I am currently reading Joan Didion’s Blue Nights, and my thought right now has gone from Why am in reading this? to Why would people want to read about other people’s memories?
The answer to the first question is because I saw a friend reading it and was curious about the book especially since I had been seeing her name on bookstore shelves and book lists. I actually thought it was fiction, and when I realized it wasn’t, I just pushed through with it anyway, hoping for some great realizations the same way after I had finished Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.
So far, yes, I’ve come across lines that made me shudder, made me think and reflect and made me nod my head in agreement with. But mainly I was bored and depressed.
Which brings me to my second question: Why would people bother reading about someone’s memories? AHEM… Sad memories?
I’d say it has something to do with profound realizations, but I’m not quite sure.
I’ll write again when I’m done and when I’ve figured it out.