I've been re-reading Victor Hugo's last novel, Ninety-Three, as in 1793, the year when a popular rebellion in Brittany threatened the revolutionary republicans in Paris.
The guillotine makes a prominent appearance in the wild tale.
So imagine my surprise today when I read about a man in Michigan who built his own guillotine, and chopped off his own noggin.
On the one hand, it's more considerate than stepping in front of a train.
But frankly, it creeps me out.
I get the disturbing impression
This thing was a labor of love,
A project he really enjoyed,
Some darkly desirous obsession
To end all desiring, to shove
Himself, head first, toward the void.