An actress is not a machine, but they treat you like a machine.

When Marilyn Monroe cried out, “An actress is not a machine, but they treat you like a machine. A money machine,” she spoke with the wounded voice of one who had been both adored and devoured by the world she served. In her words we hear not only the lament of an individual, but the eternal cry of all who labor in art and are reduced to mere instruments of profit. She reminds us that an actress is flesh and blood, a soul filled with longing and fear, yet too often those in power look upon her not as a person but as a device—something to be wound up, displayed, and discarded when her shine fades.

The origin of this truth lies in the system of Hollywood itself, where Monroe lived and suffered. In the golden age of cinema, the studios crafted stars as though they were commodities. Contracts bound them, images sculpted them, and publicity consumed them. They were expected to be perfect, tireless, endlessly radiant, as though they were not human at all but machines built for the entertainment of the masses and the enrichment of the powerful. Monroe, who became the very emblem of beauty and desire, was also its victim, treated less as a woman with feelings than as a money machine whose value was measured in box-office receipts.

History gives us many such examples. Think of Judy Garland, a girl molded by the studio system, whose natural gifts were exploited until her body and soul could endure no more. She was given pills to wake, pills to sleep, controlled like a machine whose only duty was to produce songs and films. Like Monroe, she was adored on the screen but broken behind it. These stories remind us that the system which exalts can also consume, and that when a person is seen only as profit, their humanity is slowly stripped away.

The meaning of Monroe’s words, then, is not only a protest but a warning. She exposes the danger of forgetting the humanity behind the image. To treat a person as a machine is to deny their soul, their fragility, their need for rest and care. It is to extract without giving, to demand without nurturing, to worship their product but neglect their person. And though Monroe spoke of actresses, her cry is universal—for in every field, there are men and women reduced to mere tools, valued only for their output, not for their being.

The lesson we must draw is urgent: honor the humanity of those who labor, especially those whose beauty, art, or fame tempts us to think of them as larger than life. Behind every performance lies exhaustion, behind every glamorous image lies sacrifice. If we only take the gift and forget the giver, we become complicit in the very cruelty Monroe condemned. Let us remember that no person is a money machine; each is a soul worthy of rest, compassion, and dignity.

What, then, should you do? First, when you admire the work of an artist, remember to respect their humanity, not only their art. Second, in your own life, resist being reduced to mere output—guard your soul from those who would treat you as a machine. Third, stand against systems, whether in art, labor, or industry, that value profit above the people who create it. For true greatness is not built upon exploitation, but upon the flourishing of human beings in their fullness.

Thus, let Monroe’s lament be remembered not as weakness, but as prophecy: “An actress is not a machine, but they treat you like a machine.” It is a cry that pierces across generations, reminding us that beauty without compassion becomes slavery, and art without humanity becomes cruelty. Let us carry her words as a shield, guarding not only the dignity of artists, but the dignity of every soul that labors under the weight of being treated as less than human. For only when we see the person before the product will we live as truly civilized beings.