Na perfeita inutilidade que é a minha presente fase, deixei passar a data do desaparecimento de Norma Jean Baker, mais conhecida por Marylin Monroe. O Abrupto lembrou-se e citou Noel Coward a propósito. Eu cito Norman Mailer. É o mais belo epitáfio que conheço.

In all this discussion of the details of her dying, we have lost the pain of her death. Marylin is gone. She has slipped away from us over the edge of the horizon of the last pill. No force from outside, nor any pain, has finally proved stronger than her power to weigh down upon herself. If she has possibly been strangled once, then suffocated again in the life of the orphanage, and lived to be stifled by the studio and choked by the rages of marriage, she has kept in reaction a total control over her life, which is perhaps to say that she chooses to be in control of her death, and out there somewhere in the attractions of that eternity she has heard singing in her ears from childhood, she takes the leap to leave the pain of one deadned soul for the hope of life in another, she says goodbye to that world she conquered and could not use. We will never know if that is how she went. She could as easily have blundered past the last border, blubbering in the last corner of her heart, and no voice she knew to reply. She came tu us in all her mother's doubt, and leaves in mystery.

Norman Mailer, Marylin

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