Death
Marx's children, particularly his son Arthur, felt strongly that Fleming was pushing their weak father beyond his physical and mental limits. Writer Mark Evanier concurred. Fleming's influence on Marx was controversial. Many close to him believed that she did much to revive his popularity. Also, some observers felt the apparent relationship with a young starlet boosted Groucho's ego, adding to his vitality. Others described her as a Svengali, exploiting an increasingly senile Marx in pursuit of her own stardom while reportedly behaving erratically and violently, suggesting mental instability. Marx was hospitalized for pneumonia on June 22, 1977 and died on August 19 at Cedars Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. Fleming, increasingly mentally unstable through the years, committed suicide in 2003.
He was cremated and the ashes were interred in the Eden Memorial Park Cemetery in Los Angeles. Groucho had the longest lifespan of all the Marx Brothers and was survived only by younger brother Zeppo, who outlived him by two years. His death was somewhat overshadowed by the death of Elvis Presley, which occurred three days earlier. In an interview, he jokingly suggested his epitaph read: "Excuse me, I can't stand up." His mausoleum marker bears only his stage name, a Star of David, and the years of his birth and death.
Read more about this topic: Groucho Marx
Famous quotes containing the word death:
“A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.”
—T.S. (Thomas Stearns)
“But, when nothing subsists from a distant past, after the death of others, after the destruction of objects, only the senses of smell and taste, weaker but more enduring, more intangible, more persistent, more faithful, continue for a long time, like souls, to remember, to wait, to hope, on the ruins of all the rest, to bring without flinching, on their nearly impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory.”
—Marcel Proust (1871–1922)
“Why wait for Death to mow?
why wait for Death to sow
us in the ground?”
—Hilda Doolittle (1886–1961)