A few great essays, a few bland ones, and a few unforgettable turns of phrase. Not much more that one can ask for from a short book of essays. I'm glad I got into Didion the year before her passing so I could fully appreciate what we had lost when she departed. Her essay on the 1960s women's movement, and, eccentrically, a hydroelectric dam, were most memorable to me from this collection. An account of a dinner in Bogota also pointed poignantly at the maintenance of colonial traditions in the periphery long after the empires have perished. Not even sure she meant to make that point but she did so brilliantly.

What I love: slå mig ner på ett kafé och sträckläsa en bok.

Inleds med de bevingade orden "We tell ourselves stories in order to live".

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As was the case with Joan Didion's Slouching Towards Bethlehem, certain aspects of The White Album seem hopelessly dated. I have no idea who Bishop James Pike is, for instance, and now that I've read about him I still don't really care. But another aspect of this collection irked me even more: Didion's all-encompassing weariness, her mild derision for seemingly everything and everyone with whom she crosses paths. Even in her younger years, did Joan Didion ever get excited about anything, ever, even things she loved? Seemingly not. But in this book we also learn some personal things about Joan Didion: Over the years these essays encompass, she is admitted to a psychiatric hospital for what looks to be a combination of depression and anxiety. Her marriage seems to be on shaky ground. She gets crippling migraines at least once a week. She is diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, a fact that is mentioned once and never again. I was reminded of Didion's novel Play It as It Lays--a favorite of mine--wherein the protagonist experiences her fair share of trauma and copes with it by withdrawing, a numbness and lack of affect substituting for the more expressive human emotions. It's pretty clear Joan Didion is never going to show you her whole hand, but it's a good bet she's concealing something major. So for me, the net effect of reading Didion's essays is a burning curiosity about Didion herself. To the extent that it's possible, I'm going to start satisfying that curiosity posthaste.

In one essay Joan Didion mentions Grace Cathedral Park in San Francisco. I don't know anything about the cathedral or the park except that it's the name and setting for one of my all-time favorite songs. My love for Mark Kozelek and the Red House Painters is marred a bit by what an asshole he was when I saw Red House Painters live. How does someone write such great songs and act like such a monumental douche (which apparently is his normal live persona, he yells at the audience, plays rambling things that can only be roughly called songs, yells at the audience some more, makes fun of individuals in the audience, plays some more rambling 'songs', continues this for hours on end).

This book is sort of an extended tribute to a time and place I know almost nothing about first hand. 1960's. California. She is such an amazing writer that I found myself captivated by almost every essay in this book, even if I wasn't really interested in the subject matter. This is a magical skill great writers have. It's easy to find an essay interesting if you are already interested in a topic, but it takes great skill to make a topic the reader is not interested in to come alive by the writing.

Why read about places, people and things so far distant from oneself though?

In the big scheme of things why waste even a few minutes reading about the disastrous schemes of diamond lanes on the LA freeways in the 1970's, or about how the water is moved from Colorado River, across the Mojave desert to allow habitation in Malibu? Even if the writing is beautiful and honest, even if it is filled with self-confessional sentiments about the authors own enthrallment about the way water is moved, even if the writing is so good it just makes you ache in your bones, why waste any time reading about things so utterly alien to myself. It's not because I need water to survive, or because at times my life is maybe affected by decisions of urban planners into the way to divert traffic for one reason or another (which may not be to actually get traffic to move faster), my life is not pragmatically changed one bit by knowing anything I learned in these essays. Wouldn't I do better to read a turgidly written article on how to invest money wisely or a book on how to make and cultivate contacts or how to prioritize and maximize, and how to be a more productive person. How to be happier. Make more money. How to seduce women, maybe? How to present a better more presentable me? Or maybe read the ephemera of daily news. Catch up on celebrity gossip. Find out what exactly a Teen Mom is, learn about the real housewives and harness this knowledge into being a more likable person who can join in on break room conversations instead of being a sullenly glaring at all the people making too much noise while I'm trying to get to the bottom of the the nature of violence in modern man, the decline of western civilization, why authors kill themselves, or how Doris Lessing is a writer who fails at really capturing what she sets out to do. Why should I care about Doris Lessing, I've never even read one of her books, but the essay in The White Album still captivated me, but couldn't I have spent the twenty minutes or whatever it took me to read it doing something more productive? Maybe I could have been dashing out emails on my phone to people who I never get around to emailing. Or maybe a list of things I need to do and mean to do but instead I put off, procrastinate about, in favor of reading more books like this one that maybe enrich a part of my internal dialogue but can't put any quantifiable value on. Maybe instead of aiming to read over two hundred books a year I could aim to bring home 200k, or bed two hundred women, or make two hundred new facebook contacts that will pay off by adding to some kind of social network.

This book didn't make me any better of a person than I was before I read it. It didn't add anything tangible to my life, it's not going to pay off in some way that I can hold up and show to anyone. If anything it is just another example of a great writer that I can read and then think, I'll never be able to write this well. I'll never be able to capture anything in my life, even the really important stuff like Joan Didion does for the most trivial of encounters.

This book (and just about every other book I read) won't give me anything tangible, but fuck it, her writing is such a joy to read that the pleasure of reading so well-crafted prose is a reward in itself. Maybe I should feel sorry for other people who don't get to experience things like this in their life. Their loss.

İlk cümlesi “Yaşamak için kendimize hikayeler anlatırız” olan müthiş bir paragrafla başlıyor kitap. Kitaba adını veren ilk bölümde Charlie Manson tarikatı, The Doors, Kara Panterler gibi grupların bazı üyeleriyle yaptığı konuşmaları harika bir şekilde yansıtarak giriş cümlesindeki vaadin hakkını fazlasıyla veriyor Didion. California hakkında aslında çoğu pek de ilginç olmayan farklı konularda (Amerika’ya has Hristiyan topluluklar, kullanılmayan vali konutu, kuraklık ve sulama sistemi, ünlü petrol milyarderi Getty’nin Malibu’da yaptırdığı müze villa, 1968 ruhunu görmezden gelen Amerikalı muhafazakar gruplar), bu meselelere zerre kadar ilgi duymayanların bile ilgisini çekecek şekilde döktürüyor yazar. Kadın hakların hareketine farklı bir bakış ile Doris Lessing ve Georgia O’Keefe hakkındaki kısa ama etkileyici portreler içeren bölümüyle ivmesini sürdürüyor. Holywood’un acımasız kapitalist düzeni, Hawaii tatil ortamının sosyetik tipleri, migrenle başa çıkma çabaları, AVM’lerin çıkışı ve işleyiş mantığı (1970’lerde yazılmış olsa bile hala çok güncel), Kolombiya gibi başlıklar içeren izleyen bölümdeki yazılar da yine Didion’un zekasını, gözlem gücünü ve bunu yazıya yansıtma yeteneğini teyid ediyor. Malibu’da Sessiz Günler başlıklı son metinle de bu benzersiz kitap müthiş bir final yapıyor, orkide yetiştiricisi Amado Vazquez’in hikayesi ağzınızda buruk bir tad bıraksa da…

This undersung little book rates so highly with me that it very nearly earns my vote for the best writing by any modern-day American woman author. Period. [I would make it my #1 choice, but that honor goes to horror-authoress Shirley Jackson.] If we focus only on 20c. American n  nonfictionn; then it is certainly my #1 favorite title--beating out all works by all other females, and also all males (David McCullough, Norman Mailer, Hunter Thompson, Tom Wolfe, Gore Vidal, etc) as well. Did you hear what I just said? I have put my admiration in as strongly worded terms as I possibly can.

Here's the thing about Didion and why she's important: you can spend 10 or 15 yrs reading novel after novel..all these artisans crafting these elaborate and ornamental works of prose: but no one ever calls it all to a halt and starts simply speaking to you, the reader. The American. The citizen. The individual. No one ever addresses you, person-to-person. Sits you down and has a quiet, heart-to-heart chat with you. All these other writers --Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, Joyce Carol Oates--are novelists. But Didion speaks directly to you. That's what Didion does. She writes concise collections of very personal essays, and aims them at you as if she was sitting right beside you. Unburdening her heart. It's better than any novel.

This is her best book. I'll come right out and say it. The topic is: 1960s life in America. She nails it. Perhaps the most important decade in history, certainly the most important in the history of this hemisphere. Didion sums up the complex, sprawling period in a way no one else has ever managed to. She does so by focusing not on big, national news stories of the day but by describing a bunch of poignant, tender, quirky 'asides' to what was going on.

Hers is the perfect approach, and hers, the most superb style for the endeavor. She quietly offers these gentle, cogent, subtle, lyrical essays --suffused through, with a writing style which 'takes you along for the ride'. 'She was there'...and she makes you feel as if you were, too. If you want to even try to understand that chaotic timeperiod (besides all the music and movies) this is the way to do it.

The same literary experiment probably could not be taken on today. 'America' doesn't exist in that same way--that is, as a 'thing' which might be succinctly summarized, not anymore. It's too out-of- control now. One may as well consider ' White Album' probably the last firm instance where our collapsing society could be apprehended, appraised, and 'made sense of'. It was important that someone take that job on--at least once--and get it right. And this author did. Her method is the best. The book will stand out in your memory for years after you set it down.

Easily dominating my personal favorite short list of 2-3 favorite American books ever penned.

Čitam trenutno Joan Didion držeći se, zasad striktno ☺️, politički angažovanog dela njenog opusa, tako da sam prošla kroz “Slouching Towards Bethlehem” (šezdesete), “The White Album” (refleksija na 60-te, eseji iz 70-ih), “After Henry” (eseji iz 80-ih) + roman “Democracy”, objavljen 1984. - jedan ambiciozno osmišljen i neobično posložen političko-ljubavni narativ.

Ona odlično piše. Suzdržano, doterano, efektno.
Zarazna je.
Uz napomenu da njeni eseji često podrazumevaju stanovito predznanje iz savremene američke istorije i dnevnog života, koje, takođe podrazumevano, mnogi ne-Amerikanci, pa verovatno i Amerikanci, nemaju.

Teme kojima se bavi, a u suštini, ako bi da drastično pojednostavimo, jedna je tema - gubitak, rođenjem i vaspitanjem stečenog, nevinog poverenja u nacionalno poštenje i izuzetnost; brutalno urušavanje vere u smisao političkog činjenja i izveštavanja; ukratko - vertigo - opšti gubitak ravnoteže koji, ruku na srce, univerzalno prati svako političko sazrevanje i kolegijano se širom planete prepoznaje.

Dideon je, u izvesnom smislu, iza sebe ostavila detaljnu višedecenijsku hroniku traganja za pukotinama u američkom sistemu vrednosti, beležeći sistematično promene kojima svedoči.
Čini se da izrazito spada u tip autora koje bi, za pravilno sagledavanje, valjalo posmatrati, ne kroz pojedinačne radove, već kroz vizuru celine, u kojoj su reportažna publicistika, objavljena fikcija, a na kraju i njena javna persona - zapravo izrazito povezani.

Naslovni esej iz ove zbirke je, moglo bi se reći, sama suština Joan Didion. Ogledni primer njenih formativnih preokupacija i dobar uvod u književne kvalitete njenog pisanje.
Dostupan OVDE.

joan didion was incredibly obnoxious in many ways, but damn could that woman write….

lei si piace di sicuro molto, a me questo è piaciuto così così: il rapporto tra egocentrismo (più aneddotica di superficie) e sostanza è troppo sbilanciato a favore del primo. che è poi - più o meno - uno dei motivi principali per cui a suo tempo didion stroncò sia woody allen che j.d. salinger (ma altrove ne ebbe anche per fellini, bergman e luchino visconti).
insomma il coraggio non le manca di sicuro, ma lo zoom è troppo (sempre) sul proprio ombelico.

The White Album. Un taccuino bianco da riempire di parole. Una tela da riempire di colore. Ma anche un disco, musica, come quello famoso dei Beatles. Cos’era per Joan Didion il white album?
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Questo libro mi ha chiamata in un sabato sera solitario, mentre Pale Blue Eyes dei Velvet Underground mi metteva nostalgia del passato. Mentre leggevo prendevo appunti su un piccolo quaderno e segnavo delle canzoni in armonia con la lettura – alcune anche citate nel libro – e ci ho creato una playlist che se volete condivido con voi volentieri.
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Nel frattempo la Didion mi portava con sé in giro per la California a cavallo tra gli anni ‘60 e ‘70: una panoramica sulla generazione di Charles Manson, del movimento dei Black Panthers, di Jim Morrison. Chi mi segue da tanto sa già quanto mi emoziona rivivere epoche passate. Soprattutto quando lo sguardo di chi racconta è perfettamente incastonato negli eventi, in veste di giornalista, di scrittrice o semplicemente di figlia dell’epoca. E così sono passate ottantacinque pagine in un soffio, senza che neanche me ne accorgessi.
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Potrebbe diventare la mia serata ideale: la luce tenue dell’abat-jour, la musica adatta, Joan Didion che mi racconta la California e un quaderno dove appuntare i pensieri. Anche se non so se la magia di un momento sia ricreabile all’infinito. Forse no, bisogna aspettare la complicità della canzone giusta, al momento giusto.
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«Immaginavo che la mia vita fosse semplice e dolce, e a volte lo era, ma succedevano cose strane in giro per la città. C’erano voci. C’erano storie. Tutto era innominabile ma niente era inimmaginabile. Questo flirt mistico con l’idea del “peccato” – questa sensazione fosse possibile spingersi “troppo oltre” e che molti lo stessero facendo – ci riguardava molto, nel 1968 e 1969 a Los Angeles.»

I’ve known of this compilation of essays and journalistic pieces for a long time, but only now decided to read it when it happened to come my way. The first half of it flew by, but I found the second half not as engaging, likely because I found its topics not as interesting.

The long essay with the same title as the book sets the mood. Never hearing otherwise, I’d assumed the title had nothing whatsoever to do with the white-covered The Beatles album. But it does, though the group and their songs are never named—and rightly so. I’m left wondering if it should’ve been titled something else for even further distance; though, like the piece itself, the title was likely expected to evoke the mood of the time and at the time.

I was still a young child in the late 60s, the time period all the essays basically cover (some veer into the early 70s). I remember hearing of some of these events, but I was too young to fully understand what was going on in the United States at the time—a time of division, and threatened and actual violence—a lot like now. In my head, I sometimes still live in this time, when I listen to its music; when I read about music’s influence upon it and vice versa. Didion doesn’t delve into music, except for a short passage of being in the studio with the Doors; yet I found it beneficial to see her views of the time period, mostly formed as she’s living in it.

*

A passage that seems specifically Californian (where most of the essays are set) but reminded me of Italo Calvino (for an obvious reason):

As I drove home that day through the somnolent back streets of Hollywood I had the distinct sense that everyone I knew had some fever which had not yet infected the invisible city. In the invisible city girls were still disappointed at not being chosen cheerleader. In the invisible city girls still got discovered at Schwab’s and later met their true loves at the Mocambo or the Troc, still dreamed of big houses by the ocean and carloads of presents by the Christmas tree, still prayed to be known.

More universal: A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his image ...

These essays- published mostly in magazines such as The Saturday Evening Post, Esquire, Life- were written from 1968 to 1977. They serve nicely as vintage time capsules, snapshots from an era. Didion as a writer encompasses both the objectivity of the journalist and the subjectivity of a memoirist.

Personal favorites:

The Women's Movement
In the Islands
In Bed
On the Road
At the Dam
Quiet Days in Malibu

With her reporter's eye, she never misses a detail. Whether sitting in on a Doors studio recording or at Nancy Reagan's house and yet there is no celebrity worship. Actually, it's her portrayal of ordinary people that stands out the most. Amado Vasquez, the greenhouse grower is listened to with the utmost respect. The piece on Nancy Reagan feels comical but it's in such a subtle way that you never feel that Didion is mocking her.

Most journalists keep sealed the goings on behind the scenes; Didion rips away the facade and shows you. This, she says, is the reality. The driest essay here is what you may expect to be the juiciest, "In Hollywood." Here she is overtly explaining how things are not how they are often perceived. And it puzzles her why no one else ever says the truth in front of everyone's faces. So much of this sentiment is true still.

Didion is a Stoic in many ways and at the same time she presents herself authentically. Which is rare to see. She even shares word for word her diagnosis and medical notes from her stay in a psychiatric hospital. She comments how this seems to her "an appropriate response to the summer of 1968." A pretty ballsy response and I wouldn't say she's wrong.