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PHILIPPA TURNER
A
Little Gem from the Master of the Doorstop
The Vanished Landscape: A 1930's
Childhood in the Potteries
Paul Johnson
Weidenfeld & Nicolson – 216pp.
0297847724 – £16.99
In this short, autobiographical
portrait of a childhood in the North Staffordshire town of Turnstall in
the ‘Hungry Thirties’, Paul Johnson, Spectator columnist and author of
such panoramic tomes as A History of
The American People, certainly does conjure up a vanished
landscape, and a vanished way of life. In contrast to today’s uniform
urban sprawl and the enthralment of much of the population to
television, here we encounter the unique jolie laide landscape of the
Potteries, with smoke, sparks and flames emanating from the pot-banks
(busily baking the famous local wares); a world where children made
their own amusement, a car was a rare thing and milk was delivered by
pony and trap.
Johnson grew up in a middle-class family consisting
of mother, father, and elder siblings Tom, Clare and Elfride.
Originally they hailed from Manchester, but they moved to Turnstall
when Mr Johnson, a sensitive, talented artist, was offered the position
of headmaster at the local art school. It was he who taught ‘Little
Paul’ to draw and tell the time, and took him to the fascinating
pottery factories; but it was his mother who held the biggest influence
on the young Johnson.
A friendly and funny woman, already forty when she
gave birth to him, Mrs Johnson always treated her youngest like an
adult, relating the latest stories concerning the locals and her acute
observations to him in precise language: ‘it was like being a child of
Jane Austen’. She had a powerful memory, reciting swathes of
Shakespeare, song lyrics and poetry to her attentive son.
His elder sisters also contributed to his care.
Nature-mad Clare, who ‘ran up trees like a squirrel’ and budding poet
Elfride would often take Johnson on adventures to the local park or
nearby countryside, elucidating to him such diverse subjects as cloud
formation and Clive of India. Unsurprisingly, when at school (first St
Dominic’s, where the nuns smelt headily of ‘soap and linen’, then on to
the more austere Christian Brothers) Johnson was a voracious reader,
and would be reprimanded for quoting insalubrious chunks of Dickens.
Another blossoming passion was history, and by eight he was cycling
alone to Chester for the day to look around the roman remains.
Detail is not restricted to the Johnson family, with
many local characters recalled in delightful details. The two parish
priests are especially colourful. Fr Ryan, fierce and demanding, was
obsessed with improving his ‘aesthetic mongrel’ of a church (three and
a half domes, one Gothic tower), and thought nothing of breaking off
mid-Mass and persuading the congregation to trudge round the streets in
procession behind the Blessed Sacrament, singing ‘Faith Of Our Fathers’
just to annoy the separated brethren. Meanwhile, young Fr Cocoran, ‘so
freckly Gerard Manley-Hopkins could have written a poem to him’, spent
his time throwing his shoes at the cats who kept him awake all night
with their meowing.
By the end of the Thirties, and the book, all this
was fast disappearing. Clare and Elfride were off to university; gas
masks were being issued; and the toy soldiers Johnson had played with
all his boyhood (with figurines of John the Baptist and the actress Fay
Wray) were fading into insignificance against the real soldiers he saw
on the street.
This book is a joy to read, and often amusing. Much
comedy comes from his childhood misunderstandings of the English
language: thus when the horrid Rena Milton boasts after their First
Confession that she admitted nine sins, he is perplexed by Sr Angela’s
exclamation that ‘she has broken the Seal of Confession’ because ‘the
only seal I could think of balanced a big rubber ball on its nose, or,
in the Guinness advertisement, a full pint of stout’. Pen and wash
illustrations by the author, liberally sprinkled throughout, give an
extra personal touch to what is a delightful memoir. Warmly recommended.
Philippa Turner is a
magistrand (fourth-year) in the School of English.
MARIA BRAMBLE
The
'Phoenix' Queen
'My Heart is My Own': The Life of
Mary Queen of Scots
John Guy
Harper Perennial – 608pp.
1841157538– £8.99
John Guy’s Mary is a phoenix, the
mythical bird that rises gloriously from the ashes of its own burning
remains. In captivity, ‘In the
end is my beginning’ was Mary’s chosen motto, words borrowed
from her mother, Mary of Guise, and emblazoned on her cloth of
state. The epitaph suits a Queen whose fate was to triumph only
in death, as ‘one of the most celebrated and beguiling rulers in the
whole of British history.’ In life, however, Mary was ‘the
unluckiest ruler in British history’, a victim of ambition, deceit,
mistrust and jealousy. And it is this well-worn story, played out
once more in the most minute detail, which Guy tells.
Mary triumphed in death, and Guy’s sympathetic
narrative (he promises to ‘tell Mary’s story … in her own words’)
begins with a rather gruesome depiction of her execution. Proudly
clad in undergarments of scarlet, the liturgical colour for Roman
martyrs, Mary goes to her death dressed as a martyr to her Catholic
faith. ‘I am settled’, she said, ‘in the ancient Roman Catholic
religion, and mind to spend my blood in defence of it.’ Her crime
was treason, plotting to overthrow Elizabeth I and install herself on
the English throne, which she and many believed to be rightfully hers,
and restoring the Catholic religion, a last act of desperation to end
her years of captivity. She had been ‘done over’ so many times
that when presented with an opportunity to regain some control she took
it desperately. Mary’s Catholicism, however, was only displayed
proudly and defiantly once she had lost. As a reigning Queen, she
ardently advocated religious toleration (a practicing Catholic, she
however, had no qualms about a Protestant marriage ceremony to her
third husband, Bothwell) but once captive and desperate she sought help
from her foreign Catholic allies such as Philip II of Spain, and wore
her Catholicism proudly on her sleeve. She was persecuted because
she was Catholic.
Guy presents Mary as an extremely engaging,
beautiful, intelligent and imposing figure (standing at nearly six feet
tall, Mary would often disguise herself as a man so as to enjoy a
degree of anonymity). But as a Queen almost from birth, her fate
was to be forever a power tool. As a baby she was the subject of Henry
VIII’s ‘rough wooings’ – his policy of destruction in Scotland to force
a betrothal of Mary to his son, the future Edward VI. As regent,
her Mother Mary of Guise, perhaps the only person who truly loved Mary,
did all in her power to protect her, eventually sending her to France
to live at the French Court, under the protection of the King of
France, Henry II. This was perhaps the most peaceful and trouble
free time of Mary’s life, culminating in her ‘ideal dynastic marriage’
to the Daupin, Francis at the age of 15. Just over a year later,
they were crowned King and Queen of France. But happiness was not
to last. Within the year Francis II was dead and Mary, pushed
aside by her fearsome Mother-in-law Catherine de Medici, returned to
Scotland, at the age of nineteen, to reign as Queen in the land of her
birth. And it is here that Guy’s story begins to pick up.
Mary’s life in Scotland is the stuff of thrillers
and, although heavily weighed down throughout with complicated
politicking, at this stage the biography becomes a page-turner,
depicting love, betrayal, and murder. Despite Mary’s best efforts
to rule and maintain a level of religious toleration, she is thwarted
at every opportunity by the ambitious, factionalised Scottish Lords, in
particular her half-brother James Stuart, Earl of Moray. It is in
keeping up with the ploys and power-plays of these ambitious Lords each
wanting a chunky slice of power, that one can lose a grip on the story.
The Lords are presented as the enemies of Mary,
along with the cruel and ‘indomitable’ John Knox. But the
consistent baddie of Guy’s narrative is the shadowy and highly sinister
figure of William Cecil, Elizabeth’s chief minister and leading adviser
for forty years, who engineered the downfall and disposal of Mary from
the time of her coronation as a baby. Guy claims that ‘the
collapse of Mary’s rule in Scotland was not an accident’ but had been
engineered all along by Cecil. Driven by his ambition to secure
the British Isles as a single, Protestant community, in his mind there
was room for only one Queen and therefore sought to find and encourage
ways of undermining Mary at every turn, encouraging the first revolt
against her in 1559-1560 and then standing behind the most troublesome
Lords, the Earls Moray, Maitland and Morton. Without his support,
their efforts would have been futile. But Guy, ever sympathetic,
argues that Mary successfully ‘managed to hold together a divided and
fatally unstable country,’ handling people ‘just as masterfully as her
English cousin and counterpart.’
If ever there was an issue, however, which Mary
wanted settling, it was the question of her dynastic claim to the
English throne. As the natural successor to Elizabeth, she, from
the time of her return to Scotland as a young woman, longed for a
meeting with her ‘own dear sister’, believing her to be her closest
ally. Cecil of course dreaded such a meeting; it served his
interests to keep the two Queens apart. Elizabeth, for her part
merely ‘feared that the younger, possibly more beautiful Queen of Scots
was so magnetic, so brilliant in conversation, that she would
overshadow or surpass her.’
Where Mary failed, according to Guy, it was in her
choice of husband and it was here that her greatest failing, her
naïveté and her easy willingness to trust, were
exposed. Desperate for someone who would shield her from the
feuding Lords, Mary’s greatest error was her second marriage to the
narcissistic, ambitious and bisexual Lord Darnley. The
marriage plunged her deeper into the power plays of the Lords and when
he was ruthlessly assassinated by them, chiefly Bothwell, her demise
was secured. History implicated Mary in the plot, arguing that if
she wasn’t involved directly, she must have at least known about
it. But Guy refuting this argues that she was neither involved
nor knew about it and her affair with Bothwell did not begin until
after her husband’s death. In allowing herself to be seduced by
Bothwell and marrying him, she secured her destiny. Her errors –
as with the plot to overthrow Elizabeth – are narrated by Guy as if
Mary erred only when driven to desperation. With Darnley, another
successor to the English throne, it was desperation over Elizabeth’s
refusal to meet her and settle the dynastic claim; with Bothwell, a
true affair of the heart she was manipulated by his masculinity and
sought his protection from the Lords; and with the disastrous treason
plot, a desperate desire to end her years in captivity and to once
again be recognised as the Queen she was born to be.
‘My Heart is My Own’ depicts Mary as a Queen ‘to the
last fibre of her body and soul.’ It suggests that she would have
reigned successfully if allowed to get on with it. But Elizabeth
was jealous of her, Cecil despised her and the despicable Scottish
Lords used her for their own ambitious ends. Essentially she was
an inconvenience and was killed because of it.
Maria Bramble is a
magistrand (fourth-year) in St. Mary's College, the School of Divinity.
ROBERT O'BRIEN
The
Oxford Dictionary of National Biography
H.C.G. Matthew and Brian
Harrison, editors
Oxford University Press – Sixty volumes.
019861411X – £7.500 (US $13,000(
The new Oxford Dictionary of
National Biography was published in September, in sixty volumes, and
consists of fifty-four thousand lives, written by ten thousand
contributors, and under two editors. The project took just eight years
to complete (1992-2004). It can be located in book form in the
university library, or through an admirable web site (it nearly existed
only online). It is undoubtedly a remarkable thing. But for those of a
scholarly disposition, it is a monumental work to be surveyed with a
mixture of wonder and rage.
Until now, one used the Dictionary of National
Biography, first published in 1901 by Virginia Woolf’s father, Leslie
Stephen. It was well-written and insightful, but needed an update. To
get into it, of course, you had to be dead – Queen Victoria timed her
death well to get in, but some like Gerard Manley Hopkins and the
peculiar Baron Corvo had also died well in good time, but were passed
over. The DNB continued to publish supplements through the twentieth
century, including a ‘Missing Persons’ volume in 1996, which filled
these lacunae. The ODNB surpasses its predecessor at least in coverage,
being 42% bigger, an increase reflected not merely in modern entries
but across the centuries.
Biography is the undoubted flagship of modern
writing in English. Industries have arisen around certain figures (Dr
Johnson enjoys what is known as a biographical literature), and writers
plan ahead for centenaries of births, deaths, battles, and so forth.
What is the present appeal of biography? Perhaps at its best the genre
offers the narrative of a novel with the reassurance that the reader is
still in ‘the real world’. The biographer is a sort of cross-breed, one
half historian and the other novelist. But fundamentally, literary
biography (or just plain biography) is the genre for high-brow gossips
– that, if I may insult my reader, accounts for most of us.
Criticisms
No-one thinks we would be better off without it, but
the ODNB has come in for a bit of a hammering in the learned journals.
In the London Review of Books, Stephan Collini gave the thing the
thumbs up, and reminded us that he wrote 0.025% of it. But, despite the
fact that what must be a sizeable proportion of the eminent academic
population have a hand in it, and so have a vested interest in its
promotion, there has been not only criticism from outside but also
dissention in the ranks.
Mr. and Mrs. Arthur
Freeman Unleash
Arthur Freeman, who is responsible for two no doubt
immaculate entries on the nineteenth century book-world, has submitted
a damning, savage letter to the TLS
(February 11, 2005). His criticisms are aimed at inaccuracies in
numerous second- and third-rate figures, on whom the ODNB’s credibility
must rest. For the really pre-eminent figures in the national memory,
one need not turn to the ODNB (though there are many exemplary entries
on the big names, such as Pat Roger’s life of Samuel Johnson). But,
where, asks Freeman, is he to go to find out about William Chetwood or
Thomas Lodge, but the ODNB? And when he does, what does he find but
misinformation? A book he knows to have been in one volume, an ODNB
entry says consists of several! A book exposed as a forgery in the
1960s, now attributed in 2004! Dear oh dear. Freeman says that in many
places ‘the old DNB, while in need of an update, [was] vastly better’.
Any more of this, and Harvard will be returning their three copies,
Yale their two, and we at St. Andrews our one beloved set.
These errors – and Freeman and his wife (also an
ODNB contributor) seem to have done little else these last months but
look for them – are worrying because the ODNB is sure to be a
foundational reference tool for future generations. Elementary mistakes
are to be frowned on, but at least the online version can rectify what
errors there are.
Leftism
Then there is the other problem of politics and
biases, pointed out by the superb Roger Kimball in the New Criterion. ‘Almost by
definition,’ writes Kimball, ‘a contemporary academic project is going
to exhibit a left-liberal, politically correct bias.’ John Gross in the
TLS calls Colin
Matthew (the editor who died half way through this venture) ‘a man of
the Left’ though ‘his convictions were tempered by a certain cultural
conservatism.’ Phew. In his review Kimball goes on to say that the
leftism is not a serious detraction. One trend seems to be that most of
the time entries are written by scholars sympathetic to their subjects.
Ian Ker writes up John Henry Newman, and not, say, Owen Chadwick, and
Simon Heffer naturally supplies a fine appreciative entry on Enoch
Powell, when a liberal commentator might have been more damning.
But then there are problems. Kimball picks on ‘Eric
Hobsbawm’s comically laudatory, indeed, hagiographical article about
Karl Marx’ and he with others have had problems with Peter Holland’s
biography of Shakespeare. (Marx enters the ODNB under a new rule
permitting foreigners who have influenced national life.) In both
cases, leftism appears in rather crude openness. As for political
correctness generally, women account for nearly 10% of the ODNB, as
opposed to only 5% of the DNB. Some say this is too many, some not
enough. I am not qualified to measure the contribution these women made
to national life, but there is a tendency nowadays, in education and
politics especially, to let the ladies win. If that is true, isn’t it
rather patronising?
Shakespeare
Talking of leftism, lots of reviewers have picked up
on Holland’s statement that ‘In Britain politicians of the left and
right rely on Shakespeare as a national and quasi-religious authority
for their political creeds. The Labour leader Neil Kinnock, the heir to
nineteenth-century political oratory with its predilection for quoting
Shakespeare, required his speech-writers to know the Bible and
Shakespeare, the twin bedrocks of working-class culture. At the
opposite end of the political spectrum, right-wing Conservative
politicians like Michael Portillo returned with mechanical frequency to
Ulysses’s speech on degree in Troilus and Cressida as “proof” that
Shakespeare supported the hierarchies and institutions tories were
committed to maintain.’ Thankfully the ODNB does not return to this
sort of thing ‘with mechanical frequency’.
I was more interested to see how Holland would
present the matter of Shakespeare’s probable adherence to the Roman
Catholic religion. Holland is, of course, entitled to doubt the
evidence – but if he is to discuss the matter, he must present it
fairly and not miss out anything important.
Particularly odd is his treatment of the spiritual
testament of William’s father, John, a document of the sort the English
Jesuit missionaries distributed to Catholics as proof of fidelity to
the Faith. The document was found in 1757 in the Shakespeare family
home, Holland says by a man fond of forgeries. ‘In the unlikely event
that it was genuine’, writes Holland, it would suggest the Shakespeare
household was Roman Catholic. However, this is unlikely, as ‘[i]t was,
after all, during John Shakespeare's time as bailiff in 1568 that the
images of the last judgment that decorated the guild chapel in
Stratford were whitewashed and defaced as no longer acceptable to state
protestantism’. Perhaps, Holland says, this was just more outward
conformity. This is a peculiarly incomplete account.
Patrick Collinson, of Trinity, Cambridge, has been
recently arguing with Alastair Fowler on this matter, and makes the
important point well. ‘According to Fowler,’ Collinson writes, John
Shakespeare’s Protestantism is evidenced by the fact that as a
Stratford alderman he “engaged in Protestant iconoclasm”. He did no
such thing, and if he had we should not still be looking at that great
doom painting in the guild chapel. Shakespeare saw to it that the image
was covered with whitewash, which was not iconoclasm but, contrary to
the Royal Injunctions of 1559, which spoke of removal and destruction,
a means to preserve it, as real iconoclasts well knew.’
Go today to Stratford and you will see that William
Shakespeare’s father was the most incompetent (or half-hearted)
iconoclast in England. And perhaps, therefore, a Roman Catholic? There
is much more evidence pointing to William’s adherence to what was
almost certainly his father’s religion – apparent residence in a
Catholic recusant house in Lancashire (‘groundless’ according to the
ODNB), a signature in the English College, Rome, recusant links at
William’s Stratford Grammar School, allusion to the martyred saint
Edmund Campion in Twelfth Night,
Hamlet’s father in purgatory, deprived of the sacraments – and more.
Anyway, this just goes to show that even this
‘authoritative’ ODNB is prone to partiality. The next issue of the Mitre Literary Review will contain
a review essay on Michael Wood’s ‘In Search of Shakespeare’, which
explores the evidence in a popular and well-presented form.
St Andrews
It is pleasing to see that some St. Andrews
academics have contributed entries on eminent writers. Professor
Nicholas Roe has written on Leigh Hunt, Professor Robert Bartlett on
Gerald of Wales and others, Dr Ian Bradley has an entry, as does
Professor Trevor Hart, and Professor Robert Crawford has the honour of
carrying off Robert Burns, the famous illiterate Scotch poet. However,
I was surprised to see that the most prolific (insofar as I can
establish) St. Andrean to contribute to the ODNB was Canon Brian M.
Halloran, Catholic chaplain and parish priest at St. James’. Canon
Halloran contributes seven fine entries. Few will have heard of his
subjects, and it is, I think, accurate to say that the field of Scots
priests in penal times is what is known as an academic niche.
His longest entry regards Bishop George Hay, ‘vicar
apostolic of the lowlands district’ in penal times, and makes
interesting reading. Hay wrote a number of pious works for the
edification of Scots, and, the seminaries at Douai and Paris having
collapsed at the French Revolution, established one at Scalan in
Glenlivet. However, despite the admirable contribution of Hay to the
Catholic Church in Scotland, Canon Halloran points out that he ‘when
prejudiced, could be judgemental and even condemn without evidence.’
Halloran, himself a fair-minded man, may surprise many in this town
with his erudition.
The entries, or heroic lays, of Canon Halloran on
Scots priests are in contrast to the scholarly scepticism of Professor
Robert Bartlett. A world-renowned mediæval historian, he shows
how wrong St. Bede was to believe that there was such a saint as St.
Bega, ‘supposedly active in the seventh century’. She became a nun, so
the story goes, having pledged her life to celibacy, and a visionary
figure gave her an arm-band as a token of her commitment.
Bartlett deconstructs this pious tradition. ‘Since
Bega's bracelet was the focus of the Cumbrian cult and the Old English
word for ring or bracelet is beag, the suspicion naturally arises that
originally St Bega was a bracelet and that the Cumbrian cult started
from a holy armband that only gradually metamorphosed into the person,
St Bega.’ This is like the higher criticism of the nineteenth century.
St. Bega was a bracelet? Sounds a bit Ovidian to me. And she became,
what, gradually less like a bracelet and more like a person? I wonder
what the odds of that happening are.
My theory, and it seems at least equally plausible
(though I am utterly ignorant on the matter), is that there was a saint
who left a holy bracelet, and after her death her name, perhaps
resembling beag, was replaced by the name of the holy object itself.
Only problem is this is based on the presumption that we should trust
tradition. I was unable to find any other cases in the ODNB of
arm-bands becoming saints (or vice versa) – but this doesn’t mean there
aren’t any. Professor Bartlett demonstrates his eminence with his fine
entry on Gerald of Wales (c.1146-1220), which ends nicely with the
observation that Gerald is ‘remembered not as a vain and disgruntled
clerical careerist but as a pioneering observer of the Celtic lands and
peoples.’
The Last Churchman
As has been generally observed, the ODNB is most
useful for those figures who have not attracted full-length
biographies, and it is on the quality of these that the ODNB must be
judged. One such figure is John Carmel Heenan, Archbishop of
Westminster from 1963-75, and a cardinal from 1965. Heenan is surely
the last great English churchman in the tradition that begins with
Wiseman and the restoration of the Catholic hierarchy.
Heenan’s experience at the Second Vatican Council
(1962-65) was deeply unhappy, though his loyalty to the Church was
greater than his personal misgivings (this is reflected in the
fascinating letters between Heenan and Evelyn Waugh). According to
Michael Gaine, who has written this neat entry, ‘English Catholicism
had been ill-prepared for the council, and Heenan was out of tune with
the liberal trends in European theology which were its driving force.’
Moreover, ‘he could not accept that the new men at the council,
innovators in theology, apologetics, and catechists, were any more
apostolic or capable exponents of Catholic doctrine than were their
predecessors. At times he felt that they were undermining the faith,
and he once launched a famous attack against the theological experts at
the council, ‘Timeo peritos et dona ferentes’ (‘I fear experts and
those bearing gifts’)’.
I wonder whether there is a need for a fuller
biography of this great pastoral bishop, who, whilst not being a
‘progressive’, was a great innovator, and was a master first of radio
and then television. Oh for another Heenan.
Whatever its shortcomings, the ODNB is a
treasure-trove of the great, the eccentric, and the obscure. For a sort
of lucky dip approach, OUP will send a biography of the day to your
email inbox. One feature which people seem to like is the ‘wealth at
death’ figure at the end of many biographies. There are also thematic
lists of biographies, such as mythical figures and prime ministers.
There is also an entry on Jack the Ripper, of whom we know nothing but
his crimes. I’ll read that when I’ve got a moment, along with the life
of Adrian IV, the English pope.
Robert O'Brien, the
editor, is a magistrand (fourth-year) who will begin teaching at
Downside Abbey School in the autumn.
MATT BELL
Thin
on Plot, Not on Eyeliner
Alexander
Directed by Oliver Stone
Warner Brothers – 175m (2h 55m)
UK: 15 – US: R
It’s a classic tale: Macedonian lad with an affection for blond wigs
and enough eyeliner to make a transvestite blush, meets horse stricken
with fear of its own shadow. Boy and horse fall in love and express
their love by together conquering the known world, until horse
tragically dies in a death charge against Indian elephant.
Beyond this, there is no getting away from the fact
that ‘Alexander’ lacks a coherent plot. Oliver Stone’s opulent comeback
film revels in its confusion, apparently attempting to divert any
intelligent questioning by revealing Alexander to have, in fact, been
an Irishman.
But the film does unwittingly present a strong moral
lesson. The only motivation for Hollywood to again abuse a topic from
ancient history seems to be that Alexander represents a subject easily
adaptable to pander to the cult of celebrity that permeates our popular
culture. Of course Alexander was acutely aware of his place in history,
but the thrill and fascination of his life is utterly lost with this
all too human Alexander.
Although Alexander gloriously trots around Asia
killing lots of people for supposedly the best of intentions, parallels
being drawn perhaps with America’s current foreign policy, you can’t
help but think that he’d have lived an ultimately more fulfilling,
though less famous, life if he’d stayed at home and found a good
Irish/Macedonian wife to share his eyeliner with.
Colin Farrell wallows in the reflected glory from
the historical figure he perceives himself to be imitating, but it is
this perception of mere fame and glory as the ultimate virtue that
allows the film to become so reduced and ultimately pointless.
The fact that ‘Alexander’ takes three hours to teach
us the folly of its own ways, however, leaves you feeling somewhat
cheated not only of your financial contribution but also of the portion
of your life invested, now lost into the ether. The film is so
painfully dull and protracted that when Alexander finally does die it
seems the most lacking part. I think strangulation would have been more
satisfying.
Could Sir Anthony Hopkins not have spiced things up
a bit, dropping the impersonation of Yoda visiting the great library of
Alexandria, and donned his Dr Lecter persona once more?
Matt Bell is a magistrand
(fourth-year) who will continue his studies at St Andrews next year as
a graduate student.
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