The scariest part of reading this true-crime masterpiece (credited to have started the genre of investigative journalism) is the fact that it IS non-fiction and therefore, a mind boggling reminder that truly evil people do exist around us. On one ordinary day, November 15, 1959, the safety and tranquility of the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, ceases to exist forever. Two ex-convicts, Dick Hickock and Perry Smith, in search of easy money, brutally murder the innocent Clutter family --devoted husband and successful farmer, Herb, his fragile wife, Bonnie, and their innocent teenage children, Nancy and Kenyon.
'The village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas call "out there." Some seventy miles east of the Colorado border, the countryside, with its hard blue skies and desert-clear air, has an atmosphere that is rather more Far West than Middle West.'(opening lines)
'Until one morning in mid-November of 1959, few Americans -- in fact, few Kansans -- had ever heard of Holcomb. Like the waters of the river, like the motorists on the highway, and like the yellow trains streaking down the Santa Fe tracks, drama, in the shape of exceptional happenings, had never stopped there. The inhabitants of the village, numbering two hundred and seventy, were satisfied that this should be so, quite content to exist inside ordinary life -- to work, to hunt, to watch television, to attend school socials, choir practice, meetings of the 4-H club. But then, in the earliest hours of that morning in November, a Sunday morning, certain foreign sounds impinged on the normal nightly Holcomb noises -- on the keening hysteria of coyotes, the dry scrape of scuttling tumbleweed, the racing, receding wail of locomotive whistles. At the time not a soul in sleeping Holcomb heard them -- four shotgun blasts that, all told, ended six human lives. But afterward the townspeople, theretofore sufficiently unfearful of each other to seldom trouble to lock their doors, found fantasy re-creating them over and again -- those somber explosions that stimulated fires of mistrust in the glare of which many neighbors viewed each other strangely, and as strangers.'(5)
'Perry described a murder, telling how, simply for "the hell of it," he had killed a colored man in Las Vegas -- beaten him to death with a bicycle chain. The anecdote elevated Dick's opinion of Little Perry; he began to see more of him, and like Willie-Jay, though for dissimilar reasons, gradually decided that Perry possessed unusual and valuable qualities. Several murderers, or men who boasted of murder or their willingness to commit it, circulated inside Lansing; but Dick became convinced that Perry was that rarity, " a natural killer" -- absolutely sane, but conscienceless, and capable of dealing, with or without motive, the coldest-blooded deathblows. It was Dick's theory that such a gift could, under his supervision, be profitably exploited.'(54-55)
'If there's somebody loose around here that wants to cut my throat, I wish him luck. What difference does it make? It's all the same in eternity. Just remember: If one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got tham all on the other side, that would only be the beginning of eternity.'(69)
"Around here," according to the proprietor of one Garden City hardware store, "locks and bolts are the fastest-going item. Folks ain't particular what brand they buy; they just want them to hold." Imagination, of course, can open any door -- turn the key and let terror walk right in. Tuesday, at dawn, a carload of pheasant hunters from Colorado -- strangers, ignorant of the local disaster -- were startled by what they saw as they crossed the prairies and passed through Holcomb: windows ablaze, almost every window in almost every house, and in brightly lit rooms, fully clothed people, even entire families, who had sat the whole night wide awake, watchful, listening. Of what were they frightened? "It might happen again." That, with variations, was the customary response.'(88)
'But Herb was gone. And Bonnie too. Her bedroom window overlooked the garden, and now and then, usually when she was "having a bad spell," Mr. Helm had seen her stand long hours gazing into the garden, as though what she saw bewitched her. ("When I was a girl," she had once told a friend, "I was terribly sure trees and flowers were the same as birds or people. That they thought things, and talked among themselves. And we could hear them if we really tired. It was just a matter of emptying your head of all other sounds. Being very quiet and listening very hard. Sometimes I still believe that. But one can never get quiet enough...')'(121-122)
'There is no shame -- having a dirty face -- the shame comes when you keep it dirty.'(140)
'Prognosis: correspondence between you and your sister cannot serve anything but a purely social function. Keep the theme of your letters within the scope of her understanding. Do not unburden your private conclusions. Do not put her on the defensive and not permit her to put you on the defensive. Respect her limitations to comprehend your objectives, and remember that she is touchy towards the criticism of your Dad. Be consistent in your attitude towards her and do not add anything to the impression she has that you are weak, not because you need her good-will but because you can expect more letters like this, and they can only serve to increase your already dangerous anti-social instincts.'(145)
'"What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is a breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is as the little shadow that runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset." -- Said by Chief Crowfoot, Blackfoot Indian Chief.
This last entry was written in red ink and decorated with a border of green-ink stars; the anthologist wished to emphasize its "personal significance." "A breath of a buffalo in the wintertime" -- that exactly evoked his view of life. Why worry? What was there to "sweat about"? Man was nothing, a mist, a shadow absorbed by shadows.'(147)
'Cullivan probed, trying to gauge the depth of what he assumed would be Perry's condition. Surely he must be experiencing a remorse sufficiently profound to summon a desire for God's mercy and forgiveness? Perry said, "Am I sorry? If that's what you mean -- I'm not. I don't feel anything about it. I wish I did. But nothing about it bothers me a bit. Half an hour after it happened, Dick was making jokes and I was laughing at them. Maybe we're not human. I'm human enough to feel sorry for myself.'(291)
First Vintage International Edition, February 1994
343 pages
Book owned
Book qualifies for: 100+ Reading Challenge
No comments:
Post a Comment