Caitlin Flanagan on Didion's "Blue Nights"

Last time (on 1/17/12), I wrote about Joan Didion’s new book, “Blue Nights.” Today I write about a January/February 2012 Atlantic article, penned by Caitlin Flanagan, about Didion and the book. The title on the Atlantic’s cover is “Joan Didion’s Disaster,” a rather ambiguous title (does it refer to her daughter’s death, or to the book about it?). When I turned to the actual story, I saw a different title: “The Autumn of Joan Didion,” with a subtitle of “The Writer’s Work is a Triumph – and a Disaster.” Obviously these titles piqued my interest, and I was ready to be defensive and even angry on Didion’s behalf, if the story attacked her and her book. I admit that I was predisposed to be defensive, not only because I admired the book, but also because Flanagan -- whom I have been reading and often disagreeing with in the Atlantic for some years -- is a fairly conservative and less-than-feminist writer. In fact, the article was somewhat positive about Didion and her book, but just wasn’t very well written. It seems to me that the main excuse for the article was to give Flanagan a chance to tell about an incident in which Didion, as a visiting scholar, made a preliminary visit to UC Berkeley and had dinner at the Flanagans' childhood home, because her father was then Chair of the Berkeley English Department. Flanagan was 14 years old at the time, and observed that Didion was quiet and shy. That was it; otherwise the story about the dinner was pointless. The only interesting part of the episode was that the large auditorium where Didion spoke was unexpectedly overflowing with devoted Didion fans, mostly young women. It turns out –- after many diversions in the article, some rather irrelevant -- that Flanagan was and is herself an admirer of Didion and her work. She describes Didion’s appeal as follows: “What Didion wrote about were the exquisitely tender and often deeply melancholy feelings that are such a large part of the inner lives of women and especially of very young women -- and girls…” I must admit that this description is resonant of my own feelings when I read Didion’s early work when I was in my late teens and early twenties. But Flanagan’s statement seems condescending, and it undervalues the strengths of Didion’s work. I am still not sure what the real point of this Atlantic article is, and it doesn’t even spend many of its several pages on the new book, “Blue Nights.” Yes, I understand the concept of a “review essay,” but I feel Flanagan gives short shrift to the book itself. She does end by saying that Didion will always be remembered. I closed the magazine with very mixed feelings about this odd duck of an article/review.

"Blue Nights," by Joan Didion

Before I began this blog, I read Joan Didion’s remarkable story of the death of her husband John Gregory Dunne, and of her own response to that loss; Dunne died the same day my father did, and “The Year of Magical Thinking” spoke to me with great force, as it did to many others. I had read Didion’s work since the 1970s, and when I re-read “Play It As It Lays” recently, I wrote about it here (3/23/11). I recently read a fascinating New York magazine article on Didion and her new book, “Blue Nights” (Knopf, 2011), which is about the untimely death of her daughter, her only child, Quintana Roo; I wrote about the article's points on 10/26/11. Now I have read “Blue Nights” myself; I found it as powerful and moving as “The Year of Magical Thinking,” perhaps even more moving, because surely the death of a child is even more of a blow than the death of a husband. Didion seems utterly bereft, staggering from these two great blows, yet still finds that writing is the only way to cope with her losses. She is always controlled in her writing, yet very open in sharing her feelings, her self-doubts, her vulnerability. She wonders if she did something wrong in raising Quintana. She writes on her daughter’s childhood, obsessively returning to certain times, certain scenes. She writes of her own aging, illness and feelings of helplessness and loneliness. But she doesn’t ask for pity; she is never maudlin. As always, her writing is spare, strong, and compelling. I was afraid that reading this book would be painful, and indeed it was, but I am glad I read it. Her prose lays bare an elemental human experience, and she writes about death, loss, life, weakness, memory, and much more in her own inimitable way.

"The Buddha in the Attic," by Julie Otsuka

Julie Otsuka is the author of two small but extremely powerful novels. I wrote about her first book, “When the Emperor Was Divine,” on 12/22/11; that 2002 book about the U.S. internment of a Japanese-American family bowled me over with its beautiful writing and intensity. Now I have read Otsuka’s second book (nominated for the 2011 National Book Award for Fiction), “The Buddha in the Attic” (Knopf, 2011), about the Japanese “picture brides” who came to the United States and began their new lives with their new husbands, whom they had never met before, in the early part of the twentieth century, and it is even better, even stronger, than the earlier book. The novel is divided into eight parts, including sections about the difficult boat trip to the U.S., about the women's first few days and nights with their new husbands, about the hard and draining work they did farming or working as maids, about their giving birth to and raising children in a new land, and about the time leading up to their internship in the early days of World War II, thus bringing the novel full circle to the setting of Otsuka’s first novel. Throughout, the stories are told through a sort of chorus; the voice is “we,” not “I.” Individual stories are told in a sentence or two each, but as part of the group experience. In other words, the narrative structure is very different from that of most novels. What comes to mind is the word “incantatory,” which captures the chanting lines, the music with its variations, the onward movement of the story. The novel has also been called poetic, and that is accurate as well. The writing captures the feelings of the women, as well as the sweep of history in which their individual lives are caught up. What a heartbreaking but beautiful book this is. "The Buddha in the Attic" is a must-read; highly recommended.

"Smut: Stories," by Alan Bennett

Reading a book titled “Smut” makes me feel a bit risque. The initially innocent-looking cover made me smile, as at first I saw that it pictured several pairs of teacups, and thought “how lovely and British,” and then noticed that the teacups in each pair were posed interacting in various positions; what a combination of charm and the ever-so-slightly suggestive! However, “Smut: Stories” (Picador, 2010 and 2011) is written by the inestimable British author/playwright/autobiographer/screenplay writer/humorist Alan Bennett, and his “smut,” although it does include sexual themes and scenes, is more about human nature and human relationships than sex. Bennett, author of the wonderful “The Uncommon Reader” (which I wrote about here on 3/12/10), writes wryly, mischievously, and with great understanding about families, secrets, and delusions. A short book (152 pages), “Smut” contains two novellas, both of which are full of surprises and witty but -- dare I say it -- sometimes quite tender scenes. The first, “The Greening of Mrs. Donaldson,” tells of a recent widow in her fifties who fills her spare hours and earns some extra money by role-playing patients with various symptoms in order to help medical students practice. She also rents her spare room to students, and gets involved with them in a surprising way. The second novella is “The Shielding of Mrs. Forbes,” an elegant and slightly schematic story of a family in which everyone is hiding something, shielding someone from something, yet each family member actually knows more about each other’s secrets than she or he is letting on. There is adultery, secret homosexual trysts with strangers, online sexuality, blackmail, financial irregularities, snobbishness, and deceit all around. Yet somehow there is also loyalty, warmth, and caring. And in both stories, somehow everyone gets pretty much -- albeit not all of -- what she or he wants. Although these novellas push some boundaries, they really don’t seem terribly “smutty” at all. I found them great fun to read – light, entertaining, and quite insightful.

“Portraits of a Few of the People I’ve Made Cry: Stories"

Each story in Christine Sneed’s “Portraits of a Few of the People I’ve Made Cry: Stories” (University of Massachusetts Press, 2010) is a powerful, coiled-up mini-cannonball aimed to make its mark; once you start reading them, there is no ignoring, skimming, or ho-humming these stories. Most of the main characters are women, and they are all very intense. Many of the stories are about these women’s relationships; there is plenty of drama and sex. One story is about a screenwriter attending her class reunion; another is about a young college English professor whose class is attended by a very famous, very handsome movie star, making the professor nervous and uncomfortable; yet another is about a woman wondering how and when to tell her much younger lover how old she really is. Each story is distinctly original; the reader wants to keep reading because she has not read anything quite like the story before. The last story, “Walled City,” differs from the rest in that it is more impersonal, a sort of dystopian fantasy that is hard -- at least for me -- to connect with. But all in all, this is a fascinating collection and one that is guaranteed to keep the reader’s attention (OK, my attention, and I hope yours too!). This collection won the 2009 Grace Paley Prize for Short Fiction; the book does the late, great Grace Paley proud.

"Widow: Stories," by Michelle Latiolais

Not only the title story but many of the other stories in Michelle Latiolais' "Widow: Stories" (Bellevue Literary Press, 2011) are about widowhood or some other type of loss. Some of the stories are desperately sad, describing the raw pain of losing someone who has been an essential part of one's life. The author -- and her narrators -- are not afraid to talk about their feelings, their experiences, their secrets, their shame, their sexuality, their fears, the ways they "get through," and more. The stories show the various ways that people -- in this case, usually women -- respond to or act out their pain. For example, one woman can't eat; another hoards provisions, especially food. The stories also include some very unusual topics, such as one called "Gut" about a woman who goes to Africa to help her scientist husband test out the diet of chimpanzees by living on such a diet herself. Dogs, teacups, gardens, oysters, and cakes are some of the other topics. A few stories -- especially the very short ones -- seem less involving and less good than the others. Overall, the stories are beautifully written and evocative, but very sad. I can't say I "enjoyed" them, and in fact some of them made me uncomfortable. But perhaps that is a wimpy response on my part. Two of the powerful stories in "Widow" -- "Caduceus" and "Place" -- were nominated for the Pushcart Prize; the one I liked best -- and one of the saddest -- was the title story, "Widow."

More on the Reading Group

One of the first topics I wrote about (1/26/10) when I started this blog was the Reading Group that I have been a part of for many, many (and I mean many!) years, and that has been so important to the six current members (we had a few more in the early years, but for many years now it has been the same six of us). I just came back from one of our meetings, and decided to write again about the group. We met at a café in Berkeley, sitting in the sun, eating, drinking, and talking. (We sometimes meet in each other’s homes and sometimes in cafes.) As sometimes happens, we didn’t focus so much on the chosen book as on other reading we have been doing; some books are hard to find, or not everyone reads the book; we are flexible about these things, because life is busy and because getting together is more important than the specific book. But M.J. brought another book that she suggested for next time: “Mending,” by Sallie Bingham; this book was already on my library request list, so I was pleased. M.L. said she was reading “The Marriage Plot” (which I recently -- 11/26/11 -- read and posted on), and we were all happy about the publication of P.D. James’ new book, “Death Comes to Pemberley,” which I also had posted on, on 12/28/11). M.L. also brought some pages from the New York Times Book Review for ideas. And after a while of discussing books, we of course also talked about politics, the news, our lives, our jobs, our families, our travels, our health and that of family members and friends. This regular getting together is a treasured thread throughout our lives, and our lives are richer for it.