Women want to be loved like roses.

I once saw Cary Grant up close. He was beautiful. He looked exactly like Cary Grant.

Nowadays I drink tequila when I can’t get French Champagne.

That was the trouble, I suppose, he always made me laugh.

"Love?" I scoffed, as cupid hovered above me waiting for just the right moment to take aim.

I had a lover who told me his fantasies and the ones I felt up to, I went along with, but I was always at a loss when he'd ask, "But what are your fantasies, my darling?"

I drank more champagne.

What I wanted, although at the time I didn't understand what the thing was because no one ever tells you anything until you already know it, was everything.

People go through life eating lamb chops and breaking their mother’s hearts.

I was sure that somewhere a grandiose carnival was going on in the sky, and I was missing it.

So it turned out that power was the quality of knowing what you liked. An odd thing for power to be.

I went to New York on March 6th, 1966, and left on March 5th, 1967. One year.

Everything about New York was a story.

He used to make me kiss him on 22nd Street and 7th Avenue when he was eating a banana.

He used to write LSD in Magic Marker on the walls of uptown elevators very neatly in small capital letters.

My hair went straight even though I used an entire bottle of Tweed Hair Spray (89 cents) on it every Friday night when Sue and I would go ice skating at the Polar Palace.

I was always much too elated to imagine despair.

"Andy Warhol's having a party," I'd turn over delicately. The evening lay naked before us. We could go anywhere or do anything. It was New York City.