Wolfgang Herrndorf, Sand, Trans. by Tim MohrPushkin Press, 2017.
Set in the aftermath 1972 Munich Olympics massacre, this darkly sophisticated literary thriller by one of Germany's most celebrated writers is now available in the US for the first time.North Africa, 1972. While the world is reeling from the massacre of Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics, a series of mysterious events is playing out in the Sahara. Four people are murdered in a hippie commune, a suitcase full of money disappears, and a pair of unenthusiastic detectives are assigned to investigate. In the midst of it all, a man with no memory tries to evade his armed pursuers. Who are they? What do they want from him? If he could just recall his own identity he might have a chance of working it out...
This darkly sophisticated literary thriller, the last novel Wolfgang Herrndorf completed before his untimely death in 2013, is, in the words of Michael Maar, “the greatest, grisliest, funniest, and wisest novel of the past decade.” Certainly no reader will ever forget it.
Sand is an intriguing thriller from a master storyteller with a growing English-language readership.
At the same time as the Palestinian terrorist attacks during the 1972 Munich Olympics, a local man from a North African desert town is accused of breaking into an oasis commune composed largely of hedonistic Western European ex-patriots, and murdering four people. The crime has witnesses but is investigated by two bungling policemen who are tired of their monotonous roles and make only a limited effort. In the meantime, we meet a man who is ostensibly suffering from amnesia. He becomes Herrndorf’s hero in Sand, as he lurches from one mishap to the next, incurring injury (both emotional and physical) at every turn in a spate of torture and threats that he cannot comprehend. Though the overarching cause of his pain, and the innumerable groups on his tracks, remain ambiguous, the reader finds truth in his hapless scrapes and existential contemplation.
Herrndorf paints a vivid picture of a post-colonial society, highlighting the endemic corruption of the police, social prejudice and the decadence of an unfettered artistic class. At the same time he breaks new ground with this expansive, multifarious and scurrilous novel.
So dazzling and original...it is a masterpiece: at once a thriller, a surrealist comedy, and a dark satire, culminating in one of the greatest twists I’ve read.—The Daily Telegraph
Herrndorf...writes with an arresting cinematic vividness, and there is more than a whiff of Coen brothers’ mayhem about the plot.—The Sunday Times
A hit in Germany...part Coen bros, part John le Carré.—Sunday Star
[Herrndorf’s] was an extraordinary mind.—Philip Ardagh, The Guardian
The murders of four European members of a hippie commune in a North African oasis drive this meandering thriller set in 1972 from German author Herrndorf (1965–2013). French detectives Polidorio and Canisades quickly arrest a young man who lived near the commune with his large family, but the lazy and incompetent detectives, relegated to this backwater in the remains of the French empire, obviously have the wrong person. Meanwhile, an amnesiac wanders out of the desert after being attacked by a group of men quarreling over a suitcase full of practically worthless East German money. He staggers into a gas station, where he meets Helen Gliese, a cosmetics saleswoman who offers to help him find his identity and gives him a temporary name, Carl. What Helen and Carl have to do with the murders isn’t immediately clear. The characters’ stories occasionally intertwine until they come together in an unsatisfying ending that only the most patient reader will persist in reaching. A big hit in Germany, this will have limited appeal to an American audience. - Publishers Weekly
A beguiling, idiosyncratic exercise in postmodern bafflement by the late artist/novelist Herrndorf (Why We Took the Car, 2014, etc.), awarded the Leipzig Book Fair Prize for it in 2012.
Somewhere along the coastal desert of northwestern Africa—Herrndorf isn’t specific, but it’s a former French colony, so perhaps Mali—four disaffected foreigners living in a commune have been killed in a murder whose payoff is a basket of fruit and a wicker suitcase full of an unknown currency. The case draws attention: There’s an American woman “best seen from afar”—no surprise that her last name and hotel room add up to the moniker of a far-distant star—and a Swedish double agent with nuclear secrets to sell. Then there are two cops assigned to the case, one of them a Frenchman who took the gig to get away from a girlfriend in Paris and who “didn’t have a clue about Africa.” He worries that he doesn’t have a clue about much of anything, since he scored lower on an intelligence test than his partner, who’s dumb enough to bring about his own demise thanks to a miscalculation having to do with the political influence of the prime suspect. Then there’s the guy whose head was bashed in and wanders in from the desert, an amnesiac, apparently well connected enough to international plots of derring-do that the Stasi, the CIA, and a sinister pseudo-psychiatrist are after him. Electrical shocks ensue, whereupon the amnesiac “talked about everything he knew, and he talked about the things he didn’t know, too.” In this rollicking shaggy-cum-sandy dog of a tale, no one knows much of anything, save that the badder the bad guy the more reliable the information. Herrndorf, it seems, had trouble deciding what this story would be—a satire? a spy novel? a thriller? Suffice it to say that if you mashed up the Ian Fleming of Casino Royale with Tin Drum–era Günter Grass and threw in a little Paul Bowles for leavening, you might get something approaching this concoction.
It’s bizarre, wacky, and broad—but highly entertaining, especially for fans of the Vonnegut/DFW school of the absurd. - Kirkus Reviews
North Africa, 1972. A man with no memory wakes up in the desert with a massive hole in his head. So far, so yawn: please, not another one of those lost memory characters stumbling around the plot trying to solve a mystery slash crime. Been there, done that, keep the T-Shirt. But hold on, not so fast: Carl (named after the label in his suit) is not your average unreliable narrator. In fact, although we’re trapped inside his head most of the time, he’s not the narrator at all. Somewhere, someone’s sitting at a desk writing all this down in the first person, someone who was there as a seven-year-old dressed in a T-shirt with Olympic rings and short lederhosen with red heart-shaped pockets. Who’s he? Not sure – everyone in Sand is reliably unreliable, apart from the author himself, Wolfgang Herrndorf, who’s reliably, and sadly, dead.
After the German writer Herrndorf was diagnosed with an incurable brain tumour in 2010, he churned out some literary gems, including the bestseller Tschick in 2010 (English, 2014, “Why We Took the Car”) and Sand in 2011 (English, 2017). In 2013 at the age of 48 he shot himself. Understandably, fittingly, ‘Sand’ is stuffed full of pain, gallows humour, false hopes, dead ends, absurd coincidences, misunderstandings, senseless chance events, torture and death. It’s set under a desert sun so merciless that a mere glance at the book’s hot cover triggers in us the reader an inverse Pavlov’s dog reaction of dry mouth. Does this all sound offputtingly soul-crushing? Not so! What holds this long novel together, over sixty-eight chapters and five ‘books’ (Sea, Desert, Mountains, Oasis and Night), is the search for meaning. Never mind the answers, it’s the questions that matter. And there are many questions. All together this make for an hilarious, intriguing, heart-breaking and ultimately gratifying read.
And now Lundgren had a problem. Lundgren was dead. A young simpleton murders four hippies in a commune (it is the 1970s…); a mediocre spy doesn’t survive a handover; a pair of bumbling policemen investigate, not to much avail. What else happens? A dangerously smart American beauty muscles in on the act; a fake psychiatrist tries to get to the bottom of Carl’s subconscious; a small-town crook and his henchmen get involved in the odd bit of kidnapping, torture and blackmail, and, the hunt is on for a man called Cetrois, who may or may not exist. A mysterious centrifuge makes an appearance, or it might be an espresso machine, who knows? More important seems to be a mine. This could mean a number of things: a bomb; a pit; a cartridge for a pen.
A ‘cartridge for a pen’?! Yes. Now let’s talk language and translation. The characters in Sand are supposed to be speaking French, and thanks to Pushkin Press and Tim Mohr we can now read Sand in English. Translator Tim Mohr, also a writer and former Berlin Club DJ, constructs an achingly immediate desert world by locating Sand’s English prose somewhere between 1970s nostalgia and today. In German and French, ‘mine’ can mean the inside of a pen, and the fact that Carl knows this brings him one step closer to solving the puzzle. But is he close enough to completely solve it? Well, you must decide for yourself, but really, that’s not the point. He tried, he really did. And in the end, that’s what matters. - Heike Krüsemann
http://www.eurolitnetwork.com/heike-krusemann-reviews-sand-by-wolfgang-herrndorf/
Sand is set in an unnamed North African country in the summer of 1972, and it begins with an investigation into the brutal murder of four members of an agrarian commune in the oasis town of Tindirma. The case seems entirely straightforward, the responsible party one Amadou Amadou who is quickly caught and judged. He denies being involved, but the evidence is pretty overwhelming; with the victims Westerners, everyone is interested in closing the case quickly. Amadou Amadou isn't exactly brought to justice -- inconveniently, he soon escapes custody -- but the case seems cut and dried. As throughout the novel, however: nothing is quite so simple, with ripple effects reverberating through much of the rest of the story..
This case, and the police activities -- featuring colleagues Polidorio and Canisades -- dominate the first part of the novel, the first of its five books. Police work is frustrating in this country -- especially for recent arrival Polidorio, a Frenchman with Arabic roots who, only two months into the job, already deeply regrets having ventured across the Mediterranean and taking the position.
Another significant character also arrives in coastal Targat in the course of the first section of the novel, Helen Gliese, who happens to be friends with one of the surviving communards but explains that she is in the country on (rather unlikely-sounding) business. The man who seems to be the central character in Sand, however, only surfaces (as such) in the second book, well into the novel.
He enters the story here almost entirely as a void and blank: he is literally a mystery man, a comprehensive amnesia leaving him functioning quite normally but unable to recall even the basics, such as his name. He comes to in an attic, in the middle of the desert. He received a blow on the head, and his first instincts are to flee -- which proves easier said than done. For each step forward there seems to be another back as his tries to make his way towards civilization again -- including the loss of possible clues to his identity.
Eventually, Helen chances on the pathetic, beat-up figure, and she picks him up and helps him out, despite his suspicious unwillingness to go to the authorities or a hospital. She puts him up in her hotel bungalow, and tries to help him figure out who he is -- with little luck. He continues to maintain he has no recollection of his past or identity -- while people continue to doubt him. Eventually, Helen starts calling him 'Carl', to give him some name -- "I have to call you something" --, the name chosen from the maker's label sewn in his jacket.
Carl doesn't know who he is, but others seem to have some idea, or at least expectations. He seems to have been mixed up in something -- illegal, he surmises (and worries), though he has no sense of the extent of his involvement -- and can't quite escape it: he is, for example, given a seventy-two hour deadline to fix things by one interested party who briefly kidnap and threaten him -- not that Carl has the foggiest idea what he can do to fix anything or extricate himself from this situation.
Carl stumbles around a lot, with and without Helen, trying to figure out who he is and what he was involved in. Apparently a mine was involved -- but they don't even know what kind of mine, whether a hole-in-the-ground mineral excavations site, or the ink-mine for a pen .....
So Sand is kind of a thriller, with murder, international intrigue (a case filled with (worthless) East German currency seems to play a role; the concurrent Munich Olympics tragedy playing out in the (distant) background), a variety of shadowy groups and figures, as well as the locals who seem to live in a completely different world. Carl's amnesia compounds the sense of mystery about everything -- occasionally admittedly irritatingly, when others dangle their knowledge in front of him (and the reader) but don't spell it out, but on the whole quite effectively.
Helen remains helpful and supportive -- suspiciously so, perhaps ..... Among the desperate attempts to figure out what's wrong with Carl is a visit to an extremely unlikely local psychiatrist -- offering introductory rates ..... Dr Cockroft is semi-professional, and asks what seem to be plausible diagnostic questions, but is ultimately unconvincing as a psychiatrist. But then practically everything and everyone Carl deals with has an air of irreality to it.
Carl somehow found himself in the middle of something significant -- but he has no sense of what it is, with those interested in the knowledge they're certain he has getting no closer to getting at it. Eventually, the game gets more basic again, the attempts to get at whatever Carl might know more direct. Carl suffered a lot early on in the story, and he doesn't fare well as it draws itself to its conclusion -- Herrnorf indulging rather too much in drawn-out brutality, to too little end. But the novel's resolutions are satisfying, despite not quite following traditional thriller- or novel-expectations: beyond resolving the thriller-plot, a handful of not so happy endings are surprisingly satisfying in (or despite) their black-tinged humor and banality.
Sand makes no secret of being a novel about someone who is not who he seems. That's sort of the point -- with the twist that Carl himself -- apparently -- has no idea of who he is: while others (including perhaps at times the reader) have doubts about whether or not he is dissembling, Carl's identitylessness remains his defining characteristic, his search for answers (and that answer in particular) the one thing that drives him. But others' identities are also indistinct, and it can't come as much surprise that they aren't quite who they claim to be either.
The fun of the novel -- and for a lot of the novel it is a lot of fun -- is in the telling, the short chapters, each with a well-chosen epigraph, shifting among the large cast of characters and the overlapping storylines. Herrndorf weaves the tale around the black hole of Carl's amnesia and what it might hold, but he's also really good in the incidental and observational -- indeed, that's the real strength of the novel (also in that much of the apparently incidental does fit into the larger picture, if not immediately obviously). Ultimately, Herrndorf does fall back and then rely too much on Carl's agonies, in a turn to more traditional thriller-fare -- but he redeems it somewhat with a perfectly realized series of conclusions (which are the antithesis of neat thriller endings, even as they also, after a fashion, tie up the remaining loose ends).
Sand is an artfully constructed puzzle that leans a bit too much (or too long) on its central amnesiac conceit and is at its best -- and a really very good best it is -- when it isn't wallowing in just that. Some of the chapters are first-rate pieces all their own; the fact that so many also fit together in this odd, larger puzzle is all the more impressive. If not quite sustained over the whole novel, a lot of Sand is nevertheless wonderful entertainment, and it is a very impressive work.
(Note: Michael Maar's Afterword dissects the story and connects the dots, if readers missed them, well -- though this key-to-the-novel arguably unlocks and reveals too much (or rather takes it out of the hands of the reader (i.e. spoils some of the fun, in what the reader might have taken from the book), spelling so much out). In any case: spoiler-heavy, it certainly should be left as after-word, rather than consulted earlier on.) - M.A.Orthofer
http://www.complete-review.com/reviews/moddeut/herrndorfw.htm
It is 1972 and back in stately old Europe Palestinian terrorists have just massacred 11 Israeli athletes and coaches at the Olympic Games in Munich. As the world watches on in horror, details of vicious torture prefacing the killings provoke further outrage. Calls to abandon the games are ignored. Meanwhile somewhere in the Sahara desert, a madman arrives at a predominantly American hippie commune and leaves four people dead, apparently all for a plate of fruit and a suitcase crammed with worthless money.
German original Wolfgang Herrndorf’s anarchic, brilliant and very funny thriller is like no other book, although it may help to think Catch-22 or even better, William Gaddis’s Carpenter’s Gothic. It must be said that Herrndorf’s dialogue stands equal to that of Gaddis and Thomas Pynchon, no mean feat, and it is masterfully rendered by translator Tim Mohr on inspired form.
Sand is a clever, outrageous demonstration of hold on to your hats – and stomachs – storytelling which is also strongly cinematic; the publishers have already referenced the Coen Brothers, and to that endorsement include Quentin Tarantino.
Suspended in time
A dazzling cunning is at work. Herrndorf who trained as a visual artist and was terminally ill while writing Sand, killed himself at the age of 48 in 2013 soon after its initial success in Germany was acknowledged. He delighted in vivid images and this wry novel abounds with moments suspended in time. His characters are desperate, despairing and, with the exception of the hapless ‘Carl’, largely unpleasant.
The conversational tone of the narrative voice contrasts with the frenetic pace and if ever there was a novel ideally suited for an uninterrupted read through a long night, this is it. The chapters are short, yet invariably leave the reader reeling if eager to continue. “And now Lundgren had a problem. Lundgren was dead.”
Yet it all begins so calmly, with an eccentric teacher calling his children less to class and more to learning. There is an air of benign community. And so the sun rises “and shone down on the living and the dead, the believers and the non-believers, the wretched and the wealthy.” How gentle, how wrong – considering the mayhem about to be unleashed; Herrndorf wants his reader to feel exhilarated but also bewildered and aware of having read something that will be difficult to forget.
But first to the initial crime; the dastardly attack at the commune. Manning the investigation is Polidorio who doesn’t want to be in Africa at all. “It had been two months since Polidorio started his job here. And for two months he’d wanted nothing else but to return to Europe.” His grandfather was an Arab but had emigrated to France when he was young. Polidorio had a French passport but, following his parents’ divorce, grew up in Switzerland. Later he studied in Paris. “If his serve had been better, he might have been able to become a tennis pro.” Instead he became a policeman.
As the novel opens Polidorio is fretting about having only scored only 102 in an IQ questionnaire intended for French school children aged between 12 and 13. Admittedly, he was drunk at the time, as was his sidekick, Canisades, a charming liar who managed to do better, achieving 130.
Curtain raiser
The two men have little interest in solving the crime. It is an effective comic curtain raiser which then acquires darker complications but soon loses any lingering significance as the central story, which is introduced as almost a tentative aside, develops.
Amid the sun, the heat, the relentless sand and the screaming children, all of which are described with stylistic panache, a man, lying in a deserted barn, slowly returns to consciousness: “The radiance. The silence. He tried to turn his head and felt pains he couldn’t pinpoint. As if a fist were trying to push his eyes out of his head from the inside . . . With his hand he felt around and, where he had expected to find a hole in his skull, found a giant lump. Dried blood and slime. They had smashed his head in. Why?”
From this point onwards, a fine novel which had been immensely appealing shifts onto an even higher level of excellence. The injured man is disoriented and in pain. Worse is to follow: he can’t remember his name. A stranger armed with a pitchfork stands between him and flight but a heavy weight falling from the roof of the barn settles that and the nameless man runs out into the empty desert.
The nightmare sensation of stumbling through sand becomes important. Through a series of chance twists the fugitive, who appears to have slightly Arab features and is handsome, reaches a service station just as Helen, a cold, resourceful American woman and another central character, arrives. Having managed to fix a hire car that was out of action, she proves to be able to clean up any mess, including the nameless man’s head wounds. Despite being warned not to get involved, she remains calm while the man, soon to be called ‘Carl’ from the label in his jacket, begs her to take him with her – and she does.
Kept guessing
Nothing is at it seems and Herrndorf enjoys the languid ambivalence which he sustains throughout. Even at its most comic, there is a compelling darkness about Sand. While in the comparative safety of Helen’s keeping – he moves in to her hotel chalet with her – Carl continues to suffer misadventures. He is beaten and questioned by various baddies. But his memory remains blank.
Eventually he is brought to a dodgy psychiatrist, Dr Cockcroft, who works from a hotel, in a room with two books. It is a hilarious, very strange sequence. All the while Carl becomes increasingly sympathetic and his ordeals multiply. A strange woman who seems to know him offers him sex, while a crazed young drug addict taunts him for drugs. After all the beatings he finds himself in a shocking plight, chained in muddy water. He makes a bold bid to live. Herrndorf does not make it easy for anyone, in a bravura performance bound to keep one guessing. - Eileen Battersby
Blogging about Wolfgang Herrndorf is quite fun
because I know his editor. So what happens is, I write something vaguely
contentious about Wolfgang Herrndorf, Wolfgang Herrndorf denies the vaguely
contentious thing, and his editor relays this information to me. To which I
reply, Well that’s how I remember it and I was there too. At which point his
editor says, Wolfgang Herrndorf says he’d never do such a thing, and I say,
Well, maybe I misinterpreted it then. And everybody’s happy. So just to set the
record straight: Wolfgang Herrndorf denies having done that vaguely contentious
thing I accused him of here.
This time I don’t have much to say about Wolfgang
Herrndorf except that I saw him riding his bike down Torstraße once last year,
which is kind of unexciting. He indicated correctly and then turned left. Try
denying that, Wolfgang Herrndorf! My other not that exciting anecdote is
that I sat sort of opposite a different Rowohlt editor on the train to the
Leipzig book fair two years ago, when Wolfgang Herrndorf’s previous novel
Tschick was nominated for the Prize of the Leipzig Book Fair. And during
the journey the editor got a phone call to inform him that Wolfgang Herrndorf
had been cruelly robbed of the award, which everyone sitting around him picked
up on because he was so sad about it. We all grimaced and averted our eyes in
embarrassment.
Luckily this time Wolfgang Herrndorf is in with
another chance with Sand.
I’m not taking the train this year, so I’ll have to just wait for the awards
ceremony to see if he wins. Meanwhile, I read the novel ages ago but kept
getting distracted from writing about it. So this “review” might be a bit vague.
Sorry about that.
It’s set in a fictional corner of the Maghreb in
1972. While I was reading it I kept wondering whether Wolfgang Herrndorf went on
holiday to Tunisia with his parents in 1972, but that’s probably irrelevant. The
setting is important because of all the sand, and the timing because of all the
spies, but it may well have been influenced more by William Burroughs and Mike Murphy than any
first-hand experience, what do I know?
The story opens quite slowly with a slightly
incompetent French police detective who has to deal with a young man accused of
shooting multiple European hippies in their commune. Then there’s a beautiful
American woman just arrived to rep cosmetics. And a dead spy with a Scandinavian
name who came to deliver a strange piece of equipment. But 85 pages in
everybody’s been introduced and we cut to the action. Which is fine really
because there are still another nearly 400 pages to go.
A man wakes up in the desert and doesn’t know who he
is. And nor do we, which is one of the excellent things about the novel. He
crosses the path of the American beauty, who takes him under her wing. But then
he’s accosted by a local gangster, who seems to have kidnapped a wife and child
our man didn’t know he had. In return for their lives he wants – a mine.
Now this is where we linguists have to suspend our
disbelief. If you’re not a linguist you’re going to find this paragraph
incredibly petty, so just skip it. If you are a linguist, the book may well be
fatally flawed for you, because much of the plot pivots on the fact that the
German word Mine has three homonyms (I hope that’s the right term – I’m only a
pretend linguist really): like in English, the mine where you dig for gold and
the small explosive device, plus an ink refill for a pen. But in the novel, the
characters who mention the Mine are speaking French. Well, logic dictates
that they’re speaking French – the book being in German, their speech is
rendered in German too. But as far as I can tell, only two of the three meanings
apply in French, strictly speaking. I’m pretty sure about this and I checked
with my cousin and my French auntie, but I’m willing to admit I’m wrong if
anyone knows better because my French is abysmal. Whatever the case, this
majorly niggled at me all the way through. I know, I should get a
life.
Anyway, the mystery man attempts to get hold of the
mystery item, while attempting to find out who he is and attempting not to fall
in love with the American beauty. As Mike Murphy would put it, there is
violence, cold-bloodedness and even cruelty! Meanwhile, Wolfgang Herrndorf (or
should I say, Wolfgang Herrndorf’s narrator) plays with his readers as if we
were cats chasing a string. Each chapter is headed with a quote, slanting the
content ever so slightly. From Herodot on Africa to Hitchcock on psychoanalysis
to Ulla Berkéwitz on, ummm, evolution, my favourite is attributed to someone
called Marek Hahn and goes: “‘Allusions, there are allusions in this book,’ I
thought, ‘I want my money back.’” At which point Wolfgang Herrndorf throws us
poor kitty-cats a huge feathery string with a bell on it, in the form of an
Asterix comic. Very nice.
I can’t really tell you much else about the plot
because it’s a very plot-driven book. So let me tell you about the writing
instead. It’s enjoyable, intelligent, not overly wordy but infused with subtle
humour, as they say. A great deal more literary than any spy thriller but less
literary than Reinhard Jirgl. It would be fun to translate. It was fun to read.
It’s been reviewed very favourably and has been doing very well as far as I
know. And guess what? My friend Isabel
Bogdan is mentioned in the credits at the back. So it must be good.
Also, I hear translation rights
for Tschick (my
review) have sold to the States, so
maybe one day Sand will be available in English too. Plenty of homonym
fun for the lucky translator!
Update: Wolfgang Herrndorf's editor has kindly informed me that mine can in fact mean a ballpoint refill in French. It's not in any of the five paper dictionaries I looked in, nor in two online bilingual dictionaries, but is is in the PONS online French-German dictionary. My attempts to search Google.fr for the terms "stylo bille mine" left me in a great deal of confusion followed by days of advertising banners for French stationery. So there you go. Obscure but probably true. Sorry it took me so long to correct this - I was hideously embarrassed at admitting my ignorance.
http://lovegermanbooks.blogspot.com/2012/02/font-face-font-family-times-new-romanp.htmlUpdate: Wolfgang Herrndorf's editor has kindly informed me that mine can in fact mean a ballpoint refill in French. It's not in any of the five paper dictionaries I looked in, nor in two online bilingual dictionaries, but is is in the PONS online French-German dictionary. My attempts to search Google.fr for the terms "stylo bille mine" left me in a great deal of confusion followed by days of advertising banners for French stationery. So there you go. Obscure but probably true. Sorry it took me so long to correct this - I was hideously embarrassed at admitting my ignorance.
Crime Review
Elle Thinks
German in the UK
The Herald
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The Spectator
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