instagram pinterest linkedin facebook twitter goodreads

Elizabeth Taylor in Italy

You could hear the pride in Daisy’s voice and see the delight in her eyes when her Spanish, Italian, French and Portuguese fellow players are reluctant to speak their native language in my company, and she says: “O go right ahead. He understands perfectly.” I understand some. Misunderstanding much has perhaps affected my dreams. With Daisy on tour here in Italy I am in the land of Anna Magnani, Gina Lollobrigida, Silvana Mangano, Claudia Cardinale, Monica Vitti, Margarita Buy—and under these skies of whom do I dream? Elizabeth Taylor. Not the child Elizabeth Taylor of Jane Eyre or National Velvet or the youthful Elizabeth Taylor of Raintree County or Butterfield 8 or Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—but an older more voluptuous Elizabeth Taylor, and in my dream we were in some bed and we were naked. “Cosmic breasts,” according to Richard Burton—yes, they were there, soft and voluminous, and heavy thighs and thick arms and her eyes black as coal, shiny, happy eyes. Moreover, we were having a lot of fun; much laughter and merriment. In what period of her life could she have been so happy? First days of her marriages? In the company of her great friends Rock Hudson and Michael Jackson, before their illnesses and changes? She raised a great deal of money in behalf of AIDS research. I could be sitting on a Spanish step beside the room in which young Johnny Keats died, watching young lovers go by hand-in-hand, or pass the Love Canal on Via Piella in Bologna, the Reno river coursing through the land-locked city, a window with all sorts of love notes inscribed on it looking down upon the river piercing houses upon it, or when a young person about to embark on a love affair confides in me--I say: “Get an AIDS test. And insist on seeing the results of one from your lover. This is what Elizabeth Taylor said.”
Be the first to comment