"When they let her out, we began living together. One thing I remember . . . well, how she smelled. In sex your body takes on a certain odor. Edie had a particular smell that came out in lovemaking . . . a sweet but somewhat sickly smell, like orchids. I always thought it had something to do with her burns and the chemicals involved in reconstituting her body. To fuck her was like fucking a very strong child, a twelve-year-old girl . . . athletic and coltish. We finally moved into the Warwick Hotel, registering there as Mr. and Mrs. Carson because she was afraid they wouldn't let her in under her own name. She thought she was on a hotel blacklist for burning her room in the Chelsea. She had kept me up for about a week straight. Then one day in the back of the toilet I found the little plastic top they put on hypodermic needles, and I realized she was on speed. I really got pissed off. I had a kind of messianic Jesus Christ complex . . . getting involved with girls who are victims and trying to save them. So I got the drugs and took them away from her. We stayed there for two more days without her being allowed to shoot up, and I watched her disintegrate. I had to hold her down on the bed; she writhed; she bounced off the walls. She turned from being Edie, this beautiful woman, into a monkey. It got very violent. we were both being violent, threatening to jump out the windows and kill each other. I told her I was going to kill myself if she didn't stop it. I guess I was trying to make myself into the victim that she would have to save, turning into Edie Sedgwick, doing an Edie Sedgwick number. She got insulted because I was threatening her. Finally I called her doctor and said, "She's driving me crazy." I told him I was losing a lot of weight, and that I was a wreck. I was over the edge. "What can I do?" I told him I couldn't take care of her and she wouldn't voluntarily commit herself anyplace any more. . . . He said, "Leave. Get out!" I was at that state where that was all I could do. I called Warhol and got a hold of Ondine to come and take care of her. Andy wouldn't do it. He just couldn't handle it. But Ondine was enough of a monster to handle Edie, who was another monster. One speed freak knows a lot about another. So he got on the phone and he screamed at her and she screamed at him, but they were having a great game: she was finally being handled by somebody who knew exactly what she was up to. . . . Then three minor Warhol people came up to the room, but not Ondine. They got all the dope she had in the room and laid it out on the bed. They had a funny way of handling it . . . opening up the capsules on the bed and tasting the stuff and saying how great it was, really good speed, and childing her for not letting them know that she had all this stuff. They were packing it up to use - right? They said to me, "Okay, we'll take care of her. Go ahead and leave." Edie was delighted, because she thought she was among friends; I guess she'd gotten tired of pushing me around and playing tricks on me. . . . So I left. I got on a plane and went back to Texas and went to sleep for a couple of days. Three or four days later the police came to the house in Texas and said they'd gotten a call from the manager of the house in Texas and said they'd gotten a call from the manager of the Warwick Hotel in New York saying that my wife was in Bellevue Hospital."