Slow Days, Fast Company: The World, The Flesh, and L.A.

by Eve Babitz

L.A. didn’t invent eternity. Forest Lawn is just an example of eternity carried to its logical conclusion. I love L.A. because it does things like that.

They’re right. Los Angeles isn’t a city. It’s a gigantic, sprawling, ongoing studio. Everything is off the record. People don’t have time to apologize for its not being a city when their civilized friends suspect them of losing track of the point.

My claustrophobia from San Francisco begins to vanish—that cheerful shipshape vitality of the north violates my spirit and I long for vast sprawls, smog, and luke nights: L.A. It is where I work best, where I can live, oblivious to physical reality.

“This town” is a phrase to be spoken in tones of bitterness as proof of corruption (e.g., “The only way to get anywhere in ‘this town’ is to sell your ass”). The minute I hear those words spoken earnestly, I grow uneasy and bored. Occasionally I’ll refer to Hollywood as “this town,” but only if the other person understands about irony.

Early in life I discovered that the way to approach anything was to be introduced by the right person.

The Bloody Marys at Musso & Frank’s Restaurant are unparalleled in Western thought and can cure anything. The festive limes and newly ground pepper along with the tomato juice all combine to smell like cinnamon.

Being places alone makes you think. Being there with someone makes you hounded by details, like what time the other person wants to leave; details that drain energy when you are trying to discover the core of an event.

That’s the trouble with Hollywood; the things that don’t exist are likely to kill you if you threaten them.