In the orphanage I began to stutter. The day they brought me there, after they pulled me in, crying and screaming, suddenly there I was in the large dining room with a hundred kids sitting there eating, at five o’clock, and they were all staring at me. So I stopped crying right away. Maybe that’s a reason along with the rest: my mother and the idea of being an orphan. Anyway, I stuttered. That was the first time. Later on, in my teens, when I was at Van Knight High School, they elected me secretary of the English class, and every time I had to read the minutes I’d say, “Minutes of the last m-m-m-meeting.” It was terrible. That went on for two years, I guess, until I was fifteen. Sometimes it even happens to me today if I’m very nervous or excited. Once when I had a small part in a movie, in a scene where I was supposed to go up the stairs, I forgot what was happening and the assistant director came and yelled at me, and I was so confused that when I got into the scene I stuttered. Then the director himself came up to me and said, “You don’t stutter.” And I said, “That’s what you think.” It was painful. And it still is if I speak very fast or have to make a speech. Terrible…[silence].
-Marilyn in an interview with Georges Belmont, editor of the French magazine Marie Claire, 1960
It’s difficult to write about Marilyn Monroe now that she is gone. The past tense just doesn’t suit her somehow; she was too acutely alive. I knew her and was very fond of her. She was a strange, tormented, endearing girl, full of fun - a bravado fun, as though daring death to strike her down. Well, it did, finally. What can we say who saw her living in that shadow-land of loveless Hollywood? She who had such love in her heart - love for people, animals, birds, trees - had to die for lack of it! Who’s to blame? I thought of blame, even though it’s always too late.