Magical Thinking

I picked up Joan Didion’s most recent work, The Year of Magical Thinking, last night and finished it this afternoon–devoured is more accurate. Partly because of the relief of reading this calculated, controlled thinker delve into the deepest, most impenetrable loci of grief–reading her write as a mother, as a woman, as a wife; partly out of that terrible impulse that has one looking for the sexy parts in a novel–searching out the points of greatest emotional punch, the revealing sections, the nakedness, the dirt. I’ll probably read it again from the top, more slowly and carefully, tonight.

Just that–I doubt there’s anything I can say about it than someone else hasn’t said better.

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