The theories become like the old rumors—endless dead ends. As an old reporter, I don’t like trusting other people’s eyes. The reporter’s ideal is the disciple, Thomas, who didn’t believe in the crucifixion and resurrection until he put his hands in the wounds. Some friends like [Robert] Slatzer saw, at the end, a woman under enormous stress. Other people such as [Marilyn’s] housekeeper, Eunice Murray, who apparently slept through her death, thought she was in fairly normal spirits. These conflicting versions of her state of mind would have reminded her perhaps of a quotation from Virginia Woolf— that we all may have a thousand selves. Whichever way she died, there were always murderers in her life, trying to kill off 999 of her selves and leave her as a dumb blonde. They do the same today with her memory. Of the selves I saw (at least twenty or thirty must have appeared in our conversations), the most memorable for me was the famous movie star who still had a genuine human interest in a wino in the street, concern for a sparrow among the pigeons. I have known many famous people, but none like that. Other celebrities have claimed that they were still at home in the streets, that nothing human was alien to them, but it was always an act; they behaved with condescension. With that self of hers, it was genuine, perhaps the positive side of that damned inferiority complex that had so many negative effects on her life. Perhaps she sensed that she was still safer with those kinds of people than with most of those she mixed with after she became famous.
- W.J. Weatherby, Conversations With Marilyn