I read Joan Didion in the 1960's, when I dreamed of going to California and living the emerging alternative lifestyle. When I got there, life was just actually discernable as the way she had written it. Bravo . . . . her Slouching Towards Bethlehem is still fantastic (re-published again last year !), although we've all moved on . . .
In The Revenge of The Real Zadie Smith in today's Guardian (click on the post title, as always) rolls out a defense of the essay as 'real'. In apposition to this perfect creation from the writer's mind is the more familiar novel.
Zadie, who continues to write super-successful novels, re-iterates that all novels are imperfect, creatures subject to the author's whims and shortcomings, ie. incomplete plots, inadequate dialogue, unbelieveable characters, etcetera. I mean, how can any sane person keep up the pretense of an imagined reality in a made-up novel from the start through to 'the end' ?
Read what Zadie has to say about the essay being pure, a realisation of a perfect ideal.
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