And as with any legend, Lagerfeld came with his own volume of tall tales. He drank ten Diet Cokes a day as his sole source of hydration. He employed a person whose only job was to manage his 300 iPods. He was a bibliophile with a photographic memory. He slept on the same pillow his childhood nanny had once made for him. As a kid, he liked to catfish pedophiles. As an adult, he had never voted. He had never been in love (except maybe with his cat), and he certainly never had sex with anyone he cared for. He designed clothes for Chanel that he knew Coco Chanel would despise. He had a secret American sister he hadn’t spoken to in decades because she reminds him (and perhaps all of us) of what he could have been if he were not fabulous. Whether these things were true or not didn’t matter — especially for Lagerfeld. Every other year or so, a new interview with him would drop where he’d gleefully perpetuate these myths, and jostle free some new ones peppered with endlessly quotable bon mots. They were earworms without a melody: “If you throw money out of the window, throw it out with joy.” “Vanity is the healthiest thing in life.” “Frustration is the mother of crime.”