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When I observe a toothless ex-violinist,
with more hair than face, sprawled like Karl Marx
on a park seat or slumped, dead or asleep,
in the central heat of a public library
I think of Uncle Isidore…
We are becoming so accustomed to the remarkable enterprise of the authorities of the Temple, East End Jewry’s playhouse in Commercial Road, that we cease to wonder at anything they now attempt in…