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A CRIMINAL HISTORY OF MANKIND

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exterminated, and that therefore he had nothing to live for. Emotionally, he was in a vacuum. Yet<br />

this is clearly an unnatural state for any human being, particularly for one like Panzram. The<br />

autobiography reveals that he has the makings of a ‘self-actualiser’. Lesser was surprised to find<br />

that he had read most of the major works on prison reform - no doubt stimulated by Warden<br />

Murphy; Panzram also read philosophy in jail, including Schopenhauer and Kant. (He seems to<br />

have borrowed his pessimism from Schopenhauer.) Yet this man, whose self-esteem was so high<br />

that he would allow himself to be tortured for days without giving way, had never achieved the<br />

most basic levels of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs - for ‘security’ and for ‘belongingness’.<br />

“In a sense, therefore, Lesser’s present of the dollar was the cruellest thing he could have done. It<br />

testified that there was decency and kindness in the world. And this in turn meant that Panzram<br />

might, if he had made the effort, have achieved some kind of fulfilment in life. The mechanics of<br />

conversion demand that the sinner should make a full confession; and this is what Panzram<br />

immediately proceeded to do. Yet with twenty murders on his conscience, many of them children,<br />

he knew there could be no absolution. It was too late, far too late. He had thrown away his chances.<br />

The implication of Abbott’s book is that people like himself and Panzram never had a chance from<br />

the beginning. But is this true? Panzram had at least one chance, under Warden Murphy. Abbott<br />

had at least one chance, when his book was accepted. Both threw them away. The real problem<br />

seems to date from their original assumption that life had no intention of treating them fairly.<br />

According to Panzram, he was cuffed and kicked as a child and came to hate his mother. ‘Before I<br />

left [home] I looked around and figured that one of our neighbours who was rich and had a nice<br />

home full of nice things, he had too much and I had too little.’ So he burgled the house and landed<br />

in reform school. There again, he claims, ‘everything I seemed to do was wrong’, so he was<br />

punished and struck back viciously. ‘Then I began to think that I would have my revenge... If I<br />

couldn’t injure those who had injured me, then I would injure someone else.’ This weird logic of<br />

revenge was already fully formed by the age of thirteen. And it was clearly based on self-pity, on<br />

the notion that ‘the world’ had treated him badly. So instead of using his considerable intelligence<br />

and willpower to achieve success - and in that age he might have become anything from a circus<br />

stunt man to a movie star - he wasted himself in crimes of petty resentment.<br />

Panzram also implies that he was in some way not to blame for his crimes - that if the tiger cub is<br />

badly treated it can be expected to turn savage. There is an obvious element of truth in this; but it<br />

manages to leave out of account the whole question of free choice: the decision ‘to be out of<br />

control’ that seems common to violent criminals.<br />

Panzram’s pattern of revolt is not unique; it can be seen in many criminals whose background and<br />

upbringing were completely unlike his. A case in point is the English ‘acid bath murderer’ John<br />

Haigh, executed in 1949 for six murders. A few years before this, Bernard Shaw and his secretary<br />

Blanche Patch were lunching at the Onslow Court Hotel, where Miss Patch lived, and Haigh was at<br />

the next table. A child sitting nearby dropped one of those toy bombs containing an explosive cap,<br />

and Haigh leaned over and snarled: ‘If you do that again I’ll kill you.’ According to Miss Patch,<br />

who told me this story in 1956, Shaw then commented that Haigh would end on the gallows. It<br />

seems as if he had instinctively recognised the ‘decision to be out of control’ that is characteristic<br />

of the violent criminal.<br />

Yet in every other respect, Haigh and Panzram were as unlike as possible. Haigh was the son of<br />

fond parents, of strong religious inclination; he was a brilliant musician who won a scholarship to a<br />

grammar school and became a choirboy. He loved good clothes and fast cars, and in due course a

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