HAYWIRE(ISBN=9780307739599) 英文原版 2025 chm pdf kindle rb azw3 下载 115盘

　　From the moment of its publication in 1977, Haywire was a

national sensation and a #1 bestseller, a celebrated Hollywood

memoir of a glittering family and the stunning darkness that lurked

just beneath the surface.

Brooke Hayward was born into the most enviable of circumstances.

The daughter of a famous actress and a successful Hollywood agent,

she was beautiful, wealthy, and living at the very center of the

most privileged life America had to offer. Yet at twenty-three her

family was ripped apart. Who could have imagined that this magical

life could shatter, so conclusively, so destructively? Brooke

Hayward tells the riveting story of how her family went

haywire.

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　　Brooke Hayward lives in New York.

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　　1

　　Endings

　　She had called me late the night before.

　　Looking back, I recall (or invent?) an urgency to her tone, but

really all she'd said was "Can you have breakfast tomorrow?"

　　"Hmm. What time? Do you have the proper ingredients? 

English muffins? Marmalade, et cetera?" We'd never shaken the habit

of testing one another.

　　"Of course, you spoiled brat. Come at ten, you shall have ginger

marmalade from Bloomingdale's, fresh orange juice I shall squeeze

personally, boiled eggs—your customary five and a half minutes. And

of course there will be fascinating conversation."

　　"Might I have a clue?" We'd also become adept at approaching each

other with oblique, occasionally fake, courtesy.

　　Silence, as I'd expected. Then: "Okay, do you have a good

gynecologist?"

　　My silence. "Of course. What for?"

　　"Brooke, listen." She was suddenly singing. "I have never ever

been so happy in my life—I think I'm pregnant."

　　"What?" I was predictably stunned, but less by that possibility

than by her confiding in me. "How the hell did you get

pregnant?"

　　"Oh," she said, giggling, "probably from a toilet seat."

　　"Bridget. For God's sake, have you gone mad? I mean, how can you

possibly be twenty-one years old and reasonably, one hopes,

reasonably intelligent and not have been to a—"

　　"Brooke, listen." She was positively frenzied with elation.

"Listen, it's entirely possible that I want to get married, I'm so

in love. Do you hear me? Married!"

　　This conversation was moving just out of my reach, like a smoke

ring. All I could say was "Yes. I see what you mean about

breakfast—yes, indeed. Might one ask who the expectant father is?

No, never mind."

　　"Ten o'clock tomorrow. What's he like, is he nice, does he hurt?"

I knew she meant the gynecologist.

　　"Yes, no, never mind. Actually he's from India—nice blend of

exotic and imperturbable. Forget it, go to sleep."

　　"Okay, see you in the morning. Farewell." Farewell. Nobody but

Bridget ever said goodbye to me like that; all her beginnings and

endings where I was concerned were unpredictable, and most of the

dialogue in between was enigmatic, a foreign language to any

outsider. But for my benefit she talked in her own private

shorthand, and what farewell meant was that she wanted me to button

up my overcoat and take good care of myself until ten in the

morning, because she would miss me in a way that would take far too

much sentimental effort to express. I knew what she meant. Often I

missed her while we were in the same room together.

　　I contemplated the phone for some time. Never had I heard her so

oddly gay and forthright; as a matter of fact, we hadn't discussed

sex since adolescence. Her entire inner life was secretive and

mysterious, and no one dared violate it. She sent out powerful "No

Trespassing" signals and I had learned to honor them. It crossed my

mind that my sister was drunk.

　　Still, the next morning—a warm October day in 1960—I stood

outside her apartment door, nonplussed by the stack of mail and the

furled New York Times propped against it. The door itself was

slowly getting on my nerves. It didn't open when I rang the

doorbell for the fifth or sixth time. It didn't have a crack

underneath big enough for a worthwhile view of the interior,

although idiotically I'd got down on my hands and knees and looked

anyway. Nor did I have a key to unlock it. Even if she had been

drunk the night before, which was unlikely—besides, I prided myself

on being able to interpret at least her external behavior—she would

have been incapable of losing track of her invitation; she was a

creature of infuriating compulsion, particularly in matters of time

and place, always fussing about my lack of regard for either. Ever

since she'd moved from her one-room, third-floor apartment (to

which I had possessed a key, much used) to the comparative luxury

of an apartment one floor higher with an actual separate bedroom

and view (of the building across the street), I'd felt vaguely

displaced and surly. For the last year, I'd though of that little

one-room apartment as mine, an irrational attachment, since I was

not exactly homeless. Until a month before, I'd been living not

only in a commodious house in Greenwich, Connecticut, but also,

during the week, in a pied-á-terre on East Seventy-second Street.

My marriage to Michael Thomas, art historian and budding investment

banker, so blithely undertaken during undergraduate days at Vassar

and Yale, had, when removed from the insular academic atmosphere of

New Haven, fallen apart. We were no longer wrapped in cotton wool;

I was no longer a child bride. Now that our divorce was final, I'd

moved our two small children into New York and into my own spacious

apartment on Central Park West. I continued, however, to drop by

Bridget's whenever I had five minutes between modeling jobs and

interviews. "Just checking out my make-up," I'd announce breezily,

or, "Gotta use your phone." The idea of telling my sister I'd

really come to see her would never have crossed my mind.

　　Her new quarters did have certain advantages: twice the closet

space for her warehouses of clothes and shoes, and a fully mirrored

bathroom, very handy for looking at oneself from all angles while

sitting on the cosmetics-crammed counter and conversing with

Bridget submerged in the tub as she tested some new bubble bath.

But I had never acquired the same proprietary feelings about this

setup. It just didn't have the smell and cozy inconvenience of the

old. And now I cursed myself for neglecting to collect the

duplicate key she'd had made for me weeks ago. Becoming more and

more exasperated with both of us, I rang fiercely four times in a

row. Actually I felt like kicking the door. Then I though I heard a

sound from where the bedroom ought to be. Of course, it was

possible that she might still be asleep. Or, more interesting,

asleep with an as yet undisclosed lover. But wouldn't she have left

a characteristically humorous note to that effect, right where the

bills from Con Ed and Jax were now lying? I began to punch the

doorbell to the rhythm of "Yankee Doodle Dandy." During countless

afternoon naps when we were young, we'd invented out of boredom

what we thought was this highly original game, whereby we would

take turns tapping out an unidentified song with our fingernails on

the wooden headboards of our twin beds; the object was to determine

who was better at guessing it or tapping it, or even choosing it if

it was particularly esoteric. We both became fairly skillful, but

this time the old signal got no response. I decided that the noise

was either imagined or my stomach growling. Fresh orange juice and

an English muffin with crisp bacon at Stark's around the corner on

Lexington became increasingly crucial. I scribbled her a note and

went on down in the elevator, trying to feel philosophical about

the whole wasted half-hour. Clearly some matter of extreme urgency

was to blame. At this very moment she was certainly racing back to

meet me, caught between subways, maybe, wonder of wonders, even

springing for a cab.

　　I galloped across the lobby toward the heavy glass doors and

sunlight. Behind the streamlined reception desk, more appropriate

to a luxury liner than an apartment building, was a ruddy-faced

doorman.

　　"Hi. Did you see my sister go out today?"

　　"No, Miss," he answered in a thick brogue, "but then I only come

on at eight."

　　"Ah." I hesitated with a charming smile. "Well. Tell me

something." (I tried Mother's ingratiating imperative.) "Um, what

time does the mail get delivered? I mean, to the people in the

building?"

　　"Oh, Miss, maybe just over half an hour ago."

　　"And the newspaper?"

　　"Oh, somewhere around six or seven. Just a minute, Miss." He

moved to the door to let in an elderly couple with a poodle and a

Gristede's shopping bag, then bolted the door open so that all the

sounds of the morning spewed in. A battle of simultaneous desires

was shaping up; whether to go out or stay and satisfy my curiosity.

After some consideration I followed him to the immense tropical

plant at the entrance. It was embarrassing—even melodramatic—to ask

for a key to apartment 403, but I did anyway.

　　"No problem, Miss. I'll ring Pete and ask him to take you up.

He's in the basement."

　　"No, no, no, thanks, that's too much trouble." Ridiculous. For

instance, what if she had had to meet Bill Francisco, a young

director at the Yale Drama School (and romantic interest), for whom

she was doing some kind of production work? She had probably left a

message on my service. A telephone was clearly indicated. Again,

Stark's. Besides, Bridget was so intensely ferocious about her

privacy there was no telling what she'd do if she knew I'd go to

such lengths to break into her sanctuary. Although Bridget was a

year and a half younger, I was afraid of her. "Listen, do me a

favor—when you see her, tell her I came by and rang but there was

no answer and I'll call her later. Okay?"

　　He nodded and started to lift his hand, but I was already out the

door, feeling infinitely better, and striding toward

Lexington.

　　By the time I'd downed my O.J., read the paper, checked Belles

for a negative on messages, and gone to the ladies room, the grand

superstructure of the day had begun to disintegrate. Out of

perverseness, I jumped on the subway and went down to a sound stage

on Fourth Street to watch the shooting of Kay Doubleday's big strip

scene in Mad Dog Coll, a gangster film that can still, to my

embarrassment, be seen occasionally on late-night TV. (It was the

first movie I'd ever been in; I had many difficult thing to do,

like play the violin and get raped by Vincent [Mad Dog] Coll,

played by a young actor named John Chandler, who, on completion of

the movie, decided to become a priest.) Kay Doubleday was in my

class at Lee Strasberg's; it was in the interest of art, I told

myself, to watch her prance down a ramp, singing and stripping her

...

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媒体评论

　　“Haywire is a Hollywood childhood memoir, a glowing tapestry

spun with equal parts of gold and pain. . . . An absolute beauty.”

—The New York Times Book Review

　　“Moving and brave and beautifully written. . . . [Hayward] has

told it as Fitzgerald might have—with the glow and the glamour, and

finally, the heartbreak.” —Newsday

　　“One of the most extraordinary personal memoirs I've ever read.

It has great honesty and charm and humor and beauty, and it is

deeply moving.” —Truman Capote

　　“Exquisite.” —Vanity Fair

　　“[A] masterpiece in the genre of harrowing autobiographical

tell-all.” —W

　　“Elegant and moving.” —Gore Vidal

　　“A sort of glorious fable from American mythology. . . . A

gripping and eloquent memoir by a courageous and classy writer.”

—St. Louis Post-Dispatch

　　“She has modeled and acted and written: she writes, in fact,

marvelously. Haywire mesmerizes. May it cauterize as well.” —The

New York Times

　　“An incredible achievement!” —Lauren Bacall

　　“One of those rare books which seem to alter your perception of

things. It is specific and true in dealing with lives that might

have served as models for Fitzgerald’s fiction.” —Mike Nicols

　　“Brave, honest, intelligent and greatly moving.” —Newsweek

　　“Engrossing, intimate, moving. . . . Brooke Hayward writes like

an angel.” —Cosmopolitan

书籍介绍

From the moment of its publication in 1977, Haywire was a national sensation and a #1 bestseller, a celebrated Hollywood memoir of a glittering family and the stunning darkness that lurked just beneath the surface.

Brooke Hayward was born into the most enviable of circumstances. The daughter of a famous actress and a successful Hollywood agent, she was beautiful, wealthy, and living at the very center of the most privileged life America had to offer. Yet at twenty-three her family was ripped apart. Who could have imagined that this magical life could shatter, so conclusively, so destructively? Brooke Hayward tells the riveting story of how her family went haywire.