Black Swans: Stories

by Eve Babitz

I tried to be depressed about living in a honeysuckle-covered bungalow at the foot of the HOLLYWOOD sign, with tons of arty friends and lovers for glamour and excitement. But I kept forgetting that I was supposed to be miserable, kicked around, and bored. As long as I could go bodysurfing in Santa Monica and get tan enough to attract adorable men, I was too distracted to be world-weary and spiritually bereft.

“Maybe this house is too big,” I suggested, since it seemed to me if you got a house like that, even if it was cheap, you might do things you wouldn’t otherwise in order to keep it, like sell your soul to the devil.