Just finished A Book of Common Prayer by Joan Didion.
I've never read any of her fiction before, just essays.
It made me feel quite odd, like I wasn't wearing my glasses.
It was written in 1977, is reminiscent of Patti Hearst's story, through the eyes of the mother.
AK47's, airports, Boca Grande and many a strong drink.
A more eloquent analysis here.
Joan Didion's art has always been one of understatement and indirection, of emotion withheld. Like her narrator, she has been an articulate witness to the most stubborn and intractable truths of our time, a memorable voice, partly eulogistic, partly despairing; always in control.