Alix Strauss - Death Becomes Them: Unearthing the Suicides of the Brilliant, the Famous, and the Notorious

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Death Becomes Them

Unearthing the Suicides of the Brilliant, the Famous, and the Notorious

Alix Strauss

For my parents,
who, thankfully, are very much among the living

Contents

Unearthing Greatness

Grave Intentions

The Art of the Suicide Note

Authors

Actors

Musicians

Artists

Powerful People

Fascinating Facts

Ten Hotel Suicides

The Suicides of Cleopatra and Mark Antony

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns arent lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Dorothy Parker, Resume, 1926

Though known for her biting wit, her edgy personality, her love of drinking, and her membership in the famous Algonquin Round Table, Dorothy Parker tried to kill herself four times. Severely disappointed and dissatisfied with the freelance magazine life, and having both money problems and an array of failed relationships, she made her first attempt after an abortion in 1923 when she cut her wrists. She also overdosed on the sedative Veronal, consumed a bottle of shoe polish, and took sleeping powder. On June 7, 1967, she was found dead in her hotel room at the Hotel Volney from a heart attack. She was seventy-three.

An enormous thanks to:

The always amazing, never tiresome team at William Morris who champion my projects and efforts: Lauren Heller Whitney, Alicia Gordon, Anna DeRoy, Bethany Anne Dick, Caroline Donofrio, and especially Andy McNicolwho read, responded to, repositioned, and redesigned my literary endeavors.

The wonderfully smart peeps at HarperCollins: Sharyn Rosenblum, Jamie Brinkhouse, Blair Bryant Nichols, Carrie Kania, Vanessa Schneider, and my brilliant editors and friends Jennifer Schulkind and Mauro DiPretaboth of whom not only appreciated my dark side and quest for things not so pretty, but also made this project something I could be proud of.

My researchers, who each helped make this come together in their quest for odd facts and their eye for detail, and who Im hoping, if theyre ever contestants on a game showshould they ever want to be contestants on a game showwill be able to use the information they gained on this project to win oodles of money: Geoffrey Kellogg, Leigh Malach, Nicole Robson, Anastasia Dyakovskaya, and Natalie Zutter.

The specialists interviewed: Jonathan Alpert, Leo Braudy, Joshua Gamson, Dr. George E. Murphy, Mike Murphy, Dr. David Lester, Rebecca Roy, Daniela E. Schreier, Dr. Edwin S. Shneidman, Doug Thorburn, and Dr. Paul Zarkowski. Your words of wisdom were invaluable.

The Grave Spotters: Ben Ellis, Kevin Dawson Jones, Danny Garside, and Michel Enkiri, for their fabulous photos.

The PR team at LaForce & Stevens: Leslie Stevens, James LaForce, and Meryl Weinsaft Cooper, who always astound me with their generosity and knack for all things clever.

My writer friends/advisors: Charles Salzberg, for our Sunday night dinners; Marci Alboher for her positive outlook; Lisa Rosenstein for her love, support, and endless phone calls; Jami Beere for her constant presence and for working vigorously as my PR agent; and Rebecca Mattila and Andy Christie for their wonderful web work and, more importantly, their friendship.

Lastly, a respectful nod to the souls we highlight here (and the family, friends, and fans they left behind). You are all missed.

Unearthing Greatness

In the winter everyone is matted down in thick wool coats as we stand in a huddled mass of sniffles and tears. In the summer the warm air rings full of sorrow as mourners sigh in sadness, cotton jackets and black dresses blowing in the breeze. To me, it doesnt matter what season a funeral takes place, I enjoy them just the same.

Thus began an article I wrote for the Lives section of the New York Times almost a decade ago. Im as fascinated by funerals today as I was then. I blame my odd attraction to death and memorials on my being an only childactually, the only only child in my family. For as many generations as I can trace back, everyone has had several childrenexcept for my parents, who decided to have just me. Growing up, there were no holiday dinners spent bonding over burnt turkey and overcooked stuffing, no long-distance, late-night phone calls, no group vacations with family members. And so funerals became my only chance to bond with my relatives, many of whom Id never met. Rather than a solemn event, I regarded them as reunions.

Paying respect at a relatives home became like trying to find a secret stash of candy. I couldnt help but inspect each room, search through the cabinets and dresser drawers, peer at scrapbooks and photo albums filled with old Kodak memories. I snooped in the hopes of finding answers to who they were; I searched for something that would connect me to them. To make me understand. It is the Where do I belong? and Where do I come from? that was missing from my life. This longing for a connection to someone or something is a feeling I have never been able to let go of.

Funerals are an often misunderstood societal phenomenon. The topic, once considered forbidden or taboo, has now become trendy. As a culture, we are obsessed with death. As a population, we connect with one another by sharing the same experiences. Misery loves company, and company is what we crave no matter what our nationality or religious beliefs. Its why we can bond instantly with strangers as we stand swaying during an all-night vigil, lit candles illuminating our faces and the faces of our new acquaintances. Kurt Cobains public vigil was held at Seattle Centers park and drew approximately seven thousand mourners. Prerecorded messages by Courtney Love and Nirvanas bassist, Krist Novoselic, were played. Love read portions of her husbands suicide note to the crowd and, at the end of the ceremony, gave away some of his clothing to those who remained.

Years later, these moments will become our earned badges of mourning memory, which we will share at bars, cocktail parties, and random events while reminiscing about the departed, sharing where we were at that moment Ernest Hemingway shot himself; when Diane Arbus filled a tub with warm water, swallowed a handful of barbiturates, and then slit her wrists; when Spalding Gray went missing, and when they fished his body from the East River two months later. It is the I was part of that, I was there that we yearn for.

We are also addicted to the drama. We crave their stories the same way they craved their pills, liquor, coke, and heroin. We want to understand the sadness they felt and the depression they couldnt live with. Our insatiable preoccupation with celebrities has been heightened thanks to our morbid fascination with how they died. Add a suicide, and our quest for more is as strong as our need for air. As tempting as a letter marked Do Not Open.

And there is loss.

We have indeed lost something great and historical, important and special, in each, be it a rock star or writer, poet or politician, activist or artist, singer or starlet.

Why do we love these tortured souls? What is it about their suicides that is so intriguing? Did they achieve celebrity status for their body of work or did they become even more famous, reaching a higher iconic status, only after killing themselves? Vincent van Gogh sold just one painting while alive. After he killed himself, he and his art became legendary.

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