I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. Why did I write it down? In order to remember, of course, but exactly what was it I wanted to remember? How much of it actually happened? Did any of it? Why do I keep a notebook at all? It is easy to deceive oneself on all those scores. Portrait of Joan Didion by Mary Lloyd Estrin, 1977Īfter citing a seemingly arbitrary vignette she had found scribbled in an old notebook, Didion asks: Though the essay was originally written nearly half a century ago, the insights at its heart apply to much of our modern record-keeping, from blogging to Twitter to Instagram. From Joan Didion’s 1968 anthology Slouching Towards Bethlehem ( public library) - the same volume that gave us her timeless meditation on self-respect - comes a wonderful essay titled “On Keeping a Notebook,” in which Didion considers precisely that. As a lover - and keeper - of diaries and notebooks, I find myself returning again and again to the question of what compels us - what propels us - to record our impressions of the present moment in all their fragile subjectivity.
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