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

by Eve Babitz

Work and love—the two best things—flourish in studios. It’s when you have to go outside and define everything that they often disappear.

I did not become famous but I got near enough to smell the stench of success. It smelt like burnt cloth and rancid gardenias, and I realized that the truly awful thing about success is that it’s held up all those years as the thing that would make everything all right. And the only thing that makes things even slightly bearable is a friend who knows what you’re talking about.

And for the very first time in my life, I began to deep-down know that even though I was not as thin as George Harrison, it was going to be all right. In fact, it might even be funny.

Arrogance and conceit and remarks like that one are much more fun than starving all the time. Once it is established that you are you and everyone else is merely perfect, ordinarily factory-like perfect . . . you can wreak all the havoc you want. There is something fascinating about a person’s face when they’re not falling apart because of their imperfections and self-loathing. Pleasure is a lure. When you’re smiling, the whole world would rather smile with you and have another watercress sandwich than ponder the universe with an ex-Beatle. The first time I began to realize all this was with Shawn the night it finally rained. It became clear to me that beauty has nothing to do with fashion, that love can conquer anything, sex is art, and let’s see . . . hope springs eternal. I love the rain. •

I can hardly remember what the place looks like—just that the leaves were very clean, that there were those speed bumps, and that they weren’t taking any chances. It was hard to believe that Beth Nanville had once walked in the rain with Jo, but long ago she must have. Chances are what one remembers.