Customer Reviews:
Showing reviews 1-5 of 528
 great solice November 18, 2009
tempusfugit (san francisco)
I was reeling with grief from the recent loss of my Mom when I fetched this book down from my "to-read" shelf & began to read it promising myself that I would stop should it become too painful. Instead, I found an amazing articulation of the nature of grief & grieving. Ms. Didion framed my exact thoughts & emotions in her memoir & from this I derived great solice.
I am greatly saddened to know that her only child, Quitana, has passed away since the writing of this book. I am profoundly grateful for having had the opportunity to read Ms. Didion's thoughts & my deepest condolences go out to her.
Understanding how great loss affects thinking November 14, 2009
T. OMalley (Oklahoma)
1 out of 1 found this review helpful
I read this book while my husband struggled with a diagnosis of a recurrent brain tumor; probably not the best timing. I was impressed by Ms. Didion's ability to dissect and analyze her own reactions to what amounted to a very stressful year. Anyone dealing with illness, death, risk to life and limb, should read this book to gain insight into how the brain works to handle loss.
 Not much about grief November 3, 2009
Jerry J. Schneider (Hillsboro, OR United States)
0 out of 2 found this review helpful
This book was more about the author's travels, friends, (Name dropping) and their well-to-do life than anything helpful regarding how to deal with death.
Must read November 1, 2009
Amy Robertson (Kansas City)
1 out of 1 found this review helpful
Lovely, aching, wise, bittersweet. And so very intimate. The kind of book that makes you a bigger person.
 A Review by Dr. Joseph Suglia October 29, 2009
Dr. Joseph Suglia
Dedicated to Lux Interior (1948-2009)
What is one to say when the beloved dies? There is nothing to say. None of the platitudes of bereavement, none of the polite formulae seems adequate. He was sitting on that chair, alive, and now he is dead. "John was talking, then he wasn't" (10). What else is there to say? There are no words that could properly express the banality of mortality.
A YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING (2005) is Joan Didion's attempt to craft a language that would make meaningful the death of her husband, John Greg Dunne. It is a language that, at times, seems almost glaciated. After all, she doesn't offer any of the customary responses (simulated tears, screaming, protests of denial, etc.). The social worker who ministers to Didion says of the author: "She's a pretty cool customer" (15).
Didion: "I wondered what an uncool customer would be allowed to do. Break down? Require sedation? Scream?" (16).
Superficial readers, predictably, mistake her seeming sangfroid for indifference. Yet Didion is hardly apathetic. She takes words too seriously to lapse into maudlin kitsch. If she refuses sentimentalism, it is because she knows that the language of sentimentalism isn't precise enough. If she refuses to be emotionally effusive, it is because she knows how easily an access of emotion---however genuine---can deteriorate into cliché. If she avoids hysteria, it is because she knows that abreaction is incommunicative. Her sentences are blissfully free of fossilized phrases, vapid slogans that can never do justice to the workings of grief.
Of course, the opposite reaction would bring about censure, as well. Had Didion expressed her grief in histrionic terms, American readers would have asked, rhetorically, "Why can't she just get over it." (I deliberately omitted the question mark.) The appropriate response to the death of the beloved is temperate mourning and cool-headedness. "Grieve for a month and then forget about the man with whom you spent nearly forty years of your life. Don't talk about it anymore after that fixed period; we don't want to hear about it."
Philippe Aries in WESTERN ATTITUDES TOWARD DEATH: "A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty. But one no longer has the right to say so aloud."
In place of a tragedy, Didion gives us a sober account of bereavement. What is it like to be bereaved? You will never know until it happens to you. She discovers vortices everywhere - centers of gravitation that pull her toward the abyss left by her husband's death. A new Alcestis, willing to die in the place of her husband, she calls forth his presence, and yet each of these pleas for his presence reinforces the perpetual silence that separates her from him. Self-pity, of course, is inescapable. She becomes "she-whose-husband-has-died." She defines herself in relation to the absent beloved. When John was alive, she was a younger woman, since she saw herself exclusively through her husband's eyes. Now that John is dead, she sees herself, for the first time since she was very young, through the eyes of others. Now that John is dead, she no longer knows who she is.
Every one of us is irreplaceable, which is why death is an irretrievable, irreversible, irrecoverable, infinite loss. When the beloved dies, an impassible divide is placed between the survivor and the absent beloved. She hears his voice, and yet this voice is really her own voice resonating within her--a voice that nonetheless makes her own voice possible. Nothing remains for the survivor to do but to turn the dead beloved into dead meat, to substitute for his living presence a tangible object (whether it is a photograph or any form of funerary architecture), to resign oneself to the dead beloved's non-being. She must accept the transformation of being into nothingness, the movement from everything to nothing, the withering of fullness into boundless emptiness. Writing is one way to fashion an image of the dead man and thus bring to completion the work of mourning. The failure of objectification, according to Freudian psychoanalysis, will lead to melancholia, the infinitization of the Trauerarbeit.
"Let them become the photograph on the table.
"Let them become the name in the trust accounts.
"Let go of them in the water" (226).
This is minimalism, of course, but Joan Didion's minimalism is minimalism in the genuine sense of the word, not the kind of infantilism that most other American writers practice and which goes by the name of "minimalism." They confuse scaled-down writing with simplicity; they externalize everything. They write their intentions explicitly on the surface of the page. Didion, on the other hand, attends to the cadences and pregnant silences inherent to the rhythms of speech. She is attuned to the interstices that punctuate articulated speech, that articulate speech, that make speech communicable. What is unsaid is weightier, for Didion, than what is said. She does not express matters directly; she indicates, she points. There is a kind of veering-away from naked being here, a swerving-away from the nullity of death. Joan Didion is far too dignified, far too noble to pretend to bring death to language.
Dr. Joseph Suglia
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