In Which Cary Grant Did Not Want To Get Married Again


Cary Grant’s Penultimate Wife

Historians and archeologists now recognize Dyan Cannon’s memoir of her time with Cary Grant — Dear Cary: My Life with Cary Grant — as one of the great foundational documents of an age. In another reality somewhere, Dyan Cannon is marrying Cary Grant because he is Cary Grant. After their wedding and the sex, she finds out he is really a terrific asshole, like a huge one, who takes LSD as often as he can. But just as soon as this realization occurs, she is marrying Cary Grant again. Excerpts from all different places along this fragile timeline follow.

On almost every occasion when I have met somebody, I have met somebody else.

– G.K. Chesterton

I was a spirited Jewish girl from Seattle who’d only had sex once in her life.

The fact is, Cary Grant had spent sixty-two years not being a father.

“Cary, I wasn’t trying to displease you.”

I was aware that I was using food to fill the void that I’d been using drugs for.

“You’re turning into a ghost of yourself.”

The LSD experiment was finally permanently over and done with. “I can’t even describe for you what’s waiting for you on the other side,” Cary said. “Only that it’s a whole new universe.”

Maybe I was not enough of anything and too much of everything.

“Picnic bar for your thoughts?” I said.

“You lived through two world wars,” I reminded him.

“Why don’t you call up Sophia Loren? I get the impression she knew how to please you in all sorts of ways.”

He gave me a bottle of champagne.

“Where do you think we’re heading? Is this a temporary relationship or do you think we have a future together?”

At this Cary nodded approvingly.

“Howard Hughes just generally prefers to keep as much distance between himself and the human race as possible,” Cary said.

“You look very nice tonight,” Cary said.


Cary devoted a full day to pointing out my flaws and imperfections. He had developed an obsession with knobs and handles.

She was perfect. Her name was Jennifer.

“You know I’ll never get married again.”

Halfway back to Los Angeles I noticed that my wedding band had begun to feel a little tight.

Finally he said, “You’ve changed.”

“Silly girl.”

“I’ll be in the bedroom for the next few hours,” he said around noon. “Please see to it that I’m not disturbed.”

Since our wedding, he was rarely pleased with what I chose to wear.

“That doesn’t sound like love,” she said softly.

I was Mrs. Cary Grant. I was in heaven.

I’ve been sad a lot lately.

“Girl Loves Me” – David Bowie (mp3)




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