![]() ![]() The idea that “bad” novels could poison someone’s thinking, could plant roots in the recesses of her brain only to send out shoots of florid prose years later, was an alarming one. ![]() Still, for me, the message stuck-not a moralistic warning about the dangers of sexually explicit popular fiction, but an aesthetic one. We should all be so blessed as to write like she did. Collins sold half a billion novels during her life, made more than $100 million, and had a Beverly Hills mansion and a gold Jaguar XKR with the license plate LUCKY77. “If you read trash, girls,” she articulated, with icy precision, “you will write trash.” Thinking back on this, all I can summon is: I wish. O ne of my most enduring school memories is of an austere English teacher urging us-a class of two dozen 13-year-old girls with all the raging hormones of a Harry Styles arena tour-not to succumb to the books of Jackie Collins. ![]() This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday. ![]()
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