Dominick Dunne’s friends and fans emailed me Tuesday night that he’d been given last rites. Then he died Wednesday at his Manhattan apartment after a long bout with cancer that included several surgeries. On a professional level, with some well-publicized exceptions (he went over the line during the Condit feeding frenzy), he was a superb celebrity/crime storyteller for Vanity Fair and bestselling author about the monied classes, and, before that, a Hollywood director/producer. On a personal level, he was one of the kindest colleagues I’ve ever met. A friend who communicated with him during his last days emailed me, “When I was listening to him tell me how badly he felt, mid-last week, I interrupted to ask, ‘Well, are you too sick to hear some really great dish?’ There was a pause, and then Dominick said, ‘Well. You know how I am.’ I told him the dish and he laughed strong. Then said, ‘That’s the kind of news I like to hear!'” Vanity Fair has a lovely tribute to Dunne on its website.
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