Now I know what to wear to work.
I recently read The Year of Magical Thinking and the only thing I liked about it was the way Didion named, over and over again, the exact locations where she and her husband ate lunch or dinner, but the contrast between the subtly mismatched floral prints and the “are you speaking to me?” expression in this photo have redeemed the six or so hours I spent slogging through the book.
I have logged into google at least thirty times this week to look up and inspect pictures of Joan Didion. I can’t help but feel that I would have really liked 1969-1973ish, living near Central Park with a bag held up with chains and a highball every night before dinner. I think that’s why I didn’t like The Year of Magical Thinking. Beneath all of its touchingly dispassionate tragedy, there seemed to be a deeper layer of smug, which had the perhaps desired effect of making me duly jealous.
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