Twenty-five years and day. Last night, I uncovered an ancient photocopy of the
New Yorker article on mad Oxfordians that set me off on quarter-century rampage of glee and wrath. The "irk in the oystershell," as I said of another tale. And I did in the end get a story from it, though perhaps not a pearl. If it is one, black and baroque.
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I think his name lends a specious glamour to a nasty piece of work. There are far fewer proponents of say, the Earl of Rutland or Lord Buckhurst.
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And all in turn may follow in their rank,
The Earl of-Asterisk-and Lady-Blank;
Sir-Such-a-one-
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