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A few weeks ago, it was announced that the late bestselling author Joan Didion's diary will be published posthumously on April 22. Her latest publication since her death in December 2021, “Notes to John,” contains writings from a tumultuous time in Didion’s life, written after attending sessions with a psychiatrist, wrestling with guilt, depression, alcoholism and struggling with motherhood.
Like many fans, I was initially excited by the prospect of a new Didion read. I’m currently going through her large catalog of memoirs, nonfiction works and novels, and another addition seemed like a gift. However, after learning more about this upcoming publication, my initial enthusiasm quickly turned to discomfort. I couldn’t help but feel like I would be snooping into someone’s most private belongings.
These 46 post-therapy entries were found tucked away in a filing cabinet in Didion’s Manhattan apartment and were addressed to her late husband, John Gregory Dunne. In a press release quoted by The New York Times, Knopf Publishing’s executive vice president Jordan Pavlin described “Notes to John” as “an extraordinarily intimate record of a painful and courageous journey in the life of one of the greatest writers of our time.” While this framing attempts to elevate the work as a testament to Didion’s personal strength, it also inadvertently underscores the ethical dilemma at hand. Is releasing these private writings truly a gift to her readers, or is it an intrusion into the most vulnerable aspects of her life?
It is true that Didion does not shy away from sharing personal reflections on her life and internal hardships in her published works. She has discussed themes of grief after losing her husband and dealing with an ill daughter in "The Year of Magical Thinking” as well as in “Blue Nights,” which explores her fears of motherhood and aging after her adopted daughter passed. She’s been open about her mental health and psychiatric appointments at a time when it was taboo to do so. But the key distinction is that Didion shared these reflections on her own terms, choosing the moments and mediums through which to reveal them.
Didion’s work, for all its depth, was carefully curated, crafted and revised. She chose when, how and what to reveal about herself. In publishing these writings without her careful revision, her wishes as a writer seem to be disregarded entirely.
“It fills in great gaps in our understanding of her thinking,” Pavlin said in her press release. “Didion’s art has always derived part of its electricity from what she reveals and what she withholds… ‘Notes to John’ is unique in its lack of elision.”
However, I can’t help but feel that this “lack of elision” is because Didion didn’t anticipate her post-psychiatry session notes to appear in libraries and bookshelves.
This is not the first time a writer’s private work has been published after they’ve passed, and it raises important ethical questions about the responsibility of publishers and the line between artistic legacy and personal privacy. In a 1998 essay featured in “The New Yorker,” Didion expressed her distaste with the release of Ernest Hemingway’s “True at First Light.”
“You think something is in shape to be published, or you don’t, and Hemingway didn’t,” she wrote.
I believe Didion certainly didn’t either.
The issue here isn’t just that Didion’s private thoughts are being exposed, but that, even in death, we treat our idols as if they are our idols. We feel entitled to understand every detail of their lives — their thoughts, their relationships, their innermost fears. This sense of entitlement raises several troubling questions: When do the lines between admiration and intrusion blur? At what point do we cross into a territory where we are no longer respecting a person’s memory, but exploiting it for profit and public consumption? We read their work, we admire who they are, but does this allow us access to those things once they no longer have the ability to grant permission?
A mere four years after Didion’s death, the author’s innermost reflections and vulnerabilities will become available to purchase, to read and to criticize. It’s a shame that her privacy will be exploited for profit. It’s a shame that her agency is in cash-grabbing hands.
As a fan of Didion’s work and someone who admires her greatly, I find myself torn. Part of me is curious to read “Notes to John,” eager to uncover more about the woman behind the words. At the same time, I don’t want to participate in something Didion wouldn’t have wanted, and I’m not sure it’s possible to reconcile these two impulses.
Makayla Prible (she/her) is a senior studying media science.
