THE ISLAND OF DEATH read more...
1 Je me voyais devant une foule exaspérée, en face du peloton d'exécution, pleurant du malheur qu'ils n'aient pu comprendre, et pardonnant ! - Comme Jeanne d'Arc ! - "Prêtres, professeurs, maîtres, vous trompez en me livrant à la justice. Je n'ai jamais été de ce peuple-ci ; je n'ai jamais été chrétien ; je suis de la race qui chantait dans le supplice ; je ne comprends pas les lois ; je n'ai pas le sens moral, je suis une brute : vous trompez..." Arthur Rimbaud Peter Brooks – on The Lord of the Flies: My experience showed me that the only falsification in Golding’s fable is the length of time the descent to savagery takes. His action takes about three months. I believe that if the cork of continued adult presence were removed from the bottle, complete catastrophe could occur within one long weekend. Gitta Sereny – The Murder of James Bulger: The two boys, as has been described often elsewhere, sat on a specially built platform, with two social workers between them. Although in all reports they were described as being of different size and build, Jonathan slim and tall, Robert smaller and roundish, they appeared to have caught up with each other in the intervening months: they were both rather heavy and flabby - both were said to have gained weight since their arrest, Jonathan over two stone. Under close restraint, neither had had any opportunity for exercise. But his new weight notwithstanding, Jonathan was a nice-looking boy with silky brown hair and a small childlike face: it was extremely difficult to associate that face with the acts we heard described. He behaved extraordinarily well during the long days of the sessions: except for occasionally turning around to glance at his parents, he moved little. We would hear in the course of the trial that a school psychologist had diagnosed him as hyperactive: he was certainly the stillest hyperactive child I have ever seen. A few times he, as well as Robert, played with some of the tissues their social workers held at the ready for them, creating patterns by folding them up and tearing little holes of different sizes and shapes. A couple of times I saw Jonathan open up his completed artwork and show it with a smile to the tall man beside him, who smiled back. The solid 6ft 2in man and the boy appeared close, conferred often, and the man's eyes were almost always on his charge. Repeatedly, when Jonathan seemed particularly tense, or cried, his social worker briefly held or touched him. Yukio Mishima – Confessions of a Mask: Although as a child I read every fairy story I could lay my hands on, I never liked the princesses. I was fond only of the princes fated for death. I was completely in love with any youth who was killed. But I did not yet understand why, from among Andersen’s many fairy tales, only his Rose-Elf threw deep shadows over my heart, only that beautiful youth who, while kissing the rose given him as a token by his sweetheart, was stabbed to death and decapitated by a villain with a big knife. I did not yet understand why, out of Wilde’s numerous fairy tales, it was only the corpse of the young fisherman The Fisherman and His Soul, washed up on the shore clasping a mermaid to his breast, that captivated me. Naturally I was fond enough of other childlike things. There was Andersen’s The Nightingale, which I liked well, and I delighted in many childish comic books. But my leaning toward Death and Night and Blood would not be denied. 2 Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen? und gesetzt selbst, es nähme einer mich plötzlich ans Herz: ich verginge von seinem stärkeren Dasein. Denn das Schöne ist nichts als des Schrecklichen Anfang, den wir noch grade ertragen, und wir bewundern es so, weil es gelassen verschmäht, uns zu zerstören. Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich. Rainer Maria Rilke Augustin Vilaronga on Tras el Cristal: …working with the kids was extremely challenging, because you can’t ask a child to do or say certain things; they understand many things, but not all things. And even more so when you talk about sensitive topics, such as sex, you can’t be very explicit. And I remember we found ways to interact with the kids, like in the needle scene, we stick a gas gauge in the child’s heart, which is a brutal scene, and I remember that the child turned it into a game. You can’t just tell a child to play dead, because if you do they don’t respond effectively. So we had to find little tricks to get the children to perform. If their stomach hurt, or if they couldn’t breathe, which is a distressed feeling, we pretended as if they were pulling a balloon out of their mouths. Always trying to find ways for them, many times they had no clue what they were doing, and at times they were aware of what they were doing. Children aren’t just puppets, they too understand what’s going on, and they are able to project their feelings from within. Gitta Sereny – The Murder of James Bulger: Robert, though too heavy and his face too wide, looked nice enough the first week. But after the weekend, his already short dark hair had been almost shaved off, giving him suddenly a disturbingly neutered look - and that of a convict. I asked whether perhaps his secure unit had been beset by headlice - it seemed the only explanation for this grotesque crop. But I was told, no, he had asked for this cut. Robert's hands were much more restless than Jonathan's. They were never still. The two boys appeared at times to compete in the Kleenex cut-outs both produced - they leaned forward repeatedly to look at each other's paper-lace and once or twice appeared to smile. They also looked at each other, quick darting looks at high points of the evidence, but, with two or three exceptions, without visible emotion. While Jonathan's feelings about things he heard were clearly expressed in his face, Robert's was blank for most of those three weeks. His emotions were in his fingers - and in the movements of his mouth. His fingers were constantly moving, wadding-up the tissues, forming them as if with purpose into round or oblong shapes, or tearing them into bits. We were told he was in the habit of sucking his thumb and pushing his finger in his ear, but in court he did something different, stranger with his hands, with great intensity. Several times in almost every session, he licked the tip of each finger, then wiped them on his trousers and licked them again; then he put two or three fingers in his mouth, filling it, closed his lips around them, held them still for a moment, and then pushed the fingers to and fro or turned them around in a circle. Or yet again, he licked a finger and then drew it slowly around his mouth. His social worker, a slim, tense-looking man, rarely looked at Robert; their communication appeared limited to the five or ten times during each session when Robert, for an instant looking childlike, asked him the time. Although next to each other, there seemed always to be a small space between them which neither did anything to close. I was told the social worker was a nice man; but he didn't touch the boy, even at the very end of the trial when Robert, hearing the sentence, his usually pink face chalk-white, cried. Pierre Molinier quoted in an interview with Pierre Chaveau: I had photographed her. I had said to my parents: “Whatever happens, don’t disturb me.” Then I locked the door. They had put her in her communion dress and she was wearing black stockings. I caressed her legs a little. What a sensation it produced in me! I climbed on top of her and ejaculated on her belly, with her lying there dead. But she was pretty for all that; even when she was dead she was pretty. And so the best part of me went with her. (LAUGHTER) Yes … What a smasher my sister was. She had fantastic legs. 3 Morremo. Il velo indegno a terra sparto, Rifuggirà l'ignudo animo a Dite, E il crudo fallo emenderà del cieco Dispensator de' casi. E tu cui lungo Amore indarno, e lunga fede, e vano D'implacato desio furor mi strinse, Vivi felice, se felice in terra Visse nato mortal. Me non asperse Del soave licor del doglio avaro Giove, poi che perìr gl'inganni e il sogno Della mia fanciullezza. Ogni più lieto Giorno di nostra età primo s'invola. Sottentra il morbo, e la vecchiezza, e l'ombra Della gelida morte. Ecco di tante Sperate palme e dilettosi errori, Il Tartaro m'avanza; e il prode ingegno Han la tenaria Diva E l'atra notte, e la silente riva. Giacomo Leopardi Maurice Sendak interviewed on Now with Bill Moyers: Moyers: What I hear you describing is not a story that you just made up. It's a story you experienced. Sendak: Yeah. Well, that's what art is. I mean, you don't make up stories. You live your life. And I was not Max. I did not have the courage that Max had. And I didn't have the mother that Max had. Who would give you, love you and you know this little scene which is so trivial. It happens at everybody's house, happens every Tuesday and Thursday. He has a fit. She has a fit. It'll go on till he's about 35, goes into therapy, wonders why he can't get married, okay? Cause people often say, "What happens to Max?" And it's such a coy question that I always say, "Well, he's in therapy forever. He has to wear a straitjacket when he's with his therapist." Moyers: This is probably apocryphal. But, I have to ask you this. I did hear... You were born in '28? Sendak: Yeah. Moyers: I did hear that you were seriously affected by the kidnapping and murder of the Lindbergh baby? Sendak: Oh, yeah. Moyers: Is that true? Sendak: Oh, yeah. Oh, it was the... that was me. That was me entirely in the sense of I was... He was kidnapped in '32. Moyers: That's right, 1932. Sendak: On March 2nd, 1932. So, I was 29, 30... well, I was about three and 1/2 years old, something like that. I remember everything. I remember I couldn't read but the radio was always on. I remember Mrs. Lindbergh's tearful voice, where she was allowed to speak on radio to say that the baby had a cold. And would the man or men or women who took him rub camphor on his chest. It was a slight cold. But she didn't want it to get any worse. I remember that vividly, her voice. Moyers: When you say it was you, was it the child's appropriation of fear? Did you fear being kidnapped? Sendak: Oh, yeah. Yeah. Fear of dying because I was a very sickly child. My parents were immigrants. They were not decorous. They were not discreet. They always thought I was gonna die. And my mother crying and yelling 'cause I was a very sickly baby. So I heard all this. I knew I was mortal from a very early age, okay? My grandmother, I have told—I don't remember—sewed me a suit of white with white stockings and white shoes. And I would sit on the stoop in front of the house with her so that the angel of death would pass over because I was already an angel. I was all in white. So, I would not be taken as long as I dressed in white. Moyers: You were dressed to fool the fates? Sendak: Yes. The Lindbergh thing was I'd just come off a very serious illness. And all the news was the Lindbergh baby. I made the queer association that since I was not meant to live long and I'd been told that—and if the Lindbergh baby is kidnapped, it can't die because it's a rich, gentile baby. It has blue eyes and blonde hair. Father is Captain Marvel. And the mother is the princess of the universe. And they live in a house in a place called Hopewell, New Jersey where there are German Shepherds and where there are nannies and where there are police. Who could climb up the wall, climb in the room and take the baby out and nobody know? How defenseless could babies be even among the rich? Now, I could not bear the thought that that baby was dead. My life hung on that baby being recovered. Because if that baby died, I had no chance. I was only a poor kid, okay? I mean, it doesn't make much sense to say it. But, that's the equation. And when the baby was found dead, I think something really fundamental died in me, some... I don't know what to call it. Dylan Klebold quoted in Jonathan Fast’s Ceremonial Violence - a psychological explanation of school shootings: Walk in, set bombs at 11:09, for 11:17 Leave Drive to Clemente Park. Gear up. Get back by 11:15. Park cars, set car bombs for 11:18 get out, go to outside hill, wait. When first bombs go off, attack. have fun! Thomas Quick – Kvarblivelse: The one in the light, in the last house, who is dead, may ride the carriage. Pretty horses with black bands wrapped around their legs, harnessed to the carriage and then, slowly, the carriage starts to move behind the horse or the horses. The horse or the horses can sense how seriously delicate this is - the thing that they are moving - they don’t want to move to fast and would never runaway. I go to the back of the carriage where there is a strange wooden handle. The door opens when I press it down. The floor is empty; I thought there was going to be a coffin. I climb into the carriage. I try to close the door as good as I can. It smells like Miss Bergström’s living room – I can sense that no one has been here for quite so time. I pull the curtains, they’re quite dusty. The windows get dark and then everything goes dark. I lie down on my back. My shorts are dirty but their colour is still bright. I take them off along with my underpants. I place the underpants over my face and put the shorts on my belly. Now the light reaches me and the journey may begin. I close my eyes and when I do, I can hear how the people whisper silently and, indeed, somebody is crying. 4 Förruttnelse, hasta, o älskade brud, att bädda vårt ensliga läger! Förskjuten av världen, förskjuten av Gud, blott dig till förhoppning jag äger. Fort, smycka vår kammar -- på svartklädda båren den suckande älskarn din boning skall nå. Fort, tillred vår brudsäng -- med nejlikor våren skall henne beså. Slut ömt i ditt sköte min smäktande kropp, förkväv i ditt famntag min smärta! I maskar lös tanken och känslorna opp, i aska mitt brinnande hjärta. Rik är du, o flicka! -- i hemgift du giver den stora, den grönskande jorden åt mig. Jag plågas häruppe, men lycklig jag bliver därnere hos dig. Till vällustens ljuva, förtrollande kvalm oss svartklädda brudsvenner följa. Vår bröllopssång ringes av klockornas malm, och gröna gardiner oss dölja. När stormarna ute på världshavet råda, när fasor den blodade jorden bebo, när fejderna rasa, vi slumra dock båda i gyllene ro. Erik Johan Stagnelius Maurice Sendak interviewed on Now with Bill Moyers: Moyers: Are you obsessed with death? Sendak: A little bit. A little bit. Yeah, it's such a curious thing. Moyers: How so? Sendak: It's a whole adventure. Moyers: We have no firsthand reports, do we? Sendak: No, we don't. I wouldn't believe them even if they did. They all talk about lights in the distance and people flying on the ceiling. No. But, it is an adventure. You know who said that? Peter Pan of all people. I don't like him. Moyers: Why? Sendak: No, it's not him I don't like. It's Barrie I don't like. The sentimentalizing of children, the cutesifying of the children. If you look into the heart of Peter Pan, it is a boy obsessed with death, afraid to live. And you strip away all the silly music and the silly nonsense and the crocodile and the hook and all those things, it's a very strange, very strange story. But, Barrie was a very strange man. Eric Harris quoted in Jonathan Fast’s Ceremonial Violence - a psychological explanation of school shootings: 5:00 up 6:00 meet at KS 7:00 go to Reb’s house 7:15 he leaves to fill propane I leave to fill gas 8:30 meet back at his house 9:00 made d. bag set up car 9:30 practice gearups Chill 10:30 set up 4 things 11: 00 go to school 11:10 set up duffel bags 11:12 wait near cars, gear up 11:16 HAHAHA Dennis Nilsen quoted in Brian Masters´ Killing for Company: On one my treks along the beach to Inverallochy I was feeling pretty miserable. I stooped and took of my shoes and socks and waded up to my knees in the sounding sea. I was hypnotised by its power and enormity. I disregarded that my short trousers were getting wet, I moved steadily forward up to my waist. I could see a much older boy sitting further up the shore. Poking the sand with a stick. I must have stepped into a hollow because I suddenly disappeared under water. The retreat of the wave carried me out further. I panicked, and waving my arms and shouting I submerged. I could hear a loud buzzing in my head and I kept gasping for air which wasn’t there. I thought that Granddad was bound to arrive and pull me out. I felt at ease, drugged and dreamlike under the silent green weight of water. I felt myself suspended in a void. I could hear a droning slowed-down voice in the distance (a mixture of every voice I had ever known, nothing recognisable). I felt a heavy weight upon me. I felt very cold at first, but this changed to a neutral feeling, then I could feel the warmth of the sun. I was vomiting and gasping. I became aware of blue and air and a breeze in a sandy hollow in the dunes. My clothes were spread out on the long sand grass and the sky was bright blue with wisps of white cloud. I felt a pressure on me and sank into a deep sleep. Later I could feel the dry sand’s comforting support beneath me. I coughed a bit and felt my raw throat. I sat up and covered my nakedness with my hands noticing a white sticky mess on my stomach and thighs. I remember thinking that I had been fouled on by a seagull. I wiped it off with sand. I peered from behind the grass high on the dunes but there was no one about. My clothes were damp but not all that wet. It was quite hot so I put them on and wandered over the dunes and took the golf link road slowly home hoping that my things would soon dry out.