Category: Books

Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book: Story of the Eye

Author: Georges Bataille

Why I Consider This Book Odd: Oh God, where do I start…

Type of work: Pornography, fiction

Availability: Originally published in 1928, this book was re-released by City Light Books. You can get a copy here.

Comments:  (ETA on 1/19/14:  I have found myself rethinking Bataille lately.  I’ve read a bit more of his body of work, and while I suspect I will always have a negative and visceral reaction to this work, I also think I need to reconsider this book and write about it when I do.  Specifically I need to look into why I had such a visceral aversion to this book because I think a reasonably considered visceral aversion may actually be what Bataille was going for.  At any rate, I felt I needed to post this disclaimer in the event anyone else reads this old discussion.)

It seems unfair for me to completely dismiss Story of the Eye as an enormous turd polished to a sheen by specious intellectualism. I loathe the inverse of this attitude when applied to the books I love. For example, I frequently get a DIAF feeling when I think of Harold Bloom’s contemptuous and elitist dismissal of Stephen King and J.K. Rowling, the latter whom he seems to dislike simply because of what he considers her overuse of em-dashes. But it is my opinion that only a critic could find much to love in this odd book, because the subject matter is so repellent, the narrative so useless in terms of depth of story-telling, the plot so outrageous and the character development non-existent. Some people call this style of writing surrealism. Good for them, but I call shenanigans. In order to find any connection to the book, one has to downshift into sheer critical analysis, refusing to answer questions of whether or not one considers a book good versus whether or not one simply finds a book relevant to a certain critical way of thinking.

In certain respects, it all boils down to personal taste, even amongst true critics. My personal tastes rebelled against Story of the Eye because it seemed to me to be an exploitative, meaningless look into perverse sexuality that, while it may have explored elements of rebellion, was just a puerile examination of the disgusting, pushing limits just to push them, telling a pointless story in order to shock. After reading a bit about Georges Bataille’s childhood, the whys and wherefores of the book make a bit more sense to me, but just understanding the author’s motivations does not, in any way, ensure the content can connect with a reader.

I felt a bit hypocritical hating this book as much as I did, for the Harold Bloom reason I mentioned above. Moreover, people like Sartre and Susan Sontag have argued for this book’s relevance, as both a text of transgression and an excellent example of pornographic use of eros and thanatos, respectively. The book influenced the interesting and delightful whackaloon Bjork. There are people likely far smarter than me who think Story of the Eye has literary merit or social merit. de Sade, whose works never raised this level of enmity in me, may not seem that different to some readers.

But for me, there is a stark difference between Bataille and de Sade. De Sade’s works sprang from a need to fight against the limitations of cultural norms, religion and law. His tomes of rape, necrophilia, BDSM, sexual servitude and moral degeneracy were an extreme attempt to strike a blow for personal freedom during a time that was both personally stultifying and socially tumultuous, a nihilistic rage against the machine.  Story of the Eye is just a disgusting tale filtered through odd and sad events in Bataille’s life. There is no surge for a greater breath of freedom reading this book, just an unsettling feeling that one is being forced to read a foul practical joke.

The book is quite short – a novella, really – and comes in at 103 pages. I read it twice trying to get a handle on the content, hoping I could find a critical thread that impressed me.  I failed. In short, this is the book:

A young man recalls his sexually disgusting past with a distant relative, the equally perverted Simone, and the mentally fragile Marcelle. He and Simone explore their bizarre sexuality via lots of masturbation, urine and eggs. Yes, eggs. They include Marcelle, who is driven insane at an orgy and ends up institutionalized. They break her out of the booby hatch, only to have her commit suicide. They have sex next to her dead body and Simone urinates into her open eyes, as you do. To avoid an inquest into Marcelle’s death, the two go to Spain with a debauched nobleman. There are disgusting bullfights that involve impaled mare bladders, more weird sexuality involving eggs, eyes, bull testicles, and urine. Then there is the sexually-charged murder of a priest, the removal of his eye and its use in sex (Simone’s love of globular, soft objects and their relation to her nether regions is possibly the unsexiest thing I have ever encountered…). Then they disguise themselves and flee. Fade to black.

On some level, I wanted to read this text as a sort of bizarre coming of age tale, but it doesn’t work that way. There is no commonality of human experience. That’s okay – the thing I like best about odd books is that often, the commonality is lacking. Bizarre books take me to a place I would not ordinarily see. But having read very dark fiction, truly disturbing non-fiction and all sorts of stuff in between, I haven’t in any way felt as alienated by a piece of fiction as I was by Story of the Eye. I know there is all sorts of symbolism with fluid, eggs and eyes, but ultimately it didn’t matter for me. The content was too outre and too specialized for the meanings to matter.

As always, your mileage may vary, and to be honest, this book is worth reading by odd book fans simply because it is so disgusting and insane. But be aware that I say this in the same way my high school teachers often urged us to go to college so we wouldn’t be at a loss at cocktail parties (got the degree, paid off my student loans, and nary a cocktail party has come my way). The main reason to read this book in my opinion is so that you can say you have. You may get nothing more out of it than that.

Letters to Rollins by R.K. Overton

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book: Letters to Rollins

Author: R.K. Overton

Why I Consider This Book Odd: Best collection of insane but utterly fake letters ever.  I ordered this book not knowing the letters were fake, and throughout the book, I kept clinging to hope after hope that these letters were real.  Mr. Oddbooks and I laughed until our bladders hurt upon reading the first letter from Carl Plaske.  This book is meta and was meta before any of us were hip enough to use the word meta.

Type of Work: Humor

Availability: Published in 1995 by Rollins’  2.13.61 Publications, this book is out of print.  Worse, drop shippers on Amazon give the appearance that there are copies of this book to be easily had, making finding a copy an annoying experience.  (Drop shippers are people who make listings for books they do not have, hoping someone will order it.  Once they get an order, the drop shipper then desperately tries to find a copy of the book to fill the order, generally ordering a less expensive copy from someone else on Amazon and having it shipped directly to the buyer.  Letters to Rollins is a circle jerk amongst drop shippers, each listing it and each trying to get it from the other when someone orders it.  Mr. Oddbooks found this at a used book store when I realized I had been duped by a drop shipper who was relying on other drop shipper listings to get the book.  Seriously, when you use the Amazon Marketplace, don’t buy from anyone with less than 97% positive feedback.)

So bear the above in mind if you click this link to get the book.  Or better yet, send Rollins a real letter and ask him to get this book into reprints.

Comments: This is by far and away the most hilarious and random book I have read in a while.  Based partially on insanity,  and partially on the trope that Rollins released an album called “Nap TIme” in 1993 to capitalize on his extraordinary appeal to children, this book contains “letters” from an angry Christian woman, a strange 13-year old girl, a psychotic from Henry’s youth, a youthful offender who wants Henry to send him a letter dammit, an oily publicist, a man playing a one-sided game of Battleship with Rollins, a small child,  a golfing instructor who gives Henry advice on how to avoid common golfing mistakes, and several others.

Utterly random, utterly insane, I cannot help but think this book was inspired largely by the real mail that Rollins actually received (Charlie Manson contacted Rollins out of the blue after seeing him on television).  But for me, a diehard Henry Rollins fan, the true odd delight inherent in this book comes from the fact that people who do not know Rollins’ career may not know these letters are ringers and read this thinking it true.  Mr. Oddbooks, who is not quite the Rollins fan I am, did not know even the most outrageous letters were fake until I told him.  Not even the letter from KROK radio seemed to give it away.

Oh why can we not live in a world as random and hilarious as the one that peoples Letters to Rollins?

Best lines from the book:

From Kimberly Evans, a 13-year old “fan” who renamed Henry “Smokey” and sent him a pic of her cat, whom Rollins evidently kissed at one of his concerts (the girl, not the cat):

Are you mad I didn’t tell you my dad was a cop?  I was afraid that if I told you you wouldn’t want anything to do with me or my letters.  I know you’ve had problems with the police in the past, so I decided not to say anything.

I know my dad tried to raise a stink, and I’m glad the night court judge saw things your way…”

From Carl Plaske, a former classmate Rollins once punched who is going slowly but clearly insane, a state presaged by going berserk in an ice cream truck:

I  guess I went kinda nuts. I turned up the volume and blasted that stupid theme from “Love Story” out those shitty speakers, scaring the neighbor kids and killing a dog as I drove 50 miles per hour down the sidewalks.  I eventually hit a UPS truck.  My license got revoked for a year but no one pressed charges.  They were okay to hire me at Puppet Town, even if they’re idiots.

From Karl Plaske’s father, Joseph Plaske, after Carl went over the edge and started stalking Rollins to the point the FBI considered him a menace and Carl ends up institutionalized:

The institution where he is currently residing does not allow its patients to have writing instruments of any kind, so I have transcribed from his 12′ by 12′ rubber cell wall a letter he wrote in saliva and blood during the incident:

Henry Henry we all scream for Henry

Take his curly shoes and run from the cave.

If you have any insight into what this may mean, please contact me at the address above.

From his publicist, the man behind marketing the infamous “Buddy Ebsen” doll:

Henry,

How is your hand?  My face is still puffed up, but the x-rays showed no concussion, and I’m not going to press charges.

As your ex-publicist, I wanted to say that it has been a pleasure being your publicist, and I’m sorry we had to part under such less than satisfactory circumstances.

From the Project 213, a group of Rollins fans who have been abducted by UFOs:

I send you this letter primarily to let you know that we exist and are helping other Rollins fans know that they are not alone in their dealings with the growing alien tide.

Yeah, I know, there are some purists out there who will not consider this book odd, per se, and I say bite me.  I want to live in the bizarro world of fake Rollins letters, which makes me odd, and the book is therefore odd by association.

The Overwhelming Urge by Andersen Prunty

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book Title: The Overwhelming Urge

Author: Andersen Prunty

Why I Consider This Book Odd: It was published by Eraserhead Press, a print house that embraces bizarro authors.

Type of Work: fiction, short story collection

Availability: This book was published by Eraserhead Press in 2008. You can get a digital copy on Amazon, or a used copy if you’re totally analog.

Comments: You can acquire the taste for bizarro fiction, but more likely than not, you are born loving it. Many can read bizarro fiction and wonder, “What the hell was the purpose of that?” and toss the book away, the literary equivalent to the reaction many had the first time they saw David Lynch’s Eraserhead. But as a genre, and a relatively new one at that, bizarro fiction goes much deeper than just the surreal and insane (possibly unsane) tales the authors present. Underneath crazy tropes, nightmare landscapes, and outright absurdity lies much more if the reader is willing to untangle the words, suspend disbelief, and enjoy the ride

Andersen Prunty’s The Overwhelming Urge already had a mark in its favor, as I love flash fiction when done well (and it is very hard to do – try and tell a story in 1000, 750 or 500 words or less). Prunty does flash well, and there are a couple of short story length pieces in the book. His spare writing style can cram a lot into a few lines, and in the midst of all the absurdity, there is a pathos that drew me into the stories.

For example, in the story “Bully,” the trope is that the protagonist sent a story to the wrong sort of venue and the editor not only rejected it, but showed up at the protagonist’s home to challenge him to a fight. As one reads the description of the bully and the protagonist, then looks at Prunty’s author picture on the back page, the resemblance between the three is clear, and one wonders if this tale is possibly a clever, short look at the writer’s war with himself. The mistakes, the potential for humiliation, the sense of horror when work is rejected by peers. Of course, the story is littered with strange details that could mean the piece is simply an attempt to entertain using absurdity, but as someone who tries herself to write fiction, I left the piece with this interpretation.

I also loved “The Bright Side,” a piece where a young man’s father is having trouble drinking a beer, which is understandable since his father is an antelope. The father asks the son if he is embarrassed by him, and the son denies this, pouring the beer into his cupped hands so his father can lap it up. Yet later, he realizes his father must have sucked up all the spilled beer from the carpet, and he cringes at the thought. As his father tries drunkenly to walk on his hind legs, the son wonders, with trepidation, what the old man will do next. You can shoot me in the head now if the changes in our aging parents have not led to similar feelings of love combined with dread.

Some of the stories are straight up absurdism mixed with horror (“The Hole” is eerily close to a nightmare I had once about a stinking hole in my face that sickened everyone around me), but each story, whether it ends well or sadly, etches a picture of the human conditions of love, cooperation, hubris and suffering. A man with clown shoes too big for him finds a defeated man with shoes too small and they trade, making life easier for both. A vain man is bested by his overtight pants. God becomes a jaded rock star and shows clearly that man is made in God’s image. A man wakes up to discover that he has changed into the handsomest man alive, but it doesn’t matter because everyone else has turned into Picasso-esque monstrosities who find him repellent.

But my favorite piece is “The Fancy Hairs.” A middle-aged man called Carl gets a perm and initially his friends circle him warily, unsure about his new hair, attuned to his new difference like dogs can smell fear. Carl begins to regret his fancy new hair, until the next week, when his friends all show up with fancy, permed hair, too. They stand around smoking, and whistling at young women, all with a new, if low-brow and not entirely useful, lease on life, but a new lease nonetheless.

I liked this book a lot. I will definitely be checking out more of Prunty’s work.

The Gates of Janus: Serial Killing and its Analysis by Ian Brady

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book Title:  The Gates of Janus: Serial Killing and its Anaylsis

Author:  Ian Brady, with forewords by Colin Wilson and Dr. Alan Keightley, afterword by Peter Sotos

Why I Consider This Book Odd:  It was written by Ian Brady, who, along with his girlfriend Myra Hindley, kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and murdered children in England from 1963-1965.

Type of Work:  Philosophical treatise, armchair psychology

Availability:  This book is still in print, published by Feral House in 2001. It was updated and re-released in 2015 with a prologue from Colin Wilson and an epilogue from Peter Sotos. Get the updated copy if you can.

Comments:  Had this book been a person and it approached me outside of the supermarket, I would have crossed the street.  This book is the crazy man who thinks he is sane and intelligent, raving on the traffic islands about whatever topic is in his head.  It is hard to pay such people much attention and therefore, it was difficult to care about large chunks of this book.

Peter Sotos is the only person in this book who did not come off like a rube or a complete lunatic.  If you are at all familiar with Sotos’s body of work, consider my statement and what it really means.  He is the only one who seemed to understand that in addition to being a violent sexual predator, Ian Brady is also a master manipulator whose word on any topic should likely be taken with a grain of salt, if not completely disregarded.

I wanted to read this book because, in my typical fashion of wanting a book based on just small snippets of information, I thought in some sense that this book would be an explanation of what it was that made Ian Brady become a killer, of what it was about his personality that could have mesmerized Myra Hindley, an otherwise unremarkable woman, into a folie a deux murder streak that set the serial killing stage for similar fiends like Fred and Rosemary West and Karla Homolka and Paul Bernardo.  I had long heard that this book was illuminating, a rare look into the mind of a serial killer, and while it is, it also isn’t.

All I learned reading this book is that I still have a sound psychopathometer (though Brady fancies himself a psychotic rather than a psychopath because the former are interesting to him) and that the only real insight anyone would ever have into Ian Brady’s mind is that he is a liar and a manipulator.  He certainly conned Colin Wilson, who seems to think that the information that Brady provides about himself and fellow psychopathic killers, somehow gives Brady cosmic brownie points.

Wilson, with a level of naivety that he should not possess given his age and the range of his career, says:

In a letter of a few days ago, he wrote to me bitterly, “My life is over so I can afford honesty of expression; those with a future cannot.  If I had my time over again, I’d get a government job and live off the state… a pillar of society.  As it is I am eager to die. I chose the wrong path and am finished.”

As this book shows, that, at all events, is untrue.

If you feel that sort of rush of saliva that makes you think you may puke, be aware you will feel it again and again as you read this book.  Part One consists of seven interminable chapters wherein Brady discusses psychopathy, psychotics, and a really inappropriate interpretation of what boils down to Nietzchean superman theories as they apply to killers. But in doing this, he uses dense, at times overly intellectual yet specious language to give himself some sort of authority on his topic.  He creates what he thinks are trenchant observations about the way the media and society handle crimes like the Moor Murders, hilariously implying that we, the law-abiding people of the world, are really to blame for being interested and appalled when such crimes occur.  At no time does Brady truly apply all his analysis to himself, but doesn’t hesitate to share the love in Part Two, where he analyzes the true natures of other serial killers.  Worse, what little that Brady gives away about himself is contradictory, often without, in my opinion, the man even understanding he has done so.

Before I explain why this book was a sickening, masturbatory excursion into manipulative madness, let me share the sobering, sane words of Peter Sotos.  His epilogue should have been a preface, because it could have saved many a reader from entering into this exercise of the damned thinking they would, in fact, be reading honest words.

Here’s a large chunk of what Sotos had to say, and in saying it, he revealed the only truth of the book:

First off, you don’t ask a child molester to write a book on serial killing.  A child rapist.  A child pornographer.  A child murderer.

Colin Wilson, from his introduction:

“Therefore I advised him to do the thing I would have done: to think about writing a book.  Since he obviously knew about serial murder ‘from the inside’, thus this suggested itself as the obvious subject.”

You don’t ask him to do the obvious.  You especially don’t ask him to do what you would do.

Because the child rapist and murderer and pornographer will obviously lie.  And, because he wants to believe you need to hear more, he’ll even start to enjoy telling you he’s lying.  Because it’s the easiest thing to do.  It is the obvious choice.  He can adopt the dime-a-dozen serial killer front of puffed up superiority, all from his tiny cell and serve the typical cold dish of chest beating mental clarity over mental introspection…

Sotos is right, and the reader should know it before they even try to read this miasma of philosophical nothings.  If you want to know the impulse of true deviance, read Sotos or de Sade.  If you want to read the words of a man who has plenty of clarity but absolutely no desire to apply it to his own motivations, who is, in fact, probably lying to you, read The Gates of Janus.

Rest of my analysis under the cut.

Continue Reading “The Gates of Janus: Serial Killing and its Analysis by Ian Brady”

Shit Magnet: One Man’s Miraculous Ability to Absorb the World’s Guilt by Jim Goad

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book Title:  Shit Magnet: One Man’s Miraculous Ability to Absorb the World’s Guilt

Author: Jim Goad

Why I Consider This Book Odd:  1)  Jim Goad wrote it.  If you have been paying attention to fringe and ‘zine culture for the last fifteen years or so, this should be enough said; and 2) The cover sports a pic of Goad praying under a large, behaloed turd.   I love the cover.  A lot.  I have always had a healthy love of all things scatological.

Type of Work:  non-fiction, memoir

Availability:  This book is still in print.  Published by Feral House, you can find it in any number of places.  One of them is Amazon. Buy a copy, why dontcha?

Comments:  Jim Goad is a lord of political incorrectness and the mind behind one of the most infamous ‘zines ever, ANSWER Me! Though I was aware of ANSWER Me! when I was in college, I never read any of the issues until 1-3 were released in a collection.  Though ANSWER Me! only released four issues, this ‘zine landed Goad into all sorts of unintended consequences that cemented his position as a shit magnet.  Shit Magnet is Goad’s side of all the notorious and, frankly, bad things that have happened to him, it is compelling reading to be sure and much of it is directly related to or stems from ANSWER Me!

Like when women felt violated, or raped as it were, by the infamous “rape” edition of ANSWER Me! and when they could not get the ‘zine removed from the shelves in a Portland store, they went after the stores on obscenity charges.  The stores were found not guilty, but it seemed that most people missed the greater irony of the “rape” issue.  The intent behind issue four was to demonstrate, as Goad eloquently put it, that “radical feminism had become so lost in theory and drowned in self-righteousness that rape had become viewed more of a political idea than a physical act.  Feminism had grown unable to distinguish words from actions to such a degree that the two became switched:  Women felt literally “assaulted” and “violated” by sexist language and imagery, whereas actual rape was viewed as an ideological tool of the patriarchy, almost more of a statement than an act.”  By trying to convict book stores of obscenity because Goad’s language “hurt” them, members of the feminist camp just proved his point for him.

(As an aside, as I was reading Shit Magnet, a news story came on describing how a Habitat for Humanity construction site was robbed.  The woman for whom the house was being built said that the theft was an assault against her and that she felt violated.  This inappropriate use of words describing violence for non-violent acts is now firmly entrenched in the popular mind.)

But it got worse for Goad.  The 1994  White House Shooter, who discharged an SKS assault rifle outside the White House, evidently read ANSWER Me! 2 and found inspiration for his actions.  Francisco Martin Duran read “Can you imagine a higher moral calling than to destroy someone’s dreams with a bullet…?” and decided the way to do this was to shoot impotently near the President’s abode.  Luckily Goad was not used as a witness at Duran’s trial, but the tenuous connection between Goad and Duran was cemented in the media and Goad became seen as a terrorist force.

And then the suicides…  Three seriously disturbed young Britons took a bizarre inspiration from ANSWER Me!, came to the USA, and killed themselves.  These suicides were especially haunting for Goad because one of the girls involved called him shortly before the suicides in order to verify his address (she did not explain why she needed the address nor did Goad ask why but after she was dead Goad received a sum of money that he returned to her parents).  She was silent on the phone and Goad, unable to pull much out of her, eventually terminated the conversation.  Goad empathized with the girl to an almost unbearable level, understanding all too well the impulses behind suicide and wishing he could have done something to stop it.

But while all of this and more show Goad’s role as a shit magnet, the soundest argument for Goad as a weather vane for bad juju happened in the form of Anne Ryan.

Continue Reading “Shit Magnet: One Man’s Miraculous Ability to Absorb the World’s Guilt by Jim Goad”

Loathsome Women: The Witches Among Us by Leopold Stein, M.D. and Martha Alexander

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book Title: Loathsome Women: The Witches Among Us

Author: Leopold Stein, M.D. and Martha Alexander

Why I Consider This Book Odd: The title made me think this was an odd book, and a reading completely bore this out. Some time ago, I saw this book mentioned in an online discussion about weird books. I didn’t write down the description but in my notes, I later saw the title and had to order a copy.

Type of Work: non-fiction, psychiatry

Availability: This book is out of print, but copies can be found at various book seller sites, like Amazon or Abe Books. So shop around for the best deal.

Comments: Okay, let’s get this out of the way: I don’t dismiss Jung or psychoanalysis. But for the love of sanity, you will not find a more bizarre approach to psychoanalysis than you will in Dr. Stein. Add to that bizarre approach his misogyny and his overt and cringing fear in the face of four mentally ill women, and you’ve got yourself one odd, or dare I say very odd, book. It is hard to restrain vitriol in the face of such a monster, but I managed it. I did not, however, restrain my snark.

When this book arrived in the mail, I scanned the book and a little of the content and wondered if it was really an odd book after all. In small doses, in Loathsome Women it seemed like Dr. Stein was approaching his patients’ manifestation of problems using Jungian archetypes to relate to the patients. It didn’t hit me when I just scanned the book that Dr. Stein evidently believed that his patients were real witches and that he was possibly the most misogynistic writer I’ve read in years.

But he did. And he was. Read the rest under the jump.

Continue Reading “Loathsome Women: The Witches Among Us by Leopold Stein, M.D. and Martha Alexander”

Shrouded by Carol Anne Davis

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book Title: Shrouded

Author: Carol Anne Davis

Why I Consider This Book Odd: Davis deals with a taboo subject – necrophilia – in an intricately and at times outrageously plotted novel. Readers with triggers should also be aware that this novel deals with terrible child abuse, murder and has elements of rape.

Type of Book: Fiction, novel

Availability: Written in 1997 and published by Bloodlines, this book was reissued in 2006 by Snowbooks. I cannot tell if it is still in print but you can still find affordable copies on Amazon.

Comments: While this book is outrageous in many respects, it is not as visceral as some other books that deal with necrophilia, like Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z. Brite, an excellent novel in its own right. While the plot developments at time seem extremely unlikely and the ending is rushed, this book is still worth a read. Davis nails her protagonist’s descent into madness in a manner that only Ruth Rendell could have managed more deftly. And when the plot isn’t beggaring belief, the depictions of human frailty and the extremities of the human psyche make this book quite interesting indeed.

Rest of review under the jump. There are incomplete spoilers so be warned.

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Sleeping Beauty: Memorial Photography in America by Stanley Burns, M.D.

This post originally appeared on I Read Odd Books

Book: Sleeping Beauty: Memorial Photography in America

Author: Stanley Burns, M.D.

Why Do I Consider This Book Odd: Contains photographs of dead people, many children, from the turn of the 19th century and while beautiful, it is somewhat morbid. If you have an aversion to such photography, give this review a skip.

Type of Book: Photography

Availability: While I am unsure if this book is considered rare, per se, it only had two editions.  Mine is from the second edition.  Clearly, the first editions are far more expensive, but the second editions are pricey as well.  One can obtain a copy of either edition if one is willing to pay between $400-$1000 USD. Had The Strand not had a copy with a damaged book jacket selling for cheap, I would not have a copy. Amazon appears to be the best source for this book but it’s hit or miss.

Comments: This book is one of my most prized books. I waited for almost a decade to be able to afford a copy, and even after I ordered it, I bit my nails until it arrived for fear that there was some mistake and they were going to notify me that I had been undercharged. Reading this book on loan from a library began my intense interest in memorial and death photography. It is one of those treasured books that I still cannot believe I own.

This book examines postmortem photography from 1840-1930. A practice that may seem morbid to some, death photography was actually quite common for those who could afford it. In a time when photography was still expensive, many times these photographs of the dead would be the sole picture people would have to remember their loved one, especially if the deceased was a child. The pictures in this book will often stay with those who have just glanced through it. After discussions online, there have been a number of times wherein people who could remember a particular image sent me messages asking me if I could provide details. One photo in particular, “The Murdered Parsons Family,” generates more messages than any other. The picture shows a father, a wife, and their three children, laid out on a bed like cord wood, bullet wounds visible on their faces and bodies. I think this is the most remembered picture because it plays into so many different modern fears. Home invasions, violent murder, children in danger. Many of the pictures in this book depict deaths that seem like they could no longer happen to affluent Americans. Emaciated babies and typhoid victims are thin on the ground these days. Kids dying from bullets are not. I think every person willing to have a look at this book will find a picture that will haunt them. Or, as was my case, many that will haunt them.

But most of the time we will have no real idea why certain photographs affect us other than the obvious pathos involved in looking at the dead. To this day I am not sure why I am so deeply interested in these photographs. Stanley Burns says in his preface, “Nineteenth-century Americans knew how to respond to these images. Today there is no culturally nominative response to postmortem photographs.” And that is why many of us, myself included, are awe-struck by these photographs, unable really to explain what we find so appealing and appalling about them.

Though many pictures in this book affected me, during the reading I did before writing this entree one photograph seemed to affect me the most. And bear in mind that I can on some level state intellectually what interested me in this photograph, there is likely a visceral response that I could never express.


This picture is quite striking to me. As Burns indicates in the notes for this picture, it is uncommon to see fathers posing with their dead children. More often than not, mothers posed, or the child was photographed alone.  That the father is the primary parent in this photograph is touching because it is so atypical.

Another poignant part of the picture is not immediately obvious, but if you look in the lower left hand corner, you will see the mother’s hand stabilizing the pillows that prop up her dead daughter.  That action was among one of the last things she could do to help capture the memory of her child, a little girl whose death took her far beyond the reach of a mother’s desire to nurture.

And my god, the little girl…  In many of the photographs in Burns’ book, the children look like they are sleeping.  But some look obviously dead, with bloody faces, severe emaciation, or evidence of disease on their still bodies.  This little girl straddles the line between sleeping and hard death.  As you look at her, you can tell there is something very off about her eyes and the pose she is in.  It looks like she is either beginning rigor mortis or leaving it.  But by not appearing that she is sleeping, and by not looking as horrible as some of the corpses in this book, she is in a netherworld where, to the casual viewer, it may not immediately be evident what is happening.

This and other pictures like it give lie to some of the ideas I have learned from history.   Many sources claim that until the time of American urbanization and complete industrialization, life was cheap and the lives of children even cheaper.   These sources claim that couples had many children not only to use as a labor force, but also to ensure that at least a couple survived to adulthood. Childhood was an unsentimental time because parents could not get attached to their children. The pictures in Sleeping Beauty make it clear that even when money was tight, when photography resources were limited, and even when life seemed cheap, it was never really quite that way.  People deeply mourned their dead, especially their children, and paid money to make sure that there was some evidence that a dead person existed beyond simply the memories of those who loved them.  This comforts me.  It tells me that human beings are often much the same no matter when they lived in history.   These pictures show me that life was not so cheap even when I assumed it was.

The book is filled with pictures like this, heartbreaking looks into the ways that parents handled the deaths of their children, but not all the pictures are of families. Badmen in their coffins, murder victims, as well as photos of memorial picture presentation in jewelry or watches. Hopefully, one day this book will be released for a third printing, making it somewhat more affordable for people to get their hands on a copy. It is truly a beautiful, haunting book.