Cressida Connolly

‘People who have recently lost someone have a certain look . . . one of extreme vulnerability, nakedness, openness,’ observes Joan Didion in this painful memoir, which describes the first year of her widowhood after 40-odd years of marriage. She should know: the merest glance at her photograph confirms what the mirror must tell her, every day. Didion looks haunted, as indeed she is; haunted by grief, regret and longing. Mourners generally retreat behind closed doors, observed only by their closest family and friends. It is difficult not to feel slightly guilty for seeing her in this state. But any such reservations are out of place here, for Didion is effectively inviting the reader to stop sitting stiffly in the parlour and come and lie on the bed, with her.