Mrs Morrison's Hotel

The 100% personal official blog for Patricia Kennealy Morrison, author, Celtic priestess, retired rock critic, wife of Jim

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Location: New York, New York, United States

I was, wait, sorry, that's "David Copperfield". Anyway, I was born in Brooklyn, grew up on Long Island, went to school in upstate NY and came straight back to Manhattan to live. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to. Got a job as a rock journalist, in the course of which I met and married a rock star (yeah, yeah, conflict of interest, who cares). Became a priestess in a Celtic Pagan tradition, and (based on sheer longevity) one of the most senior Witches around. Began writing my Keltiad series. Wrote a memoir of my time with my beloved consort (Strange Days: My Life With and Without Jim Morrison). See Favorite Books below for a big announcement...The Rennie Stride Mysteries. "There is no trick or cunning, no art or recipe, by which you can have in your writing that which you do not possess in yourself." ---Walt Whitman (Also @ and

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Take It As It Comes...

Before people start asking, I thought I'd address the subject myself.

I see where someone has written a book claiming that Jim collapsed in a Paris nightclub of a heroin overdose and was brought back to his apartment in the rue Beautreillis and dumped in the bathtub, either dead or dying.

This jibes with rumors and stories told over the years by individuals such as Alain Ronay, who hung out with Jim in Paris and had known him since UCLA, and singer Marianne Faithfull, who was sharing heroin scores and a French count called Jean de Breteuil with Pamela Courson, and who has spoken of this in her own book.

As I wrote in my memoir "Strange Days", I never bought into the official partyline desperately trumpeted by Doors management that Jim died of a heart attack, and have always believed there was a lot more to it than that, and a lot nastier. When I heard about Courson's heroin use in Paris, and her various inconsistent lies about how Jim had died, I instantly accepted that she had been the true and blameful cause of Jim's death.

Whether or not she deliberately pushed the heroin on him at the apartment, or if he took it mistakenly thinking it was coke, or if he did in fact snort up at the club, doesn't ultimately matter. Courson, a well-known heroin abuser, is still the proximate cause of Jim's death, because if she hadn't been there and the count hadn't been there, Jim wouldn't have done the smack. He wasn't into it before he went to Paris, and needless to say he never would have been given it at my house. Jim and Marianne got caught up in the vile undertow of being in the presence of addicts and junkies; Marianne survived, barely. My beloved did not.

I consider this now-public information a complete vindication of the position I have maintained all these years as to the cause and nature of Jim's death, and the person responsible for it. It doesn't bring him back, but at least, painful and distressing as I and others who loved Jim may find it, the truth is finally out there.

And in the face of those who have called me a liar and worse for 36 years, I have to say I find it deeply gratifying to have been proved right. I just wish it didn't also hurt so incredibly much.


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