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…huge, like some lumbering animal, tossing back his mop of black hair, quarrelsome, smelling of beer, his great intellect somehow shining darkly through it all, like a mirror lying at the bottom of a muddy pool.

(Eleanor Dark, ‘Pilgrimage’, quoted by Helen O’Reilly, ‘The poet in her past: Eleanor Dark and Christopher Brennan’, Southerly 75.2)