Reality can be stranger than fiction
The last untold story in the life of Marilyn Monroe. Selected excerpts from André de Dienes's memoirs
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I have never forgotten, through all these years, my big surprise when I stood there, behind her, watching her writing her name.... There was something almost supernatural about how beautifully she wrote the large capital Ms. How much I've regretted since that day when Norma Jeane, or rather Marilyn, wrote down her name for me, that I did not have the foresight to keep that sheet of paper.
From now on, I shall refer to Norma Jeane as Marilyn. I had to get used to her new name right away. After she signed her new name, the conversation went on for a while about the certain mysteries of life one cannot explain, like she, so cleverly finding a name with two Ms, especially the name "Marilyn," because in Portland, Oregon, just a half year previously, I'd told her that the two large Ms in her palm meant "Marry Me," and now, even that resembles her new name - "Marry" became "Marilyn!" We were discussing how amazingly the subconscious mind goes to work and concocts decisions, because of previous impressions or suggestions!
The end of everything
Soon after that day in the cemetery, I entered a second-hand bookshop I passed by. I suppose I reacted to Marilyn's suggestion that I ought to bring an unusual kind of book! I was browsing from shelf to shelf, having absolutely no fixed idea of what I wanted. I was about to leave when my eyes fell on an old leather-bound volume. I pulled it out. The cover looked worn and torn, and handwritten pages were loose and about to fall out. There were small, very old engravings pasted on the pages here and there of famous people, like Pascal, Boccaccio, Tennyson, Edgar Allen Poe, and small engravings of landscapes from Italy and Germany and Scotland. The book dealer, with a gesture of nonchalance and lack of concern, said that I could have the book for fifteen dollars. I paid and hurriedly left, fearing he might change his mind, declaring he had made a mistake; the book was worth far more!
I went to a restaurant to sit and sit and study what I had bought. I read the beautiful, handwritten poems and studied the pictures. It was an album a lady started in Scotland around 1830. In it, she wrote her thoughts, her own poems, and poems she'd copied of famous people. I called Marilyn to tell her I'd found something very unusual, a book I must show her, share with her, so we can read it together. That agreement we had made in the cemetery that we would go out to the seashore and read some more could come through, due to the book I'd found. A few days later, Marilyn and I were far out at the seashore, north of Malibu on a deserted beach, where we read the pages of the book with a magnifier to decipher the small but beautiful handwriting.
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]
I have never forgotten, through all these years, my big surprise when I stood there, behind her, watching her writing her name.... There was something almost supernatural about how beautifully she wrote the large capital Ms. How much I've regretted since that day when Norma Jeane, or rather Marilyn, wrote down her name for me, that I did not have the foresight to keep that sheet of paper.
From now on, I shall refer to Norma Jeane as Marilyn. I had to get used to her new name right away. After she signed her new name, the conversation went on for a while about the certain mysteries of life one cannot explain, like she, so cleverly finding a name with two Ms, especially the name "Marilyn," because in Portland, Oregon, just a half year previously, I'd told her that the two large Ms in her palm meant "Marry Me," and now, even that resembles her new name - "Marry" became "Marilyn!" We were discussing how amazingly the subconscious mind goes to work and concocts decisions, because of previous impressions or suggestions!
The end of everything
Soon after that day in the cemetery, I entered a second-hand bookshop I passed by. I suppose I reacted to Marilyn's suggestion that I ought to bring an unusual kind of book! I was browsing from shelf to shelf, having absolutely no fixed idea of what I wanted. I was about to leave when my eyes fell on an old leather-bound volume. I pulled it out. The cover looked worn and torn, and handwritten pages were loose and about to fall out. There were small, very old engravings pasted on the pages here and there of famous people, like Pascal, Boccaccio, Tennyson, Edgar Allen Poe, and small engravings of landscapes from Italy and Germany and Scotland. The book dealer, with a gesture of nonchalance and lack of concern, said that I could have the book for fifteen dollars. I paid and hurriedly left, fearing he might change his mind, declaring he had made a mistake; the book was worth far more!
I went to a restaurant to sit and sit and study what I had bought. I read the beautiful, handwritten poems and studied the pictures. It was an album a lady started in Scotland around 1830. In it, she wrote her thoughts, her own poems, and poems she'd copied of famous people. I called Marilyn to tell her I'd found something very unusual, a book I must show her, share with her, so we can read it together. That agreement we had made in the cemetery that we would go out to the seashore and read some more could come through, due to the book I'd found. A few days later, Marilyn and I were far out at the seashore, north of Malibu on a deserted beach, where we read the pages of the book with a magnifier to decipher the small but beautiful handwriting.
Page [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11]
Photo: André de Dienes