I've been looking forward to this book. Toying with writing my own memoirs, I've been reading famous examples of them by accomplished writers. In this, Didion relates the story of her husband's death, tangled up with the illness and eventual death of her daughter. Didion was a celebrated writer and I was expecting some stylistic lessons; but was sadly disappointed. At times she seems more interested in name-dropping and highlighting her privileged life than in building a bond with the reader in a tragic and traumatic human experience. Beyond the high-brow NYT reviewers, this appears to be a common reaction among readers. To be sure, there is some good writing here; just not engaging enough to elicit any empathy or inspiration.
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