As far as I'm concerned, any Joan Didion book is worth picking up. But as much as I admire Didion and have loved many of her books, I couldn't understand the motivation behind the release of the latest collection of her non-fiction essays, Let Me Tell You What I Mean, unless it were simply commercial.
This slim hardback takes the reader from 1968 (Didion's critique of American newspapers; her impressions of a group of problem gamblers; and a visit to a robotic Nancy Reagan) to 2000 (an almost academic dissection of Martha Stewart's distinctive brand of luxurious homemaking). There is no particular unifying element here, except for Didion's surgical eye.
A 1970s Didion gazes from the cover, wrapped in what appears to be a shawl, cigarette aloft, an empty plate sitting on the table in front of her. She is as cool and unbothered as usual and the book is a stylish object, one you might leave lying around on your coffee table because it looks good and is nice to dip into.
But why republish these 12 essays, and why now? The most recent piece published in this collection is more than 20 years old, and as astute as Didion's observations of Martha Stewart are, they feel a little stale. I mean, Martha Stewart – who cares, really? Since 2000, Didion has released themed essay collections on politics, California history and 9/11, and two profoundly moving books about grief and failing to find meaning following loss – The Year of Magical Thinking (2005), after her husband's death, and Blue Nights (2011) about her daughter's death. In both those books Didion, raw with sorrow and curdled with anger, exposes herself without vanity. They are hurried, anxious reads, taut with emotion and impact.