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How Could Norma Jean not prefer Marilyn, the soft blond, rounded from angular brown childhood, new milk skin, the surprise of her body, proficiency in thrown-back head, half-closed eyes, the schoolgirl, ingenue improved? How could she not agree to make the deal for change? Fidelity could never flash that smile. O, Marilyn-- your fleshy thighs, the waist that celebrates the absolute, the cinched-in Playmate that you were! Marilyn-- your skirt blown north, a false demure and nothing like the girl gone missing. Later, tired in Technicolor, done with the vagrant impulse to linger, sleepily crooning Happy Birthday, sewn into that impossible gown. Out west on the frontier of self- invention, Norma could not resist becoming other. Leading the eye one screen farther, Marilyn dissolved to an eloquent flicker, indistinct in black and white.
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