Under The Knife – Episode 3: Victorian Anti-Masturbation Devices

In the 3rd Episode of Under The Knife, I discuss the medical thinking behind Victorian anti-masturbation devices, and the surprising history of one of the world’s most beloved breakfast cereals.  Alex Anstey, Adrian Teal and I have worked hard on this video – we hope you like it!

If you enjoy Under The Knife, please consider becoming a patron of our project. Producing high quality content is time-consuming and expensive, so we could really use your support! We’re offering fun perks, like postcards, DVDs, artwork and even a chance to get animated into the series! Click here for more info.

Holding a Book Bound in Human Skin

B3It is hot and muggy in the upstairs gallery of Surgeons’ Hall in Edinburgh. I walk past shelves upon shelves of jars that contain 18th-century specimens suspended in liquid: an amputated arm here, a cancerous bowel there. Compared with the lower level of the museum, it is eerily quiet up here. This section is not open to the public and so these objects are rarely gazed upon with such naked curiosity as I am experiencing now.

In this instance, I am not Dr Lindsey Fitzharris, medical historian. I am as inquisitive as any person who would be granted access to the collection up here, bubbling over with questions and observations about the bits of body parts floating before my eyes. But before I can seek answers to these questions, I must first view the object I’ve come to write about: a pocketbook bound in the skin of the 19th-century murderer, William Burke.

B2I make my way to the end of the gallery where the Director of Heritage, Chris Henry, is standing in the corner. In his gloved hand, he holds the notorious pocketbook which has attracted tourists from around the world to Surgeons’ Hall for decades. I have never seen it outside of a glass case. It looks less ‘sacred’ without the dim spotlights and laminated cards describing its origins.

It looks almost normal.

But of course, it isn’t normal. Far from it. In 1828, William Burke and William Hare murdered 16 people over the course of 10 months. Masquerading as bodysnatchers, the two murderers then sold the fresh corpses onto surgeons in Edinburgh where the bodies were then dissected in private anatomy schools dotted around the city.

Burke and Hare were eventually apprehended when one of their victims was discovered in the dissection room of Dr Robert Knox, who had been purchasing many of the suspiciously fresh bodies from the two men over the past several months. Hare turned King’s evidence and was released, while Burke took the blame and was sentenced to death. What awaited him at the end of the rope was much worse than even he could imagine.


Chris hands me a pair of white gloves. He’s an expert on this object, so the interview flows easily. He regales me with stories about how it came into existence, telling me that Burke’s body was privately dissected as a mob of several hundred people gathered outside the surgeons’ window demanding to be let in.

As Chris speaks, it suddenly happens. He hands me the pocketbook, almost as if he is handing me any book from a library shelf. I can’t feel it in the same way I would if I wasn’t wearing gloves, but I have a visceral reaction to the object nonetheless. This is the actual skin of a notorious murderer–a man I had been reading about for years in my own research.

Burke1This is the closest I will ever get to Burke’s physical self. It’s as if I’ve reached out and touched his arm, which of course I just may have given the material this object is made from.

After my initial reaction, I begin inspecting the pocketbook more carefully. It is remarkably well preserved considering this was meant to be a functioning item. Indeed, the original pencil that came with the pocketbook is still tucked neatly inside its covers. Looking at it, I can hardly believe someone would use it to carry money. Even for me–the Queen of Macabre–this is all a bit too much.

Its covers are soft and pliable after all these years, reminding me that this was indeed used on a regular basis. In faded gold letters, the front reads: BURKE’S SKIN POCKET BOOK. When I turn it over in my hands, the words–EXECUTED 28 JAN 1829–complete the story.

B5Emma Black, who heads public engagement at the museum, talks to me after the interview. As with any museum containing human specimens, Surgeons’ Hall has several pieces on display that are controversial. Interestingly, Burke’s skin book isn’t often mentioned as one of them. She wonders if, given the atrocity of the crimes committed, some of us have come to accept that this object is suitable for display. At the time, the dissection and book acted as a further punishment for Burke’s crimes and was seen as a form of justice which fitted the horrific nature of the murders themselves. Burke’s skeleton is also on display at the University of Edinburgh’s Anatomical Museum (right).

For me, however, the pocketbook is much more than this. It represents the growing need for bodies in the dissection room at the beginning of the 19th century, and the willingness by some anatomists to turn a blind eye to the dubious doings of those who procured the dead on their behalf.

In short, the pocketbook represents a dark and sordid part of our medical history.

After several minutes, I hand the pocketbook back to Emma. Once more back in its case, the object takes on that ‘sacred’ glow.

If you enjoy reading my articles, please consider becoming a patron of The Chirurgeon’s Apprentice. Support my content by clicking HERE.

*Please note that Surgeons’ Hall Museum is closed for redevelopment and will reopen in Summer 2015. 

Death is All Around Us: The Plague Pits of London


If you walk down Victoria Street in London on a beautiful, sunny afternoon, you’ll find dozens of picnickers sitting in Christchurch Gardens. Some will be suited up in jackets and ties, clutching briefcases in one hand and local supermarket sandwiches in another. Others will be tourists taking a moment to rest their wary bones before heading down the road to visit Parliament Square or Westminster Abbey. And then there are ‘the loungers’—youths sprawled out on bed sheets, iPods blasting in their eardrums, books pushed up to their noses.

Most if not all of these people will be unaware that they are sitting atop a 17th-century plague pit.

P6‘Death is all around us’ is not just a turn of phrase. It’s an actual fact, at least for those living in London. When the bubonic plague swept through the city in 1665, over 100,000 people perished. Those more poetically inclined might say these people ‘disappeared’ off the face of this Earth, as if by magic. But the truth of the matter is that they didn’t disappear. They suffered excruciating and agonizing deaths, and left behind thousands upon thousands of stinking, rotting corpses in the wake of their collective demise.

Where, exactly, did these bodies go?

Well, for starters, they were buried in Christchurch Gardens, and other areas of London which could accommodate burial pits in the 17th century. You can find them dotted all around the city, in places you wouldn’t expect because modern constructions like supermarkets, theatres and apartment buildings make it difficult to imagine a time when most of London was blissfully devoid of concrete structures. There are plague pits located in Vincent Square, Holywell Mount, and Knightsbridge Green—to name but a few. You can even find the remnants of one beneath Aldgate Underground Station. [For a comprehensive list, click here].

At first, those who died from the plague were laid to rest in churchyards, like the ‘ordinary’ dead. But as more and more people succumbed to the disease, the churchyards became overcrowded. On any given day, there could be as many as 300 deaths in a single parish. The poorer areas of London—where people were crammed together in terribly unhygienic conditions—were hit hardest. Even today, you can see the effects of the plague in Clerkenwell and Southwark, where the churchyards are above street level due to the number of bodies buried beneath.

The epidemiology of the disease contributed to the problem—something I discuss in detail in Episode 2 of Under The Knife. Plague is caused by a bacterium called yersinia pestis, and takes three forms: bubonic, pneumonic and septicemic. All three are highly contagious, though pneumonic is the worst since the bacterium is concentrated in the lungs which causes the victim to cough violently, spreading the disease to anyone in close proximity. Under the Plague Orders of 1666:

[I]f any House be Infected, the sick person or persons [shall] be forthwith removed to the said pest-house, sheds, or huts, for the preservation of the rest of the Family: And that such house (though none be dead therein) be shut up for fourty [sic] days, and have a Red Cross, and Lord have mercy upon us, in Capital Letters affixed on the door… [1]

In a period when the law dictated that you be literally shut up in the house where someone else had contracted a deadly disease, it is easy to understand how so many people perished so quickly.


At this time, funeral processions and other public gatherings were also suspended in a futile attempt to stop the spread of plague. In some parishes, people would come rumbling through the streets at night with large carts to collect the dead. Burials of plague victims were almost always done at night under the new regulations. This was done, again, to help control the spread of disease, as far less people would be out wandering the streets at midnight than would be at midday.

In the wake of this disaster, emergency pits were dug to dispose of the dead. Not only was this the quickest way to bury plague victims, but it was also the cheapest as many families were not able or willing to contribute to the cost of burial during this crisis.

In Daniel Defoe’s Journal of a Plague Year, he describes one such pit.

A terrible pit it was, and I could not resist my curiosity to go and see it. As near as I may judge, it was about forty feet in length, and about fifteen or sixteen feet broad, and at the time I first looked at it, about nine feet deep; but it was said they dug it near twenty feet deep afterwards in one part of it, till they could go no deeper for the water… [2]

P4Mass graves were never dug in London outside of epidemics, and contrary to popular belief, the dead were not thrown into them haphazardly. Excavations reveal that bodies were laid out in a respectful, orderly fashion. Nor can we assume the land used to bury plague victims was unconsecrated. The lack of documents on this issue is probably symptomatic of the fact that these pits came about at the height of the epidemic, when mundane tasks like record-keeping were not at the top of anyone’s ‘to-do’ list. [3]

It’s worth noting that burial pits in London were born out of necessity and not purely as a way of segregating infected bodies from non-infected bodies, like in many European cities. In 1630, Florence banned the burial of suspected plague victims in the city, insisting instead that they be buried ‘in the countryside far from the high roads, a hundred arms’-lengths from the houses’. In Paris, those who died from plague were allowed to be buried in churchyards, but not the church itself. In one instance, a young man was dug up several months after he died (when the danger of infection had passed) and reburied in his ancestral chapel alongside his other kin. [4]

So, who was given the grisly task of burying these plague-riddled bodies in the 17th century? Well, it’s difficult to know. Undoubtedly, local gravediggers took on some of the work. Also, people who had contracted and survived the plague might perform these grim duties, as the job could be quite lucrative. That said, officials knew how high mortality rates were amongst gravediggers and sometimes withheld payment while still expecting service. In Montelupo, Italy, two gravediggers were tortured after they threatened to begin burying plague victims in the mayor’s front garden because they hadn’t been paid. When the mayor himself perished from the disease, they gladly buried him! [5]


Today, we know of 35 plague pits located in London. Some have been excavated; some we know about because of contemporary sources. The majority of these sites were originally on the grounds of churches, but as the death toll rose, pits were also dug in fields surrounding the city.

The truth is that the total number of plague pits could easily be in the hundreds given the number of people who died during the epidemic. Sadly, we’ll never know. Many of these burial pits are lost to history, much like the names of the thousands of people who perished during the Great Plague.

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1. The National Archives, London. Orders for the prevention of the plague, 1666 (SP29/155 f.102).
2. Daniel Defoe, A Journal of the Plague Year (Penguin Classics edition, 1986), p. 246.
3. Vanessa Harding, ‘Burial of the Plague Dead in Early Modern London’, in Epidemic Disease in London, ed. J.A.I. Champion (1993), pp. 53-64.
4. Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris. MS Fr 32589 (extracts from parish registers of Saint André des Arts): burials on 5/11/1580, 15/9/1591 (exhumed and reburied 2/4/1592), 23/8/1606, 1/7/1628. Originally quoted in Harding, ‘Burial of the Plague Dead’.
5. Joseph P Byrne, Encyclopedia of Black Death (2012), p. 166.

Under The Knife – Episode 2: The Plague Doctor

In the 2nd Episode of Under The Knife, I discuss the history of bubonic plague and that notorious beaked mask that has come to symbolize one of the world’s most terrifying diseases. Alex Anstey, Adrian Teal and I have worked hard on this video – we hope you like it!

If you enjoy Under The Knife, please consider becoming a patron of our project. Producing high quality content is time-consuming and expensive, so we could really use your support! We’re offering fun perks, like postcards, DVDs, artwork and even a chance to get animated into the series! Click here for more info.

Resurrecting the Body Snatchers: The Halloween Edition


I’ve written about body snatchers several times on this site, and each time, readers ask for more. Given that it’s Halloween, I thought I would give into that request and return to the subject in a longer, more comprehensive article about these fascinating creatures from the early 19th century. Happy Halloween!

It is half past two in the morning on October 10th, 1777. The new moon casts a bluish light over St George’s burial ground off Hanover Square in London. Two men, clad in dark clothes, enter the cemetery. They have been tipped off by the grave-digger who accompanies them that the body of Mrs. Jane Sainsbury was buried earlier that day.

Carefully, they navigate around the tombstones until they come to the freshly dug grave. With spades and shovels, they begin soundlessly removing the dark, damp earth, digging deeper and deeper into the ground. Within fifteen minutes, they hit a hard, solid structure: the coffin. One man readies a cloth sack while the other two pry the lid open. A terrible odour escapes: the smell of death. The woman’s eyes have sunk deep into her skull. Her jaw hangs open, stretching her lips into a ghoulish grin.

All three struggle to remove the rotting corpse from its wooden enclosure and strip it of its clothes and burial shroud. Slowly, the woman’s fleshy remains are stuffed inside the sack, limb by limb. One snatcher tosses the woman’s possessions carelessly into the coffin while another silently shuts the lid. All three begin to shovel dirt back over the gravesite, hoisting the sack up as the hole slowly fills.

The job is finished in less than thirty minutes. [1]

_100The words ‘body snatcher’ conjure up all kinds of sordid images: crude men with fingernails caked in dirt; corpses crammed into sacks, bodily fluids leaking through the cloth; murder. But the truth is that relatively little is known about the men who stole away in the middle of the night to collect bodies for the anatomists and their students in the 18th and 19th centuries. Yet, they are an important and integral part of our medical past.

During the 17th century, medical students in London were not required to study anatomy or physiology through clinical dissection. The act of cutting open dead bodies was generally believed to be ‘noe more able to direct a physician how to cure a disease than how to make a man’. [2] This is not to say, however, that medical students knew nothing of anatomy. Many attended public dissections conducted by the Barber Surgeons Company. There, they observed and watched, but did not participate (see above, dissected skull from Museum of London Archaeology).

This changed in the 18th century with the proliferation of private medical schools that gave students an opportunity to learn anatomy through dissection. To do this, however, bodies were needed. Lots of bodies.


From what little records exist, we know that body snatchers required some level of moonlight in order to conduct their work in cemeteries, although not all bodies were obtained through exhumation. The body snatchers might steal as many as six bodies in a single night and often worked in small gangs which fought each other for a monopoly over the cadaver trade. This might involve desecrating a graveyard that supplied bodies to a rival gang in order to arouse fury from the local population who would then secure the cemetery, making it difficult for future attempts.

_100Cemeteries underwent dramatic makeovers as the public’s fear over body-snatching escalated. Mortsafes (left)—or iron grills—were placed over gravesites to prevent snatchers from disturbing the dead. Loose stones were put on top of surrounding walls, making it nearly impossible to scale. Churchyards became fortified with spring guns and primitive land mines. Cemetery ‘clubs’ were formed in which members would watch new graves until ‘decomposition rendered the cadavers useless for anatomical instruction’. [3]

In one instance, a father—grieving over the recent loss of his child—enclosed a ‘small box, [with] some deathful apparatus, communicating by means of wires, with the four corners, to be fastened to the top of the coffin’. As the child was lowered into the ground, he threw gunpowder into the box so that ‘the hidden machinery [was] put into a state of readiness for execution’. [4]

During this period, a human corpse did not legally constitute property, and therefore punishment for stealing one was not nearly as severe as the general populace thought it should be. In 1832, two medical students in Inversek—a village just outside Edinburgh—were caught trying to steal a body from a local churchyard. After being kept in a private house over night, they were moved to a prison at their own request because they believed it was a ‘place of greater security from the threatened vengeance of the outraged citizens.’ The next day:

…a crowd of several hundreds assembled round the gaol, provided with axes and other implements to break it open, and do execution upon the offenders, who … had been previously remitted to the sheriff. [5]

_100The general population abhorred body snatchers and the surgeons who employed them, and went to great lengths to prevent their loved ones from ending up on the dissection table. Coffin collars, like the one seen on the right, were invented to thwart the inexhaustible efforts of the resurrection men. These was fixed around the necks of a corpse and bolted to the bottom of a coffin, making it nearly impossible to remove the body from its grave.

Cemetery guns, as well, were designed to keep body snatchers at bay. These were set up at the foot of a grave, with three tripwires strung in an arc around its position. Those unfortunate enough to stumble upon one in the dead of night may find themselves in a grave of their own.

As ingenious as these devices were, they only protected the dead whose families were wealthy enough to purchase them. It is not a surprise, then, that many of the bodies that ended up in the hands of the surgeons were those of the poor. Making the jobs of the body snatchers even easier was the fact that many paupers were buried in pits which would remain open, sometimes for several weeks. One resurrectionist wrote:

I like to get those of poor people buried from the workhouses, because, instead of working for one subject, you may get three or four; I do not think, during the time I have been in the habit of working for the school, I got half a dozen of wealthier people. [6]

Historian Ruth Richardson points out that the depth of pits varied ‘depending on land available, soil type, and the pecuniary interests of those involved in graveyard “management.”’ [7] Some pits were as deep as twenty feet. In St Botolph’s, Aldgate, two men died at the bottom of one such pit from asphyxiation after stumbling into it in the 1830s.


The body snatchers continue to live in the public’s imagination as criminals of the lowest form, partly because so little is known about them. Reports about their alleged activities are often exaggerated in newspapers and literature from the period. In 1824, the surgeon, William Mackenzie, complained that a week rarely passed without ‘the circulation of exaggerated stories of atrocities in the procuring of subjects for dissection’. [8]

But, of course, body snatchers were hugely important to medical schools at that time. Their presence could not be avoided. On 8 October 1793, James Williams—a 16 year-old surgical student—described his living quarters in John Hunter’s anatomy school to his sister living in Worcester. He wrote:

My room has two beds in it and in point of situation is not the most pleasant in the world. The Dissecting Room with half a dozen dead bodies in it is immediately above and that in which Mr Hunter makes preparations is the next adjoining to it, so that you may conceive it to be a little perfumed. There is a dead carcase just at this moment rumbling up the stairs and the Resurrection Men swearing most terribly. I am informed this will be the case most mornings about four o’clock throughout the winter. [8]

Before the discovery of anesthetics, surgery was a brutal affair. The patient had to be restrained during an operation; the pain might be so great that he or she would pass out. Dangerous amounts of blood could be lost. The risk of dying was high; the risk of infection was even higher. The surgeon was so feared that in many cases, patients waited until it was too late before approaching one for help.

Dead bodies, on the other hand, could not scream out in agony, nor would they bleed when sliced open. In this way, the novice could learn how to remove a bladder stone or amputate a gangrenous arm at his own leisure, observing the anatomical structures of the human body as he went along. Ultimately, this prepared the student to operate on the living (see 19th-century dissection table below from the Science Museum, London).

18th/19th century wooden dissecting table from the Doctors, Diss

In this way, body snatchers were crucial to the advancement of medicine. Unfortunately, historians find it difficult to track them as they often use numerous aliases to hide their true identities. One snatcher may appear in multiple court records under half a dozen names. There is simply no way to know.

It is unlikely that many body snatchers were murderers. The punishment for stealing a body was too low; the punishment for murder was too high. The payout for a body was the same no matter how one procured it. Yet undeniably, the resurrection men are a part of the medical profession’s dark and sordid past—a past that for the most part has received only cursory acknowledgement.

Still, we must ask ourselves where we would be today without the body snatchers and the bodies which they stole.

If you enjoy reading my articles, please consider becoming a patron of The Chirurgeon’s Apprentice. Support my content by clicking HERE.


1. Based loosely off a true account. The three body snatchers were eventually apprehended. One was acquitted while the other two were sentenced to six months imprisonment. They were paraded through the streets and whipped publicly. L. Benson, The Book of Remarkable Trials and Notorious Characters (1872?).
2. Probably the fragment of 1668, Anatomie, most of which is in John Locke’s hand. Originally quoted in Andrew Cunningham, ‘The Kinds of Anatomy’, Medical History (1975), p. 3.
3. Ian Ross and Carol Urquhart Ross, ‘Body Snatching in Nineteenth Century Britain: from Exhumation to Murder’, British Journal of Law and Society (Summer, 1979), p. 114.
4. J.B. Bailey, The Diary of a Resurrectionist: 1811-1812 (1896), p. 80.
5. True Sun, 29-5-1832. Originally qtd in Ruth Richardson, Death, Dissection and the Destitute (1987),
6. Ibid., p. 60.
7. Ibid.
8. MacKenzie, ‘An Appeal to the Public and to the Legislature, on the Necessity of Affording Dead Bodies to the Schools of Anatomy, by Legislature Enactment’, Westminster Review (1824), pp. 83-86.
9.Qtd in Jesse Dobson, John Hunter (1969), p. 178.

1 Million Hits!


I’m thrilled to announce that The Chirurgeon’s Apprentice has just surpassed 1 million hits. Wow, what a journey it’s been! I’m constantly surprised by the interest this site generates each and every year, and am deeply grateful to you, my readers, for your continued love of medical history. In honour of this milestone, I’ve put together some fun stats about The Chirurgeon’s Apprentice.

Incidentally, if you enjoy this site and want to help support the free content I provide here so that I can continue doing so in the years to come, please consider becoming a patron by clicking here. I am ever so grateful for your support.

Total Hits: 1,006,092

  • Best Day: July 27, 2014 (33,163 hits)
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Top 5 Most Popular Articles

  1. Death’s Doll: The World’s Most Beautiful Mummy (88,525 hits)
  2. Behind the Mask: The Plague Doctor (58,042 hits)
  3. Losing One’s Head: The Frustrating Search for the Truth about Decapitation (54,132 hits)
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Disturbing Disorders: Cotard’s Delusion (Walking Corpse Syndrome)

C4In 1880, a middle-aged woman paid a visit to the French neurologist, Jules Cotard (pictured below), complaining of an unusual predicament. She believed she had ‘no brain, no nerves, no chest, no stomach, no intestines’. Mademoiselle X, as Cotard dubbed her in his notes, told the physician she was ‘nothing more than a decomposing body’. She believed neither God nor Satan existed, and that she had no soul. As she could not die a natural death, she had ‘no need to eat’.

Mademoiselle X later died of starvation. [1]

Although this peculiar condition eventually became known as ‘Cotard’s Delusion’ the French neurologist was not the first to describe it. In 1788—nearly 100 years earlier—Charles Bonnet reported the case of an elderly woman who was preparing a meal in her kitchen when a draught ‘struck her forcefully on the neck’ paralyzing her one side ‘as if hit by a stroke’. When she regained the ability to speak, she demanded that her daughters ‘dress her in a shroud and place her in her coffin’ since she was, in fact, dead.

[T]he ‘dead woman’ became agitated and began to scold her friends vigorously for their negligence in not offering her this last service; and as they hesitated even longer, she became extremely impatient, and began to press her maid with threats to dress her as a dead person. Eventually everybody thought it was necessary to dress her like a corpse and to lay her out in order to calm her down. The old lady tried to make herself look as neat as possible, rearranging tucks and pins, inspecting the seam of her shroud, and was expressing dissatisfaction with the whiteness of her linen. In the end she fell asleep, and was then undressed and put into bed.

_1Hoping to break her spell, a physician attended her bedside and administered a ‘powder of precious stones mixed with opium’. Eventually, the woman did awake from her delusional state; however, she continuously redeveloped her paroxysm every three months for the rest of her life. During the periods when she thought that she was dead ‘she talked to people who had long been dead, preparing dinners for them and hosting the occasion somberly and constantly’. [2]

Today, the condition is sometimes referred to as ‘Walking Corpse Syndrome’. Although rare, people are still diagnosed as suffering from nihilistic delusional beliefs that they are dead and no longer exist. Occasionally, the condition is characterized by a belief that one is missing essential body parts or organs, as in the a case of a 28-year-old pregnant woman who thought her liver was ‘putrefying’ and that her heart was ‘altogether missing.’

In 2013, New Scientist interviewed a man named Graham Harrison, who had attempted suicide 9 years earlier by taking an electrical appliance with him into the bath, and awoke in the hospital believing he was dead. He said:

When I was in hospital I kept on telling them that the tablets weren’t going to do me any good ’cause my brain was dead. I lost my sense of smell and taste. I didn’t need to eat, or speak, or do anything. I ended up spending time in the graveyard because that was the closest I could get to death.

It was his brain which had died. He had fried it, or so he thought. Doctors tried to rationalize with him, but to no avail. Eventually, Graham was referred to Dr Adam Zeman, a neurologist at the University of Exeter, and Dr Steven Laureys, a neurologist at University of Liège. They used positron emission tomography (PET) to monitor his metabolism. What they found was unsettling.

‘Graham’s brain function resembles that of someone during anaesthesia or sleep. Seeing this pattern in someone who is awake is quite unique to my knowledge’, Dr Laureys told New Scientist. ‘I’ve been analysing PET scans for 15 years and I’ve never seen anyone who was on his feet, who was interacting with people, with such an abnormal scan result’. The below image shows the areas of Graham’s brain which are underactive (coloured in blue) in comparison with a healthy person.


Graham is the only patient with Cotard’s Delusion to have undergone a PET scan, and therefore scientists can draw few conclusions about the results since they have no basis for comparison. The condition has been tentatively linked to bipolar disorder in young people, as well as severe depression and schizophrenia in older patients. Treatment of the condition is varied. Typically, those suffering from it are put on a combination of anti-depressants and anti-psychotic drugs, although electroconvulsive therapy has also been known to be successful.

For Graham, psychotherapy and drug treatment has helped ebbed the symptoms of Cotard’s Delusion, though it’s been a long, hard journey. Over the past decade, he could often be found sitting in local graveyards in an attempt to get closer to death. ‘The police would come and get me, though, and take me home’, he said. [3]

Graham is one of the lucky ones. Many who have suffered from the condition in the past have died from starvation, and some have even resorted to pouring acid on themselves in an effort to stop being one of the ‘walking dead’. One thing is for certain: Cotard’s Delusion, or ‘Walking Corpse Syndrome,’ illustrates just how little we still know about the human brain in the 21st century.

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1. Berrios G.E & Luque R, ‘Cotard’s Delusion or Syndrome: A Conceptual History’, Comprehensive Psychiatry, 36:3 (May/June, 1995), p. 218.
2. Hans Forstl and Barbara Beats, ‘Charles Bonnet’s Description of Cotard’s Delusion and Reduplicative Paramnesia in an Elderly Patient (1788)’, British Journal of Psychiatry (1992), p. 417.
3. Helen Thomson, ‘Mindscapes: First Interview with a Dead Man’, New Scientist (23 May 2013).