This weekend I came across a few choice bits in the 1977 book Slow Days, Fast Company: The World, the Flesh, and L.A. by Eve Babitz.
This one reminds me of my complaints about Facebook:
p. 3 Besides its being bad luck to even whisper that you’re happy, it’s also not nice basically… But the real truth has nothing to do with bad luck or niceness; the real truth is that I’ve never known any man-woman thing to pan out (it may pan out to them, of course, but couples in middle age who don’t speak to each other are not my idea of a good movie).
On the pursuit of romance:
p. 3 I have a lot of friends who are positive life isn’t worth living without True Love Forever. They’re always on the prowl and sulk against the gods when they go to a party and don’t fall in love. Women, especially, engage themselves in ghastly self-inflicted tortures for which they’ve been primed since childhood.
At a high school reunion party in Bakersfield:
p. 23 Not a whisper of sin, not a glimpse of passion by the men for women beyond their own wives, not a trace of a signal from the women beyond cheerful interest in each other’s children. Of the forty or so people there, all between twenty-five and thirty-three, ten were pregnant. The women moved easily around the patio and spacious backyard, holding drinks, seeming mildly amused at the oval stomachs draped in flowered cotton fabric. Their wedding rings reflected the pink twilight, their golden bracelets caught the light of the mustard hills. There was no extra energy in those women beyond their children or their particular geography. There was no energy for humor or wit, and I wondered at my friends in L.A. who were always brimming over with spare words and bright phrases.