Abstract
Abstract Americans never really knew Edith Piaf. When she died, the New York Times said in its obituary, “Strangely, Miss Piaf was perhaps best known in the United States for her La Vie en rose, a song of happiness and love.” There may have been something ironic about it, but there was nothing strange. Her act was bowdlerized and glamorized for her appearances at the Versailles and the Waldorf-Astoria in New York. Her songs about prostitutes and their marlous, about the murders that often ended the search for love, were thrown out or cleaned up for Americans raised on a diet of sexless love in songs and happy endings in movies and Saturday Evening Post fiction.
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