She lived in extremes. And so did her heart.
The Storm That Was Richard Burton: More Than a Marriage, a Cultural Earthquake
They met on the set of Cleopatra in 1963. She was 31, already twice divorced, a global phenomenon with violet eyes and a reputation for drama. He was a Welsh actor with a voice like gravel and a Shakespearean pedigree. Married to other people—her to Eddie Fisher, him to Sybil Christopher. And yet, within weeks, the affair erupted like a volcano no one could contain. The press went rabid. The Vatican condemned them. Their divorces followed. The world watched, horrified and enthralled. They married in 1964. They divorced in 1974. Then remarried in 1975. Then divorced again, months later. It was less a marriage than a decade-long psychic explosion.
Because this wasn't just attraction. It was recognition. Two alphas. Two addicts. Two people who drank too much, fought too loud, and loved too hard. Their letters—hundreds of them, auctioned years later—reveal a terrifying intimacy. “I love you beyond my ability to write,” he wrote. “I love you beyond my ability to read.” That changes everything. You don’t write like that unless you’ve been cracked open. Their love was operatic, yes, but also real. And raw. And that’s exactly where most biographers misread it—they treat it like a scandal, not a soul bond.
And here’s the irony: they were terrible for each other. He was possessive, jealous, violent when drunk. She was reckless, impulsive, emotionally volatile. They enabled each other’s worst habits. Yet they also brought out a depth in each other that no one else could touch. On screen, in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, they channeled their real-life fury into a performance so blistering it earned them both Academy Award nominations. We’re far from it just being “good acting.” That was truth, weaponized.
Their combined fame reached a magnitude rarely seen—“Liz and Dick” became a single cultural entity. Magazines sold millions on their fights, their reconciliations, their jewelry (he gave her the Krupp Diamond, a 33.19-carat stone, after their first divorce). Their love wasn’t private. It was public theater. And somehow, that made it more real, not less.
Why Burton Was Her Emotional Epicenter
She had six other husbands. But none of them lived inside her like Burton did. You see it in her eyes when she talks about him in interviews—decades later. A flicker. A softening. A sorrow. People don't think about this enough: the person who destroys you is often the one who sees you most clearly. He called her “Lady,” a term of both mockery and deep affection. She called him “The Great Lover,” which was both a joke and a tribute. They knew each other’s shadows. And that’s what love becomes, at its deepest—seeing the worst and staying anyway.
Because she didn’t just love him. She feared him. Needed him. Hated him. Forgave him. That complexity—that emotional full spectrum—is what separated this from her other marriages. With Mike Todd, it was joy, adoration, safety. He made her laugh. Then he died in a plane crash in 1958. She wore black for a year. But even in grief, she didn’t speak of Todd the way she did of Burton. With Fisher? That was passion, scandal, motherhood. But it burned out fast. Burton? He was the one she couldn’t escape. The one she kept returning to, like gravity.
The Mike Todd Paradox: Was He the Happiest Love, Not the Deepest?
Yes, Burton was the most intense. But Mike Todd—the brash, charismatic producer—was perhaps the healthiest love she ever had. They married in 1952. She called him “the only man who ever made me happy.” They had one daughter, Liza. Their marriage lasted just over a year before he died. But in that time, she said she felt normal. Seen. Loved without drama. He was loud, generous, full of life. He didn’t care about her fame. He treated her like a wife, not a star.
The contrast with Burton couldn’t be starker. Todd represented stability. Burton represented chaos. And yet, in a way, chaos is more memorable than peace. We romanticize storms. We forget calm seas. Is it possible that the greatest love isn’t the most turbulent one? That said, Taylor herself said: “I was never so happy as when I was with Mike.” But happiness fades from memory faster than trauma. And that’s where the confusion lies. Was the love of her life the one who made her happiest? Or the one who changed her forever?
The Legacy of a Marriage Cut Short
His death at 52 shattered her. She was inconsolable. Refused to believe it at first. Then collapsed into grief so deep it nearly killed her. She married Eddie Fisher months later—partly, many believe, to escape the pain. It didn’t work. Fisher was kind, but dull compared to Todd’s energy. And marrying him, so soon, after he’d left Debbie Reynolds for her? That made her a villain in the press. Todd, meanwhile, remained the golden ghost of her life—untarnished by time or divorce.
But let’s be clear about this: no one else—Burton, Fisher, Warner—spoke of her with the same reverence Todd did. He called her “the greatest woman in the world.” He planned their future. Built a home. Laughed with her. There’s no record of him betraying her. Hurting her. The data is still lacking on how she might have evolved with him, had he lived. Experts disagree. Some say she thrived on drama—she’d have grown restless. Others argue she found peace with him and would have stayed.
Elizabeth Taylor’s Marriages: A Timeline of Passion and Survival
She married eight times—to seven men. Conrad “Nicky” Hilton (1950–51), Todd (1952–58), Fisher (1959–64), Burton (1964–74, 1975–76), John Warner (1976–82), and Larry Fortensky (1991–96). Each union lasted between 5 months and 7 years. That’s 37 years of marriage in a 56-year adult life. You do the math—she spent nearly two-thirds of her adult life legally bound. And yet, she often said she felt alone.
Because marriage, for her, wasn’t about paperwork. It was about connection. Rescue. Escape. Each man represented a phase: the rich kid (Hilton), the joyful partner (Todd), the scandal (Fisher), the tempest (Burton), the politician (Warner), the working man (Fortensky). None of them, except Burton, left a lasting emotional imprint. Warner? A power move. Fortensky? A late-life attempt at normalcy. But neither set her soul on fire.
Why She Kept Marrying
Loneliness? Fear? Love? All of it. She was a child star. Trapped in a golden cage. Marriage was her way out. Her way of being “real.” And each time, she believed—briefly—that this time it would stick. This time, it would be different. But the problem is, she kept choosing men who couldn’t handle her light. Or her darkness. Except Burton. He could. And that’s why he’s central.
Richard Burton vs. Mike Todd: The Great Emotional Divide
Todd: safe, joyful, brief. Burton: toxic, brilliant, enduring. Which matters more? The love that heals or the love that transforms? To give a sense of scale: Todd gave her one year of peace. Burton gave her a decade of war—and art. Their films together grossed over $200 million in today’s dollars. Their fights made headlines for years. Their letters sold for over $100,000. Todd’s legacy? A daughter, a memory, a few photos. One was light. One was lightning.
But because love isn’t just feeling—it’s impact—Burton wins. Not because he was better, but because he was bigger. He changed her. He ruined her. He made her immortal. And isn’t that what we mean, really, by “the love of your life”? Not the one who made you breakfast every morning, but the one who made you feel like you were alive, even when it hurt?
Frequently Asked Questions
Did Elizabeth Taylor ever remarry after Richard Burton?
Yes, she married U.S. Senator John Warner in 1976, seven months after her second divorce from Burton. That marriage lasted six years. She then married construction worker Larry Fortensky in 1991. They divorced in 1996. Neither relationship approached the intensity of her bond with Burton. And no, she never spoke of them with the same emotional weight.
How many times were Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton married?
Twice. First from 1964 to 1974. Then, after a brief reconciliation, from 1975 to 1976. Their second marriage lasted less than a year. Yet, even in separation, they remained emotionally entangled until Burton’s death in 1984. She didn’t attend his funeral—but she kept his letters. All of them.
What did Elizabeth Taylor say about Richard Burton on his death?
She was devastated. Though they hadn’t been married for years, she said, “I’ve lost my best friend.” She later admitted she never got over him. In a 1999 interview, she said, “Of all my relationships, the one with Richard was the most significant. He was the love of my life.” Suffice to say, that’s as close to a final answer as we’ll ever get.
The Bottom Line
Was Richard Burton the love of Elizabeth Taylor’s life? I am convinced that he was—not because it was healthy, but because it was true. He wasn’t the best husband. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t safe. But he was hers. And she was his. In a life of glitter and grief, he was the one person who matched her ferocity. The one who looked into her abyss and didn’t blink. Mike Todd may have made her happier. But Burton made her feel alive. And sometimes, that’s what love really means—not comfort, but collision. Not peace, but passion. We don’t always love the ones who are good for us. We love the ones who feel like home—even if that home is on fire.
Honestly, it is unclear whether she would have chosen differently, even knowing the pain. And maybe that’s the point. Some loves aren’t meant to last. They’re meant to burn.