I bought it for Marsden's luminous infrared photos, but the text is thoroughly enjoyable in itself. He traveled alone around France, seeking out haunt...moreI bought it for Marsden's luminous infrared photos, but the text is thoroughly enjoyable in itself. He traveled alone around France, seeking out haunted castles, woods, and graveyards, where he hoped to have spooky encounters in several places he got so creeped out that he had to pack up and leave without fully exploring. I loved those bits.
I felt like he could have gone into the travel memoir side of the book even more. I wanted to hear about his adventures and the people he met along the way, some of whom seemed to have been great storytellers. I wish he'd included more of his references, too, so that I could find more depth to some of the ghost stories he relates.
He's inspired me to want to visit Carcasonne and learn more about the Albigensian crusade, though.(less)
Updated Hollywood Babylon without the pictures. I found Petrucelli's snarky tone really off-putting, especially as he mocks people he just interviewed...moreUpdated Hollywood Babylon without the pictures. I found Petrucelli's snarky tone really off-putting, especially as he mocks people he just interviewed and got to know right before their deaths. His author's voice made me sad. I think it's possible to cover this same material in a respectful way, but basically I'm just not that interested in the deaths of celebrities. Give me a graveyard over a pop-cult obituary any day.(less)
I picked this up in a travel bookstore in NYC (remember travel bookstores?) because I read the chapter in which the author follows an exorcist around...moreI picked this up in a travel bookstore in NYC (remember travel bookstores?) because I read the chapter in which the author follows an exorcist around Clerkenwell. It made me remember how much I loved the Mike Carey novels with much the same protagonist -- except that this story is true. It's by far the most interesting story in this book and worth the price I paid for it.
The other pieces are of varying depths and therefore of varying appeal. The text is written in London slang, some of which I got from context and some of which I had to let pass. Even after reading the chapter on mini-cab drivers, I'm still not sure how they differ from black cab drivers. The chapters that shine are the ones where the author spends time with his subjects long enough to individualize them, like the barger on the Thames and the urban fox-hunter.
There are snide comments made repeatedly about the ravers and other partiers of the London night, but apparently our author couldn't find any to hang out with, because they remain shadowy shallow caricatures. There is also a serious lack of women in the book, for whatever reason. One would expect there are many working through the London night, even in legitimate jobs.
I don't know if this book is available electronically, but that might be a better way to read it, so that you don't have it taking up shelf-space afterward.(less)
Full disclosure: I'm one of the morbid people Wilson spoke to as he researched the book. I'm not sure he entirely knew how to take my perky goth sensi...moreFull disclosure: I'm one of the morbid people Wilson spoke to as he researched the book. I'm not sure he entirely knew how to take my perky goth sensibilities, but I do get a couple of paragraphs.
Everyone Loves a Good Train Wreck reads like a really fascinating blog. The chapters are extremely short, only a handful of pages each, and tend to limit themselves to a single idea, although the ideas do reflect back from one chapter to the next. It makes for a quick read, which doesn't suit the depth of the ideas involved. Which is where the blog reference comes in: if you were reading this book a chapter a day on the web, you would take time between chapters to stop and consider. Instead, it's all to easy to whip through the book and then blame it for a lack of depth -- when in fact, it's a lack of reader participation that's bugging you.
My favorite chapters were those which focused on people who live their morbid curiosity full-out: the collector of serial killer items, Joe Coleman in his Odditorium. Wilson's own morbid curiosity -- inspired and inflamed by bipolar disease -- is somewhat dwarfed in comparison, but there's hope for him yet. Admitting you have morbid curiosity is the first step to claiming it and climbing inside it.(less)
Two years ago, Rain Graves invited a bunch of horror writers to join her for a weekend in a haunted house. There was little programing but vast stretc...moreTwo years ago, Rain Graves invited a bunch of horror writers to join her for a weekend in a haunted house. There was little programing but vast stretches of time in which to write or hang out with the other writers. Wine was consumed. Past ghostly experiences were confessed. There were tarot readings and K-II meters to play with and professional ghost hunters came with their laser webs and multi-spectrum video cameras. Ghostly voices were captured on tape.
Mostly, though, there were 10 of us rattling around in a big old house. The days were pleasant and peaceful. The evenings…those were interesting. I could watch the tension mount as we prepared to face whatever survived in the house and roamed the night.
The Haunted Mansion Project: Year One collects the ghost hunters’ report, nonfiction experiences of the writers who survived the retreat, and fiction and poetry written during or inspired by our adventures in the house.
My favorite story may be E. S. Magill’s "Not a Drop to Drink," which more than does justice to the creepy spring-fed pool on the property. S. G. Browne’s "In the Night, In the Dark" is the story that raised goose bumps and made me doubt my resolve to go back to the house in September. Rain’s "The Old House" went in an unexpected direction, but Yvonne Navarro’s "Depictions," while one of the darkest stories in the book, ended just the way I wanted it to. I didn’t expect Weston Ochse’s "Ghost Meter Blues" to make me laugh, but that was just what I needed to break the tension.
I’m really pleased to have an essay and a short story included in this book -- and honored to be holding down the last slot in the table of contents. I always felt, among the crowd at the first Haunted Mansion Retreat, that I would be the Final Girl. (less)
This is yet another book collecting essays that repeat over and over, "Wow, look at the weird things people do to celebrate their loved ones!" The boo...moreThis is yet another book collecting essays that repeat over and over, "Wow, look at the weird things people do to celebrate their loved ones!" The book is at its best when she profiles bereaved families, but whenever she makes herself a part of the story, Cullen -- a staff writer for Time magazine -- comes off as remarkably shallow.
Still, I was interested in the company that turns cremains to diamonds and another that is creating an artificial reef out of cremains mixed into cement. There *was* some fascinating material here. I'm guessing that the profiles parts of each chapter originally appeared somewhere else as stand-alone pieces. Reading those would have been preferable to this book.
The pink hearse on the cover serves as a warning. Sometimes you should judge a book by its cover.(less)
Such a lovely book! Christine Montross was a poet before she decided to study medicine. The beauty of the language she chooses and the depth of her cu...moreSuch a lovely book! Christine Montross was a poet before she decided to study medicine. The beauty of the language she chooses and the depth of her curiosity and compassion make this book one that I will return to again. I'm sure I will take more away from it on each reading.
Montross's experiences in the cadaver lab mirror and expand upon mine in such a way that now I am grateful not only to the people who donate their bodies to teach, but to the medical students who must undergo such deep, emotional, life-changing lessons as they dissect their teachers. While she conveys much information about how the human body works and how doctors-to-be are taught, her primary focus in on the emotional journey that spans from being a student with no understanding beyond her own body to being someone able to heal anyone who comes to her for help.
There are flashes of humor along the way. Montross's team names their cadaver Eve, since she comes to them without a belly button. Although they take her body apart as they learn its processes, they never do solve the mystery of why she isn't like other people.
The hardest chapter to read was the dissection of the head and face, but overall, this isn't a book for the squeamish. There is so much to learn, both for medical student and reader, that sometimes you have to put aside your natural reaction and plow through. In the end, it's very worth it.
I hope this book is required reading for incoming med students.(less)
The subtitle is closer to the subject of this book that the slightly misleading title. Quigley's definition of mummies is not limited to fleshly corps...moreThe subtitle is closer to the subject of this book that the slightly misleading title. Quigley's definition of mummies is not limited to fleshly corpses but to any human remains. For instance, I wouldn't consider the victims of the Andes-crash soccer players' cannibalism to be mummies, even though some bodies were frozen in the snow against the day their flesh needed to be consumed. Perhaps the opacity of definition is mine, but the term mummy to me implies a length of post-mortem survival in the flesh. A couple of months doesn't justify the term in my mind.
There are other moments where Quigley wanders off topic. I'm not sure I would consider the skeletons in teratology collections to be mummies, even when the infants' bones remain unburied for decades. There's a leap Quigley makes from scientific specimens to pre-term fetuses in carnival sideshows, which leads to a brief history of "bouncers," rubber babies meant to slide under the laws about possession of unburied corpses. The information is interesting, sure, but felt a little like padding.
Still, let me assure that there is a wealth of fascinating information here. Want to know about the experiment reproducing the Egyptian method of embalming? Curious how the "Visible Man" was sectioned for your computer screen? This is the book for you.
In fact, the chapters about fully preserved human corpses, many of them displayed for lengthy periods, grants this book its place of honor on my bookshelf. The usual suspects are here: Vladimir Lenin, Eva Peron, the Capuchin mummies, the Museo de las Momias of Guanajuato, Elmer McCurdy. Better than that, Quigley traces the mummy (or mummies?) of John Wilkes Booth, the tradition of mortuaries preserving the bodies of people whose families neglected to pay for their burial, the modern corpses that show remarkable preservation and may perhaps perform miracles.
This is not a book for sissies. Although there could be more photographs overall, some of them are quite shocking. The body of the woman who had converted to adipocere in the Austrian lake was enough to chase away my seatmate on the bus. While the explanations of the body's processes of decay or preservation are always presented in a clear-eyed and very understandable manner, we are talking about the smells and textures of dead people. It makes for intense bedtime reading.
This book was intense. I question the sanity of its author, who meets a guide in Papua New Guinea, places his life in the man's hands, and canoes up t...moreThis book was intense. I question the sanity of its author, who meets a guide in Papua New Guinea, places his life in the man's hands, and canoes up the river to meet cannibals. I mean, I know he's not going to be killed, because apparently he survived to write the book, but yikes. It was much too exciting to read before bed.
I was fascinated by the explanation of why it's okay to kill and eat people. Apparently they aren't really people, but creatures who have captured people, hollowed them out, and inhabited their bodies in order to cause harm to others. These Papua cannibals never eat women, because they aren't ever attacked by the evil spirits. Men, however, had better never make anyone else envious...
I'm only giving the book 3 stars because I'm going to sell it without finishing it. I could see that it was heading into darker territory: the children forced to kill and eat their friends in Uganda was going to be too intense for me.
If you like this sort of thing, you'll love this book.(less)
I bought this book for its photographs, specifically for the exquisite photos of Bannerman's Island. Unfortunately, the photos are not the focus of th...moreI bought this book for its photographs, specifically for the exquisite photos of Bannerman's Island. Unfortunately, the photos are not the focus of the book. The over-written text struggles to personify the ruins featured within, but since the author didn't take the photos -- and the photographers are barely named, let alone given a chance to speak -- the personifications are cold and distant.
In fact, I wish I'd stopped reading the text early on. I kept at it, waiting for an insight or interesting fact, but it pretty thoroughly frustrated me.
I wish the photos had been labeled by photographer before I reached the teeny type on the last page. I wish the photos had been dated, so I could have a sense of whether the ruins are still in similar condition or if they've deteriorated since the photos were taken (some of them seem to date to the 1970s or earlier).
I could have done without the photos of the bridges or Centralia, Pennsylvania (which didn't include any buildings).
What I should do is sell this book and look for books that feature the ruins of Detroit, Bannerman's Castle, and the Danvers State Mental Hospital. I want to see for myself, not read someone else's thoughts, especially the thoughts of someone who apparently hasn't even visited the ruins he's discussing. What a frustrating book this is.(less)
I was surprised to enjoy this book so much. Written by a former Park Ranger, Haunted Hikes is an encyclopedia of murders, ghost stories, and Bigfoot s...moreI was surprised to enjoy this book so much. Written by a former Park Ranger, Haunted Hikes is an encyclopedia of murders, ghost stories, and Bigfoot sightings from America's National Parks. Lankford quotes rangers about their experiences (I was amazed how often they opened up to her) and often gives a time frame of how long the ghostly experiences have been going on. It makes me want to rush right out and travel.
Incidental to all that is the number of graveyards Lankford mentions offhandedly. I have a bunch more to add to my to-visit list, including the Old Guide Cemetery at Mammoth Caves, Cemetery Island in Lake Superior, and the army cemetery at Fort Yellowstone. Those were an unexpected bonus.
The book reads quickly, covers everything from UFOs to serial killers, and has a fun spirit of adventure. As I read it, the body count kept climbing at Yosemite, where even seasoned hikers have underestimated the power of wilderness this year. I had no idea that death was so common in our national parks. It's given me new respect for the people who choose to work in them.(less)
The illustrations are the best part of this book, truly spooky and yet childlike, like the images from a Howard Pyle book. While those would have been...moreThe illustrations are the best part of this book, truly spooky and yet childlike, like the images from a Howard Pyle book. While those would have been careful line drawings, these are blocky, more reminiscent of woodcuts. If I wasn't so hard up for shelf space, I would keep the book for them.
The stories are just okay. They're presented as fairy tales, told in the first person (generally, but not always). I would have preferred if they had been told as tales with references or tellers attached. Where did the author hear these stories? Are other versions available? My favorite part of the text is her list of references in the back. Looks like an awesome reading list.
One of the tales early on struck me as odd. Purported to be set in San Francisco, the main character of the Japanese ghost story "Vengeance" is "samurai warrior" Kane. It's hard for me to believe that a real samurai would have abandoned his country after Admiral Perry came, unless it was in disgrace. The historical dates just don't work out. If he's a disgraced samurai -- or feels he was disgraced by the coming of the West -- why would he come to the West? Also, his wife is called Ishi (like the last Yahi, whose brain was a source of contention until the Smithsonian gave it up), instead of the more feminine Ichigo. Ishi is a strange name for a Japanese.
As a story itself, "Vengeance" is a creepy Japanese ghost story. The author's additions took me away from it. I wanted to check her sources. That kind of wrecked the mood.(less)
Unfortunately, I couldn't get into this one. The subtitle is "A Lively History of Death Around the World," which didn't explain that it was a gloss of...moreUnfortunately, I couldn't get into this one. The subtitle is "A Lively History of Death Around the World," which didn't explain that it was a gloss of anthropological studies around the world. I think the author's tone is meant to be humorous, but it struck me as condescending. I struggled through the first chapter, in which he makes the point that humans grieve different deaths in different ways in different societies around the world -- and anthropologists almost always misinterpret what they're seeing because they can't escape their own cultural preconceptions. But once I grasped that, I didn't need it reiterated for pages and pages afterward.
The most interesting thing I read: "In Java, you do not seek out the dead without due cause. 'You cannot go to a cemetery,' said my shocked host. 'I cannot take you. People would see us. They would think we were mad, witches looking for fresh corpses to eat.'" I guess if the book had gone on to be an exploration of how cultures around the world visit their grave sites, I would have been fascinated.(less)
This is a truly strange book. Neither fish nor fowl, it follows the journalistic tradition of In Cold Blood to relate a fictional story hung on a skel...moreThis is a truly strange book. Neither fish nor fowl, it follows the journalistic tradition of In Cold Blood to relate a fictional story hung on a skeleton of nonfiction. Last Breath gave me a strange sense of dissonance as I turned its pages.
Each chapter explores the way our fragile human bodies fail before the awesome power of nature: drowning while white water kayaking, cooking internally while bike racing in high humidity, choking on lungs full of blood while suffering the bends. In each chapter, the author creates characters—who often do not have names—to illustrate the sometimes complicated medical stages the body shuffles through on its way off this mortal coil. Some of the stories struck a nerve, like the woman who dies on the first female team to climb a mountain in the Himalayas. Her death was narrated in the third-person, observed by her fictional teammates. Something about their rituals for saying goodbye hit me hard, despite my knowledge that this was not a “real” person being mourned. Even the mourners were made up. Every time I began to consider it, the flashy trappings of the telling distracted me from the information being conveyed: How We Die swamped by fiction.
As the book progressed, I found myself paying as much attention to how the stories were told (from the dying person’s point of view or from the outside?) as I worked to understand and absorb the medical terminology. I became fascinated by the author laboring behind the stories. How did Stark decide who survived their injuries? Did he take satisfaction in letting the corporate raider die on the mountain ledge after he foolishly attempted a solo 5.9 climb? Did the woman survive the jellyfish attack in Australia? Her story is not told from inside her haze of pain, but rather from the point of view of her stodgy husband. The tale seemed to end before she did. Why doesn’t Stark convey the fever dreams of the man dying of malaria, rather than focusing on his blood counts? Why does the chapter on scurvy cover the start of the dot-com sailor’s journey rather than after he shows symptoms of his diet of red wine and potato chips?
And yet: the information being conveyed was fascinating. Stark excels in the stories where it’s clear he’s experienced some of the symptoms of onrushing death himself: high altitude physical sensations, the feel of extreme cold inside your nose, the way an athlete pushes himself to continue. Stark’s dire warnings and the love for nature in which they’re wrapped made compelling reading for me.
I’m a timid traveler. As much as I love the outside world, I don’t put myself in dangerous situations on mountaintops or beneath the waves. It would be easy to read Last Breath as a warning to stay in your home. However, Stark’s initial chapter, about a man who nearly freezes to death while skiing at night after being repeatedly warned about the extreme cold, was written for Outside magazine. Stark says in his introduction that he intended the book to serve as an Ars Moriendo, a guide on how to face our impending doom. Beneath that aim is the subtle repetitive message to study the conditions in which you are going to be outside, to listen to your body when it feels strained, to pay attention to your equipment, and avoid doing anything stupid. In that vein, Last Breath is not so much a treatise on the Art of Dying but a primer on How to Live.
Morbid Curiosity #6 published this review originally.(less)
More than any other cemetery book I’ve read (and I’m trying to read ’em all!), this one makes a case that the way to learn about a place is to study i...moreMore than any other cemetery book I’ve read (and I’m trying to read ’em all!), this one makes a case that the way to learn about a place is to study its graveyard. Purnell’s book is divided into several sections that provide a good overview of the history of the Hawaiian Islands, particularly Oahu, since contact with the outside world began with Cook’s voyage in 1778. After a “Brief History” of the Victorian-style cemetery, Purnell explores some of the more spectacular stories behind the permanent residents, ranging from the lawmen who died tracking down victims of Hansen’s Disease (as leprosy is now called), the wreck of the USS Saginaw on the Kure Atoll, and the kidnapping and murder of a child in 1928. This segues into a wonderful section on the history of fraternal organizations in Europe, on the mainland, and in the Islands. I don’t know if I’ve ever come across this information anywhere else.
Purnell’s lovely color photographs shine in the section devoted to “The Art & Symbolism of Death.” She takes best advantage of the Island light, the greenery, and cerulean skies to highlight the artistry in stone which adorns Oahu Cemetery.
I found the section on “Prominent Permanent Residents” a necessary addition to the book, since I know very little of the civic history of Oahu. Among the famous names lie Joseph Campbell (author of The Hero with a Thousand Faces); Alexander Cartwright Jr., the “father of organized baseball”; Jules Tavernier, a landscape painter who founded “The Volcano School” of art; opera singers, hula teachers, and hapa haole songsters who introduced Hawaiian themes to the larger world of radio listeners.
A long list of references closes out the book.
This is an extremely beautiful book, liberally illustrated, and very reasonably priced. Its only drawback is a lack of proofreading -- which is sometimes annoying and often quite funny. Ignore that, if you will, and enjoy the banquet otherwise laid out before you. This is a treasure.
This review originally appeared in Morbid Curiosity #6. (less)
Although this book focuses on folk art rather than statuary, although it’s only illustrated in black-and-white on non-glossy pages and its two-column...moreAlthough this book focuses on folk art rather than statuary, although it’s only illustrated in black-and-white on non-glossy pages and its two-column layout—followed by pages of footnotes -- seems intimidating and overly academic -- this is the most fascinating cemetery book I’ve come across in a long time.
Chock-full of interesting tidbits, Texas Graveyards ties the burial practices of underclass Texans into a web of African, pre-Christian European, and Native American traditions. Texans, both black and white, have a tradition of scraping their graveyards down to the bare dirt. Jordan relates this to practices found on the West African slave coast. In addition, many Texan graveyards offer picnic tables where visitors can hold potlucks on “decoration day,” an event where the community gathers to clean the cemetery.
Jordan digests a clearly vast amount of research into a very readable and fast-moving text, liberally illustrated by his own photos. He explains hex signs on German American graves, describes ornate ironwork and curbing, analyzes grave offerings, and translates epitaphs. In one of my favorite passages, Jordan discusses the meaning of common graveyard landscaping, such as lilies or evergreens (“‘Evergreen’ is the 4th most popular cemetery name in the United States and ranks 1st for graveyards established before 1914”).
Whether you live in or travel to Texas, or a simply interested in an anthropological explanation of burial rituals in the American South and Southwest, this book is highly recommended.
This book seems to have been designed as a textbook for an African American Studies program, but that’s not a bad thing. Whenever the Hugheses get dow...moreThis book seems to have been designed as a textbook for an African American Studies program, but that’s not a bad thing. Whenever the Hugheses get down to the business of discussing black history, I learned things I’ve never seen discussed anywhere else. However, everything is viewed through the lens of race (as opposed to cemetery history). When the authors lament the destruction of historic black cemeteries, they don’t step away from their topic enough to see the destruction of all cemeteries that stand in the way of land developers or freeway construction. The guarantor of destruction is not race, but class. Poor Irish, poor Polish, poor Chilean, poor Chinese: if communities could not afford permanent markers or perpetual care for their dead, the dead were at risk of being evicted or paved over.
That said, the Hugheses made remarkable efforts to locate living historians in the African American communities they visited, whether those people were morticians, academicians, or storytellers. These stories, in the tellers’ own words, provide a wealth of detail missing in many dryer cemetery tomes.
Also included in the book is a vast amount of information on how to do genealogical research. The combination seems like a natural, but I haven’t seen it anywhere else.
The major drawback to the book is the muddiness of the illustrations. I’m not convinced that the photographs were taken intentionally as illustrations. No care seems to have been taken with the lighting or focus. Still, though, they cover subject matter collected nowhere else.
This review was published in Morbid Curiosity #5. (less)
I have to admit, I am skeptical about books about losing your pets. Having been too often subjected to “The Rainbow Bridge,” I know how quickly sentim...moreI have to admit, I am skeptical about books about losing your pets. Having been too often subjected to “The Rainbow Bridge,” I know how quickly sentiment about pets can trigger a gag reflex. That this book has a pastel collage of animal grave markers on its cover, along with a shockingly red sticker that proclaims it “A Lasting Gift for Anyone Who Loves Animals,” might be enough to scare away the heartiest Morbid Curiosity reader.
My advice is, “Lose the dust jacket.” The cover of the book is classy black linen, embossed with the title in silver. Inside are 100 Polaroid transfer photographs that document pet cemeteries from London to San Diego. Lanci-Altomare, who has done solo shows of her photographs at Dark Delicacies in Burbank, has an eye for beauty, true emotion, and humor. The Polaroid transfer process gives the photos a light-struck, grainy quality reminiscent of the photo plaques washed by the sun that you find on headstones. The effect serves her subject very well.
A minor quibble is the design of the book. Rather than group the photos by graveyard—so that the reader could get a sense of place—photos of the same graveyards rise again and again, sort of like a refrain. I found it frustrating.
How’s the text? Let me give you some context. Last March, as I was finishing MC#4, my companion of 14 years was gravely ill with bladder stones. I dragged him to the vet time and again, each time certain that he wouldn’t survive to be brought home. I passed through all the Kübler-Ross stages in preparation of putting him to sleep when the vet performed a miracle. For all my cynicism, I know how painful it is to face the death of someone with whom you’ve lived so long.
The text is very good. It ranges from historical notes about (too few) graveyards to newspaper articles about the police dogs who located bodies after the Oklahoma Federal Building bombing into explanations from cemetery owners about how and why they do their jobs. I particularly liked the piece from the Humane Society that explains how visits to the pet cemetery keep volunteers sane as they work with abandoned animals. Other highlights were stories about the cat who eased a terminally ill boy into death and the dog who greeted mourners at the pet cemetery where he worked. There’s a smattering of poetry, but it can be easily bypassed.
This is a very nice book on a topic that hasn’t been explored. Once you discard the dust jacket, you can enjoy it thoroughly.
I wrote this review for Morbid Curiosity #5. (less)
What a misleading title this book has been given. I was expecting something along the lines of the wonderful Dead Men Do Tell Tales (reviewed in Morbi...moreWhat a misleading title this book has been given. I was expecting something along the lines of the wonderful Dead Men Do Tell Tales (reviewed in Morbid Curiosity #4)—in other words, down-and-dirty details of how corpses helped solve crimes. Only after struggling through eight chapters in which corpses never speak and are sometimes not even consulted did I read the credits page. There I discovered that the original British title of this book was Forensic Fingerprints: Remarkable Real-Life Murder Cases Solved by Forensic Detection. A title as dull as its contents.
Since there’s no point of view in this collection of police cases, there’s no one to give any impressions of the cops and doctors who step forward to tell their stories, changing narrators each chapter. There’s no way to judge if these people know what they’re talking about.
In fact, Miller’s introduction claims that some names and places have been changed. I guess you’re meant to trust Miller didn’t create what follows out of whole cloth. I did catch one mistake, so I wonder if there may be others. In a chapter about a girl strangled in San Francisco, the movie theater she said she was attending has been moved several miles across town, so that it could be in the neighborhood where her body was found. Also, one of the cops one the case refers to the tennis shoes she was wearing as trainers. Perhaps a British editor changed that, but it doesn’t inspire confidence in the factuality of the quotations.
The book isn’t completely devoid of entertaining information. I did learn a little about hypostasis, or the way the blood settles after death. I also found out 20% of the population doesn’t secrete the antigens of their blood group in their saliva or semen and so can’t be identified by DNA testing.
Unfortunately, that’s not enough to justify the price of this book.
I initially reviewed this in Morbid Curiosity #5.(less)
In early 1980, Lucinda Bunnen and Virginia Warren Smith left home on a mission. They wanted to record how survivors used graveyards to speak to the de...moreIn early 1980, Lucinda Bunnen and Virginia Warren Smith left home on a mission. They wanted to record how survivors used graveyards to speak to the dead and those who visited the dead. As Susan Krane, curator of the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, says in the foreword, “Cemeteries are pieces of perpetual (and tantalizing) alienation, points of communion that are forever thwarted by silence.” Bunnen and Smith understand graveyards as the only place where some people can make their deepest feelings public.
The two women traveled 26,000 miles of back roads through Louisiana, Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico to photograph one-of-a-kind grave monuments and grave offerings. These range from Styrofoam adorned with a pink plastic telephone and the epitaph “Jesus Called” to wagon wheels with broken spokes to the pyramid-shaped tomb of a camel-driver named Hi Jolly. More than any sterile marble muse, these often-handmade monuments give a true sense of the life that has been lost. The viewer senses the joy of the fisherman holding up his catch in a photo plaque. The sorrow of the bird leaning from its branch to gaze down on its dead mate reaches beyond the stone, beyond the graveyard, beyond the photograph. The flat bronze marker of the 24-year-old Vietnam vet, scratched with a pin to read, “We miss you brother,” tells poignantly about loss that the Canadian Mist bottles left behind can’t begin to fill. The cowboy engraved with his head resting on his saddle explains more than names and dates ever could.
There’s plenty here that’s funny and inexplicable. What’s being communicated by the four-foot-tall picnic basket? A photo of a plate of tomatoes adorns a grave in South Carolina. Somehow, seeing Snoopy dancing, nose in the air, on a headstone just creeps me out. The photographers were weirded out by a Styrofoam Bugs Bunny.
Most of the photos are presented as simple black and white. Many have comments scrawled by the photographers, adding explanations that make the significance clear. Occasionally photos have been hand-colored, but that only serves to highlight the ephemeral nature of most tributes.
Beyond the photographs is the diary of their trip. In February the women had a scary experience when they reached an extremely remote graveyard in Texas and all their equipment, including their compass, magnetized. In the course of their journeys, they camped in a pioneer cemetery in Arizona, got stuck in the mud on the Navajo reservation in Canyon de Chelly, and were threatened by a man with two teeth and a shotgun in Kentucky.
All in all, it was quite an adventure to record these photos of graveyards. I'm glad they chose to bring me along for the ride.
This review originally appeared in Morbid Curiosity #5. (less)
Mason bought me this beautiful book at the Franz Kafka Bookstore on the Old Town Square in Prague. It’s listed on Amazon.com for $140, but let me tell...moreMason bought me this beautiful book at the Franz Kafka Bookstore on the Old Town Square in Prague. It’s listed on Amazon.com for $140, but let me tell you, this is one beautiful book!
Memento Mori focuses solely on the Sedlec ossuary outside of Kutná Hora in the Czech Republic. In 44 plates, the book obsessively documents the Church of All Saints and the bone decor inside. Each photograph floats atop a deeply black mat and is faced by a stark white page, so your attention is focused again and again on the exquisite artistry with which Rint organized the dead.
The photographers were given over a year, using only natural light, to capture the images in these black and white photos. The long exposures required to shoot the dim ossuary give the bones -- especially the skulls -- a luminous quality. Often it seems that a spiritual glow infuses the images, radiating from the bones themselves or streaming in through the opaque windows. The photographs imply that this is a holy space.
The photographers were allowed access unavailable to your average tourist with a $2 photo pass. They slipped behind the iron grates fencing off the pyramids to reveal the cant of disintegrating geometry as the skulls rolled out of place. They climbed over the rail into the sacred alcove to shoot the monstrance lens to eye socket. They documented cobwebs and shattered skulls and the crumbling plaster of the walls, revealing the sadness and decay behind the breathtaking chandelier and chalice. Words are unnecessary when you view these photographs.
However, explanatory text is provided. First in Czech, then in English, finally in German, the essayists address the chronicle of the ossuary and debate the impact of its artistry. In his first essay, Mojmír Horyna details the history of the Cistercian order and discusses the artistic motifs of the ossuary design. He finds that the skull and crossbones is the most effective compositional element of the ossuary. In fact, garlands of skulls and crossbones do swoop across the groined ceiling of the church. However, Horyna claims that Rint’s “Romantic” decoration transformed the church into the empire of death triumphant, having stripped the “vanity of life of its beauty and joy.” I can’t disagree with him more. I found the ossuary almost indescribably beautiful. My confrontation with all those skulls left me feeling buoyed, full of joy that I am still alive. Perhaps there’s a large gap in our ages?
I suspect from his second essay (“Place of the Triumph of Death and of Hope in the Resurrection”), Horyna is a staunch Catholic, and perhaps a priest. He discusses briefly the 19th century slogans of praxis and will, defining the Romantic Movement as fascinated and horrified by death. He claims Rint “tuned” the ossuary “into the macabre tones of a hymn of death.” Proceeding onward, he claims that the modern pilgrim cannot possibly discover the ossuary in the manner in which it was intended. He’s pissed that the space is now a tourist attraction, to which modern visitors are drawn by curiosity. “Mass curiosity,” he writes, “operating under the slogan of demands for access to all facts, for the abolition of all secrets, and for the right to easy knowledge which, of necessity is superficial, leads to the banalisation of the world.” Whoa, buddy. Just because I didn’t grow up Catholic in Soviet Czechoslovakia does not mean that I cannot understand or appreciate what I’ve seen. In fact, I’m insulted by the insinuation that tourism, which is now funding the current renovation of the church, is evil in any way. Without my admission money, pal, your cultural icon would crumble to dust.
Probably, in Horyna’s opinion, those of you reading this review would not appreciate these spectacular photographs in a manner of which he would approve. I say, fuck ’im. If you can track this lovely book down, it is very worth owning.
This review initially appeared in Morbid Curiosity #3. (less)
Most books of gravestone photographs focus on monuments to the wealthy. For the most part, William Greiner turns his camera on mementos left on the gr...moreMost books of gravestone photographs focus on monuments to the wealthy. For the most part, William Greiner turns his camera on mementos left on the graves of the poor, documenting faded silk flowers in an empty wooden frame, blue fish gravel spread as a grave blanket, an amputee doll, a tatty white dove on a red wreath. The acute angles he chooses comment on the sur-reality of the offerings he finds. The short focal lengths used in many of the photos (especially the cover image of the Styrofoam heart full of blue silk carnations) give them an intense three-dimensionality that’s almost threatening. This book manages to be simultaneously cheerful and scary.
I met Greiner, a resident of New Orleans, by chance at a book signing one Halloween in New Orleans. When I asked which graveyard he recommended I should visit in order to see a true New Orleans observance of the Day of the Dead, he suggested Holt Cemetery. Hidden behind a community college and a police academy, this graveyard isn’t impressive like its swankier neighbors in Metairie. Originally founded as burial ground for the city’s indigent, interment in Holt has remained very inexpensive. In celebration of this, Holt is filled with handmade monuments, many of them exuberant in the face of grief.
While the photos in The Reposed are not identified by graveyard (only by city, unfortunately), I suspect that many of the photos labeled “New Orleans” were in fact taken at Holt. It’s clear that brave cheer struck a chord in Greiner. He discovered its kith in graveyards all across Louisiana, but I suspect, if we looked, we could find kin in any cemetery outside the dictatorship of the lawnmower.
Mortician and poet Thomas Lynch notes in his introduction that “the last word belongs not to death but to life.” The living have much to say in these heartfelt, if shabby, memorials. Analysis provides no answers, but inspires sympathy deep enough to bridge the gap between the viewer, the survivors, and the reposed.
I'm giving this 3 stars rather than 4 simply because I prefer sculpture to handmade monuments. It's a reflection of my preferences, rather than the quality of this book.
An earlier version of this review appeared in Morbid Curiosity #4.(less)
What an odd little book this is. While it purports to be a history of the LA Coroner, it focuses a large portion of its attention (84 pages of its 192...moreWhat an odd little book this is. While it purports to be a history of the LA Coroner, it focuses a large portion of its attention (84 pages of its 192) on the Department’s “Star-Studded Caseload.” Some of the details are juicy (although the coroner went over Marilyn Monroe’s body with a magnifying glass—just imagine—he found no needle marks), but the number of unsolved or disputed cases detailed in the book casts an astoundingly unflattering light on our purported subject. For instance, the coroner originally blamed Dorothy Dandridge’s death on blood poisoning caused by a broken toe, even though two doctors in New York suggested she might have overdosed on prescription antidepressants. Cause of death remains unsettled, as does the question of whether her death was accidental or suicide. The section on the Nicole Brown/Ronald Goldman murders recaps Simpson’s slo-mo flight in the Bronco, but does not discuss the deaths he was fleeing. The text says that “the cause of death was clear,” but describes it only as “slashed to death.” How? If there’s any truth to the “Colombian necktie” rumor, you’ll have to go elsewhere to find it.
L.A. Times columnist Ruben Salazar was killed during the 1970s riots. I think he was killed in a bar when a tear gas canister fired by police struck him in the head, but the text in the book is remarkably unclear. I would’ve liked to know more about the coroner’s investigation, but the story focuses on the coroner’s inquest. Although this is neither defined nor described, it is likened to the Simpson trial. We know how much press it garnered, but not exactly what it was.
The book was purchased for me on the strength of one image: a black and white photograph the Black Dahlia’s nude and dismembered body lying in the grass, surrounded by staring men. Unfortunately, the rest of the images are much more pedestrian. The recap of the Manson Family’s spree is illustrated by Sharon’s bloody sofa. Better photos exist. Why weren’t they used? And why does a photo of Patty Hearst’s arrest illustrate the story of the police shootout with the SLA, even though the caption admits there is no connection? Perhaps the answer lies in Tony Blanche’s biography, in which he is described as “developing” books, rather than authoring them.
In a county were the coroner’s office handles 19,000 cases annually, where 20-plus autopsies are performed each day, the job done by the men and women of the Department of Coroner is simply heroic. I wish Death in Paradise had focused on that heroism instead of the tabloid stories rehashed here.
Andrei Codrescu’s foreword (“A Trumpet in Heaven”) begins by meditating on cemeteries as a final address, where the dead are always available for cons...moreAndrei Codrescu’s foreword (“A Trumpet in Heaven”) begins by meditating on cemeteries as a final address, where the dead are always available for consultation. He takes his morning coffee in the graveyard near his New Orleans home, a habit he began in his hometown in Transylvania. “Tombstones are essential tools of poetry,” he says, and the New Orleans tombs are among the most poetic he has ever visited.
Patricia Brady’s introduction, with the catchy title “The Seductive Face of Death,” follows. While she doesn’t discuss seduction, she does lay out a history of burial in New Orleans. It’s a subject that I thought I had a fairly good grasp on, but she raised new points. The original Louisiana society did not discriminate in death. In St. Louis #1, there was no separate “colored section.” Once the U.S. took possession of the city, however, the American racial prejudices changed the disposition of the dead. Also, she said the French had no cult of the dead. Hearkening back to the medieval practice of mass graves and reusing family graves, Louisiana had a law that a grave could not be opened for a year and a day, during which time decomposition was supposed to have taken place. The old bones were shoved back into a central well inside the tomb when the new occupant was placed inside. This changed when the Northerners imposed their sentimental Protestant views about resurrection of the body.
The bulk of the book is given over to Sandra Russell Clark’s photographs. From the fallen and blackened cherub that fronts Codrescu’s foreword to the tilted and rusting iron crosses, from the flowers wilting in the bright late afternoon sun to the fallen memorial plaques amidst the lush foliage, Clark captures the glorious tropical decay of the New Orleans’ cities of the dead. Her luminous black and white photographs seem almost antique at first glance, light-struck and over-exposed. Instead, the process fills the photos with a sense of heat and humidity so vivid you can almost smell the crepe myrtle and the heavy sweet smell of decay. Of all the cemetery books I own, this rivals only John Gay’s Highgate Cemetery: Victorian Valhalla (reviewed in Morbid Curiosity #1) in beauty. Perhaps that is because neither of them is afraid to climb high or crawl low to find the most aesthetic angle, rather than relying as David Robinson’s Saving Graces does, on purely documentary photography.
Best of all, the book closes with thumbnail sketches of each graveyard, including not only address but safety advisories as well. Elysium: A Gathering of Souls is perhaps the quintessential New Orleans souvenir—and guidebook.
This review comes from Morbid Curiosity #3. (less)
I do NOT want to grow up to be a prison guard. From the moment Conover joins the line for uniforms at Correctional Officer training, people start shou...moreI do NOT want to grow up to be a prison guard. From the moment Conover joins the line for uniforms at Correctional Officer training, people start shouting at him. I wouldn’t make it a week.
Conover is a journalist who has gone undercover in the past to research books about riding trains with America’s hobos and sneaking illegally into the country with men looking for work. It occurred to him that the American stereotype of the sadistic prison guard had never been challenged, so he contacted the New York Department of Correctional Services and asked for interviews. When official channels of inquiry dried up, he did what he’d done before and went in himself.
What he discovered was a contradictory web of expectations that no Correctional Officer (CO) is entirely able to live up to. Trainees are told never to speak to a prisoner. On the job, it’s quickly pointed out that it’s difficult to get prisoners to do what you want without speaking to them. The officer who draws Conover’s respect is the man who greets the men on his block every morning, who knows enough about them to that they choose obey his orders.
Juxtaposed against that basic civility is the sergeant called Wickersham. (Conover includes a list in the book of names he’s changed.) Wickersham had been a POW in Vietnam, then been taken hostage two weeks after he became a guard at Sing Sing. Still working there decades later, Wickersham creeps around, trying to catch the COs up so that he can report against them. In context of his own experiences, he could be trying to help the men learn to watch out for themselves, but he comes off as a bug—prison slang for nutcase. As if it’s not difficult enough to keep track of their charges, the new COs (Newjacks) have to dread their superiors too.
In Conover’s year in the service—from start of training to turning in his badge—he faces several scary situations. The first is with his roommate in the dorm, who takes an immediate dislike to him and escalates to death threats before training is over. At Sing Sing, a prisoner clocks Conover in the head. But for all the stress of walking around every day, waiting for the shit to come down, Conover escapes relatively unscathed. The toughest part for him is not being able to tell his wife what goes on at work—or to talk to his fellow officers about the book he’s researching.
In fact, it seems as if Conover’s year might end without the sort of spectacular event that makes a good story. There’s no riot. No guards get killed. He never rescues a suicide or cradles a wounded man in his arms. The dichotomy of wanting to make it through unscathed vs. having a tale to tell is summed up in the final chapter. Inmates at Sing Sing mark the New Year by setting things on fire and throwing them into the galleries. The prison fills with smoke, the prisoners complain of the smoke from their own fires, and the guards stomp out the trouble spots only to see another blaze up somewhere else. Nothing is permanently damaged, but the climate of fear is ratcheted up another notch.
Conover likens prison to a totalitarian society, where both the guards and the inmates are killed by the stress. Newjack makes a strong case that there has to be a better system.
This is another review from Morbid Curiosity #6. (less)
I was waiting for someone to pull all this information together into one place! Quigley’s introductory chapter collects all the statistics about the f...moreI was waiting for someone to pull all this information together into one place! Quigley’s introductory chapter collects all the statistics about the factors (body makeup before death, burial practices, temperature, soil composition) which determine how long bones can survive. While all the facts and figures are scattered throughout a multitude of sources, this is the first time I’ve seen all the information laid out in a coherent, comprehensive fashion. That alone would be worth the price of the book.
But wait…are you curious about museums in the US and throughout the world that amass and analyze bones? Quigley quotes her copious correspondence with curators about their collections and the crises they face. She describes sacred spaces decorated with bones (full disclosure: even quoting my essay on the Bone Chapel of Kutna Hora from Morbid Curiosity #3), Hythe Church, the Paris Catacombs, St. Mary’s Monastery in Sinai, the Mütter Museum, the National Museums of Health and Medicine, and the Vietnamese trophy skulls brought back by American servicemen.
A great deal of the book discusses in various ways the impact of NAGPRA, the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, and its effect on collections of indigenous bones both in this country and elsewhere. While Quigley’s horror at the loss of the information contained in these native bones is quite clear, she doesn’t shy from the often horrific (and sometimes murderous) ways in which the native skeletons were collected. With so many collections in flux—or in jeopardy—across the world, Quigley’s book takes on an urgent sense of documenting a reservoir of information on the brink of evaporation.
Drawing on sources formerly reviewed in Morbid Curiosity and a vast array of personal correspondence, Quigley provides an invaluable compilation, ranging over topics from archaeology, defleshment and preparation of skeletons, the sale of human bones, institutions which collect and examine bones, the Bone Room, the Body Farm, historic sites (including the Little Bighorn battlefield and the Dickson Mounds Museum), the Cappuchin catacombs, etc., etc. You must own this book. You can pretty much open it to any page and become absorbed.
This review initially appeared in Morbid Curiosity #6.(less)
Plague-carrying black rats probably traveled home to Europe with the Crusaders. In any event, they arrived in Europe from Asia in the 12th century, ab...morePlague-carrying black rats probably traveled home to Europe with the Crusaders. In any event, they arrived in Europe from Asia in the 12th century, about the same time as the plague. However, Hodgson points out later in the book that the first Europeans to die of plague were the victims of germ warfare. The besieging Tartars lobbed their dead over the walls of Genoa, infecting the defenders before they crawled off to die. Rats do not come into the story at all. Perhaps they were falsely accused?
A map lists the word for rat in languages around the globe, proving how widespread they are. The Japanese nezumi really means mouse (as I understand it), but perhaps the only signifies that Japan is one of the few places blessedly free of rats. Hodgson follows the map by relaying stories from around the world about the rodent at hand. One of the best is a listing of menu items from a restaurant in Canton: rat with chestnut and duck, lotus seed rat stew, deep-fried lemon rat… Later in the book, Hodgson quotes the biblical book of Leviticus, which defines rats as forbidden food. The culinary uses of rats could have rated an entire chapter, in my opinion. I found the illustrated menu of “Le Rat Mort” (a Parisian bar dissed by Oscar Wilde) very amusing, even if its namesake doesn’t appear in the cuisine.
In a way, the illustrations of the book are my favorite part. Ranging from the fairy tale illustrations of Doré to a netsuke of rats escaping a Japanese rat-catchers, from the covers of Marvel Comics to pen sketches from The Wind in the Willows, from Hieronymus Bosch’s “Temptation of St. Anthony” to luscious natural history plates, the pictures in this full-color book are worth the price of the high admission. In fact, Rosamond Purcell’s photos in themselves are one of the highlights of the book. She documents rats amongst the corpses of birds they’ve driven to the brink of extinction. Later the book includes her photo of a ratking from a museum in Holland. (A “ratking” is a circle of rats with their tales wound together in a knot. Apparently, this behavior is common in overcrowded warrens. The other rats will continue to feed members of the ratking even after they’re knotted together.) Another photo of a gnawed musical manuscript frames a rat skeleton. Any of these images would have provided a better (and much more intriguing) cover illustration than the murky photo of a rat in a drainpipe which adorns the book.
The rat embodies for us many sins: lust, cunning, and gluttony. Hodgson gathers together quotes from sources like H.P. Lovecraft, George Orwell’s 1984, Lautremont’s Maldoror, and H.G. Wells’ Food of the Gods, along with a number of mystery books that I was unfamiliar with. She also includes a filmography, but rather than tracking down all the movies herself, she resorts to quoting a couple of film guides. I found her lack of determination to flesh out her topic somewhat frustrating.
In fact, the main flaw with the book is that the material occasionally repeats itself. Tighter editing could have controlled this. Unfortunately, without a firm editorial hand, the book leaves a distinct feeling that it’s been padded. The cadged film reviews bear this feeling out.
Despite these defects, The Rat is filled with little treats and tasty information. If our furry little companion puts a twitch in your whiskers, I encourage you to check this book out.
This review is excerpted from Morbid Curiosity #3. (less)
Although this book is a Junior Library Guild Selection—meaning that the text is written at a level suitable for children—the chapter headings seemed i...moreAlthough this book is a Junior Library Guild Selection—meaning that the text is written at a level suitable for children—the chapter headings seemed intriguing (Defining Death, Understanding Death, What Happens to Corpses, How to Contain the Remains, Where Corpses End Up). In her preface, though, Colman wrote of attempting to avoid the queasiness with which a reader might approach discussions of death. That was a warning to me. I want the dirt on death: the facts, the history, and lots of pictures.
The illustrations in this book are worth the price of admission. A photo from the Library of Congress depicts a surgeon embalming a solider during the Civil War. Another from the same source shows a Native American scaffold burial in 1912. Colman photographed a grave in Mt. Olivet Cemetery in Washington, D.C., which is covered in seashells, “a tradition brought to America by enslaved Africans.” One page of photos traces the development of tombstone adornment in the U.S. A more recent grave sports two parking meters, both permanently set to read “Expired.” The most beautiful photographs in the book come from the ossuary near Kutná Hora in Czechoslovakia where human bones are used to create an enormous chandelier and a family crest. Stuff like that is more of a guidebook to me than a reference work.
Colman spends too much time for my taste on deaths in her experience, from her beloved Grammie to her great uncle Willi. Still, she does pass on some knowledge about death that I was unaware of. The Egyptians originally used a type of stone in their coffins that they believed had the power to eat flesh, hence the term sarcophagi, “flesh-eating.” The use of “potter’s field” to refer to a graveyard for paupers traces back to a field near Jerusalem where potters dug clay. The Jewish High Priests purchased it with the 30 pieces of silver returned by Judas. The ground was used to bury strangers. During the French Revolution, lead coffins were unearthed and melted down for bullets. A tree grows behind Harriet Tubman’s grave, planted due to a tradition brought here by Africans. They believed that if the tree thrived, the soul must be thriving also. Colman discusses methods for outwitting premature burial and the ages at which children accept the finality of death.
Unfortunately, large passages of this book are quoted directly from How We Die, Death to Dust and other references. It felt to me as if Colman had rushed to finish the book, not taking time to research things in person. It made me wonder why I wasn’t reading Death to Dust itself, instead of this abridged version.
However, as a book to introduce children to the fascination death holds, Corpses, Coffins, and Crypts is harmless. One of my favorite passages is a quote from George Bernard Shaw about his awe at watching his mother’s cremation: “The feet burst miraculously into streaming ribbons of garnet-colored flame, smokeless and eager … and my mother became that beautiful fire.” If kids don’t fall in love with death after that, there’s no use in trying.
Of the books I’ve read about ghosts, this was one of the most enjoyable. Jacobson has no agenda, other than to tell a good story. She’s not trying to...moreOf the books I’ve read about ghosts, this was one of the most enjoyable. Jacobson has no agenda, other than to tell a good story. She’s not trying to convert the reader to believing in ghosts. She’s not preaching theories about the afterlife. She’s just relishing tales of old Hollywood, smacking her lips over the juicy bits and shuddering happily at the shadows moving across the wall.
Ever since Jacobson saw a mysteriously convulsing curtain at Grauman’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood, she has been searching for ghosts in Los Angeles. Some of the stories she relates, like the bloody vision Sharon Tate had one night in Jean Harlow’s old house, actually gave me goosebumps, even though I insisted on reading this book in daylight on the bus. Other stories, like the stroll the ghost of Bela Lugosi is said to take down Hollywood Boulevard to the bus stop at Vine, are just charming Hollywood lore. While the book occasionally reaches back beyond the days of the film industry to the bandits and Spanish senoritas of earliest Los Angeles, the bulk of the tales involve actors, actresses, electricians, wardrobe ladies, and all the wannabes who chase their dreams west. Marilyn, Montgomery Clift, Howard Hughes and Lon Chaney are a few of the famous names drifting through these pages.
This is a beautiful put together little book, from the soft matte feel of the cover to the beautiful typeface of the text. Even the blue-gray tint to the old photos of the stars and the new photos of the haunted sites helps to create the atmosphere of this book.
This is a great idea, though poorly executed. The concept of this book came to the authors when they visited the grave of Gertrude Stein and Alice Tok...moreThis is a great idea, though poorly executed. The concept of this book came to the authors when they visited the grave of Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas in Paris, where they had a religious experience. They hoped this book would “encourage readers to discover the joys of pilgrimage.” Unfortunately, while they may name the cemetery where the object of pilgrimage waits, they don’t provide burial ground addresses. Also absent were actual birth and death dates, so you could time your pilgrimage symbolically. Most sorely missed: the book doesn’t even describe the tombstones.
Rather than focusing on graveyards, as implied in the title, this directory is filled with generally unenlightening capsule biographies. “The Wright Brothers owned a successful chain of small bicycle shops but were consumed by the idea of flying.” Really? Luckily, the writers succeed better when they pursue agendas: “this Puritan minister helped establish intolerance as a way of American life” (Cotton Mather) or “although he denied having AIDS, an autopsy proved otherwise. The Liberace Museum charges six dollars a head and its attendance rivals Graceland’s” or “Novelist, playwright, feminist, and lesbian” (Virginia Woolf).
I found additional frustration in the incompleteness of the book’s choice of subjects. It lists Bela Lugosi (Holy Cross, Southern California) and Peter Lorre (Hollywood Memorial Park, ditto), but not Boris Karloff. How can they mention Harvey Milk (whose ashes were scattered), but not Dan White (buried in Golden Gate National Cemetery)? Many of those included must be personally significant: Typhoid Mary, Nixon’s spaniel Checkers (Bide-a-Wee Pet Cemetery, Long Island), Anthony Trollope (Can you name anything he wrote?), and Joan Hackett (Even knowing that she starred in Will Penny doesn’t help me). Did you need to know that Charlie McCarthy (Edgar Bergen’s dummy) was not buried, but is displayed at the Smithsonian? In terms of death lore, the book’s scope is once again limited. It reports correctly that Jayne Mansfield is buried in Pennsylvania, but doesn’t mention her plaque at Hollywood Memorial Park, where rumor says black magic rituals are performed. There’s no reference to the Walt Disney cryogenics controversy, only a note that he lies beneath Forest Lawn.
One of my favorite elements of the book was a reader’s annotation — this was a library book — which said that while Frank Lloyd Wright had been buried in an unmarked grave in Wisconsin, as the authors reported, his widow moved his remains to Arizona. I’m not the only person catching omissions.
The authors’ biographies said they were working, in 1991, on a second volume. I hope they’ve learned from the first.(less)
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