'Brecht never tired of repeating how much he hated Los Angeles — the shiny, bloated cars, the eternal sunshine, the commercialization of everything “from a shrug to an idea” — and he poured out his bile in a series of poems he called the “Hollywood Elegies”:
In Hell too
There are, I’ve no doubt, these luxuriant gardens
With flowers as big as trees, which of course wither
Unhesitantly if not nourished with very expensive water. And fruit markets
With great heaps of fruit, albeit having
Neither smell nor taste. And endless procession of cars
Lighter than their own shadows, faster than
Mad thoughts, gleaming vehicles in which
Jolly-looking people come from nowhere and are nowhere bound.
“Brecht only wrote when he was unhappy,” said Erhard Bahr, the author of an illuminating book about the exiles, “Weimar on the Pacific.” “This disdain for Los Angeles kept him productive.”'