“It’s all make believe, isn’t it?” said Marilyn Monroe in some interview or the other. Which is one of those quotes that need context – and in the context of the movie star’s life, it’s one that I find incredibly sad.
I was thinking of Marilyn Monroe, earlier today and about that story concerning her last resting place – and the way that even such a space of ultimate privacy can be invaded by the most tasteless kinds of barbarians.
In 1992 Hugh Hefner bought a cemetery plot next to Marilyn Monroe for $75,000. Last year, the crypt above her grave was sold on eBay for $4,602,100. It is suggested that Hefner also wanted to buy that space. The Playboy senex once said that “Spending Eternity next to Marilyn Monroe is too sweet to pass up.” He truly is a pathetic little creep.
It would, of course, be a complete waste of breath to advise him – and whomever bought that other place – to get a life. That would be like asking a pot of gold to imagine a rainbow. Or in their case, a potted pair of shits.
Still, if the kinds of idiots who are willing to pay these amounts of money to be buried next to or above a dead sex Goddess have room left for anything but sex on the brain, I’d like them to consider the following few facts.
Yes, there is that expression, “I’d like to jump her bones” but it’s just that, an expression. Even necrophiliacs want some meat on their prospective lovers and Marilyn has been lying in her grave for almost 40 years – and though she may have been one of the most voluptuous women alive, when she was alive, that’s a Hell of a long time to keep your figure.
Also, even if Marilyn, like some saints, would have been preserved in all her tinsel time glory, her future neighbours would still be as dead as she – and in the grave the operative word is ‘bones’, not ‘boners.’
Anyway, as I said, I started to think about this stupid story – and about Marilyn Monroe, who proved to be yet another one of those lost souls, long before she actually died – because of the following news story I read.
It’s about a book, called ‘The boy who loved Anne Frank.’
Which is the mostly fictional story of Anne’s would-be boyfriend Peter van Pels. Obviously, there isn’t (and there should not be) a law against this kind of thing. As a Guardian blogger quite rightly stated, “Do what you like, only do it well – and don’t expect the relatives to approve.”
I’m not one of those relatives but as a card-carrying member of the human race I do have the right to disapprove of this type of grave digging too – and I do. So, while I do acknowledge the right of the writer to do a Burke & Hare, I will also claim my right to find this kind of thing quite disgusting.
What is quite funny though is the way the author has been defending her decision to write the book and why she thinks it’s also quite okay for her to include some adolescent sexual fantasizing on the part of her main character.
Quoting from yet another Guardian article:
“”The sexual awakening of Anne plays more of a major part in her diary than this book,” she said, citing moments in the diary where Anne discusses her periods.”
Anne Frank did write about that stuff – in her PRIVATE diary. It was not her plan to die in Bergen-Belsen, nor for her diary to be found, and read, and published by strangers.
On the whole, I think it’s a very good thing that her diary has been published. Not that its publication will stop mad freaks like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and other Holocaust deniers from peddling their disgusting nonsense but it does function as a small but stubborn beacon of light, as a kind of triumph of simple dignity…
… and yet I realize that publishing it was also a violation. It was a private diary – a collection of very personal and intimate thoughts, and fears, and hopes. Which is the nature of such diaries, especially when written by people of Anne’s age…
… and for the writer of ‘The boy who loved Anne Frank’ to use the fact that Anne Frank wrote about her periods in this very private diary as an excuse to write about this boy’s adolescent sexual fantasies is truly beyond the pale…
… and that she doesn’t even see this should tell us all we need to know about the writer.
(She should have been made of iron or steel but she was only made of flesh and blood…)
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