Play It As It Lays

I did not enjoy a single moment of reading this book but I like it. Honestly don’t read if you’re feeling depressed, as it is depression incarnate. Chapter 42 was so incisively brutal that I had to take a breather for a while. Still 5 stars lol

crumbs where are theee crumbs

Everything, eventually, gets old.

People get gray hairs. Cookies get stale. Books get that amazing smell that is apparently just mold or mildew or something awful but we won't think about it because, to paraphrase Wesley from the Princess Bride, there is a shortage of perfect things in this world and it would be a shame to ruin this one. Comedians start being f*cked up and stop being funny and call it persecution.

https://emmareadstoomuch.substack.com...

Age comes for us all.

But one thing that will never get old is women writing works of literary fiction about hot girls losing their minds.

It's a timeless classic, relatable through the years. Whether it's a recent work of pseudo-historical fiction written in a bad time about the time that sort of cemented it that way, or a half-century old ode to the era it already was. The setting doesn't matter, the framing doesn't matter. Give me writing that's glossy or gross or both, a protagonist who's making it or faking it or neither, background characters who get it or don't or don't want to. I love it all.

For whatever reason, nothing makes me feel as seen as books like this. And nothing makes me feel as sure that everything will be okay as books where people feel the same way as I do, and think the same thoughts, and everything, ultimately, isn't.

Call me crazy.

Bottom line: I took my little self to the internet and paid above market value for a first-edition second-printing hardcover of this. In other words - this is a rave review.

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pre-review

mental breakdown fiction >>>>>>

review to come / 4 stars

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tbr review

hot girl required reading

MARIA C’EST MOI


Il manifesto del film omonimo del 1972 diretto da Frank Perry e sceneggiato dalla stessa Didion.

Ogni libro di Joan Didion che leggo è più bello del precedente, e sono tutti magnifici.

Non è certo la trama che lo rende così grande, perché la storia è già sentita, ed è presto detta: giovane starlet di Hollywood precocemente sul viale del tramonto, in preda a ennui divide il suo tempo tra sesso, droghe, troppo poco r&r, e farmaci vari; sono presenti registi, produttori e attori, film girati nel deserto californiano, cocktail, party, ristoranti, lounge, Las Vegas, casino, Corvette, suicidi, tentati o riusciti; fragilità, vite sbandate irrisolte in fuga…
Tutto già visto e già sentito, in parte già anche vissuto.


I due protagonisti del film, Tuesday Weld e Anthony Perkins.

Didion prende questa banale materia e la trasforma in qualcosa d’irripetibile: per farlo, usa lo strumento principale della sua professione, le parole: quelle che sceglie, le parole che lascia, e quelle che sceglie di tacere…

Dietro questo breve romanzo c’è una lezione di scrittura, a partire dal lungo lavoro di lima, che mi ricorda molto quello dell’autore di Madame Bovary: riflettere e misurare, tagliare e aggiungere, togliere e mettere, tagliare di nuovo e aggiungere di nuovo, nell’incessante perenne ricerca dell'unica parola giusta (‘le mot juste’ di flaubertiana memoria, appunto), quella che permette di proseguire.
Per arrivare a scrivere così, occorre grande talento e sconfinata tenacia:
Era l'ora in cui in ogni casa del vicinato le belle donne si profumavano e si infilavano i braccialetti di smalto e davano il bacio della buonanotte ai loro bei bambini, l'ora della grazia apparente e della musica promessa, e nel giardino di Maria l'aria sapeva di gelsomino e l'acqua della piscina toccava i trenta gradi.




Didion intreccia i punti di vista: il romanzo si apre con il breve racconto in prima persona della protagonista, Maria, pronuncia Mar-ai-a, tanto per chiarire le cose fin dal principio, al quale seguono quelli ancora più brevi, sempre in prima persona, dell’amica Helene, e del marito Carter. Poi entra in scena il narratore e la storia procede fino alla fine affidata alla sua voce, salvo qualche raro intermezzo in prima persona nel quale ritorna il punto di vista di Maria (pronuncia Mar-ai-a).

Capitoli e capitoletti, salti avanti e indietro nel tempo, omissioni secondo il precetto hemingwayano dell’iceberg, uno stile che unisce distanza e calore, sospensione e immersione, impalpabilità e profondità, precisione ed evanescenza, uno stile che riesce nell’impresa di essere nella stessa pagina, gelido e struggente, sublime e durissimo.
E allora la banalità della storia di Maria è solo apparente: Maria è un’eroina che non dimenticherò e ho già voglia di ritrovare e leggere di nuovo, ancora.



Didion rinuncia al contrasto tra bene e male: penetra l’essenza intima dei personaggi, ognuno agisce seguendo delle motivazioni che sono in fondo comprensibili, ognuno è l’eroe della sua storia, non li rinchiude con il suo giudizio, hanno tutti un’anima e sono capaci di redenzione, li racconta dalla ‘giusta distanza’, così lontano e così vicino, non li condanna e non li abbandona mai.
Vita vissuta nel dolore e trascorsa nella sofferenza – un buco nero che risucchia e un vuoto enorme che consuma, nella costante attesa che arrivi quell’amore di cui è stata privata già dall’infanzia – trentuno anni, che sono tredici, ma anche già cento – un’esistenza sbagliata, un’anima in fuga, una solitudine che circonda…

Maria piange molto, guida la sua Corvette per autostrade che portano nel deserto - più che vivere, trascorre il tempo - parla poco e quando parla non dice nulla sul motivo delle sue lacrime - vorrebbe ma non può, vorrebbe crescere sua figlia che invece vive in una clinica per gravi malattie, vorrebbe tenere il figlio che ha in grembo ma deve perderlo, vorrebbe restare con Carter ma sa che è inutile…

Lieve sospesa tenera delicata dura glaciale Maria, ti svegli al mattino con gli occhi gonfi e pesanti e ti chiedi se hai pianto nel sonno, vorresti prendere la vita come viene e stare al gioco ma proprio non ce la fai, non ti riesce, Maria, sei arrivata là dove nulla esiste e non hai più voglia di giocare…

Grandissima, immensa Joan.

n  n    “what makes iago evil? some people ask. i never ask.”n  n

devastatingly nihilistic and fast paced, play it as it lays begins at a psychiatric hospital, where maria, the main character is institutionalized. the postmodern classic follows along this line, as it depicts maria’s mental spiral into self destruction, drugs, and apathy.

maria’s life is bleak and complicated. her acting career is almost nonexistent. her husband left her. she lives and depends on barbiturates. she is terrifyingly cynical and fatalistic, which shows brilliantly through the hypnotic and almost hallucinatory vignettes that the plot is told in.

didion keeps readers captivated by changing the setting multiple times, from los angeles, to las vegas, to the mojave desert. although the plot is loosely tied together and at times confusing, didion’s signature sharp wit and beautiful writing kept my eyes glued to the pages.

reading this book was bleak and harrowing, especially through the eyes of maria. maria’s mind is submerged in layers of numbness and detachment, and reading about her felt alienating and claustrophobic at the same time. not only does she spiral internally, she spirals externally, as she is abused by the people closest to her. she dissociates by driving aimlessly on california freeways.

as described in the synopsis, play it as it lays not only depicts one woman’s spiral, but the counterculture and ennui of an entire generation in postwar america. the 1960s is popularly perceived as the heyday of american drug culture, especially for the upper and middle class, which can be seen through the narrative.

like the first line, the black and white distinction of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ or moral compasses are set aside, as every character is unlikeable and morally ambiguous. however, she makes maria’s story and narrative (as well as other characters’) so haunting with her typical eloquent and visually stimulating prose. this entire book just felt like a kick in the gut for me. the prose is simple and unadorned, but it hurts to read.

this has haunted me since i closed the book for the first time.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

n  mini reviewn
i have not stopped thinking of this book for a good month

"I was raised to believe that what came in on the next roll would always be better than what when out on the last. I no longer believe that."
- Joan Didion, Play It As It Lays

(

Warning: This book is not to be read if suicidal, heavily medicated, driving, pregnant, or if you ever dream of walking out, alone, into the Nevada desert and not coming back. This book is pure existential peril. I remember when I was four being specifically afraid of our church's bathroom. I remember thinking the church was hallowed ground. Protected by some benign force. Nothing could get me in the church. I was safe. But I'd sit alone, in a stall, in the bathroom, and look at the white tile, white grout, and see the dark drain on the floor. I'd imagine all the terror that existed under the Church. The snakes that were waiting to crawl through the drain. The devil waiting to pull me into the unsanctified, unhallowed, shit-filled sewers. Yeah, this book made me think of that empty feeling, that feeling that even in safe places there were gaps, snakes, sewers, and darkness.

This book also reminds me a bit of a combination of The Great Gatsby (but told by Daisy in California in the 1960s) and Less Than Zero (but told by Blair and Julian's parents). Actually, hell, the book could be F. Scott and Zelda in the 1960s. Anyway, I get a weird F. Scott and Bret Easton Ellis vibe, with perhaps just a little of Cormac McCarthy's cold Western, existential dread thrown in for flavor. It is one of those novels that is near perfect and also a razor blade under your tongue. It is dangerous and sharp and makes you nervous to find out what is next.

There are snakes and cracks everywhere. Plants die. Memory fades. Nothing matters. Well, O.K. Joan Didion's prose matters. It matters a hell of a lot. Joan Didion's prose just might be one reason to keep living. To keep fighting. To keep turning the damn page and rolling the damn dice.

“There was silence. Something real was happening: this was, as it were, her life. If she could keep that in mind she would be able to play it through, do the right thing, whatever that meant.”

n  n
Joan Didion

Whenever Maria called, it was as if the ringing of the phone heralded the end of any conviviality I might have been harboring. I always had the impression when I talked with her that the Fun to Be Around Maria was dying in another room, and all I was left with was the beautiful corpse.

She was beautiful. Even though we had all seen changes to her appearance recently. So beautiful, in fact, she could still get acting jobs without too much trouble. I could see this all ending soon because she was so morose that her mood permeated the whole movie set. She had become so lost, so indifferent to everything. She was a zombie, long before Hollywood became infatuated with them.

Her relationship with men was not particularly complicated. They wanted to sleep with her, and she was rather indifferent as to whether she slept with them or not. When we had first met, I’d “seduced” her while blinded by her glamour and allurement. It was only after we were entangled that I realized that all of that was only skin deep.

“By the end of the week she was thinking constantly about where her body stopped and the air began about the exact point in space and time that was the difference between Maria and other.”

She had leaned on one elbow and shared that revelation with me. Her hair was still rummaged from my fingers. Her lipstick was smeared from my lips. There was something gone from her. The worms in her head had eaten into the core of her. The flame that had made her a star was nothing, but ashes. I left her with vestiges of misery clinging to me as if I’d been tainted by her own unhappiness.

But we remained friends.

I worried about her and worried about myself whenever I knew I had to see her. Things weren’t going well with her husband, Carter, or with her other lovers for that matter. They all were finding it harder to find the woman that first made them want her. Her mantra of late was: “I know what "nothing" means, and keep on playing.”

Her circle of friends continued to take her calls because we were all afraid that by not answering we might be putting her life in danger. Someone so miserable had to be suicidal. It was like a guillotine hanging over all of us, waiting for her to decide when and how. It was frustrating to see someone who had been given so much not being able to find any way to enjoy the life that many desired.

I’d been drinking one night after losing yet another part that would have insured many years of future success when she called. Her unhappiness fueled the fire of my own dejection. I heard myself scream into the phone, “For all our sakes just get it over with.” I’d slammed the phone down and poured myself a couple of fingers more of scotch. I couldn’t afford to know Maria anymore. It was too debilitating, too disheartening, and inspired too many ugly thoughts of resentment. I wanted her melancholy to be left to song.

Remorse wrapped crumpled newsprint around all my further thoughts.

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La realidad de las mujeres, el mundo de las apariencias, la amoralidad, el egoísmo social… Esto es lo que se destaca en la contraportada del libro y, aunque todo ello es verdad y es importante, no es ni mucho menos lo esencial.

Lo esencial es la persona y la personalidad de María Wyeth, protagonista indiscutible de la novela, y, cómo no, la manera genial en la que nos es presentada. Pocas veces me he encontrado una relación tan íntima entre la forma y el fondo. Tanto la estructura del texto como el estilo de la escritura juegan como símbolos del estado en el que se encuentra María.

La más clara de estas relaciones se establece entre la frialdad, la distancia, la falta de emoción que caracteriza toda la prosa y la aparente indiferencia y exasperante pasividad con la que María afronta el desastre que es su vida, su desintegración. Una mujer anulada por los fuertes personajes masculinos por los que se ve atraída, abatida por los sentimientos de culpa que le suscita su hija retrasada, atormentada por el aborto que se siente obligada a practicar. Una mujer con un divorcio a sus espaldas, un amante casado y una carrera frustrada de actriz y modelo de segunda fila. Una mujer incapaz de tomar una decisión y con un profundo sentimiento de soledad y hastío en un ambiente marcado por las drogas, el sexo y el poder de la apariencia. Una mujer que a la pregunta de por qué continúa en el juego, metáfora del fatalismo y el azar que preside la vida, responde con un escueto ¿Por qué no? que la salva de la muerte pero que no la capacita para la vida.

n   "Solía hacer preguntas, y tuve la respuesta: nada. La respuesta es NADA"n

Una NADA mental como anestésico contra la vida y también una NADA como fundamento de un nihilismo conciliador representada en los silencios que pueblan los breves, a veces brevísimos, capítulos en los que se estructura la novela. Saltos temporales sin anuncio previo, capítulos que llegan a parecer inconclusos, diálogos en apariencia banales, escenas que pueden parecer gratuitas, ausencia de explicaciones. Excepto en los tres breves e introductorios capítulos iniciales, nunca sabemos qué piensan los personajes, todo ha de ser construido y completado por el lector a partir de los gestos, los diálogos, los silencios. Todo se cuenta más allá de lo que se dice. Formas y modos que representan a la perfección la fragmentación y el desorden que preside la mente y la vida de su protagonista.

Quizás porque las tres son autoras no muy conocidas o quizás porque a las protagonistas de sus historias les define la fragilidad y la atracción del abismo o quizás porque tengo muy reciente el impacto que sus lecturas me causaron, y a pesar de que las tres poseen estilos radicalmente distintos, el caso es que he estado leyendo la magistral novela de esta mujer siempre con la mente puesta en otras dos, Lucia Berlin y Elizabeth Smart.

n   “Maria nunca ha entendido la amistad, la conversación, las amenidades normales del trato social. A María le cuesta hablar con gente con la que no se acuesta.” n