Blue Nights

Blue Nights

Book - 2011
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Shares the author's frank observations about her daughter as well as her own thoughts and fears about having children and growing old, in a personal account that discusses her daughter's wedding and her feelings of failure as a parent.
Publisher: New York : Alfred A. Knopf, c2011
ISBN: 9780307267672
Branch Call Number: 92 DIDI
Characteristics: 188 p. ; 21 cm


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Jul 15, 2013

so disapointing after the year of magical thinking. read this while dad was dying. about her daughter, but not really enough. should've been more about quintana and less of joan's ruminations....

kelleypoole Dec 26, 2012

I am much too fond on details and information to relish this book. I would've liked to know what happened to her daughter but instead had to string together some frayed pieces and create my own picture. It was too repetitive and indulgent for me, but I imagine that is just her style. If you are fond of her style, I'm sure this will be a touching memoir for you. Just not my cup of tea.

Sep 09, 2012

old age

Jul 30, 2012

A poignant, moving meditation on memory, loss, adoption, death and aging. She has the skill to observe her own pain and we share it with her.

Jul 20, 2012

Didion has written an extended poem as an elegy for her deceased daughter, and as, perhaps prematurely, a swan song for herself, it is a beautiful, haunting reminiscence, from a poet who has not lost her stride

Jul 02, 2012

Lovely thoughts on aging and death. Good companion piece to the excellent "The Year of Magical Thinking".

Mar 11, 2012

I'm not a fan of the rambling, repetitive, scattered style in which the author expresses her thoughts on old age. Then again, it is an appropriate fit for her theme. The wistful longing for her dead daughter is heartbreaking.

hutchinsjeremy Jan 18, 2012

The best book about Silence going into old age and, eventually, non-existence, I've ever read.

ksoles Jan 01, 2012

"Blue Nights" both begins and ends in colour, when the days shorten and “twilights turn long and blue.” Such blue light becomes Joan Didion's vehicle to articulate the intense beauty and pain that accompany awareness of imminent loss.

This slim memoir deals with the unimaginable: the death of one's child. Didion speaks with devastating accuracy here and beautifully intertwines shards of the past. She addresses grief by continually circling back to the time before its advent, spiralling through memory trying to salvage what remains. But Didion finds no coherence among her memories; instead, she heartbreakingly offers an integrity that resists resolution.

Rather unfortunately, though, "Blue Nights" has a jumbled quality, with memories of Quintana giving way to those of film shoots, room service and news reports about abduction. In this way, the structure mirrors Didion's secondary and almost intrusive theme: the disorienting effects of aging. As the narrative develops, the author becomes increasingly explicit about the fact that the blue light, which warns of “the dying of the brightness,” is signalling to her. She worries about “[her] new inability to summon the right word, the apt thought, the connection that enables the words to make sense, the rhythm, the music itself.”

She needn't worry yet. Cognitive frailty may befall her someday but, for now, she remains an extraordinarily talented wordsmith, “sketching in a rhythm and letting that rhythm tell [her] what it was [she] was saying."

debwalker Aug 18, 2011

"Didion has produced five mostly acclaimed novels over the past four decades, but much of her best work has been reportage, both as an essayist and journalist. In what sounds like a sequel of sorts to The Year of Magical Thinking, which documented her grief over the death of her husband Gregory Dunne, she now essays the subject of growing old."
Vit Wagner


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Mar 11, 2012

Aging and its evidence remain life's most predictable events, yet they also remain matters we prefer to leave unmentioned, unexplored: I have watched tears flood the eyes of grown women, loved women, women of talent and accomplishment, for no reason other than that a small child in the room, more often than not an adored niece or nephew, has just described them as "wrinkly," or asked how old they are. When we are asked this question we are always undone by its innocence, somehow shamed by the clear bell-like tones in which it is asked. What shames us is this: the answer we give is never innocent.


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