"He admitted that he wrote only for money and cared nothing for style or the contempt of the critics. 'I'm the best writer around,' he told me, 'and I don't wanna be remembered after I'm dead. Once I'm dead, I'm dead. I've told Grace when it happens to put my ashes in a locket and wear it between her breasts. I'd like to hang there for the rest of time.'
Sadly, Grace divorced him and his ashes lie instead today in a book-shaped casket in Palm Springs, where he ended his days jaded and disillusioned in bloated agony, in a wheelchair, suffering from a stroke, aphasia, broken bones, heart trouble and emphysema."