Black Swans by Eve Babitz: book review

Black Swans by Eve Babitz

Overview: I don't know how to summarize this collection of stories. I don't think I've ever been so at a loss for summary ideas. This is a collection of essays that purport to be short stories that cover Babitz's life in the eighties and into a bit of the nineties. They cover themes of becoming a writer, rollercoaster relationships, tango, and the fallout of the sixties in LA. Also, there's a fair bit of musing about parking. Overall: 4

Notes: Where to start... I guess my first major point is that I have no clue why this is shelved in the fiction section. I know she changed some names, but having very recently read Didion & Babitz I know that many of the details are exactly extracted from Eve's life, and not in a veiled way. Also, the voice in every story is the same. Or, more precisely, the main character, the first person narrator is the same person over and over who happens to be undeniably Eve from every indicator I can tell. It doesn't even read like auto fiction where there's a large sense of narrative, of character built around oneself. These read like personal essays. After I finish writing this, I'm going to see if anyone's written about this choice of categorization. I guess nonfiction is a somewhat rigid category, whereas anything, regardless of the amount of verifiable truth in it, can be fiction. I'm just saying that you shouldn't pick this up expecting something that reads like anything other than a memoir-leaning essay collection. 

That point aside, it's an enjoyable read. I will probably read Babitz's other books now. I can see why this writing had a revival despite some cringey datedness that bleeds through at times in ways that feel extra rough because it was long ago enough that society has changed but near term enough that it echoes louder. Also, a certain amount of those moments are just a product of Eve, the person or the character. She manages to pull off an interesting characterization here, a pervading shallowness in opinions that almost border on vapid. A deep commitment to not understanding deeper issues—or not appearing to. But she also winks at the audience in ways that make it clear that she's not entirely become by this facade. There's something else operating beneath the mask she's deeply committed to, and that's interesting. She's light and effervescent and easy to read and sharply funny and trivial at times. And she's also making surprisingly cutting observations and painting a portrait of LA that is generous in a way that one must be when writing about their home but also honest. LA is not a place I love. Every year I lived there, I think I liked it less. But I still loved Eve's portrait of the place. It brought out a surprising nostalgia in me. Also, a sense of validation in how much she talks about parking. Everyone finds me annoying for harping on it, but it is the availability of parking spaces that make the world go round in a car dependent society. 

For much of Black Swans, I couldn't figure out where Eve was going, but I was happy enough to follow her along, picking up the book and finishing a story and then putting it down. She offers interesting insights on the time—both the eighties she mainly writes about here, but also reflecting on the sixties and cementing the way everyone who lived through that decade feels so stuck in it. Since I picked this up around the time that I saw A Complete Unknown in the theater and then read Suze Rotolo's memoir and also another book about Bob Dylan in the sixties, I've spent a lot of time reflecting on that period recently. I actually recommend reading Rotolo's book in conjunction with Eve's work as they paint a similar picture across two coasts, though Rotolo's feels much more modern in its social consciousness. They also share the thread of reflecting on what it's like to be someone proximate to fame or artistic genius. Both of their work hinges, to some degree, on inviting the reader into a world of intrigue they couldn't experience in any other way through the more accessible lens of someone who just happened to luck into proximity. They also both write about not wanting to be defined in that way, not wanting their whole legacy to rest on the men they were near. Rotolo was an artist in her own right. Eve, obviously, was a writer and spends the final story in this collection reflecting on the end of the one relationship she thought might actually last because she sold her first story, got her first break. She concludes, somewhat tragically, that a woman cannot have love and a successful career in the arts. And while I hope that's changed today, I see the truth in what she says, the unfortunate reality, because Eve doesn't pretend to be a feminist. She implies, halfheartedly, that if she could get in a time machine, she might give up the article to regain the great love of her life. But, like with most of the collection, what makes the story work today is that the reader knows, deep down, Eve wouldn't trade being a writer for anything.