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kenziejustquietly 's review for:
Sex and Rage
by Eve Babitz
I am beginning to wonder, if we fancy ourselves so clever, why we don't refer to them as "Culture War One" and "Culture War Two". We could even call the first one "The Great Culture War". Because that's definitely the better one.
3.5 Stars for this one - Eve Babitz is excellent. I mean no disrespect to say she is a "beach-read" version of Joan Didion (Yes I know I gave a bunch of silly stories about a time-travelling cafe four stars earlier - women are mercurial, or something).
You're not getting anything overtly revolutionary in Sex & Rage. Honestly you're not getting a lot of either sex or rage at all. But you are getting a wonderful, salty, bohemian-bourgeoisie atmosphere to play in for a while; until you get sleepy, and make your peace with the fact you'll never be a surfer in 1970s California and it's very unlikely that anyone is ever going to let you smoke inside at a party again.
I really didn't twig to this being semi-autobiographical in nature until Jac runs into the utterly iconic photo of Eve herself playing chess with Marcel Duchamp. (On another note - calling yourself Rubenesque, Eve? I don't fucking think so.) Delightful.
After a while, it all starts to become a little hazy, and the ease and languor with which Eve so skilfully writes becomes a tad dreary. There's not a lot to get deeply invested in, to be honest. The writing style was so good that I am definitely going to try another one of hers again, though - which is more than I can say about other 3.5 star books I have read.
3.5 Stars for this one - Eve Babitz is excellent. I mean no disrespect to say she is a "beach-read" version of Joan Didion (Yes I know I gave a bunch of silly stories about a time-travelling cafe four stars earlier - women are mercurial, or something).
You're not getting anything overtly revolutionary in Sex & Rage. Honestly you're not getting a lot of either sex or rage at all. But you are getting a wonderful, salty, bohemian-bourgeoisie atmosphere to play in for a while; until you get sleepy, and make your peace with the fact you'll never be a surfer in 1970s California and it's very unlikely that anyone is ever going to let you smoke inside at a party again.
I really didn't twig to this being semi-autobiographical in nature until Jac runs into the utterly iconic photo of Eve herself playing chess with Marcel Duchamp. (On another note - calling yourself Rubenesque, Eve? I don't fucking think so.) Delightful.
After a while, it all starts to become a little hazy, and the ease and languor with which Eve so skilfully writes becomes a tad dreary. There's not a lot to get deeply invested in, to be honest. The writing style was so good that I am definitely going to try another one of hers again, though - which is more than I can say about other 3.5 star books I have read.