Harold Schechter

Review: The Mad Sculptor

I first encountered Harold Schechter in the mid-’90s at the (sadly) now-defunct Twice-Loved Books in Youngstown, Ohio. My friend Todd and I would travel there often, lost The Mad Sculptorfor hours among their three floors of books and playing with the occasional store cat.

You would most often find me in the basement, where the true crime section was wedged into a nook behind the stairs. And you would most often find a Schechter book tucked beneath my arm.

I am not only a fan of crime writing, but an advocate. There is a stigma with the genre that I have always felt was undeserved. Even in progressive-minded bookstores like Twice-Loved (where I was able to order first-edition Aleister Crowley tomes in the pre-Internet age), crime reporting was given only subterranean shelf space.

That’s a shame. Crime writers like Schechter are historians, sociologists, documentarians and cultural commentators, and to be relegated to back-shelf status by the literary mainstream is a disservice to the many great writers (and well-informed readers) working in the genre.

I asked Schechter about the breadth of his work in a 2012 interview:

“You can certainly learn as much about a society by which crimes people are obsessed with at a particular time,” he said. “I think, in a general way, the crimes that become national obsessions, that strike a deep communal chord, symbolize the particular cultural anxieties of the moment.”

In the 1920s it was poisoners; in the ’70s Charles Manson personified the worst fears of the counterculture; the ’80s had phantom Satanists and the ’90s belonged to the serial killer; and today we have the rampage shooter.

But in the 1930s, it was the sexual deviant that haunted and titillated the public.

Enter Robert George Irwin, the subject of Schechter’s new book, The Mad Sculptor: The Maniac, The Model, and the Murder that Shook the Nation.

Irwin was a troubled and talented artist whose stunted psychosexual development (and religious obsession) fueled romantic fixations, violent outbursts, numerous hospitalizations and an attempted self-castration. It climaxed with a vicious triple murder in 1937, made all the more newsworthy because one of the victims, Veronica Gedeon, was a pulp magazine cover girl.

That in and of itself would make for a good read, but Schechter is a skilled storyteller and, more importantly, a devoted historian. His research into the man who would become The Mad Sculptor not only unearthed a traumatic upbringing, but also documented the changing post-Depression personality of the Beekman Hill neighborhood where the murders occurred.

Turns out this neighborhood was home to a series of sensational murders a year prior to Irwin’s massacre.

Weaving a wealth of historical documents into a cohesive narrative, Schechter gives us not only the crime and the cultural mindset, but also the role the media played in the tale, from the earliest indictment of an innocent man through fictional jailhouse confessions and a business arrangement with the Chicago Herald-Examiner so shady that it would make Rupert Murdoch cry foul.

In fact, all of the media coverage (including the persistent “blame-the-victim” approach that made a fuss over Gedeon’s modeling career and her father’s fondness for “French art” postcards) makes today’s television news seem downright ethical (well, almost) by comparison.

If I have one critique of The Mad Sculptor, it’s that we don’t learn much about Irwin’s time in prison. We get factual data, such as how long he lived after his conviction, when he died, and such, but not the in-depth reporting showcased in previous chapters.

But in a time when most movies and many books run far too long (only quantum physics can explain why it takes longer to watch The Great Gatsby than it does to read the book), it’s not really a bad thing to say that Schechter could’ve gone on for another hundred pages or so and I would have been with him all the way.

Schechter had a run in the 1990s that would make any writer jealous, penning best-sellers about Albert Fish, Ed Gein and Depraved, Schechter’s account of H.H. Holmes.

The latter is an example of the literary caste system writ large. Depraved, published in 1994, predated Erik Larson’s The Devil in the White City by nearly a decade. While both tell the story of the same man—and the same crimes—one is relegated to the dusty shelves of true crime while the other is a modern classic and prominently displayed at the front of the store.

This is not a knock on Larson’s book (he did nothing wrong by writing an excellent book and reaping success), but rather an example of the double-standards that sometimes emerge in publishing. I point this out not to get on a soapbox but rather to appeal to readers who may never otherwise stray to the nether regions of the bookstore or think that crime writing isn’t for them:

Yes, you will find The Mad Sculptor in the true crime section, but it is greater than the sum of its kill count.

Yes, Harold Schechter is America’s finest crime writer, but he is so much more.

Let this book be your introduction to another historical viewpoint, and don’t be afraid to drift to those shadowy corners of the bookstore where you’ve feared to tread before. To quote Nietzsche: “I am a forest, and a night of dark trees; but he who is not afraid of my darkness will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.”

Take it from the weird kid who spent hours in those shadowy basement corridors, collecting the flowers of history in the dark.

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Second-String Sociopaths

On Tuesday, Harold Schechter‘s new book, Psycho USA, hit the shelves. Last month, I interviewed Dr. Schechter on topics such as the new book, true crime as cultural history and recent rampage violence. He offered insights both witty and wise. Read the full profile here or at Transgress digital magazine.

Killer Reads

Sure, Harold Schechter is a great historian and has a nose for inter­esting subjects. But what makes his writing so compelling is his flair for storytelling. “The challenge I set myself is to transform thou­sands of pages of dry documents into a compelling narrative.”

No surprise. He is, after all, a literature professor. Great writing is also a family affair. He is married to the poet Kimiko Hahn and the father of YA author Lauren Oliver.

Schechter is currently taking a sabbatical to focus on his next book, a full-length treatment of Robert George Irwin, “The Mad Sculptor.” Mean­time, readers can dig into Psycho USA, and newcomers would be wise to explore his earlier works as well. These are narratives that dissect our cul­tural history to the marrow. Profiles that reveal insights about our species usually reserved for psychology texts. Harrowing tales that horrify, in­form and stay with the reader long after the final line.

Deranged

This was my introduction to Schechter’s writ­ing—and the fiendish Albert Fish. The narrative is as gripping as Fish’s actions are nauseating. Pedophilia, murder, canni­balism. This is a must-read for anyone—just not after a heavy dinner. Here you will learn where the tastiest part of the human anatomy is. You’ll learn about the perineum—and its functionality as a pin cushion. You’ll also en­counter the man who took on the electric chair—and won.

Sort of.

Most of all, you’ll get a glimpse of American culture as the Roaring ’20s segued into the Great Depression; taste the deadly cultural cocktail of na­ivety and anonymity that allowed a child-murderer to flourish; and mine the depths of religion and pathology.

Deviant

Ed Gein was a mild-mannered grave robber in rural Wisconsin in the 1950s. Nobody back then could have imagined the impact he would have on Hollywood. Gein has served as the inspiration for three successful book and film franchises: Psy­cho, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Silence of the Lambs.

A bio like that would typically earn one a Hollywood star.

It earned Gein a life sentence in a mental in­stitution.

We don’t want to give away too much of the good stuff. Let’s just say you wouldn’t want to hire Gein as your interior decorator—unless you’re re­ally into “organic” lampshades.

Savage Pastimes: A Cultural History of Vio­lent Entertainment

Violence in the media is nothing new, and Schechter chronicles humanity’s obsession with violence through the centuries. An informative and fascinating book.

The Serial Killer Files

It was a toss-up between this and The A-Z Encyclopedia of Serial Killers. I was inclined to blurb the Encyclopedia for nostalgic reasons, as 1997 was a hell of a year—and that was one hell of a book.

It also garnered more buzz as it was in step with the times (think The Profiler). The Serial Killer Files came out post-9/11, and serial killers weren’t the bogeymen they’d once been (think 24).

However, this compendium is the ultimate roadmap to the darker shadows of our species. And it makes a great con­versation piece on your bookshelf.

The Whole Death Catalog

2009’s tour-de-force of final breaths will leave you… well, breathless. It’s Lonely Planet meets Last Rites. What more can you say about a book that markets itself as leaving “no gravestone left unturned”?

To check out more of Schechter’s books, visit www.haroldschechter.com.