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

by Eve Babitz

In the View section of the L.A. Times every now and then, you’ll read about some doctor or lawyer who says, “My wife, Shirley, and I have thought it over and we’ve decided to retire from success and try failure for a few years. We feel the variety will enlarge us.” I know L.A. is the only place on earth where people do that.

I had a collection of lovers to keep me warm and my friendships with women, who always fascinated me by their wit, bravery, and resourcefulness, and who never told you the same story twice. Now, women I didn’t mind. I mean, you can go places with a woman and come back just fine (or as my agent, Erica, plowed right in and said: “You know that when you have dinner with a girlfriend, you’re going to come home a whole human being”).

There is something fascinating about a person’s face when they’re not falling apart because of their imperfections and self-loathing.

Looking back on it now, I wonder if I didn’t insist that he stay the same way I tell people how wonderful certain movies were that have nearly annihilated me with their length and breadth. It’s as though I want them to go through the same ghastly experience I did just so they won’t be let off scot-free.

It was forever fascinating to me that men never noticed much about Mary other than, “Well, I mean, she’s pretty and everything . . .” That high gloss, which floored women, went right over men’s heads. It was as though they had no receivers for her particular wavelength.