When news first broke that Joan Didion’s private diary, Notes to John, would become a posthumous work this spring, the literary world responded with both excitement and unease.
These journals, written during a turbulent chapter of her life, marked by therapy sessions, struggles with alcoholism, and a strained relationship with her daughter, offer a raw, unfiltered look into the mind of one of America’s most carefully composed voices. That unease reaches beyond the literary world. It forces us to confront how we treat consent, privacy, and personal boundaries after death.
However, unlike her iconic memoirs, The Year of Magical Thinking or Blue Nights, Notes to John was never meant to reach us. She didn’t shape it for an audience, edit it for clarity, or curate it for legacy. It was private. And now, it’s public.
Why posthumous works fascinate us
There’s something irresistibly intimate about reading a writer’s words that were never meant to be shared. It feels like seeing them without their usual filters—completely honest, completely themselves. That’s part of what makes posthumous books so compelling. They offer a deeper, more unpolished look at someone whose public image we think we already understand.
While some readers approach these works with admiration, others are simply fascinated. It’s not always about love for the author—it can also be about curiosity, even discomfort. The contradictions, private struggles, and cultural weight these figures carry draw us in.
Take Sylvia Plath, for instance, much like Didion, publishers released her journals long after she died. These private writings added new layers to the person readers thought they knew from The Bell Jar, revealing not only her creative mind, but also her pain and complexity.
Then there’s Franz Kafka, whose most enduring novels—The Trial, The Castle, Amerika—only survived because his close friend Max Brod disobeyed Kafka’s request to destroy them. Without that act of preservation, literary history would be missing some of its most iconic modernist works.
Also, in a different way, Jane Austen’s unfinished novel Sanditon continues to stir interest, not just because readers love her voice, but because of the lingering sense of what might have been.
Together, these works offer a kind of rediscovery. They satisfy our urge to peer behind the curtain—to fill in gaps, extend a conversation, or even challenge a myth. But in doing so, they also pull us into uneasy territory, where the line between appreciation and invasion becomes harder to define.
The line between legacy and invasion
Legacy, for most writers, is a matter of control. They revise, curate, and often obsess over how their voice will live on. But when these private texts appear in public, they can override years of intentional self-editing, often shifting the boundaries between preserving a writer’s legacy and invading their private life.
Joan Didion’s Notes to John shows just how complicated that line can be. Though she became known for her deeply personal memoirs on grief and memory, those books were shaped with care and written for readers. Notes to John, on the other hand, was a private diary filled with raw, emotional entries meant only for herself. Publishing it not only disrespects her privacy and consent, it disrupts the version of herself she chose to share with the world. The result isn’t a contradiction, but a shift. Readers now judge her through a version of her voice she never intended to release.
The same tension appears in the case of Michel Foucault, who left clear instructions against posthumous publication. His executor followed that request for years, but eventually, interviews and notes began to surface. Some argue these additions enrich our understanding of his work, but they still speak without his permission. Every release opens a gap between the legacy he built and the one others continue to shape without him.
Every choice made about what to publish and what to keep private shapes the writer’s legacy. What’s shared and how it’s presented can change how we remember them. And as we move through that shift, we start seeing something else at work: the people behind these decisions, and what motivates them.
Who has the right to decide?
Deciding to publish a posthumous work is complicated. Those who make this choice often act with good intentions. But those intentions don’t always match what the author would have wanted. Without their input, choices about their private writings fall to others: family members, literary executors, or publishers. These works often remain incomplete or unrefined, lacking the author’s usual care, making the decision to publish them ethically complex.
At the center of these choices are literary estates, which carry both legal authority and moral responsibility. Some, like J.D. Salinger’s, have fiercely protected the author’s privacy, resisting calls to publish unreleased material. Others, like Ernest Hemingway’s estate, have steadily put out unpublished letters and drafts, inviting new interpretations while fueling debate. These contrasting paths show how much influence estates wield, not only over what gets published but over how an author is remembered.
Profit adds another layer of discomfort. Publishing houses often frame posthumous works as rare glimpses into a writer’s mind, but behind the pitch lies a financial motive. An unreleased manuscript from a famous name can generate enormous attention and sales. That pull can outweigh concerns about privacy or intent, especially when the author left no clear instructions.
Ultimately, those who release posthumous works shape the writer’s legacy as much as the writing itself. Some act with care and restraint—others, less so. As readers, we’re left to weigh our own curiosity against the possibility that we’re participating in something the writer never consented to. What we gain from satisfying our curiosity may come at the cost of participating in a system that prioritizes profit over consent.
Final thoughts
Posthumous works pull us in because they feel honest in a way published writing rarely does. We read them, hoping to understand the person even better. But that closeness comes with a cost. When we cross that line, we risk turning someone’s private pain into public property.
These choices reshape how we see the writer and not through their own hands. It makes legacy something others reconstruct for a writer after they’re gone, rather than something the writer builds. And while we’re still reading Didion, we’re not the version she chose to give us. We’re reading what she left behind, maybe by accident or trust.
That shift matters. It changes how we read and how we remember. It blurs the line between intimacy and intrusion. As readers, we have to sit with that discomfort. We can feel grateful for the access while also questioning its price. What we read may bring us closer to the writer, but it also reminds us that closeness can sometimes come from trespassing.
