Tag : blue nights didion



am gasit un minunat profil al scriitoarei mele preferate, Joan Didion

(tocmai am adus din America Blue Nights, noua sa carte pe care n-am inca curaj sa o citesc: e despre decesul fiicei sale)

probabil ca nu veti gasi carti scrise de ea sa cititi pentru ca nu e tradusa in romaneste, dar va rog cititi fragmentul de mai jos

“She never took her purse off her lap!” my mother said afterward of that night, gobsmacked. “She took it to the dinner table!”

If you had told my mother that Didion regularly served elaborately cooked meals to 60 people at a time, on Spode china in a rambling—and very Berkeley—house in the seedy part of Hollywood, and had interviewed Jim Morrison and entertained Janis Joplin, she would have been shocked. Didion seemed like a young woman who had never been to a dinner party without her parents. She seemed like someone who owned one good thing to wear, and would bravely wear it whenever an engagement even hinted at formality.

I can tell you this for certain: anything you have ever read by Didion about the shyness that plagued her in her youth, and about her inarticulateness in those days, in the face of even the most banal questions, was not a writer’s exaggeration of a minor character trait for literary effect. The contemporary diagnosis for the young woman at our dinner table would be profound—crippling—social-anxiety disorder.


am spus intotdeauna ca oamenii mari (ca rezultate, notorietate dar si caracter) sunt niste mari timizi.
intregul profil aici, poate-l vreti, cine stie


xI Was No Longer Afraid to Die.

I Was No Longer Afraid to Die.

“I Was No Longer Afraid to Die. I Was Now Afraid Not to Die.”

Joan Didion (doamna care a scris minunata The Year of Magical Thinking) isi va publica memoriile,Blue Nights, la inceputul lunii viitoare . de data aceasta cartea se axeaza foarte mult pe relatia cu fiica sa care a murit cu 6 saptamini inainte de publicarea cartii The year… (in care descria doliul de dupa moartea sotului).

stiu ca suna macabru, dar Didion scrie despre moarte cu gratie si emotie, fara niciun patetism… si cartile ei sunt lectii despre viata nu despre moarte

When I began writing these pages I believed their subject to be children, the ones we have and the ones we wish we had, the ways in which we depend on our children to depend on us, the ways in which we encourage them to remain children, the ways in which they remain more unknown to us than they do to their most casual acquaintances; the ways in which we remain equally opaque to them. The ways in which our investments in each other remain too freighted ever to see the other clear. The ways in which neither we nor they can bear to contemplate the death or the illness or even the aging of the other. As the pages progressed it occurred to me that their actual subject was not children after all, at least not children per se, at least not children qua children: their actual subject was this refusal even to engage in such contemplation, this failure to confront the certainties of aging, illness, death. This fear. Only as the pages progressed further did I understand that the two subjects were the same. When we talk about mortality we are talking about our children. Once she was born I was never not afraid. I was afraid of swimming pools, high-tension wires, lye under the sink, aspirin in the medicine cabinet, The Broken Man himself. I was afraid of rattlesnakes, riptides, landslides, strangers who appeared at the door, unexplained fevers, elevators without operators and empty hotel corridors. The source of the fear was obvious: it was the harm that could come to her. A question: if we and our children could in fact see the other clear would the fear go away? Would the fear go away for both of us, or would the fear go away only for me?

Reprinted from Blue Nights, by Joan Didion.

“Writers are always selling somebody out” spunea in urma cu niste ani, iar ea nu s-a sfiit niciodata sa vinda “din casa”…

e in new york times un profil de-al ei genial, il puteti citi aici


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