It is women who love horror. Gloat over it. Feed on it. Are nourished by it. Shudder and cling and cry out-and come back for more.
Death, the final, triumphant lover.
If my accent betrayed my foreign birth, it also stamped me as an enemy, in the imagination of the producers.
The former ruling class kept the community of actors in ignorance by means of various lies.
I look in the mirror and say to myself, Can it be you once played Romeo?
Women have a predestination to suffering.
