Amidst school’s resumption in Davis, any remnants of autumn warmth have disappeared, and we’re left with a chilly welcome to winter quarter. I dug my fleece coat, gloves, and crocheted cat-hat beanie out of the depths of my closet — now much necessary for trekking around campus. (I know, I know, it’s not freezing, but I’m from Southern California. Anything below 50° is basically arctic). When even bundling up in my winter coats isn’t enough, I turn to the pages of a book as an escape — a book that will transport me away from where I see my breath against the crisp air, and instead wrap me up in its story like a blanket.
I often find myself drawn to the celebrity of Los Angeles, both in real life and in literature. To me, Los Angeles is an eternal summer. Its waves of heat rising off the pavement, Hollywood streets lined with trees that never turn orange or red, basking under still sunlight. (I know this is a romanticized vision, but sometimes I like to indulge in disillusions). When I no longer want to brave the Davis cold, I’ll find comfort in the LA haze through books. If you’re like me, Eve Babitz’s Slow Days, Fast Company: The World, The Flesh, and L.A. might have a similar effect.
Slow Days address 1970s Los Angeles in a pseudo-memoir work of fiction, a “love story” (as proclaimed by Eve on the first page) written for a man whose heart she couldn’t quite capture. At first glance, it could easily be a memoir. It’s composed of ten stories of Eve essentially hanging out with friends and thinking about life, mostly in LA, but also traveling to Laguna Beach, Palm Springs, and Bakersfield. It’s uncertain which events and reflections if any, are true; the line between fantasy and reality is blurred, and I love it. While the premise is mundane, the allure of Hollywood coupled with Eve’s cool and conversational style sucks you into the story. You feel as though you’re Eve’s friend, sitting across from her at dinner as she recounts various adventures.
Apart from the sunny Southern California setting, Slow Days gains its fervor — the flame that pulls me to it during winter — from Eve herself. The book’s back cover synopsis says it best: “No one burned hotter than Eve Babitz.” Though now perhaps most esteemed for her writing, Eve was also an artist. In her youth, she was romantically connected to stars including Harrison Ford, Jim Morrison, and Annie Leibovitz; notably, her rise to prominence was posing (nude) for a photograph, playing chess across from the (fully clothed) artist Marcel Duchamp. Eve was the “it-girl” of the time: not only her beauty, but her effortless, cool-girl lifestyle seemed to seduce everyone around her. This seduction isn’t limited to those who knew her; her spark translates into her writing, enchanting you through her stories. Eve’s fiery spirit is exuberant, and incandescent.
Slow Days is a sunbath, soaking up the hot, stagnant air in Los Angeles. It’s a summer of languish. It’s glamor with indifference, affairs of womanhood with a hedonistic frankness. In this biting Davis weather, I’m happy to read myself into Eve’s world and dream of summer days. If you’re a fan of the 1960s/1970s LA zeitgeist and a lucid, reflective voice, Eve’s writing is a must-read. Or, if you’re simply looking for a warm escape this winter, consider picking up a copy of Slow Days, Fast Company. You’ll feel the burn of Eve’s Hollywood heat.