Quotes of the Day

The dotcom bust. Staggering budget deficits. A hellzapoppin' gubernatorial recall. What other misfortune could happen to California? Well, Joan Didion, who was born and raised there, could write an elegantly acerbic book arguing that the sustaining myths by which the state defines itself are false, self-deluding and corrupt. Where I Was From (Knopf; 226 pages) is that book, and Governor-elect Schwarzenegger, for one, can give thanks that it was written too soon to include him.

The fundamental California myth is that noble 19th century pioneers braved the Sierras in order to cultivate a golden promised land. Not quite, says Didion. The great crossing was often "a mean scrambling for survival, a blind flight." And what of the early Californians' inspirational unity with nature? "[They] took what they could," writes Didion, "and...set about selling the rest." As for their vaunted individualism, the state's residents have always been largely subsidized by the Federal Government, right down to the "sad, bad times" of the present, when "virtually every county [is]...dependent on defense contracts."

Didion makes these verdicts personal by presenting her own family — Californians for five generations — as prime embodiments of the state's ambiguous destiny. Nor does she spare herself: she offers a probing critique of what she now considers her wrongheaded nostalgia for the old California in her 1963 novel, Run River. Where I Was From, in fact, is "an exploration into my own confusions about the place and the way in which I grew up."

The exploration takes her off on many tangents, from the novels of Frank Norris to the sociology of the aerospace community of Lakewood. Some of these passages feel worked up and only loosely relevant. But as in all of Didion's reportage — including an earlier take on California, Slouching Towards Bethlehemher appraisal is cool, her eye is sharp, and her turn of phrase is wicked.

The family portraits, though, are what weave the book together and provide a welcome human resonance. Didion gives a charming account of her maternal grandmother, an extravagant spirit who, like many women in her family, tended toward "slight and major derangements." Her father, a hard-drinking depressive, leveraged one real estate deal after another with little money. "His idea of a relaxing way to make a payment was to drive to Nevada and shoot craps all night." The remembered details of family life yield vivid metaphors for her theme, none better than this: in a Sacramento house the Didions moved into in 1951, the gold silk organza curtains on the stairs hadn't been changed since 1907. They "hung almost two stories, billowed iridescent with every breath of air, and, if touched, crumbled."

• Christopher Porterfield