For a regrettable while, I had a terrible crush on Katharine Hepburn. And here I am, a few months later, feeling rather sick of her. Because she was a hideous pig of a woman.
I have watched all the Kate movies I could. I wrote about her. I even read her biography. Right now I’m reading Me, Stories of my Life. Is that a narcissistic title, or what? It seems the more I discover, the less I like the woman.
One of the things that put it over the top for me was a short story she told, how that after Luddy—you know, the guy she married to further her own career, divorcing him a few years later—died, she had her brother drive to his house and take his six-burner stove. Because she liked to cook on it. What kind of heartless human being would do that? The man had a family, didn’t he?
I’ve been reading about other fine humans—Julia Child and Rosalind Russell—People with all the intelligence and love of life one could hope to find in movie stars, and they come out ahead of Kate any day, because they were nice people.
73,000 