My Story

26 i’ll be smart—tomorrow

One evening I was listening to two friends of mine having an argument. We were having dinner in a small Italian restaurant. One of my friends was a writer. The other was a director.

The argument was whether Botticelli was a finer painter than Leonardo da Vinci. I kept my eyes wide with interest although I couldn’t understand anything they were saying. To begin with I didn’t know who Botticelli or da Vinci were.

“We’re boring Marilyn,” said the director. “I can always tell when she’s bored to tears. She opens her eyes wide and parts her lips slightly with bogus eagerness.”

“Let’s talk about something closer to her than the Renaissance,” said the writer. “How about sex?”

“At least I’ll know what side you’re on,” I said.

But I didn’t. The discussion about sex sounded completely unfamiliar. It had to do with Freud and Jung and a few other characters who seemed to me pretty mixed up.

Something occurred to me, however, as I sat listening to my two gay friends. I realized that about two-thirds of the time I hadn’t the faintest idea of what people (even women) were talking about. There was no hiding from it—I was terribly dumb. I didn’t know anything about painting, music, books, history, geography. I didn’t even know anything about sports or politics.

When I arrived home I sat in my bed and asked myself if there was anything I did know. I couldn’t think of anything—except acting. I knew about acting. It was a way to live in dreams for a few minutes at a time.

I decided to go to school. The next day I enrolled in the University of Southern California. I subscribed for an art course.

I went to school every afternoon and often in the evening. The teacher was a woman. I was depressed by this at first because I didn’t think a woman could teach me anything. But in a few days I knew differently.

She was one of the most exciting human beings I had ever met. She talked about the Renaissance and made it sound ten times more important than the Studio’s biggest epic. I drank in everything she said. I met Michelangelo and Raphael and Tintoretto. There was a new genius to hear about every day.

At night I lay in bed wishing I could have lived in the Renaissance. Of course I would be dead now. But it seemed almost worth it.

After a few weeks I branched out as a student. I started buying books by Freud and some of his modern disciples. I read them till I got dizzy.

But I didn’t have enough time. There were acting lessons and singing lessons, publicity interviews, sessions with photographers—and rehearsal of a movie.

I finally decided to postpone my intelligence, but I made a promise to myself I won’t forget. I promised that in a few years after things had settled down I would start learning—everything. I would read all the books and find out about all the wonders there were in the world.

And when I sat among people I would not only understand what they were talking about. I’d be able to contribute a few words.