Word: bodenheimer
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...Weinberg confessed to murdering Greenwich Village Poet-Novelist Maxwell Bodenheim and Bodenheim's wife. A former mental patient, he appeared in court for arraignment on the charges and began singing The Star-Spangled Banner. "Are you a Communist?" he asked the magistrate. Minutes later he interrupted his court-appointed lawyer and began pounding his desk. "I need some big-shot attorney who believes in the American flag. I don't want any lawyer. I'm for the public. The public is for me. I'm normal." His outburst made his condition clear. He was declared unfit...
...last week, as he walked under guard into the hearing, he broke down. "Kill me, kill me," he shouted incoherently. "Nobody say anything in this court. I do all the talking." Pointing at his lawyer, he said, "He killed Maxwell Bodenheim. I saw him. Send him to Matteawan for the rest of his life." Justice George Carney finally said, "Take him out." As the door closed behind him, Weinberg screamed, "Don't send me back to Matteawan, please, your honor." Said Justice Carney: "I hope he will be given a more careful examination this time...
...Chicago literary movement just before World War I, he tried to temper his fondness for cadavers with pious offerings at the shrine of The Little Review. In its inner circle a young man might hear anything from a first reading of Sandburg's Chicago to Maxwell Bodenheim's murmuring cottony love messages into the rapt ears of plump bluestockings ("Your face is an incense bowl from which a single name rises...
...heyday, Max Bodenheim was one of the literary lions of the U.S. A native of Mississippi, he came to Chicago as a young man and for a time lit up the literary sky as the editorial partner of Ben Hecht. In the '20s, when he settled down in Greenwich Village, Max hit his bohemian crescendo. A lusty, limpidly handsome man. he attracted women by the scores (at least two of his castoff in amoratas committed suicide). By 1935, though, Bodenheim was no longer in vogue. Sales of his murky verse (Minna and Myself) and erotic novels (Replenishing Jessica) dwindled...
...meal or free flop from old friends. Despite his stubbled chin and unshorn hair, Max managed to preserve a certain courtly Southern dignity, and when the news of his death got around the Village this week, there was genuine sadness. At the San Remo Cafe, Caricaturist Jake Spencer smashed Bodenheim's personal gin glass and proposed a toast. "Max was a splendid type," he said. "He used to write poetry in a booth here and then try to peddle the verse at the bar for a drink...