D
Deleted member 23558
God make my neurotransmitters great inc
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He received letters from born-again Christians, Protestants, and
Catholics, all trying to convert him and turn him away from the clutches of
Satan. And there were letters from women who wanted to mother him and
show him the difference between right and wrong. One nurse who’d lost her
son felt that Richard, because he didn’t have her love, had gone astray and
understandably vented his anger with guns, knives, and fists. There was
also Tamara, a full-figured redhead who had made an altar with Richard’s
picture on it and a black candle always burning. She’d later say, “I used to
go to a cemetery in Santa Ana and sit on a tombstone and write Richard
poems and letters. I think he’s gorgeous.”
But Richard wrote only to Eva and to his family.
“If it weren’t for the books and the letters, I would have done myself in,”
he later confided.
It was not only letters people sent him, but also books. It was during the
weeks and months before, during, and after the preliminary hearing that he
became “a book junkie.” He read all day and all night. Frequently he
couldn’t sleep at all and would read for several days straight, stopping only
to eat. He read Carlos Castaneda, Sigmund Freud, Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
Arthur Conan Doyle, Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, and as much true
crime as he could get his hands on. His favorite books were about serial
killers.
Through the books, Richard acquired insights into human nature and the
world he’d never known existed. The more he read, the more certain he
became that society was hypocritical and malicious and would cut you up
and spit you out like so much cow cud if you let it happen
Catholics, all trying to convert him and turn him away from the clutches of
Satan. And there were letters from women who wanted to mother him and
show him the difference between right and wrong. One nurse who’d lost her
son felt that Richard, because he didn’t have her love, had gone astray and
understandably vented his anger with guns, knives, and fists. There was
also Tamara, a full-figured redhead who had made an altar with Richard’s
picture on it and a black candle always burning. She’d later say, “I used to
go to a cemetery in Santa Ana and sit on a tombstone and write Richard
poems and letters. I think he’s gorgeous.”
But Richard wrote only to Eva and to his family.
“If it weren’t for the books and the letters, I would have done myself in,”
he later confided.
It was not only letters people sent him, but also books. It was during the
weeks and months before, during, and after the preliminary hearing that he
became “a book junkie.” He read all day and all night. Frequently he
couldn’t sleep at all and would read for several days straight, stopping only
to eat. He read Carlos Castaneda, Sigmund Freud, Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
Arthur Conan Doyle, Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, and as much true
crime as he could get his hands on. His favorite books were about serial
killers.
Through the books, Richard acquired insights into human nature and the
world he’d never known existed. The more he read, the more certain he
became that society was hypocritical and malicious and would cut you up
and spit you out like so much cow cud if you let it happen
