Poverty, and treatment of the unfortunate for the benefit of the fortunate, has occupied me — some say preoccupied — most of my adult life. Not sure just why; I’ve been neither destitute nor privileged in all my years, and am unlikely to hit either extreme before I die.
It comes to mind now, as it did exactly one year ago, because this is the birthday of Charles Dickens, his two-hundred-first, actually. Dickens, you may recall, had some experience of poverty and its consequences, and wrote a thing or two about them. Bleak House, for instance. And it was a passage from Bleak House which Ralph Fiennes chose to read at the official Dickens memorial ceremony last year in Westminster Abbey.