... the living and the dead

the lonely churchyard on the hill

"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead".


... James Joyce (1882-1941) "The Dead" Dubliners

The American Dream

Guiseppe Zangara's failed attempt to assassinate U.S. President-elect Franklin D. Roosevelt (1882-1945) demonstrated how the frustrations of financial misfortune in the Great Depression (1929 - early 1940s ... the longest, most widespread, and deepest depression of the 20th century) could lead to desperate and mindless acts of violence.

Zangara was born in 1900 in Italy. His mother died when he was two and his father remarried to a widow with six daughters. The expanded family, already poor, endured severe hardship and soon food became scarce. When Zangara was six his father took him out of school and put him to work digging deep ditches and hauling heavy bricks and stones. The strenuous work and poor nourishment was a contributing factor to his slight build and a burning stomach ache, and the pain began to drive him mad. His entire life began to revolve around his stomach pain and his health.

Zangara hated his father and blamed him for the horrible stomach pain he endured. He believed that his father should be punished, but the lousy capitalists in Italy were too busy to help him. Thus he developed a deep hatred for everyone who was rich or worked in government. Driven mad with pain, he came to believe that if he could kill the leader of the capitalists, his stomach pain might go away. He plotted to assassinate King Victor Emmanuel III (1869-1947), but left for the United States before carrying out his plan. He secured a job as a bricklayer in New Jersey. He and his uncle lived together for a year until his uncle married. Zangara and his new aunt did not get along well, so he moved out. He lived very frugally and saved most of his money, allowing him some freedom to travel. He traveled to Panama and California in hopes that the warmer climate would help his stomach.

Finally he moved to Miami, Florida and again was working as a brick layer. In 1926 he went to see doctors about his stomach, who removed his appendix hoping that would solve the problem. However, it did not. In 1932, as the Great Depression had started to affect him, his stomach pain grew progressively worse. He decided that if he were to assassinate President Herbert Hoover (1874-1964) the problem would be solved, because everyone said Hoover was to blame for the Depression. However, Hoover lost the presidential election to Democratic candidate, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

On February 13, 1933, Zangara bought a .32 caliber pistol for $4 at a local drugstore, and planned to take a bus to Washington D.C. the next day. While walking to the bus station, he saw newspaper headlines reporting that President-elect Franklin Roosevelt was visiting the Miami area the next day. After giving a short talk at the Bayfront Park from the rear of a convertible car, FDR had just finished shaking hands with visiting Chicago Mayor Anton Cermak (1873-1933) [pictured here to the left of FDR] when Zangara fired upon the president. However, being only five feet tall, he was unable to see over other people, and had to stand on a wobbly folding metal chair. After the first shot,  people grabbed his arm, but he fired four more shots wildly. He missed the president-elect, but five other people were hit, including Cermak. The Chicago mayor suffered an abdominal wound [pictured below]. En route to Jackson Memorial Hospital in the presidential convertible, Cermak allegedly told FDR, “I’m glad it was me and not you, Mr. President”, words now inscribed on a plaque in Bayfront Park.

After Zangara's arrest, doctors examined him and discovered severe ulcers as the cause of his chronic pain. He was put on trial and sentenced to 84 years for injuring bystanders during his attempt to kill Roosevelt. He pleaded guilty and showed no remorse except for missing Roosevelt. Cermak's condition deteriorated and he died some three weeks after the assassination attempt. Zangara was then put on trial for his murder and was sentenced to death in the electric chair at the Florida State Penitentiary in Raiford. When he heard his sentence he yelled at the judge, "You give me electric chair. I no afraid of that chair! You're one of capitalists. You is crook man too. Put me in electric chair. I no care!".

On March 20, Zangara walked to the electric chair unaided and not afraid. He yelled and cursed at the guards. After a shroud was placed over his head, he screamed, "Lousy capitalists! No picture! Capitalists! No one here to take my picture. All capitalists lousy bunch of crooks. Go ahead. Push the button!" The guard pulled the switch and Zangara was no more. He had no family or friends present, and his unclaimed remains were buried in an unmarked grave at the prison.

Art for art's sake ...

"Only through art can we get outside of ourselves and know another's view of the universe which is not the same as ours and see landscapes which would otherwise have remained unknown to us like the landscapes of the moon. Thanks to art, instead of seeing a single world, our own, we see it multiply until we have before us as many worlds as there are original artists...And many centuries after their core, whether we call it Rembrandt or Vermeer, is extinguished, they continue to send us their special rays".

 ... Marcel Proust (1871-1942)