Monday, December 05, 2005

Joan Didion’s Year of Magical Thinking

Had I been operating from my rational mind… I would not for example have experienced, when I heard that Julia Child had died, so distinct a relief, so marked a sense that this was finally working out: John and Julia Child could have dinner together. (205)
When I read Ed’s satire of Didion, I laughed so hard that I almost could not read her essay. But I did. I bought the book for my husband for his birthday and let it sit, unread in my desk for a couple weeks although the excerpt in the Times and the enthusiasm of Bud, my mom, and many others made me itch to cheat and read it first. Now his birthday is past and he has read and admired it. I have too. It is terrific. And, as Didion says of one phase of her grief, I know that I do not sufficiently appreciate it.

I gobbled Didion’s book over the weekend. She offers such a rich picture of her marriage that it contributes to my understanding of marriage and such a rich picture of her grief that I know it will help me cope with my own. Didion reports that when their daughter complained at having experienced too much death (a suicide, the murder of her cousin Dominique [Dominick/Nick Dunne’s daughter]), her father said “it all evens out.” While Didion assumed this to mean that good times return to all, Quintana and her friend Susan Traylor understood John Gregory Dunne to mean that everyone lives with a full measure of grief, a meaning that Didion now recognizes to be the accurate one.

I read The White Album and other essays in graduate school and admired Didion’s clinical precision. I still do. But I never expected to identify with her: that identification is not part of the persona of a clinically precise writer. I never thought of her as sharing my weirdly determined optimism and I certainly did not think of her as a contemporary of my parents—though she is. She watched Julia Child and made souffl├ęs in the seventies as my mother did; she keeps a journal of what she cooks as I try to do; she likes to read etiquette books, especially Emily Post; she shops at Citarella. Her husband graduated from Princeton in 1954. My father graduated from Princeton in 1955. And, like my (very much not famous) father, her husband wrote tiny, laconic entries for his reunion books. Strange to think that, like her daughter Quintana (who was my age), I, too, grew up making fun of the pretentious, long-winded self-congratulory essays in those occasional bound reunion volumes from Princeton.

I have only experienced real grief second hand, watching my mother grieve for her mother, my husband grieve for his father, and my mother-in-law for her husband. Our courtship was shaped by the anticipation of grief: six weeks into dating, just before Valentine’s Day, my husband’s father received a diagnosis of terminal cancer. We were not even a couple, but our ability to steer our way through this and become a couple at the same time made me—made us?—think we might do all right in a marriage. We did marry a year and a half later, and, several months after that, my father-in-law died.

It turns out that being able to come together in a crisis is a good predictor of some good things necessary for marriage, but not everything. And reading about grief helps me understand the disorienting disconnection between us during those hard first years. How could we expect to forge a partnership when one of us was actively grieving for a deservedly beloved parent? Didion’s marriage sounds lovely, a great and supportive partnership between writers, happily devoid of competition. This is not the same kind of balance we have struck, but it is fascinating to read about how a professional woman worked to figure out how to be a wife: “In those first years,” Didion writes, “I would pin daisies in my hair, trying for a ‘bride’ effect. Later I had matching gingham skirts made for me and Quintana, trying for ‘young mother’” (209). This admission, charming and pathetic, reveals much about the complexities of choice for women; Didion does not question her love for her husband or her daughter; it’s clear that her marriage included tensions and fights and yet none of this is what initially was confusing. What was confusing is how to present oneself in public, how to dress and act.

A major theme of the book is the irrationality of grief and its attendant vulnerability. I’m sure that this vulnerability lies at the heart the difference between this book and previous Didion works. It facilitated my (perhaps embarrassing but moving to me) sense of identifying with her even as I cannot, thank God, fully understand her grief. A clinically precise exploration of magical thinking is just the kind of paradoxical project to bring out the best in Didion. Her double sense that Julia Child’s death gave her husband a great dinner companion and that such a thought is absurd captures for me the comforting and strange inadequacy of our understanding of death.

7 comments:

genevieve said...

I'm hoping to get hold of this very soon - though I have read probably quite enough accounts of grief, it's instructive to read about how really connected people grieve. I have been friends over the years with a large, exemplary family where the parents' relationship was quite intense by comparison with anyone I know - one of them is now dead, and the grieving process Brenda has been through is probably comparable to Didion's, despite her large family.
It's an awe-inspiring thing to observe, even from a distance.

I've been caught short a few times by the force of the emotions one experiences at times of sudden change and loss, including the loss of a second cousin, the same age as my own children, to (gulp) terrorism in the bombing on Bali in 2002.
There's something selfish in me, I think, that wants to be prepared for these things. I think I come from a family where grief was pushed aside too often - living with a handicapped family member forces you to manage your ongoing grief rather than be overwhelmed by it, so it's important for me to have direction from others at times.

Patty said...

I just want to say, first of all, how much I enjoy this blog -- being the huge V. Woolf fan that I am.

Second, I had much the same reaction to Didion's Year of Magical Thinking that you had. I saw her read in D.C. and was struck by how fragile she looked -- which was such a contrast to how I have always perceived her as a writer. When I teach her essays -- "On Self-Respect," for example-- I always end up telling my students that it would terrify me to be sitting next to Didion at a dinner party;her "steeliness" (I think that's the word you use) has intimidated me over the years. So I was really moved by such an intimate portrait of her marriage. It is a book that richly deserves the attention it is receiving.

Bookdwarf said...

This is a beautiful post. I think you really got to the heart of why Didion's book is so powerful and in a way I was unable to express.

Anne said...

Thanks to all of you for such nice words!

Yes, Genevieve, it's worth getting a hold of, and, as you say, it seems a book to keep around--as one makes sure there's always Tylenol. When the big loss comes, I know I will turn back to her.

Thanks Patty & Bookdwarf, too! I'm always so happy to have comments!

Anonymous said...

I've read the book, and I've read other Didion pieces. Certainly, she can write. Unfortunately, she is not so good at grieving. This woman is terrified of her feelings. She says next to nothing about how she FEELS about her husband's death and her daughter's illness. She only talks about what she THINKS. This "Magical Thinking" is just another defense mechanism. Pathetic, really.

Anonymous said...

I've read the book, and I've read other Didion pieces. Certainly, she can write. Unfortunately, she is not so good at grieving. This woman is terrified of her feelings. She says next to nothing about how she FEELS about her husband's death and her daughter's illness. She only talks about what she THINKS. This "Magical Thinking" is just another defense mechanism. Pathetic, really.

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