinking lots of coffee, and mourning those who have passed on, and feeling helpless toward those merely hanging on. ”There was work to be done, concerts to perform, lives to live, however carefully.” And the lives of two men that she loved would be gone before another year arrived. ”The wooden bed in the corner of the room seems so far away, and all is but an intermission, of small and tender consequences.” And as the new year starts winding toward the next one, the chants of the coming election seem inescapable, but her thoughts drift more often to her loved ones, both here and gone, the fragility and temporary nature of this one life we are given. Life, love, death, aging, politics, music, poetry, writers, reading, the economy, pollution, all these and more fill and fuel these pages. Some are filled with lovely thoughts, some with frustrations, and some with heartbreaking reminiscences. If you’ve read any of her former memoirs, you may remember of her penchant for including her photographs, ones that typically remind her of a time when someone she loved was there by her side, although there are many that are reminiscent of a place she visited. These things are not just ‘things,’ though, they are real moments in time, captured in some object whose significance may or may not be recognized by anyone else. Like a lullaby, they give her comfort. They are transportation back to that moment, allowing her to relive those feelings, those memories. ”I plodded up the stairs to my room reciting to myself, Once I was seven, soon I will be seventy. I was truly tired. Once I was seven, I repeated, sitting on the edge of the bed, still in my coat. “Our quiet rage gives us wings, the possibility to negotiate the gears winding backwards, uniting all time.” Years ago my brother sent me a box of books, and inside that box was a copy of her ‘Just Kids,’ and then when her ‘M Train’ came out, he sent that, as well – but after reading ‘Just Kids’ I would have bought my own copy, hoping that the magic was still there. I love the way she writes, and her personal stories that she shares. I didn’t think she could match her ‘Just Kids,’ and for some maybe she doesn’t, but I loved this as much, maybe just a smidgen more. I think for some it will be more relatable. ”…the trouble with dreaming is that we eventually wake up.” If you are not a reader who typically read the epilogue, do yourself a favour and make sure you read her final chapter, entitled A KIND OF EPILOGUE.

### ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Very Readable
*by J***L on March 13, 2024*

I read this while taking care of my 99 year old Aunt. I would get up before dawn and read this for several hours and take notes on authors and books she recommends. I’ve read it twice and will read it again. There is something about her writing that resonates within me. It reminds me of Gaelic once you give in to the rabbit holes all sorts of serendipity pulls you in.

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*Product available on Desertcart Malaysia*
*Store origin: MY*
*Last updated: 2026-03-30*