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129 pages, Hardcover
First published August 12, 1987
We packed our duds and I found myself moving all my odd stools—spears—arrows—chairs—down into the accountant's room on the first floor for him to send to New York for me. Things almost impossible to pack. A stink of a job to foist off on anyone. You remember him—the accountant—the rightful inhabitant of my third-floor room. ... How could I be so awful? Apparently easily.
I never have a permanent, for it makes {hair} feel funny, it makes it smell, and I'm a sort of impractical character. Love the feeling of soft, clean hair. Can't remember that anyone ever made a comment, certainly not either of those jerks. But please yourself and at least someone is pleased.
It's strange being a movie actor. The product goes out—it's popular—it's unpopular—or it's somewhere in between. And it's always to me a real part of myself. I mean it represents my own decision to do it: Was I wise? Was I dumb? I've tried never to do anything just for the money. I do it because I love it—the idea and the characters. And, my oh my, it is great when you—when the people like it too and make it theirs—that is the real reward.
So, suddenly, thirty-five years have rushed by. Bogie has gone. Spiegel {the producer} has gone. The Queen herself is still alive--so are John {Huston} and Betty {Bacall} and Peter {Viertel, the German boat captain} and I.