Latest news with #JoanDidion
New York Times
22-07-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
What Happens in Vegas … Is Grim, Hopeless and Lonely
VEGAS: A Memoir of a Dark Season, by John Gregory Dunne Like many a Joan Didion devotee, I've periodically found myself in the literary company of John Gregory Dunne, a flawed but fascinating writer whose reputation has seemingly fallen in direct proportion to the rise of his wife's since his death in 2003. Didion and Dunne's careers were famously intertwined — they collaborated on screenplays, traveled together for reporting trips, chronicled (coyly, cryptically) their marital troubles in essays and novels. When Dunne died of a heart attack at the dining room table, Didion went ahead and did what he surely would have wanted her to do: make a best-selling book out of it. Their literary entanglement has continued after her death with this year's publication of 'Notes to John,' a collection of Didion's reflections, addressed to Dunne, on the deteriorating physical and mental health of their daughter, Quintana Roo Dunne. (The book is, despite many intelligent critical protestations, a work of emotional grace and severity that in no way diminishes her legacy Despite the overlap in life experience and subject matter, Dunne's voice on the page is worlds away from Didion's — gregarious where she is laconic, coarse where she is prim, insecure where she is miles above worrying about the opinions of other humans. Compare her legendary response to an aggrieved letter to the editor — 'Oh, wow' — to Dunne's many-thousand-word essay 'Critical,' recounting various slights in print against him and Didion. Dunne is often at his most evocative when writing about his Irish Catholic upbringing in West Hartford, Conn., a place that seems as psychically far from Didion's pioneer-Protestant Sacramento as possible. There's more than a little bit of John O'Hara's status anxiety running through Dunne's work, despite, as he often mentions, being the son of a surgeon and graduating from Princeton. In her perceptive introduction to a new edition of Dunne's 1974 book 'Vegas: A Memoir of a Dark Season,' Stephanie Danler begins a sentence about his career with the devastating clause 'Though largely unread today …' While true, one imagines this would have particularly stung a writer who depicted himself wondering, early in this account, whether his death would merit a write-up in Time magazine. (Speaking of largely unread today …) Dunne is at his best when overriding his hangups and explaining how things work, whether it be the teeth-grinding process of drafting a Hollywood screenplay, in his book 'Monster,' or his pieces on sports, Los Angeles, politics and much else for The New York Review of Books. Dunne works an awareness of his strengths into the meta-structure of 'Vegas.' The premise of this book — a 'memoir' that he acknowledges 'recalls a time both real and imagined' — is that he is in the midst of a nervous breakdown brought on by a sudden fear of death at age 37, and has become estranged from his wife. (As Danler notes, the conceit contains an echo of, if not a direct response to, Didion's line from 'In the Islands' about being 'on this island in the middle of the Pacific in lieu of filing for divorce.') Inspired by a conveniently placed billboard 'with a Delphic absence of apostrophe' reading 'VISIT LAS VEGAS BEFORE YOUR NUMBERS UP,' he leaves Didion and 3-year-old Quintana behind and heads out to the desert in search of 'salvation without commitment.' His hope is that 'through the travail of others I might come to grips with myself, that I might, as it were, find absolution through voyeurism.' Translation from the Catholic: He needs to find something to write about other than himself. Dunne moves into a crummy apartment off the Strip, hangs out with the locals and in the course of six months, discovers … well, mostly what you'd expect, but more of it. His Vegas is a grim, hopeless place where nothing fun or cool ever happens. A hack comic with a nightmarishly unfunny evangelical hillbilly routine plays to empty rooms, desperately hoping Bill Cosby will mention him during his vastly more successful set. A lonely prostitute tries unsuccessfully to avoid getting picked up by the cops while cruising the casino floor at 2 a.m. A severely constipated private eye chases down a patio furniture salesman over minor gambling debts. Dunne is characteristically at his best when he plays it straight, cataloging the minutiae of his subjects' particular hells like an after-hours John McPhee. 'If a girl wanted to make a living,' he explains, channeling his composite sex-worker heroine, Artha, 'she could not tell a good contact in the pits to go take a cold shower every time he hinted around for a freebie.' For the sake of maintaining her business, 'she let a dealer go for a 'quarter,' or $25, a pit boss for a half, or $50. It was a flat hundred for the casino or hotel manager.' Dunne is good on the sordid ins and outs of the bail bonds trade, on the need, apparently necessary to communicate in detail, for the hotel staff to go easy on the anti-Japanese bigotry when the Yamaha International Dealers convention is in town, given the money they bring in. To a contemporary reader, Dunne's lack of a hook — an angle, as the Vegas denizens he encounters might call it — is more striking than the genre agnosticism signaled by having 'memoir' in the subtitle. (A helpful designation for a book that is 'both real and imagined': fiction.) To an impressive degree, Dunne fails to find much in the way of the salvation he's looking for, or even drama, even when he finds himself set up for a sexual encounter with a 19-year-old named Teddi and decides to call his wife for advice. 'It's research,' Didion tells him. 'You're missing the story if you don't meet her.' He meets her, but thanks to his condescension ('You ever read 'Gatsby'?') doesn't get much of a story. 'Vegas' is all drift and repetition, a chronicle of killing time in an ugly, infernally hot place full of desperate liars. Dunne encounters terrible taste of every conceivable variety, from wall-to-wall homophobia and racism — mostly reported, but striking in the volume of what the author deems worthy of passing on — to lousy food, drinks, clothes and people. 'I needed to feed on some fantasies of my own,' Dunne writes in a typical passage, 'anything to erase the grotesqueries of the evening.' It's the best vaccination against 1970s nostalgia I've ever received. Compared with this, 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas' reads as a colorful salute to a great American city. Dunne describes a long episode of his early life in New York in which he observes the intimate life of a woman — often naked, often having sex — in an adjacent apartment. When she doesn't come home after a few days, he gets worried; after two weeks, he goes to the super, who finds out she's eloped. What Dunne learns from this episode is that he 'had a gift for voyeurism … and an empathy for those I observed.' The first point is true; the second, I think, not so much. This messy, engrossing book is as good an example as I can recall of a talented writer unable to see himself clearly on the page. I'm so glad it's back in print. VEGAS: A Memoir of a Dark Season | By John Gregory Dunne | McNally Editions | 269 pp. | Paperback, $19
RNZ News
22-07-2025
- Entertainment
- RNZ News
Books Books Books: Some Helpful Models of Grief & Notes to John
media arts 27 minutes ago Book reviewer Anna Rankin talks to Jesse about her recommendations, Some Helpful Models of Grief, from Compound Press, by Aotearoa writer and artist Hana Pera Aoake and Notes to John by Joan Didion. Tags: To embed this content on your own webpage, cut and paste the following: See terms of use.
Irish Times
19-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Times
Notes to John by Joan Didion: The posthumous publication of the writer's psychiatry sessions feels exploitative
Notes to John Author : Joan Didion ISBN-13 : 9780008767259 Publisher : 4th Estate Guideline Price : £20 Joan Didion once famously declared that 'writers are always selling someone out' – but what about publishers? Notes to John, a posthumous publication from Didion's archive, is a collection of typewritten journal entries discovered in her study shortly after her death in 2021. The entries, which begin in December 1999, are meticulous transcriptions of sessions with her psychiatrist, 'an old-fashioned Freudian' who Didion conveys here with such detail I wondered if she'd brought a dictaphone to therapy. The book is loosely addressed to her husband, John Gregory Dunne, and feels more like Didion's own private notes to self, an attempt to clarify the bewildering circumstances they describe. The preface contains a pre-emptive caveat that because Dunne himself was present for one of the sessions, Didion must have intended a further audience. I'm not sure I'm convinced. The entries cover Didion's troubled relationship with her adopted daughter, Quintana, focusing almost entirely on how Quintana's struggle with alcoholism caused paralysing rifts between them. It's undeniably affecting, and Didion's swerves between fear and frustration will be acutely familiar to anyone who's lived with a loved one's addiction. READ MORE [ Didion and Babitz by Lili Anolik: It's almost unfair for a biography to be such fun Opens in new window ] Several harrowing revelations ensue – an anecdote about a violent lover in her youth is casually recalled as 'an example of romantic degradation'. Later, with the startling disclosure that she secretly received treatment for breast cancer, she writes 'I was telling no one. I even did the radiation on 168th Street so I wouldn't run into people I knew.' Details such as this make me uneasy to call this publication a book. Didion's diary remained in a filing cabinet for 20 years before she died – if she had wanted it published she probably would have done so herself. It's hard not to read it now as the result of the same kind of opportunism Didion lambasted the publishing industry for while she was alive. After the posthumous appearance of an unfinished Hemingway book, she once wrote, 'This is a man to whom words mattered ... His wish to be survived by only the words he determined fit for publication would have seemed clear enough.' Notes to John is full of the kind of clear-eyed detail that made Joan Didion her name. Obviously this is a woman to whom words mattered – I'm just not sure we should be reading these ones.
Vogue Singapore
14-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Vogue Singapore
7 books to read for hope in the midst of chaos
As we arrive at the midpoint of the year, 2025 has already proved itself to be a momentous one. From the tail end of a global pandemic to natural disasters and humanitarian crises, we've certainly had our fair share of unexpected events as of late. In times of chaos, we all search for ways to escape, be it booking an impulsive getaway or cuing up some trashy but hypnotic reality TV. Personally, I turn to books in search of a refuge, whether it's an engrossing work of fiction or an inspiring and informative memoir. There is no doubt the world is changing rapidly, and with the consistent information overload, it can be overwhelming trying to find one's footing. So how do we maintain a sense of hope in volatile times? Truthfully, there isn't a singular solution. As much as we'd love a quick fix, the reality is there simply isn't. But one thing to take comfort in knowing is that we are not alone. Humanity alike has grappled with sentiments of loss, despair, and radical hope since the beginning of humanity—and artists have worked relentlessly to find the answers. Insightful reflections and heartfelt narratives course through these deeply personal stories, from a woman grappling with seismic personal loss to a trailblazer fearlessly standing up to systemic oppression. Whether you're aspiring for change, seeking to understand or simply need a little dose of comfort as the days seem to dim, look no further as we round up a list of empowering and hopeful titles to help guide you through turbulent times below. Courtesy of Alfred A. Knopf 1 / 7 'The Year of Magical Thinking' by Joan Didion A touching memoir by renowned author and journalist Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking chronicles a year of her life following the sudden death of her husband. The fatal loss came mere days after her daughter Quintana was hospitalised for pneumonia, which she swiftly fell unconscious from. An intensely personal examination of grief and mourning, the book explores a universal sentiment more pertinent than ever: trying to make sense of life when life seems to make no sense at all. Courtesy of Bloomsbury Publishing 2 / 7 'Mornings in Jenin' by Susan Abulhawa Born in a refugee camp in Jenin, Amal's life began with loss—of her home, country, and heritage. In 1948, her Palestinian family was driven out of their ancestral village, with Amal's older brother kidnapped by an Israeli soldier. From Jenin to Jerusalem, Lebanon and the foreign land of America, the novel follows one family over four generations, each grappling with their own struggles. A haunting modern classic, Mornings in Jenin is a story of faith, forgiveness, and hope. Courtesy of One World 3 / 7 'What If We Get It Right?' by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson Marine biologist and conservation activist Ayana Elizabeth Johnson's latest book charts an inspiring outlook of possible climate futures. Combining thoughtful discussions and interviews with evocative poetry and art, the book integrates a hopeful perspective with concrete action. In a day and age where the fear of getting things wrong often paralyses action, Johnson instead asks: what if we get it right? Courtesy of Pan Macmillan 4 / 7 'Everyone Who Is Gone Is Here' by Jonathan Blitzer An epic, heartbreaking, and deeply honest recounting of lives that ebb and flow across the US-Mexico border, this book is told through the perspectives of real migrants who in spite of the risks, persist in their search for safety and a brighter future. An unprecedented reporting by Jonathan Blitzer of The New Yorker, the book paints a layered picture of the humanitarian crisis at the forefront of cultural conversation now. Courtesy of Random House Publishing 5 / 7 'Reading Lolita in Tehran' by Azar Nafisi Every Thursday morning for two years in the Islamic Republic of Iran, Azar Nafisi secretly gathered seven female students in her living room to study forbidden classics of Western literature. This bold and inspiring memoir charts Nafisi's experiences during the Iranian revolution in 1980s, from refusing to wear a veil and her subsequent expulsion from the University of Tehran to the formation of her renegade book club. Her stories come in dialogue with the ones they review as Reading Lolita in Tehran underlines resilience in the face of political oppression and celebrates the liberating power of literature. Courtesy of Nation Books 6 / 7 'Hope in the Dark' by Rebecca Solnit Hope is a gift you need not surrender. The idea of hope lies at the crux of Solnit's stirring opus, first published in 2003 against the despair of the Bush administration and the war in Iraq. While the specific geopolitical context has since passed, the propensity for defeatism and cynicism persists, as we face a world more turbulent than ever. Drawing on decades of activism, the best-selling author of Men Explain Things to Me makes a radical case for hope, as hope is more than a belief—it's a power. Courtesy of Crown Publishing 7 / 7 'The Light We Carry' by Michelle Obama In this spirited memoir, the former First Lady shares practical wisdom and personal beliefs on how to stay hopeful and equilibrated during uncertain times. Written during the COVID-19 pandemic and dipping into her past as an African American undergraduate at Princeton in the 1980s, the book implores readers to look inward when feeling afraid or helpless, to find strength within themselves and their community.
New York Times
30-06-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
Where I Learned the Power of Looking at Everything
People who earned their bachelor's degree from an Ivy tend to let you know, even decades after graduating. It's in their author bio, or on their X handle. My degree from U.C. Berkeley never seemed like a detail worth mentioning, unless someone explicitly asks me where I went to college, in which case my instinct is to explain that it was easier to get in when I attended. That I share this alma mater with, say, Joan Didion, never seemed to raise me up. In 1953, when she began her studies, as in 1985, when I began mine, a Californian with good grades matriculated to Berkeley the way you'd 'decide' to use a public utility: there weren't any competitors of Berkeley's caliber offering a virtually free in-state college education (my first-year tuition was about $500 a semester; I wrote my own check for it from a summer job in retail). But when I was asked to return for the occasion of giving a commencement speech this May, a new kind of pride came whooshing in. The invitation was proof of having become someone in the 35 years since graduating. That I was asked by Rhetoric, the most intellectual of literature departments at Cal, seemed especially perfect, and perfectly ironic. As a freshman, I'd enrolled in a standard English class and gotten a B and never took another. Rhetoric was English classes for sophisticates, literature within a rigorous context of classics, theory, theology and law. I had chosen as my major political economy, in no small part because its interdisciplinary coursework in history, political science and economics required only that I absorb and synthesize information, which I was good at, and did not require maturity or insight, which, as a 16-year-old freshman, I apparently lacked. I had remained mute while my older peers spoke confidently in that English class where I earned my B. Rhetoric would be sharing its graduation with Film and Media Studies. For many years now, I've been telling others and myself that the most consequential class I took at Berkeley was Seymour Chatman's seminar on Michelangelo Antonioni, whose movies have given me continual sustenance. I still go back to them, write about them and teach them. I lucked into this Antonioni class, an inessential elective, and have no idea what grade I got. In my required classes, I remember that I got A's and almost nothing else, except that the historian Stephen Ambrose chain-smoked at every lecture, and you had to be at Economics 100A early if you wanted a seat, since enrollment was double the capacity of the auditorium in Wheeler Hall, which holds only 700 people. An academic theory I did manage to pick up, from a political science class taught by Harold Wilensky, was that a lack of involvement in labor unions, churches and volunteer associations has broad social implications. What Wilensky referred to as 'atomization' still produces in my mind an image not from his textbook, but of the little boy playing quietly with his toy robot in Antonioni's 'Red Desert,' in which the denizens of a company town where chemicals are manufactured are each alone with their dreams and disaffection. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
