Valley of the Dolls

No one was crazy—everyone was here by mistake.

People parted, years passed, they met again—and the meeting proved no reunion, offered no warm memories, only the acid knowledge that time had passed and things weren’t as bright or attractive as they had been.

There was an acceptance at face value in New York, as if everyone had just been born, with no past heritage to acknowledge or hide.

He was a stranger now, bound to her by law but belonging to someone else. Yet she loved him.

Maybe I never knew . . . maybe I dreamed him into an image.

I can hardly look at him without wanting to reach out and touch him.

If I could only sleep, really sleep—like for a week—then I’d be all right.

She was lying on the bed, in her most beautiful dress and full stage makeup, clutching an empty bottle of sleeping pills.

She had wanted to be close to him every second, to crawl inside his thoughts. . . .

“I don’t think there will be anyone else who really matters,”