1) We have sadness then we have death. Fortunately I haven’t contemplated on the latter recently, or ever, it’s vague and ambiguous. I don’t even know if death in its pure form is sadness on the part of the abandoned living. I still can’t absorb the literature, I’m surmising that it’s a complicated feeling. Okay fine I don’t like it, I’m young.
2) I didn’t know Blue Nights was about death, or senility, or growing old and alone. I’ve had quick fleeting instances, lying on my back, facing the window, imagining life when I’m old (and most likely childless and alone). It makes me feel silly for looking too far out into the future but at the same time it silently terrifies me. Gahd it’s scary.
3) It’s a flush of wonder and awe to read the words of a 70-something author. In between chapters I’d imagine it was my mother speaking, telling me about her life and her innermost sentiments on how she’s aging. But this is a book with its own tragedies, the death of her husband and of her adopted daughter and of her friends.
4) Oh did I mention this is an autobiography. Creative non-fiction. My Creative Writing major friend would lambast CNF on every occasion he could, belittling its literary merits. I wonder if he could lambast THIS thing. Gritty and frail yet dignified.
5) Do you recount ever using those literary devices, murky, lush fragments you insert between paragraphs to evoke a feeling of enchantment and loss?
Not in these streets, they were born from pain and dereliction.
Yes, those kinds of undercutting incomplete phrases, Joan Didion uses those like a pro they’re genuinely magical. Super like! I would hug her if she was my grandma.
6) I guess it’s so hard being old. I hate it that reading makes me feel so pensive and introspective. It’s quite taxing.
But I love this book. I love writing. I should totally be a writer. Or not!
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