When I met Jack Kennedy, he was a serious young man with a dream. He was not a womanizer, not as I understood the term.

Day after day, I spent long afternoons in the talent pool, being told how to walk, how to talk, how to sit.

In my early days in Hollywood I tried to be economical. I designed my own clothes, much to my mother’s distress.

I do not recall spending long hours in front of a mirror loving my reflection.

The main cause of my difficulties stemmed from the tragedy of my daughter’s unsound birth and my inability to face my feelings.

I used up every cent I earned as an actress.

I remember the 1940s as a time when we were united in a way known only to that generation. We belonged to a common cause-the war.

When my mood was high, I seemed normal, even buoyant. I felt smarter. I had secrets. I could see God in a light bulb.

Eccentric behavior is not routinely noticed around a movie set.

In the months leading up to World War II, there was a tendency among many Americans to talk absently about the trouble in Europe. Nothing that happened an ocean away seemed very threatening.

I existed in a world that never is – the prison of the mind.

The word actress has always seemed less a job description to me than a title.

The Howard Hughes I knew began to change after his plane crash in 1941.

I simply did not want my face to be my talent.

When you have spent an important part of your life playing Let’s Pretend, it’s often easy to see symbolism where none exists.

Fonda and Gary Cooper had the best sense of timing of all the actors I knew.

It is difficult to write about any form of mental disease, especially your own, without sounding as if you were examining a bug under glass.