I finished Joan Didion’s The White Album last night. This collection of essays, though separated by chapters, seemed so fluid as to make me understand the author. I definitely knew she was curious, determined, disciplined. I began to admire her around the fifth chapter. Or maybe I had been secretly admiring all those qualities and then all of a sudden it hit me- she tried really hard, pursued her interests and succeeded. This success is wonderful to me. The success of this book was sweet. I was happy it was so good, and her writing, though old fashioned with “shalls” and a little British turn of phrase, proved Didion to be a mature thinker, almost a philosopher. A lot of her thoughts about the 60’s and American temporal issues in general shocked me- because she wrote with more distance than time allowed. I enjoyed her nuanced views of feminism and she seemed to live and prove feminism, rather than preach about it. Her social, political, and personal commentaries were all written in the same style and emphasized the personal as political; almost a sweeter, more thoughtful version of an opinion editorial of her experiences and interests. It is clear she writes about what interests her. It is clear she is interested in writing, in transcribing. The chapter about orchids and Malibu in particular struck me, and as it was the closing essay it was the most bittersweet- both for me as the reader and in the author’s tone.
I’m going to read more Joan Didion, I decided.
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