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I pay attention, I stop paying attention. I make an effort to start, or start to.
"Helmut was very clear that he liked a big girl and blond girl, in an impeccable suit and high heels," said Anna Wintour, the editor in chief of Vogue.
I don't always care.
"He would take that girl and put her in some wicked or naughty situation, kissing another woman or in handcuffs."
Car crash at the Chateau Marmont.
His final spread in Vogue will appear in the March edition, and in typical fashion, depicts a model eating grass and another lying on a bed of nails.
Thank god that's over, I'll think.
I never really had my big moment on the screen.
Ann Miller. I love her tapping in Stage Door. Lung cancer in Hollywood. Tap tap tap tap tap tap
her agent said she could actually produce 500 taps a minute. Nobody ever disputed him.
I topped the chart on the typing test at MIT in 1997 and the HR lady didn't even say Congratulations.
In 1946, she married a millionaire.
Each and every resentment I've ever inspired—including those only suspected—I've matched with a grudge. Whereas nothing could be more absurd.
I have lived in castles, in Venetian palaces and the world's finest hotels.
Prince Alfonso Hohenlohe-Langenburg, Who Built Resorts, like him I should complain.
I have watched the sun rise over the beaches of five continents
(prostate cancer in Marbella)
and I have looked into the eyes of the most beautiful women of the universe.

Quotations from The New York Times (Jan 2004)

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