Thursday 22 April 2010

A Ripping Yarn

Has anyone read that book by Patricia Cornwell, in which she asserts that the painter, Walter Sickert, was -in fact - that naughty boy, Jack the Ripper, who began his little spree in the dimly-lit streets of London's East End in 1888?

Despite the irritating subtitle ('Case Closed') I found myself 90% convinced that she is right, having plowed my way through the chapters of compelling evidence and reason which she has accumulated by buying manuscripts relating to the cases, some of which were written by the Ripper himself. Her experience in mortuaries as a forensic scientist has stood her in good stead, and she has even conducted her own forensic tests on the material, though the bulk of her reason concentrates on her own analysis of the psychological state of mind of the killer, and the events in his past life that lead up to it, including a series of botched operations on Sickert when a boy, which left him with virtually no penis at all.

Sickert lived in Bath for the last years of his life, and a friend of mine actually discovered one of his paintings in the attic of a building that was one of his studios. His other studios were in the red-light districts of the East End...

I stumbled upon Sickert's grave in the nearby village of Bathampton recently, and wondered if I was also paying a visit to the most notorious serial killer in the world at the same time.

The book also made me wonder about just what is the fascination about this twisted, sordid and misogynistic psychopath that has continued for so many years, and does not seem to be waning. Time does not always heal.

16 comments:

  1. A friend of ours, Shirley Harrison, also wrote a book about 'The Ripper', but I think it was based on spurious diaries, and later discounted by experts.

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  2. There must be a section in our brain that is still set on primal, and we want to see the unseeable and know why others think in unthinkable ways.

    Sorry about my lames comments here. I feel a little nauseous thinking about it and can't come up with anything witty to say. Why can't you write about rainbows and puppies??!!

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  3. Think yourself lucky that I didn't post up the picture that Sickert painted of the dismembered female corpse on a bed, which is IDENTICAL to the police photograph of the time, and not seen by the public until after Sickert's death, Amy. I thought about it, but exercised a rare bit of self-restraint. Sorry, I did not mean to depress you, but this is a depressing subject, which never seems to leave the publics imagination. Next time, it will be cookery and pink puppies, I promise. Cheer up!

    I wonder how many books on the Ripper (and Hitler( there have been, Cro?

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  4. Thank you for what you said. I do care about you immensely and think we are long lost friends separated by time and distance. Sometimes I think I am just annoying you here, but I still come around because you are so wonderful to me.

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  5. Oh Amy - of course you don't annoy me, I love your input and your humour, but I've yet to hear your music - I might ban you after that...

    I'll look at yours if you look at mine (but I still think you are a 58 year old man who thinks I am a 30 year old woman, and is trying to groom me). Let's all go over and camp on 'Something She Wrote'!

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  6. Let's wait when she is least expecting it. My name will be Ima Reeder.

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  7. Mine will be Ivor Biggun, or maybe Ben Dover - more suitable for the site maybe?

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  8. I could bring along Ben's friend, Phil McCavity too. I'm sure he would be able to contribute to the discussion.

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  9. Not gonna say any of those names out loud.

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  10. Someone has to be Colonel Angus (that's from Saturday Night Live). Not saying that out loud either.

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  11. P.S. - there is an old trick in British pubs, where you call up the bar phone, and ask the nice barmaid to turn the music off and shout out if 'Mike Hunt' is in the bar. I've seen it done.... sorry.

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  12. There's a band with the name, My Dixie Wrecked.

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  13. There is/was a band here called, The Cunning Stunts.

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  14. Great. They're just waiting for people to get drunk and then the fun starts, huh?

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