In this past Sunday's LA Times Magazine, Alan Rifkin muses about the fantastical Los Angeles brand of literature that is "the only American fiction that's really worth reading." (Sorry, after this Saturday, the link probably won't work anymore)
I don't subscribe to that notion, and I'm not even completely sure that I would like most of what he mentions, but I think there is a Hollywood/LA/desert sensibility to the city's writing (and the city itself) that is a little like a shimmering mirage, one that can be beautiful or grotesque - or more often, both at once. According to Rifkin, it was more like this in the 30s through the 60s, but it's still there, and still inspiring authors.
Two thought-provoking quotes:
Rifkin on the difference between the coasts: "They get that we're closer than they are to the vortex."
Rafael Luevano, an area religion professor: "The Anglo mind might be giving way to the Latino influence of magic, myth and symbol."
And a brief selection of titles that come up as Rifkin's examples: Evelyn Waugh, "The Loved One;" Carolyn See (Carolline's favorite), "Golden Days" and "Slipstream;" Francesca Lia Block's Weetzie Bat novels; Joy Nicholson, "The Road to Esmeralda"
A SoCal girl at heart, maybe I should give these books a try. I have read a Carolyn See novel - The Handyman - and can now see how the magical realism truly reflected this crazy city I call home.
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