Laguna Beach Quotes

The time came to put Iris Duarte back on the plane. It was a morning flight which made it difficult. I was used to rising at noon; it was a fine cure for hangovers and would add 5 years to my life. I felt no sadness while driving her to L.A. International. The sex had been fine; there had been laughter. I could hardly remember a more civilized time, neither of us making any demands, yet there had been warmth, it had not been without feeling, dead meat coupled with dead meat. I detested that type of swinging, the Los Angeles, Hollywood, Bel Air, Malibu, Laguna Beach kind of sex. Strangers when you meet, strangers when you part—a gymnasium of bodies namelessly masturbating each other. People with no morals often considered themselves more free, but mostly they lacked the ability to feel or to love. So they became swingers. The dead fucking the dead. There was no gamble or humor in their game—it was corpse fucking corpse. Morals were restrictive, but they were grounded on human experience down through the centuries. Some morals tended to keep people slaves in factories, in churches and true to the State. Other morals simply made good sense. It was like a garden filled with poisoned fruit and good fruit. You had to know which to pick and eat, which to leave alone.

As our three children reached adolescence, they took jobs with us as waiters. It was a family affair, and every year we became more prosperous, but it was never easy. America does not promise easy wealth, only opportunity. We seized the machine of opportunity and lubricated it with oceans of perspiration, and by the time we bought the house in Laguna Beach, we were able to pay cash. Jokingly, we gave the house a name: Casa Sudor – House of Sweat. It was a huge home. And beautiful.

In this fleeting moment what extravagant respite as Promethean sunsets blossom, blaze and secede from splendor to mystery. In this fleeting moment what extravagant respite as booming surf speaks its mystical passage across the undreamed depths.

I don’t know what the beach of Laguna is like now but in the thirties it was a fine place to pass summer days. There was constant volleyball, there was surfing and surfers, there was an artist colony and there was so on and so forth and all of it was delightful. It seems to me that the best part of all was riding our bikes up the canyon at first dark in those days when the sky was still a poem. And

No. No, it was a lonely writer I met one stormy day in Laguna Beach. He had a poem about Thelonious Monk that he sealed in a tin can and labeled Campbell's Cream of Piano Soup. Later I hear he killed himself to avoid the draft.

Laguna Beach is a hippie holdout from the ’60s, and though no hippies can afford to live there any longer, it flies a liberal flag in a county still drunk on Ronald Reagan.