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Joan Didion @didiondiary

Tweets of excerpts from Joan Didion’s works and interviews. (@keliapple)

Joined July 2021
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I had the distinct sense that everyone I knew had some fever which had not yet infected the invisible city.
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I remember taking a 25-mg. Compazine one Easter Sunday and making a large and elaborate lunch for a number of people, many of whom were still around on Monday.
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We were silent because the exhilaration of social action seemed to many of us just one more way of escaping the personal, of masking for a while that dread of the meaningless which was man's fate.
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"All those stairs," they murmured, as if stairs could no longer be tolerated by human physiology.
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That such an afternoon would now seem implausible in every detail - the idea of having had a "date" for a football lunch now seems to me so exotic as to be almost czarist - suggests the extent to which the narrative on which many of us grew up no longer applies.
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You have to pick the places you don’t walk away from.
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There’s a point when you go with what you’ve got. Or you don’t go.
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...and at night, most nights, I walked outside and looked up to where the cyclotron and the bevatron glowed on the dark hillside, unspeakable mysteries which engaged me, in the style of my time, only personally.
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Not many people I know carry their end of the conversation when I want to talk about water deliveries, even when I stress that these deliveries affect their lives, indirectly, every day.
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I read Camus and Henry James and I watched a flowering plum come in and out of blossom...
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I've put away nonfiction things, but I've never put away a novel
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All such images were personal, and the personal was all that most of us expected to find.
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I cut myself off from the one person who was closer to me than any other. I cried until I was not even aware when I was crying and when I was not, cried in elevators and in taxis and in Chinese laundries, and when I went to the doctor he said only that I seemed to be depressed...
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I remember certain small things that seemed to me somehow explications, dazzling in their clarity, of the world I was about to enter.
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I was working at Vogue during the day, and at night I would work on these scenes for a novel. In no particular sequence. When I finished a scene I would tape the pages together and pin the long strips of pages on the wall of my apartment.
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Most of us live less theatrically, but remain survivors of a peculiar and inward time.
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I avoid his eyes, and brush the baby's hair.
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