Цитаты из книги Where the Truth Lies

It was not merely the sense that "something was wrong with the picture". No, it was more as if I'd been asked to detect what was wrong with the picture and suddenly noticed that the picture was tattooed on the back of a corpse.

Some of it is funnier than it is true, but after a while, the stuff that isn't true has been retold so many times that it's become true, even for myself.

...sometimes the truth is not my best profile.

"Buy 'em or bum 'em" was their slogan, cute cigarettes marketed to give cute cancer to women.

He stepped into his trailer, leaving me with a last smile, his warmest of the day, but like the low sun of dusk in Los Angeles, its appearance and its angle looked a bit odd, all the same.

Could I marry someone I didn't like? I don't think so. Could I sleep with them, once, if they were physically attractive? Puh-leez.

Yup, that's what Holliwood is. A place where they give dirt a paint job.

It was the end of the afternoon on a Friday, a day viewed by most of the L.A. workforce as purely optional.

I'd been in L.A. for a while now and I'd forgotten about walking.

I'd come prepared with a Plan A through Plan H.

Vince was to repeat this action throughout our conversation, topping off his bourbon with little daches of club soda. That and his extremely small sips might account for why Vince was never seen not drinking in public but was never seen publicly drunk.

Vince was a grown-up. A lot of guys my age sported hair twice the length of mine, wore chokers of faux jade and faux teak, and favored bracelets carved from rhinocaros bone. Vince wore a watch. A thick, heavy, expensive watch. If he were ever kidnapped, he could turn that watch over to his captors and walk free, and they'd probably give him twenty dollars for cab fare home.

This was my good-behavior drink. Vermouth on the rocks at lunch was the seventies equivalent of mineral water. We all drank at lunch in the seventies. How any competent work was done after three in the afternoon during that decade is, for me, as mysterious a question as the one I had for Mr. Collins, upon whose pleasure I was waiting.

This is my way of saying that I was a jaded twenty-six when all this took place, and if you picture me at all, you might picture me five-five in height and fairly trim from a steady diet of Tab, menthol Virginia Slims, and encroaching deadlines for slick publications. I apparently was also fairly "cute", or so lots of married men had taken the time to tell me.

As a twenty-six-year-old woman, I had an undepleted girlish energy that allowed me the capability of living a life and writing about it at the same time. Astounding.