V.L. Hartmann ran into Joan Didion on the street. I was in a class that got a rambling, multipage email from her that didn't remotely answer the question we'd asked her. But that's not the only reason I feel differently about Didion than Hartmann does, and lots of other young women do. I like Didion. I really do. The end of "Goodbye To All That"is an absolute masterpiece of description. Her political reporting is good, and unique: she's not necessarily amazing on policy, but she's wonderfully tart about the theater of it all. Despite all of this, I don't worship Didion, or even love her.
And I think this may be the reason why. I've always been uncomfortable with the "writers are always selling somebody out" line in Slouching Towards Bethlehem, and the credit Didion seems to get for saying it. An announcement like that isn't actually emotionally honest. It's a declaration of your own cleverness. Didion is telling you in advance that she will ruin you, and you will give in to her anyway. To be fair, I think Didion has somewhat more empathy than that: she's not predatory. Even if The Year of Magical Thinking is a somewhat idealized view of her marriage, she clearly loved her husband. She can be good at capturing boredom and venality and futility. But Didion is profoundly not a joyful writer, and I have a hard time with that. I think Anne Lamott is a much less strong prose stylist and reporter than Didion is. But her writing, about terror, and fear, and absolution, and grace is open in a way Didion's isn't. I read Didion to leanr. But I read Lamott to feel.