Monday, December 25, 2017
His term as obituaries editor, from 1986 to 1994, was "just a lucky time ... a time when so many legends of the century were dying," Massingberd told The Associated Press in a 1996 interview.
The Daily Telegraph said Massingberd found his inspiration at a theatrical rendering of "Brief Lives" by the waspish 17th century writer John Aubrey who said of a barrister — "He got more by his prick than his practice."
That line inspired Massingberd, as he later wrote, to chronicle "what people were really like through informal anecdote, description and character sketch."
A parade of remarkable characters took their last bows in the Telegraph during Massingberd's term — remarkable enough to take a curtain call in a series of anthologies.
There was Maj. Donald Neville-Willing who found his dentures a liability in romance: "I'm unlikely to be successful if the moon is bright." He also believed that World War II was "the best thing that ever happened to English homosexuals."
There was John Allegro, "the Liberace of biblical scholarship," whose promising career as a scholar of the Dead Sea Scrolls degenerated into a series of books claiming that Christianity was a hallucinogenic mushroom cult; indeed, that Moses, David and Jesus were fungi. The obituary recalled a reviewer's opinion that Allegro's books "gave mushrooms a bad name."
And also Nerea de Clifford, author of "What British Cats Think About Television," who had concluded: "Most cats show an interest of some kind, though it is often of hostility."
Lawrence Isherwood, who painted celebrities as he imagined them in the nude, also got a Telegraph obit that recorded Lt. Col. A.D. Wintle's opinion — "What I like about Isherwood's paintings is that there is no doubt about which way they hang."
And there was Len Chadwick, outdoor columnist for the Oldham Evening Chronicle, with an obituary that surely left many readers relieved never to have met him:
"A classic autodidact, as he strode along Chadwick would regale the young boys who were his most frequent companions (he was homosexually inclined) with interminable but inspired monologues — often in Esperanto — on subjects ranging from the history of socialism or his prisoner-of-war experiences to the poetry of Ebenezer Elliott."
The Daily Telegraph rarely dwells on the cause of death, though Massingberd said he argued with former editor Max Hastings that it should.
The day after Hastings agreed, "someone had died of a penile implant which had imploded," Massingberd said. The subject was dropped.
Massingberd's creed was that an obituary should give pleasure to relatives and friends, as well as the general reader.
"I think you want more people to say, 'Gosh, what a remarkable life,' and give them a laugh along the way."
People who died last week here in Middle Tennessee included "Tippy," "Sleepy," "Hamburger," "Stream," "Troll," Mother Fanny and Mama K, a man pictured with a coat slung over his shoulder, and a woman shown with her breathing tubes in. R. I. P. to all.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
I was introduced to Perry Wallace when we both were in high school. My school, Overton, played his, Pearl, in the Regional basketball tournament. Our team was all white, Pearl’s was all black and therefore exotic to us, and before every game, during warm-ups, as an intimidating ploy their players stood in a semicircle at half-court and glowered at the other team. I wondered if they worked on this at practice.
The game started, and on our first trip down court I got the ball on one wing, and seemed to be wide open. Our coach, Tommy Griffith, had told us several hundred times at least before the game to always give a head fake before shooting, as the Pearl guys were fabled blocked-shot artists. However, as I said, I was wide open to my mind, so I jumped (a rather generous verb) and shot. Out of nowhere, a Pearl player flew at me and swatted the ball fifteen rows or so into the stands, imperiling the well-being of a knot of fans seated there.
That was my introduction to Perry Wallace. Pearl beat us by 15, the closest anyone came to that great team (the greatest in Tennessee high-school history is the general consensus) all year, I believe. Wallace went on from this legendary beginning to play at Vanderbilt. (No strings pulled, either: Perry was valedictorian of his high-school class.) He was a six-five center in one of the nation’s best conferences, yet he flourished. My college team played Vandy, and we upset them, but Wallace dominated.
Years later I heard from some of his ex-teammates about the horrible and harrowing ordeal that Wallace endured as the first black player in the SEC--the vile baiting, the cretinous catcalls, the objects hurled, the noose waved (a noose!), the rage, the venom, the unreasoning hatred--and his courage and stoicism in the face of it. My admiration grew even greater.
I followed his career from afar as he became a lawyer and a professor and a judge, always the very model of dignity and grace. I read Andrew Maraniss’s excellent book, Strong Inside: Perry Wallace and the Collision of Race and Sports in the South. And I went out with my son to the game at Vandy in 2001 at which the school retired his jersey. After the game I made my way up to him and shook his hand; I don’t know if he remembered me, but that was all right either way--I wanted my son to meet him.
So Wallace’s death was a shock to me. He was a hero of mine. Great athletes come and go, but his heroism was of the kind that doesn’t fade with time. His story affirms something about America--something shameful, yes, but something noble, over and above it. His legacy will endure.
Read Andrew Maraniss's book:
Read Andrew Maraniss's book:
Monday, November 20, 2017
|On the road to nowhere|
"The meaningless absurdity of life is the only incontestable knowledge accessible to man."
In his later masterpiece, The Death of Ivan Ilyich, Tolstoy tells the harrowing story of the slow, and then rapid, decline of Ivan Ilyich, a judge who has never before given death a second thought. Ilyich the materialist, forced to confront the stark truth of his inevitable passing, turns metaphysical: Will his death be his destruction?
"Death is over; there is no more death," are Ivan Ilyich's last words.
Tolstoy himself, as he neared death, resolved to find a more spiritual life on earth – at the age of 82, he ran away from home. He contracted a chill on the train, forcing him to disembark at a station along the way. The chill turned to pneumonia, and he died in the stationmaster's room, surrounded by journalists, who recorded his last words: "But the peasants – how do they die?"
As he had requested, Tolstoy was buried on his estate, at a spot where his brother once claimed to have buried a little green stick on which was written the secret of universal love and understanding.
Read Ivan Ilyich's story:
Read Ivan Ilyich's story:
Saturday, November 18, 2017
Walt Disney wanted to call his creation Mortimer Mouse, but his wife didn't like the name and suggested Mickey.
Disney died Dec. 15, 1966, of complications from lung cancer. It was rumored that his body had been cryogenically frozen, and, alternately, that he was buried somewhere on the grounds of Disneyland. Actually, he was cremated and his ashes interred at Forest Lawn Cemetery. His death was not publicly announced until after his funeral, which was attended only by close family members. He left the bulk of his estate to his wife, Lillian.
It is Hollywood legend – and we'll go with it – that from his deathbed in St. Joseph's Hospital in Burbank, across the street from Disney Studios, Disney's last words were about how shabby the studio's water tower looked. The tower is adorned with the image of Mickey Mouse. Studio executives have made sure the tower is repainted every year.
Walt Disney once said: "I love Mickey Mouse more than any woman I've ever known."
Love Mickey too? Then splurge a little:
Friday, November 17, 2017
Marcel Proust, French novelist, died on this day in 1922.
"Do not the indiscretions which occur only after a person's life on earth is ended," Proust wrote in Remembrance of Things Past, "prove that nobody really believes in a future life?
"If these indiscretions are true, we ought to fear the resentment of her whose actions we are revealing fully as much as on the day when we shall meet her in heaven, as we feared it so long as she was alive, when we felt ourselves bound to keep her secret.
"And if these indiscretions are false, invented because she is no longer present to contradict them, we ought to be even more afraid of the dead woman's wrath if we believed in heaven. But no one does believe in it."
Proust's last words were: "I feel like a cold beer."
Forget about Proust--you'll never finish him. Remember to read this:
Thursday, November 16, 2017
Ed Gein killed his final victim on this day in 1957.
Ed Gein is the most famous son of Plainfield, Wisconsin.
Gein lived on a 160-acre farm with his brother, Henry, and a domineering mother. Henry died in 1944 under mysterious circumstances, and his mother passed away the next year. Ed was 39, unmarried, and in need of a hobby. He began to dig up female corpses by night in remote cemeteries. He dissected these, keeping some heads, sex organs, livers, hearts and intestines. He would flay the skin from the body and wear it himself, dancing and cavorting around the house. (He kept his mom's bedroom locked and undisturbed, and also sealed off the drawing room and five more upstairs rooms.)
Deciding he needed some newer clothes, he began making his own corpses. 54-year old Mary Hogan disappeared from the tavern she ran in December 1954. Bernice Worden, who ran the local hardware store, disappeared on this day in 1957. Mrs. Worden's son, Frank, a sheriff's deputy, learned that Eddie Gein had been seen in town on the day of his mother's disappearance, so he and the sheriff went out to the old Gein place, already known by local kids as a haunted house.
Sound familiar? Gein was the inspiration for Norman Bates, the deranged mama's boy in Hitchcock's Psycho and Robert Bloch's novel of the same name, and the serial killer in Silence of the Lambs was based on him.
In a woodshed on the farm, the men found the naked, headless body of Worden's mother hanging upside down from a meat hook and slit open down the front. Her head and intestines were discovered in a box, and her heart on a plate in the dining room. The skins from ten human heads were found preserved, and another skin taken from the upper torso of a woman was rolled up on the floor. There was a belt fashioned from carved-off nipples, a chair upholstered in human skin, lampshades covered in flesh pilled taut, a table propped up by a human shinbones, and a refrigerator full of human organs.
The four posts on Gein's bed were topped with skulls and a human head hung on the wall alongside nine death masks - the skinned faces of women - and decorative bracelets made out of human skin. There were soup bowls fashioned from skulls, a shoebox full of female genitalia, faces stuffed with newspapers and mounted like hunting trophies on the walls, and a vest flayed from the torso of a woman. Gein later confessed that he enjoyed dressing himself in skin-garments and pretending he was his mother. The remains of 15 bodies were found; Gein couldn't recall how many murders he'd committed.
After ten years in a mental hospital, Gein was judged competent to stand trial. He was found guilty but criminally insane. He spent the rest of his life in insane asylums, and died in a geriatric ward in 1984, aged 77, always, it was said, a model prisoner - gentle, polite and discreet.
His gravesite in the Plainfield cemetery was frequently vandalized over the years; souvenir seekers would chip off pieces of his gravestone before it was stolen in 2000. It was recovered in 2001 and is presently displayed in a Wautoma, Wisconsin museum.
In the last interview Gein gave, he said: "I like this place, everybody treats me nice. Some of them are a little crazy, though."
Read more about kooky Ed Gein:
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
"Women -- can't live with them, can't live without them."
Erasmus wrote: "The nearer people approach old age the closer they return to a semblance of childhood, until the time comes for them to depart this life, again like children, neither tired of living no aware of death."
Read H. L. Mencken in defense of women, and some other hobby-horses: