Joan Didion (1934–2021)

Didion's writing always makes me think of a Faberge egg. At once so elegant, with every word placed with a jeweler's precision, and also so artificial. I've read a couple of her novels, some of her essays, and although I am in awe at her skill with structure, language, and subtext, and the control with which she arranges her words, I'm never left wanting to read more. In this memoir, her fierce intelligence, her rationalism all come out on the page. Her emotion, less so. I am left to assume what I would be feeling in a similar circumstance. It is only because I already know how rational and controlled she is that I can sense her distress as her rationality and control fail to (in her words), "manage the situation." When her rationality fails, period. If I did not already know these things about Joan Didion, I would define her as the social worker in the hospital defined her, as a "cool customer." But these are the only weapons she has to grapple with the terrible tsunami of grief. And when her daughter falls ill, it is these weapons that enable her to again, manage the situation.

I was also struck by her position and privilege. Her matter-of-factness when speaking of the people she knows who "have influence at State or Justice," her ability to fly to Paris or Honolulu at essentially a moment's notice, her coterie of friends and family who have houses in various places and where she can ask for permission to stay as she keeps a vigil over her daughter in the hospital. The silver. The china. The wine. The many restaurants where she and her husband have eaten. Her privilege is on the page more than her passion; and it isn't even that I mind so much -- it's that she seems so unconscious of it. And although none of that could prevent her husband from dying, or ease the pain of her loss, there is no question that it smoothed the path.

I read this right after I read Wild by Cheryl Strayed, and there couldn't be two books more different, although they have the common frame of grief. But each one served to illuminate the other. Joan Didion's loss caused her to have "cognitive deficiencies:" she misremembered dates and addresses and lost bits of the last days with her husband. Strayed's cognitive deficiencies took the form of drug use and infidelity. Didion picked up her pen, and Strayed picked up a backpack. But neither of them were in their right minds.… (més)

I'm really not sure whether to give this book 3 or 4 stars, and I think part of why I gave it 3 is because a lot of the other reviews on here mentioned that it does name and place drop frequently. So if you aren't into that I get it, I have felt the same way about many other memoirs I have read. The difference with this one is that this book was intended for Joan Didion; she is writing it to help her explain her grief and mourning process to herself, and this aspect of the book is just her recounting her every day life. She's a famous writer, her friends are famous people, and that's okay.

The other note I have is that unless you have experienced tremendous loss you probably will not enjoy (or at least get something out of) this book. The first time I started reading this book I had to put it down for a few months, because I understood far too well the irrational thoughts she had about her husband's passing, and my own loss was far too raw to explore. I do recommend it if you are looking for some solace in how others deal with grief and hardship, and am glad to have a fancy phrase of "magical thinking" to fall back on.… (més)