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3.61 AVERAGE
3.61 AVERAGE
Felt like I was reading TJR or Ottessa Moshfegh. I loved that there weren’t traditional chapters just a part one and part two with titled sections. Jacaranda felt like an unreliable narrator but one that you had to believe. Def am going to read more of Babitz’s work
lighthearted
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Nach den ersten 5 Seiten war ich hooked, dann hat der Enthusiasmus aber irgendwie wieder nachgelassen, zum Ende hin wurde es aber wieder besser
Insgesamt nicht ganz so gut wie am Anfang erwartet, aber dennoch worth the read
Insgesamt nicht ganz so gut wie am Anfang erwartet, aber dennoch worth the read
2.5 stars — Goodreads won’t let me give half points in 2024
The phrase sex and rage was said a few times throughout the book, but there wasn’t much of either.
I did enjoy the stream of consciousness format, it reminded me of the dialogue in Sex and the Single Girl (the iconic 1964 film starring Natalie Wood, not the book). It felt like a very quick witted, cosmopolitan time capsule and I really appreciated that.
Overall the book was a tedious, though. I didn’t really care for the protagonist. I cared more about those at the periphery, even the evil martini gay, Max.
The phrase sex and rage was said a few times throughout the book, but there wasn’t much of either.
I did enjoy the stream of consciousness format, it reminded me of the dialogue in Sex and the Single Girl (the iconic 1964 film starring Natalie Wood, not the book). It felt like a very quick witted, cosmopolitan time capsule and I really appreciated that.
Overall the book was a tedious, though. I didn’t really care for the protagonist. I cared more about those at the periphery, even the evil martini gay, Max.
challenging
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
~2 January 2025~
What does liberation and autonomy mean for a young woman budding in the slick, sleazy, and extravagant Los Angeles sometimes-artist scene? This novel felt like a coming-of-age pseudo-memoir of the fictional Jacaranda, who is warned in her early years of the "brick wall" she is destined to smack into after a childhood of sunshine and surf.
Smack into it, she does. Our narrator, who is somewhat unreliable, claws her way through the gross and exploitative wealth and lust of powerful (for their domains) men like a person drowning, only she believes she's floating, and comes out the other side with "only" advanced alcoholism. As it is in Los Angeles, part of what saves her -- what stabilizes her -- is a stroke of luck in the arts. The other stabilizing force is friendships with women like Janet (Jacaranda's literary agent) and Sunrise (a woman who should be ornamental, but ends up repairing a carburetor and choosing self-sufficiency over indulging the malaise of the powerful). This stabilization is traced throughout the novel via Jacaranda's relationship with the color blue, which sounds heavy-handed and frankly absurd but which in reality is a lovely banister to cling to in the often fevered chapters: we have a north star.
Babitz further colors her novel with a series of stitched-together portraits, divided into three collections that can be organized as "innocence," "scrabbling freefall," and "punching through a brick wall." Within a collection, we are compelled to piece together what occurs between portraits, particularly in Part II (what I'm calling "scrabbling freefall"), as that is where we fulfill our hunger for sex and rage. Jacaranda ironically refers to herself as a virgin repeatedly in this novel; I am convinced this is a metaphor for a kind of doe-eyed renewal and ephemeral rebirth brought on by the promise of possibility and liberation, not a hard and reliable statement of fact or Jacaranda's understanding of events. She is swathed in sex and rage, but although it lures her like a siren song into self-destruction, it does not become her. Perhaps for a budding young woman in 1970s Los Angeles, self-destruction is sex and rage. Surely most of us have some version of that chapter of our lives, likely in our 20s.
Part III, what I'm calling "punching through a brick wall," is Jacaranda quitting self-destruction cold turkey, and facing life in all its rawness and realness. How it glitters! And we come full circle with the family as touchstone.
What a beautifully rich novel. One of my favorites for sure.
~1 January 2025~
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️/5
I'll write a proper review tomorrow, when I've had more time to digest this sublime novel. The phrases "scrabbling freefall" and "punching through a brick wall" come to mind. Adored it all.
What does liberation and autonomy mean for a young woman budding in the slick, sleazy, and extravagant Los Angeles sometimes-artist scene? This novel felt like a coming-of-age pseudo-memoir of the fictional Jacaranda, who is warned in her early years of the "brick wall" she is destined to smack into after a childhood of sunshine and surf.
Smack into it, she does. Our narrator, who is somewhat unreliable, claws her way through the gross and exploitative wealth and lust of powerful (for their domains) men like a person drowning, only she believes she's floating, and comes out the other side with "only" advanced alcoholism. As it is in Los Angeles, part of what saves her -- what stabilizes her -- is a stroke of luck in the arts. The other stabilizing force is friendships with women like Janet (Jacaranda's literary agent) and Sunrise (a woman who should be ornamental, but ends up repairing a carburetor and choosing self-sufficiency over indulging the malaise of the powerful). This stabilization is traced throughout the novel via Jacaranda's relationship with the color blue, which sounds heavy-handed and frankly absurd but which in reality is a lovely banister to cling to in the often fevered chapters: we have a north star.
Babitz further colors her novel with a series of stitched-together portraits, divided into three collections that can be organized as "innocence," "scrabbling freefall," and "punching through a brick wall." Within a collection, we are compelled to piece together what occurs between portraits, particularly in Part II (what I'm calling "scrabbling freefall"), as that is where we fulfill our hunger for sex and rage. Jacaranda ironically refers to herself as a virgin repeatedly in this novel; I am convinced this is a metaphor for a kind of doe-eyed renewal and ephemeral rebirth brought on by the promise of possibility and liberation, not a hard and reliable statement of fact or Jacaranda's understanding of events. She is swathed in sex and rage, but although it lures her like a siren song into self-destruction, it does not become her. Perhaps for a budding young woman in 1970s Los Angeles, self-destruction is sex and rage. Surely most of us have some version of that chapter of our lives, likely in our 20s.
Part III, what I'm calling "punching through a brick wall," is Jacaranda quitting self-destruction cold turkey, and facing life in all its rawness and realness. How it glitters! And we come full circle with the family as touchstone.
What a beautifully rich novel. One of my favorites for sure.
~1 January 2025~
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️/5
I'll write a proper review tomorrow, when I've had more time to digest this sublime novel. The phrases "scrabbling freefall" and "punching through a brick wall" come to mind. Adored it all.
Babitz has a way with words and a way with character. This--an odd little novel about a California girl's brushes with money, celebrity, and substance abuse--is supremely clever in its subtlety. Each little climax fizzles out in confusion and disappointment, characters persistently misunderstand each other, and the loose ends are, more often than not, left loose. As fiction goes, it's defiantly realistic in that sense, a testament to the fact that real life often refuses to satisfy the way the movies do. But there's something satisfying in that lack of satisfaction, and the story ends on an optimistic note, stubbornly uncinematic but suggestive of second chances, unlikely and maybe undeserved--a fitting conclusion for a colorful fable of 20th-century survival.
