Today I have read Joan Didion for the first time. I have read her most recent work: Blue Nights, a memoir.
Even if this is a book on loss and sorrows, and also on getting old, it was a truly beautiful story to read. The text has a kind of rhythmic repetition which gives it some very interesting poetic qualities. It seems almost as if Didion repeat her sentences in lack of words, or the RIGHT words, indicating that this, what she is trying to tell us, is actually impossible to formulate.
sketcher, reader, writer