My first Didion and it won't be the last. I only heard of her for the first time a couple of days ago (scroll down). Apparently she became known through her lucid critical essays on the Californian (sub)culture of the 60s which are assembled in Slouching Towards Bethlehem (that's where On Self-Respect is in!). The book I started with is her last. It came out in October last year and it is an extremely touching and captivating frank account about the year after the sudden death of her husband John Gregory Dunne from a severe heart attack on December, 30th 2003. They had been married for almost 40 years. As they were both writers they had spent more time together at home (often each one in his writing room) than couples which have "normal" jobs. And suddenly out of nowhere he dies in a second. With this book Didion tries to cope with the terrible loss. It is subjectve and matter-of-fact at the same time. She totally nails the experience of being the lone survivor.

First she tries to find what she overlooked concerning the health of her husband. What caused his death. The treatment which could have saved him. Coming along with this is the delusion that once she has found her fault he will come back. Did she not react fast enough when he had the attack? Did she not interpret his words which were hinting at a premonition of what was coming in the weeks and months before his death correctly? After a while she realises that this not accepting of the facts is temporary, is a part of the process of coming to grips with the facts. In German we call the process Didion is going through Trauerarbeit, i.e. labour of grief. In the end time will heal all wounds.

The wave structure of grief or mourning. It is not gradual, it is not biggest first and then flattening out. There are sudden peaks. And lows. The amplitudes are unpredictable.

The vortex effect. A paradox. Trying to avoid places which could rise memories. And on the other hand writing in incredible detail about those memories which entail other memories. When she didn't even go again to those places most of the time. Just anticipated them and couldn't go any more. Salz in die Wunde streuen, i.e. rubbing it in. A therapy by putting past (i.e. painful in this context) memories to paper. By describing them acutely, by reliving them in words? Freud or Janov?

This is not a criticism just something which I didn't understand. Her daughter. Why did she let her board the plane to LA when she wasn't yet back to normal health? Why did she never culpabilise herself for letting her go on the plane at least? She culpabilises herself for the most absurd things concerning her husband. But never in regard to her daughter. As she is still alive at the time? As it wouldn't help anyone? But in which way does the culpabilising because of John help anyone? Maybe as she tries to resuscitate him with it?

Three phases:

1. Not accepting the fact. Trying to find what could have left him alive.
2. Analysing precisely how he died. Reconstructing the circumstances of his death. Finally getting the results of the autopsy many months after having asked for it.
3. Letting go. Accepting the fact. This took one year.

Link: Joan Didion reads from the book and speaks about it with Christopher Lydon here on Open Source. 52 minutes. 24 megs mp3.

Here is another poem by him.

Wahrscheinlich bin ich so ziemlich der Einzige, aber ich finde das Manifest des Relevanten Realismus gut (Sekundärlink). Und finde alle, die darauf herumhacken schreckliche Besserwisser, Zyniker und unsympathische Zeitgenossen. Okay der Name mag etwas unglücklich und beliebig sein, aber die Stoßrichtung ist vollkommen richtig. Ich verstehe Andreas Maier sehr gut, der sich völlig aus dem Gesellschaftlichen und Politischen raushalten will und sich erstmal selbst finden will. Und doch wäre es besser für die Literatur, wenn sie sich den Fragen der Gegenwart mehr als bisher widmen würde. Wenn es eine gemeinschaftliche Position von vielen Literaten geben würde. Weil andernfalls sich Literatur in das Aus der völligen Bedeutungslosigkeit befördert. Was sie ja by the way schon seit geraumer Zeit tut. Geistvolle spritzige Texte wie von Anne Weber beim diesjährigen Bachmannpreis sind einfach zeitgemäßer als die barock verschnörkelte Prosa um der Prosa willen eines Uwe Tellkamp.

P.S. I very much wonder about Momus calling Kracht a friend. Politically they are light years apart, I guess, and the passage above is the most tasteless fashion garbage I have read for a long time.

Enzensberger wird heute in einer Woche 75. Das oben wiedergegebene Gedicht machte ihn 1957 bekannt. Ich habe es in der Untertertia oder wann das war heiß und innig geliebt.

Die letzten 20 Aphorismen sind die schwersten. Bei den MM geht es um Ironie, aber das scheint niemanden mehr hinter dem Ofen hervorzulocken. Ich lass das 134. Stück jetzt mal so lange stehen bis irgend jemand (mich eingeschlossen) einen Kommentar dazu abgegeben hat. Wenn nicht, dann bleibt die Platte halt dort stehen. Davon geht die Welt dann auch nicht unter. Oder doch?

A couple of books I want to read again:

• Paul Auster - New York Trilogy
• Jack Kerouac - Big Sur
• Dostoevskij - The Brothers Karamassov
• Sten Nadolny - Netzkarte
• Richard Brautigan - So the Wind Won't Blow It All Away
• Ernst Herhaus - Kapitulation
• Milan Kundera - Immortality
• Günter Ohnemus - 67 Ansichten einer Frau
• Albert Camus - L'Etranger
• Raymond Carver - Short Stories

Just tell me a number bigger than ten in the comments so that I can start rereading the first book, will you?