In her new book, 'The White Album,' Joan Didion writes: 'Kilimanjaro belongs to Ernest Hemingway. Oxford, Mississippi, belongs to William Faulkner. A great deal of Honolulu has always belonged for me to James Jones.

A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his image.' California belongs to Joan Didion.

Not the California where everyone wears aviator sunglasses, owns a Jacuzzi and buys his clothes on Rodeo Drive. But California in the sense of the West. The old West where Manifest Destiny was an almost palpable notion that was somehow tied to the land and the climate and one's own family-an unspoken belief that was passed down to children in stories and sayings. Joan Didion's California is a place defined not so much by what her unwavering eye observes, but by what her memory cannot let go. Although her essays and novels are set amid the effluvia of a new golden state peopled by bored socialites, lost flower children and unsentimental engineers, all is measured against the memory of the old California.

And in telling what has happened to California in the past few decades, Didion finds a metaphor for some larger, insidious process at work in American society. The theatrics of James Pike, Episcopal Bishop of California, became a parable of the American penchant for discarding history and starting tabula rasa; the plight of a San Bernardino woman accused of murdering her husband, a lesson in misplaced dreams. The California Joan Didion lives in, though, is very much the latter-day California. Brentwood Park is one of those sedate residential sections of Los Angeles; her street, one that is lined with Tudor-style homes, white Colonials and pillared mansions. Still, this is the kind of day that can give Joan Didion a migraine. In the first place, there is car trouble: Her husband's new pearl gray Jaguar was dented this morning by a neighbor pulling out of her driveway, and her own 1969 yellow Corvette Sting Ray-a Corvette exactly like the one Maria drove in 'Play It As It Lays'-needs a new transmission.

Universally acclaimed when it was first published in 1968, Slouching Towards Bethlehem has become a modern classic. More than any other book of its time, this. Slouching Towards Bethlehem is a 1968 collection of essays by Joan Didion that mainly describes her experiences in California during the 1960s. 'On Going Home'.

Then there are the rats. 'The exterminator took one look at the backyard and said we were sure to have rats in the avocado tree,' she says. 'That's when I started thinking about bubonic plague.' Today, though, it isn't so much the rats or the cars that are bothering Didion. It's the dining-room curtains: instead of gathering the new curtains, the decorator has pleated them.

The perfect geometric regularity of those folds triggers migraines, she thinks. She is making a new set of curtains herself.

Wearing a faded blue sweatshirt over brown corduroy levis, Didion at 44 strikes anyone who sees her for the first time as the embodiment of the women in her novels' like Lily McClellan in 'Run River,' she is 'strikingly frail' (Didion is 5 feet 2, and weighs 95 pounds); like Maria in 'Play It As It Lays,' she used to chain-smoke and wear chiffon scarves over her red hair; and like Charlotte in 'A Book of Common Prayer,' she possesses 'an extreme and volatile thinness. She was a woman. With a body that masqueraded as that of a young girl.' There is a certain sadness in the face that indicates a susceptibility to what she calls 'early morning dread'; even indoors, she wears oversized sunglasses to protect her light-sensitive eyes. An almost Southern softness lingers in her voice-she identifies it as an Okie accent picked up in Sacramento high schools-and bright laughter punctuates her unfinished sentences. It is a voice so soft, so tentative at times, that one frequently has to strain to hear her.

The 'Didion woman' has by now become a recognizable literary figure. Women who have misunderstood the promises of the past, they are habitues of a clearly personal wasteland, wandering along highways or through countries in an effort to blot out the pain of consciousness.

They lose their men to suicide, divorce and cancer; their children to abortion, bad genes and history. They are outsiders, but they are also survivors, fatalists who keep on playing the game regardless of the odds. In her highly praised collection of essays, 'Slouching Towards Bethlehem,' Didion meticulously portrayed herself as one also well acquainted with the edge. She wrote of 'bad nerves,' of drinking 'gin and hot water to blunt the pain and. Dexedrine to blunt the gin.' Something of a sequel to that first anthology, 'The White Album,' which will be published June 17 by Simon & Schuster, is a collection of her best work from Life, Esquire, The Saturday Evening Post, The New York Times and The New York Review of Books.

Novelist and poet James Dickey has called Didion 'the finest woman prose stylist writing in English today.' And she has created, in her books, one of the most devastating and distinctive portraits of modern America to be found in fiction or nonfiction-a portrait of America where 'disorder was its own point.' A gifted reporter with an eye for the telling detail-the frayed hem, the shaking hand-she is also a prescient witness, finding in her own experiences parallels of the times. The voice is always precise, the tone unsentimental, the view unabashedly subjective. She takes things personally. The title of the new book comes, of course, from the Beatles' 'White Album,' a record Didion found ominous and disturbing, an album inextricably connected to the Manson Murders and the dissonance of the 60's. Deluxe Cracker. Didion's own 'White Album' contains a number of images from the Manson years: Linda Kasabian awaiting trial in a dress Didion bought for her at I.

Magnin; Huey Newton lecturing the press on the 'American capitalistic-materialistic system'; students at San Francisco State College breaking the tedium of the academic calendar with a campus revolt. Advertisement 'The White Album,' though, is not solely concerned with the 60's. Or, for that matter, with Didion's alienation. Whereas Yeats's poem 'The Second Coming' ('Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.'

) served as a perfect epigraph for 'Slouching Towards Bethlehem,' no such image exists to sum up 'The White Album.' This second volume of essays is not so absolute in its tragic vision of the world, not so unquestioningly bleak about history. As Didion herself puts it, 'The White Album' is more tentative. I don't have as many answers as I did when I wrote 'Slouching.' ' 'The White Album' includes a brilliant essay on Hollywood as 'the last extant stable society'; a tribute to Georgia O'Keeffe, and a charming portrait of one Amando Vazquez, a Mexican gardener who raises orchids in Malibu. The collection, in fact, demonstrates Didion's range as an essayist, her ability not only to portray the extraordinary and apocalyptic, but also to appreciate the ordinary. 'I am alienated,' explains Didion, 'I would say I am a victim.

But you don't live every day of your life walking around talking about how alienated you are-you'll start sounding like Woody Allen's 'Interiors.' ' Both Didion and her husband, John Gregory Dunne, the author of 'Vegas,' 'True Confessions' and 'Quintana & Friends,' have made their lives the subject of their reportage. Their thoughts on divorce, their adoption of their daughter, Quintana, and their nervous breakdowns have all been meticulously chronicled in print. The candor frequently stuns. '[In person] Joan gives everyone the impression of being very private,' observes Ralph Graves, now editorial director of Time Inc.

Who was editor of Life magazine when Didion wrote her column. 'Then she'll turn around and write this inside-of-the-stomach stuff that you'd think you'd need to know her five years to find out. This mousy, thin, quiet woman tells you as much about herself as Mailer.' For Didion, though, it is merely part of the contract a writer makes with the reader: as she once told her husband, 'If you want to write about yourself, you have to give them something.'

Why has she chosen this relentless self-scrutiny? One suspects that writing holds for her a kind of talismanic power-the process of putting her life on paper somehow helps to exorcise private demons. Writing, after all, is a means of creating a momentary stay against confusion, of making order out of disorder, understanding out of fear. In her newest book, Didion does not shirk from exposing herself. 'You are getting a woman who somewhere along the line misplaced whatever slight faith she ever had in the social contract, in the meliorative principle. I have felt myself a sleepwalker. Alert only to the stuff of bad dreams, the children burning in the locked car in the supermarket parking lot.

I have trouble maintaining the basic notion that keeping promises matters in a world where everything I was taught seems beside the point.' She tells us how she went blind for six weeks from a condition diagnosed as multiple sclerosis (the disease has been in remission for the past seven years), and how, in the summer of 1968, she checked into the psychiatric clinic at St. John's Hospital in Santa Monica.

She even tells us the doctor's diagnosis: 'Patient's thematic productions emphasize her fundamentally pessimistic, fatalistic and depressive view of the world around her.' Advertisement Yet this familiar Didion persona masks a writer whose own life is a wealth of contradictions. She is a Westerner who mourns the passing of the frontier ethic, but lives in Los Angeles because the city amuses her. She is a romantic who believes 'that salvation [lies] in promises made and somehow kept outside the range of normal social experience,' but delights in practical, domestic routines. She is an introvert who says she has always been an outsider, but parties with the biggest names in Hollywood.

She is a writer who has dwelled on the atomization of modern society, but maintains what she describes as a 'boring, bourgeois' life. Didion's friends jokingly refer to her as the 'Kafka of Brentwood Park,' which amuses her husband no end. 'Joan's really a rather cheerful person who drives a bright yellow Corvette,' says Dunne.

'In person, she doesn't have a dark view of life. She just doesn't expect a lot from it or from people.'

Dunne, a large, gregarious man, gives the appearance of managing Didion's life. He tends to do most of the talking, frequently answering questions directed at Didion; he always answers the phones and screens the calls. But, according to their friends, it is Didion who handles all their finances and Didion who smoothes over situations created by Dunne's volatile temper. 'John does not play Leonard Woolf to her Virginia,' notes writer Josh Greenfeld, one of the Dunnes' best friends in Los Angeles. 'She's more John's Leonard Woolf. John may seem strident and tough, but what you see in John you get in Joan. She is every bit as tough as he is.'

Another friend described Didion as 'fragile,' as in the phrase, 'a fragile, little stainless-steel machine.' Didion, too, thinks of herself as an optimist. Hers is an optimism somewhat akin to F. Scott Fitzgerald's definition of a first-rate intelligence: 'the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.' To believe that nothing matters and yet to believe more strongly that it is worth making a record of experience anyway.' Her awareness of 'the edge' is, in part, a literary idea that derives from what seized her imagination as a child. The people she read about in the fiction of Conrad, James and Faulkner convinced a young Didion that 'salvation lay in extreme and doomed commitments,' and later provided models for the characters in her own novels.

'I have a theatrical temperament,' explains Didion. 'I'm not interested in the middle road-maybe because everyone's on it. Rationality, reasonableness bewilder me. I think it comes out of being a 'daughter of the Golden West.' A lot of the stories I was brought up on had to do with extreme actions-leaving everything behind, crossing the trackless wastes, and in those stories the people who stayed behind and had their settled ways-those people were not the people who got the prize. The prize was California.' We are in a flight from Los Angeles to Sacramento, where Didion's parents live.

As the plane circles ver the coast toward the valley, Didion turns to look out the window. It kills me when people talk about California hedonism,' she says deliberately. 'Anybody who talks about California hedonism has never spent a Christmas in Sacramento.' Didion's family-five generations on her mother's side-come from Sacramento. Although it is the state capital, it remains a valley town where the summers are hot and plagued by drought, and where the winters are cold and menaced by flood. The land here is flat, the rivers and fields stretching clean to the horizon.

It is, in short, a landscape of extremes. Advertisement In writing of the Sacramento of her childhood, Didion frequently uses the word 'Eden,' and to the early settlers it probably was-or at least a reasonable facsimile of Paradise. The confluence of the muddy, silt-rich Sacramento and the swiftly flowing American made the region a fertile garden. It is only within the past three decades that the cultivated fields have given way to tract housing, subdivisions and aerospace factories; the dusty roads along the levee to eight-lane freeways. Even as we drive through town, Didion peruses a map provided by the rent-a-car company. She is unaccustomed to finding her way home via the new highways, for the Sacramento she knows so well is a town of the past.

'All that is constant about the California of my childhood is the rate at which it disappears,' she wrote in 'Slouching Towards Bethlehem.' 'California is a place in which a boom mentality and a sense of Chekhovian loss meet in uneasy suspension.' The road leading to the Didions' Tudor house once ran through hop fields; today it is flanked by a thriving industrial park. Inside, their living room is a comfortable assemblage of mementos and assorted knickknacks collected by Eduene Jerrett Didion at local craft fairs.

A small forthright woman, she met John Dunne for the first time at her daughter's wedding and told him: 'You know those little old ladies in tennis shoes you've heard about? Well, I'm one of them.' Her husband is a quiet, shy man. A former Army Air Corps officer who later served on the Sacramento draft board, Frank Didion now dabbles in real estate. Joan's bedroom is still the faded carnation pink she painted it when she was a freshman at Berkeley, but bougainvillea and ivy have overgrown the windows, giving the chamber a dark, cavelike effect. Didion returned to this room to finish each of her five books.

She wrote the last 150 pages of 'A Book of Common Prayer: here in 14 days. After all, there are no distractions in Sacramento: the phones are answered, the meals are prepared, and her parents leave her alone to work. On a dressing table here, as in her study back in Brentwood, there is a small framed photograph of the Sierras near Donner Pass. The tale of the Donner party haunts Didion.

Traveling from Illinois to California in 1846, the Donner-Reed party was forced by a sudden blizzard to encamp in the Sierras. Faced with starvation, they ate their own dead. Of the 87 who embarked, 40 survived.

Joan's great-great-great-grandmother, Nancy Hardin Cornwall, was a member of the original Donner party, but she had left the ill-fated group at Humboldt Sink in Nevada to cut north through Oregon. Nancy Hardin Cornwall's own forebears lived on the frontier, moving from the Carolinas to Georgia to Arkansas to Missouri with the nation's westward migration, and Didion clings to that heritage. 'I used to be strongly convinced that the closing of the frontiers was the central event, the turning point in American history,' she says. 'I am not flatly convinced of that anymore, but I myself feel better the farther west I am.'

The frontier legacy, she feels, has made her different, has ingrained in her a kind of hard-boiled individualism, an 'ineptness at tolerating the complexities of postindustrial life.' And it has made her something of a libertarian, wary of governmental panaceas and distrustful of utopian promises. Like her parents, Didion voted for Goldwater in 1964. Since then, she has voted only twice. 'I never had faith that the answers to human problems lay in anything that could be called political,' she explained once. 'I thought the answers, if there were answers, lay someplace in man's soul.' Joan was a fearful child-scared of ski lifts, of rattlesnakes in the river, even of comic books filled as they were with violence and monsters.

She worried that the funicular at Royal Gorge would crash, that the bridge over the Sacramento River would fall. During the war years, Frank Didion was transferred from base to base, and the family moved with him. The transience made Joan something of an outsider, and she remained one even when the Didions finally settled again in Sacramento. Advertisement If she was ill at ease with people, Joan at least found more congenial company in books.

'I tended to perceive the world in terms of things read about it,' she says. 'I still do.' When she was 5, Joan wrote her first story: A tale of a woman who dreamed she was freezing to death in the Arctic, only to wake up and find herself in the scorching heat of the Sahara. By 15, she was learning to type and learning how sentences worked by copying over chapters from Ernest Hemingway and Joseph Conrad.

Her own stories of that period displayed a somewhat less eclectic taste; they all had one theme-suicide. In some, the hero walked through the streets of San Francisco to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge; in others, he simply walked into the sea.

One summer when she was in the eighth grade and her parents had a beach cottage, Joan determined to find out for herself how it would feel to walk into the ocean. After telling her parents she and her brother, Jimmy, were going to a square dance, she dropped Jimmy off at the Greyhound bus terminal, told him to wait for her and went on to the shore herself. Then, note pad in hand, she gingerly walked into the ocean. The night was dark, and she had no sooner waded in knee-deep than a wave hit her in the face.

Sopping wet, her romantic notions of suicide considerably dampened, she made her way back to the terminal, retrieved her brother, and sneaked back into the house. At Berkeley, Didion majored in English literature, and after graduating in 1956 headed for New York.

Her passport there was first prize in the Vogue magazine Prix de Paris writing competition, which she received for a piece on the San Francisco architect William Wilson Wurster. Her editor at Vogue, Allene Talmey, was a perfectionist who insisted on the right adjective, the 'shock' verb, the well-turned caption. 'At first she wrote captions,' recalls Talmey. 'I would have her write 300 to 400 words and then cut it back to 50.

We wrote long and published short and by doing that Joan learned to write.' One of her first efforts: 'Opposite, above: All through the house, colour, verve, improvised treasures in happy but anomalous coexistence. Here, a Frank Stella, an Art Nouveau stained-glass panel, a Roy Lichtenstein. Not shown: A table covered with brilliant oilcloth, a Mexican find at fifteen cents a yard.'

Joan went on to write stories on furniture, homes and personalities; the exercises honed her unfailing eye for detail and fine-turned her lean prose. Homesick for California, Didion began to make notes for a book set in the Sacramento Valley. The book was 'Run River,' an earnest first novel about a failed marriage. By the end of the book, there are two suicides, a murder and an abortion; only Lily McClellan survives.

Already, many of the obsessional themes of Didion's work are in evidence: a pervasive sense of emotional weariness that surfaces in passionate couplings and the rote acting out of expected roles; a yearning after control and order by those who see their lives falling apart; a fatalistic realization that every particular fate is the fruit born of a particular history. All of Didion's time in New York, though, was not spent over a typewriter. She liked parties. At 25 or so, she says, 'I decided it was pathological for a grown woman to be shy, and I began pushing myself to make a contribution. Instead of being shy, I became 'reticent.'

' She did not talk a great deal, but maintained a kind of Jamesian distance that insulated her from the rigors of cocktail patter and heightened her reportorial eye. For several years, Didion attended many of those parties in the company of another writer. After living together for several years, they broke up.

'I remember leaving [him]. One bad afternoon in New York, packing a suitcase and crying while he watched me,' Didion wrote in a Life column.

'When I asked him finally how he could watch me, he told me that a great many things had happened to him during the 10 years before I knew him and nothing much touched him anymore. I remember saying that I never wanted to get the way he was, and he looked at me a long while before he answered. 'Nobody wants to,' he said. 'But you will.' Advertisement A good friend over the years had been an ambitious young writer at Time magazine, John Gregory Dunne.

The two frequently discussed their work with each other, and Dunne helped her correct the galleys to 'Run River.' In 1963 they got an apartment together, and a year later, they were married.

'I wonder how the marriage would have worked if we hadn't known each other so many years when we were really close friends,' said Dunne once. 'People have a hard time believing this, but these is no professional competition between us. I think the reason is the six years of friendship when we were both starting off together.' Didion agrees: 'Writers are very boring to live with. If I weren't married to a writer, I couldn't be as self-absorbed as I am.' By the time they were married, New York had begun to grate on Didion's nerves-and working at a newsmagazine on Dunne's-and three months later they left for California.

In 1966, they adopted a baby girl whom they named Quintana Roo after the Yucatan territory. Didion says she once believed 'that I could live outside history, that the currents of the time in which I lived did not touch or affect me.'

Then, sometime in 1966, she says, she became 'paralyzed by the conviction that the world as I had understood it no longer existed. If I was to work again at all, it would be necessary for me to come to terms with disorder.' And disorder was rife in the 1960's; Los Angeles, a perfect vantage point from which to watch those years.

Her chronicle of that period, 'Slouching Towards Bethlehem,' was published in 1968. At the time Didion was acclaimed for 'Slouching,' Dunne had yet to achieve the fame that 'True Confessions' would later bring him.

In the summer of 1968, suffering from a protracted case of writer's block, Dunne began driving the highways-sometimes to San Bernardino, sometimes to Reno, sometimes to Mexicali. One morning he told Didion he was going out to buy a loaf of bread. He did: 457 miles away at a Safeway in San Francisco. Finally, he moved to a residential motel just off the Strip in Las Vegas, and for 18 months lived there among hookers, card sharks and comedians. Didion bought him three sets of clean sheets and a wastepaper basket; she did not see the apartment until the day he headed home. After sharing a Saturday Evening Post column with her husband and writing another column for Life, Didion began her second novel.

In 1970, 'Play It As It Lays' was published and nominated for a National Book Award. Her editor on the book, Henry Robbins, remembers his first reaction: 'It was a brilliant book but cold, almost icy.

A devastating book. When I finished it, I wanted to call her up and ask her if she was all right. I did see it as the experience of despair.' Arranged in 84 staccato-paced takes, the elliptical prose is pared down, perfectly clean. The setting is the desert; the cast, the careless hedonists of Hollywood; the emotional climate, bleak as the surroundings. Having experienced a bad affair, a worse marriage, the birth of a brain-damaged child and the abortion of another, Maria Wyeth suffers that exhaustion of the spirit born of disillusionment and emotional bankruptcy. And yet, she survives.

It is Maria, at the end of the book, who can say, 'I know what 'nothing' means, and keep on playing. Why, BZ would say.

Why not, I say.' 'Play It As It Lays' grew out of a scene Didion once observed at the Sands Hotel in Las VegasL At midnight, a woman in a white gown walked across the casino floor to answer a phone. Didion began asking herself, 'Who is this Woman? What had occurred in her past that she should at this very moment be paged in the middle of Las Vegas?' 'A Book of Common Prayer,' published in 1977, similarly grew out of a single image. In the spring of 1973, Didion and Dunne had gone to South America to attend a film festival. While there, she contracted a case of paratyphoid and her weight dropped to 70 pounds.

The entire trip took on a certain hallucinogenic quality, and an image of the Panama airport lodged in Didion's imagination. She became 'obsessed with a picture of the airport-its heat, the particular color of the stucco and especially the light which gets absorbed.' Advertisement The central character in 'The Book of Common Prayer,' Charlotte Douglas, is also de afuera, an outsider. Imagining she can escape the past, she come to the imaginary country of Boca Grande, where she is shot in a revolution-a casualty of her own romanticism. A technically difficult novel, the book received mixed reviews.

As a number of critics pointed out, the device of a dispassionate, uninvolved narrator results in an oblique narrative that fails to win our complete sympathy for Charlotte's plight. Given the current visibility of the women's movement, there are those who see Didion's fiction as an example of that nebulous genre-'women's novels.'

The women in her novels, after all, are haunted by the issues of mothers and daughters, blood and babies. Then, too, they are usually victims of men who have in some way failed them. The men in the novels-Ryder Channing in 'Run River,' Ivan Costello in 'Play It As It Lays,' and Warren Bogart in 'A Book of Common Prayer'-are remarkably similar. All are brash, irreverent skeptics capable of almost cruel beligerence and possessed of sexual charm that renders the women powerless. They are corrupters of innocence, destroyers of idealism. The women, for their part, are adept at coping with the immediate, the practical, but have trouble connecting the past with the future. Like Charlotte in 'A Book of Common Prayer,' each believes she can remain 'a tourist, a traveler with good will and good credentials and no memory.'

Didion, however, maintains that her female characters 'don't really have specifically women's problems; they have rather more general problems.' Indeed, Didion is skeptical of the women's movement. As she writes in 'The White Album': 'To those of us who remain committed mainly to the exploration of moral distinctions and ambiguities, the feminist analysis.

[denies] one's actual apprehension of what it is like to be a woman, the irreconcilable difference of it-that sense of living one's deepest life underwater, that dark involvement with blood and birth and death.' Didion occasionally forces herself to do reporting (which she dislikes) to replenish her image bank, to gather new material for her novels. And in both 'Play It As It Lays' and 'A Book of Common Prayer,' the reporter's eye is very much in evidence, grounding the melodramatics of the plot in a precision of detail. Didion has carefully observed the manners and mores of the moneyed set that frequents Los Angeles and expertly records those observations with a mordant wit.

Les monkey-gland injections,' babbles a silly socialite in 'A Book of Common Prayer.' Asked about her husband at a cocktail party, Charlotte replies: 'He runs guns. I wish they had caviar.' Ma Maison is one of those peculiarly Hollywood phenomena. A modest wooden structure on Melrose Avenue that resembles a country hamburger stand, it is probably the most celebrated celebrity hangout since Romanoff's in the days of the Rat Pack. On this particular Wednesday, George Cukor is there, as are Jackie Bisset, Dustin Hoffman and the Jack Lemmons.

There are nods and greetings all around as the Dunnes and Carl Bernstein walk in for lunch. 'The same old faces,' says Bernstein looking around. 'This place never changes.'

'No,' says Didion. 'Time stands still here.' The Dunnes and Bernstein talk about writing as writers will: how many pages a day constitutes a good day's work; where the ideal place to write would be. Dunne, who, as his friend Calvin Trillin puts it, is a 'creative gossip,' regales the others with stories, which Didion occasionally embroiders. The Dunne's work on screenplays has made them regulars on the local dinner party-screening circuit, and they are frequently mentioned in The Hollywood Reporter's column 'The Great Life' along with the likes of Bianca Jagger, Paul Morrissey and Linda Ronstadt. Collaborators on all their screenplays, the Dunnes regard writing for the movies not so much a creative effort but as a respite from the solitary rigors of fiction and reportage, and they have worked on a dozen films, including dramatizations of 'Play It As It Lays,' 'The Panic in Needle Park' and 'A Star Is Born.'

Advertisement They are currently finishing a screenplay of Dunne's best-selling novel 'True Confessions.' That project completed, Didion will go back to work on her next novel, 'Angel Visits.' The title, she explains, comes from a Victorian expression meaning 'pleasant visits of short duration.' Although the book started off as an extended dinner party in which the lives of three generations of a family are revealed, Didion says that the narrative of the book continues to change as she works on it. When she is in the midst of a book, Didion works at the typewriter in her office from 11 in the morning until 4 or 5 in the afternoon.

Before cooking dinner (and she is an excellent cook), she sits down with a drink and her day's work, penciling in sentences, crossing out others. 'Order and control are terribly important to me,' says Didion as she sits on a couch in her den, fingering a tiny green pillbox. 'I would love to just have control over my own body-to stop the pain, to stop my hand from shaking. If I were 5 feet 10 and had a clear gaze and a good strong frame, I would not have such a maniacal desire for control because I would have it.'

If control is elusive, order at least is provided by a multitude of domestic tasks Didion enjoys: making her own pastry; polishing the silver; taking her orchids to the greenhouse for repotting; preparing dinner parties; helping Q. With her vocabulary. In Didion's novels, the women, too, practice little rituals-improvised regimens relied upon in lieu of any greater order. Even while she is wildly driving the highways, Maria 'tried always to let the [gas station] attendant notice her putting the [Coke] bottle in the rack, a show of thoughtful responsibility.' There is in such gestures a means of warding off what Didion has called 'the unspeakable peril of the everyday.' A means of keeping man's frail civilization roadmarked from the wilderness (the coyotes by the interstate, the snakes in the playpen; the fires and winds of California) that for Didion is always lurking just outside the house.

'All the time we were living at the beach [in Trancas] I wanted a house like this,' she says of their two-story Colonial home. 'I wanted a house with a center-hall plan with the living room on your right and the dining hall on your left when you come in. I imagined if I had this house, a piece of order and peace would fall into my life, but order and peace did not fall into my life. Living in a two-story house doesn't take away the risks.' Michiko Kakutani is a staff writer at Time magazine. Download Driver Benq Joybook R43 Xp.