Blue NightsBook - 2011
Blue Nights opens on July 26, 2010, as Didion thinks back to Quintana's wedding in New York seven years before. Today would be her wedding anniversary. This fact triggers vivid snapshots of Quintana's childhood--in Malibu, in Brentwood, at school in Holmby Hills. Reflecting on her daughter but also on her role as a parent, Didion asks the candid questions any parent might about how she feels she failed either because cues were not taken or perhaps displaced. "How could I have missed what was clearly there to be seen?" Finally, perhaps we all remain unknown to each other. Seamlessly woven in are incidents Didion sees as underscoring her own age, something she finds hard to acknowledge, much less accept.
Blue Nights --the long, light evening hours that signal the summer solstice, "the opposite of the dying of the brightness, but also its warning"--like The Year of Magical Thinking before it, is an iconic book of incisive and electric honesty, haunting and profoundly moving.
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Legendary journalist, memoirist and novelist Joan Didion turns 85 on December 4. In honor of her wide-ranging career, here are some top picks of her most ground-breaking work. Born in Sacramento, California, Didion frequently moved around as a young child as her father served in the Army Air Corps and therefore she did not attend school on a regular basis. Instead Didion recalls spending… (more)
While taking undergrad writing courses, I aspired to be as sharply observant and coolly cynical as Joan Didion. Her essay collections The White Album and Slouching towards Bethlehem captured the allure of Hollywood and the chaos of 60s California counterculture. In the 60s and 70s, she perfected "New Journalism," the creative nonfiction format that brought stories to life with personal narra… (more)
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Aging and its evidence remain life's most predictable events, yet they also remain matters we prefer to leave unmentioned, unexplored: I have watched tears flood the eyes of grown women, loved women, women of talent and accomplishment, for no reason other than that a small child in the room, more often than not an adored niece or nephew, has just described them as "wrinkly," or asked how old they are. When we are asked this question we are always undone by its innocence, somehow shamed by the clear bell-like tones in which it is asked. What shames us is this: the answer we give is never innocent.
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