Joan Didion writes in a matter-of-fact, journalistic style, sprinkled with some cynical humor, not always discernable as purposeful or not, in short, to the point pieces that each contribute to the overall narrative. The length, rapid-fire nature and lack of unnecessary transitions between essays draw me to this book, and reflect a kind of style that I often draw upon in my own writing.

Some memories are short-lived, snapshots, some are longer, spanning days, weeks, months, and I think that often stories can stand alone no matter the length, whether a sentence or fifty pages. And I appreciate the notion of leaving it up to the reader to connect one story to the next. Because, really, that is how memory and trains of thought operate – there is never a voice in our head that narrates the transition between memories we visit and thoughts we explore.

So far, I especially enjoyed her recounting of the time she hung out with The Doors, and the segment about the life and death of James Pike, American. Though I know little about Pike, or his mother, I can only imagine the kind of household James grew up in that ingrained in him the sense of entitled exemption from commitment that Didion describes. A single son raised by a single mother – mama’s little angel, granted the world and all its spoils.

I never much cared for religion, so it gives me a certain amount of satisfaction, albeit malevolent, I admit, to picture a good little Catholic boy, swaddled and smothered and spoiled, walking out into the desert expecting to experience some kind of spiritual enlightenment only to be met by the blistering, unforgiving sun winking up at him from the bowels of his empty silver spoon. A morbid and spiteful thought, I know, but I can’t help but feel some amount of satisfaction and glee, the spoiled brat.

Poor guy, though. After all the preaching about heaven and hell, he ended up rotting and being picked apart by buzzards and insects, alone, dying, most likely regretting everything that happened in his life that brought him to that final resting point in the desert. There is no heaven or hell, if you ask me, only biology, and he must have had quite an eye-opening closing ceremony when he realized that. Maybe he should have taken his head out of the clouds. I guess I could say that about a lot of people.