Booth families have generally proven to work easier when it comes to metaphysics. Their patriarch, Junius Brutus Booth, one of the most famous actors of the time, also held a pigeon funeral, dug up the grave of her daughter once, and sucked her “impure” blood to revive her. It was a unique person who tried. Some sons took over him with his career path and his peculiarities. Edwin was afraid of ivy vines and peacock feathers. The youngest Joe once fled to Australia without warning and then spent years exploring some sort of vision.
What about Lincoln’s final murderer? According to one modern journalist quoted here, “his heart was a haunted house.” But even Alford, whose 2015 book Fortunes Fool: The Life of John Wilkes Booth was a finalist at the National Critics Circle Awards, is the source of mania who has become a well-known performer without a particular political will. No real eradication or a belief in the bubbling radicals who are willing to unleash democracy as well as die for the Southern cause (although he really seemed to hate domestic cats). Booth’s enthusiastic belief that Lincoln had a king’s design in the dictatorship and only he could stop it somehow passed, like another habit of artistic temperament. It seems that.
Whims are one thing for an actor. That’s something completely different for the incumbent president. And the cool logic of a trained lawyer (“impulsive, fantasy, not imaginative, but cold, calm, accurate and accurate,” according to his longtime legal partner) is almost a primitive superstition. It seemed to live with a sense of incongruity with the set. For example, unlucky numbers were so worried about Lincoln that he once reportedly refused to sit at the table thirteenth. The news of such a habit was mana for his enemies. He envisioned a Daft administration run by a rap table. land. “Nancy Reagan may not be fortune-telling foreign policy from astrologers, but it’s not too far away.
Beyond the entertainment of dinner parties and the prospect of spoiling an increasingly benevolent wife, Lincoln had at least one good reason to believe. In an 11-year-old bid, both Lincolns disappeared. Set against the wider landscape of the Civil War, where mass casualties had already carved deep wounds in a toxicly divided country, he sought comfort with something supernatural, or at least it’s clever performance. Isn’t it strange?
