In the Literary It-girl universe, there is no larger chasm than that between Joan Didion acolytes and Eve Babitz fanatics. Didion, who covered American countercultures with a raised eyebrow, feels a world away from Babitz’s chronicles of the bacchanal that was the Hollywood rock-and-roll scene in the late 1960s. But in her new book, Didion Babitz, out November 12 from Scribner, writer Lili Anolik argues that the titanic writers were, in a way, two sides of the same coin.
Babitz addressed their similarities with her signature cheek: “Joan and I connected. The drugs she was on, I was on.” But while their social and professional circles overlapped in Hollywood and beyond, Didion and Babitz had little else in common. In fact, in the dedication of Eve’s Hollywood, Babitz wrote of Didion and her husband, John Dunne: “[T]o the Didion-Dunnes for having to be who I’m not.”
Below, find out once and for all if you’re a Joan Didion or an Eve Babitz.
A. The Donner Party.
B. Old Hollywood.
A. Win a college essay-writing contest, and land a job at Vogue.
B. Write a letter to a famous author, lamenting that people don’t take you seriously because you are simply too sexy.
A. A protector.
B. A rock star. Or an actor. Or a photographer. Or a record-label executive. Or an artist. Or an artist’s brother.
A. An ice-cold Coca-Cola first thing in the morning.
B. Quaaludes.
A. Carpenter.
B. Dealer. And lover.
A.
To Pack and Wear:
2 skirts
2 jerseys or leotards
1 pullover sweater
2 pair shoes
stockings
bra
nightgown
robe
slippers
cigarettes
bourbon
Bag with:
shampoo
toothbrush and paste
Basis soap
razor
deodorant
aspirin
prescriptions
Tampax
face cream
powder
baby oil
To Carry:
mohair throw
typewriter
2 legal pads
pens
files
house key
B. Whatever I can fit in a pillowcase.
A. Move to Hawaii.
B. Divorce? I’m never getting married.
A. Make him the antagonist in my novel.
B. Make him the antagonist in my novel.
If you picked mostly A’s:
A true daughter of the Old West, you are one cool customer. You are observant and poised, bordering on “terrifyingly exacting” (as Babitz once described Didion). You sharpen your writing skills by copying Hemingway’s sentences from The Paris Review. People may say you’re cold, but you just keep your cards close to the vest. Others may call you a star fucker, but you’re really just brimming with ambition.
If you picked mostly B’s:
Queen of Hollywood, you’re the soul of every party. You wear your heart on your sleeve, which gets you into trouble—but it also makes you the artist you are (whether in collage or autofiction). You can be just as petty as you are charming, and your list of lovers is so long that you can’t even remember if you had sex with Jackson Browne or not. The sign above your door put it best: “I used to be a piece of ass but now I’m an artist.”
