Heavy, Like Wet Roses

I just finished the book Moranthology, by Caitlin Moran, and it is brilliant. The woman can do no wrong, in my opinion. Her book How to be a Woman was life changing for me, no exaggeration. Everyone who owns lady bits should read it.

Towards the end of it, Moranthology includes two absolutely beautiful obituaries — one for Amy Winehouse, and one for Elizabeth Taylor. The one for Taylor is exceptional, and one bit has been stuck in my head the past two days.


On my wall, I have a shot of Taylor in her late forties. She is with David Bowie — outdoors in LA, at a guess. Bowie is emaciated — at the height of his cocaine addiction, but still, clearly, both powerful and beautiful. He has his arms around Taylor’s waist — a thicker, rounder waist than her corseted days in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof; she is heavy, like wet roses. She looks like a banquet. As she puts a cigarette to Bowie’s mouth, her face is both lascivious and maternal — her lips are half-open; you can practically hear her coo, “Here you go, baby.” In that one shot, she makes David Bowie — David Bowie — look like a helpless teenage boy.



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