Three years after her death, I find myself having grown tired of Joan Didion. I am tired of the books about her and the book-length compendiums of her books. I am tired of her likeness in photographs, her presence in documentaries, and those of her sayings that have become repeated as mantras — “We tell ourselves stories in order to live” and so on. I am tired of her style, her sunglasses, especially when worn in studio interviews, and her popularity among influencers, magazine editors, and young women who have found their guru in a bob cut.