![]() ![]() Revisiting her work now provides a familiar joy, as well as a reminder of her prescience. After all, she is her own kind of arranger - of words, of story - whose intuition for narrative arc is matched by her intuition for syntax. Or, since nearly every piece in the collection contains some mention of flowers, like a Didion bouquet. They are gathered coolly, unevenly, with an easygoing generalness, like a Didion digest. The 12 previously published essays collected (mostly) for the first time in “Let Me Tell You What I Mean” were written between the late 1960s and the year 2000. ![]() Her gaze, like a sentry on the page, permanently trained on what is being disguised. ![]() Seeing as a way of extrapolating hypocrisy, disingenuousness and doubt, she’ll notice the hydrangeas are plastic and mention it once, in passing, sorting the scene. In five decades’ worth of essays, reportage and criticism, Didion has documented the charade implicit in how things are, in a first-person, observational style that is not sacrosanct but common-sensical. Much like the words “MIRACLES STILL HAPPEN” written in pink icing on a Gamblers Anonymous anniversary cake, or the paper napkins at the Hearst Castle, fake flowers are one of many visual, allegorical asterisks that comprise the risible terms of this veteran writer’s American mise-en-scène. There is no mistaking, at the mention of plastic hydrangeas, that one is reading Joan Didion. LET ME TELL YOU WHAT I MEAN By Joan Didion ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |