The rewritten life of Harold Robbins

"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."

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