Contested Will: Who Wrote Shakespeare?, by James Shapiro

Title: Contested Will: Who Wrote Shakespeare?
Author: James Shapiro
Year of Publication: 2010
Length: 338 pages
Genre: nonfiction – history
New or Re-Read? New
Rating: 5 stars

One of the greatest challenges for a modern historian is to remove the filter of Romanticism and Victoriana when we look backwards through time. Modern society has inherited a lot of inaccurate notions about the pre-Industrial world from our more immediate forebears, creating an assumption that the medieval and early modern worlds shared the same values, the same culture, the same societal structures, the same goals as the Victorian world – an assumption that is, in many ways, far off the mark. To achieve greater understanding of anything early modern, a historian – professional or recreational – must first clear her eyes of the haze which the nineteenth century imposed on them.

Lifting this veil is, to my reading of it, the major triumph of James Shapiro’s Contested Will: Who Wrote Shakespeare?. Both history and historiography, this book examines the case both for and against Shakespeare as the author of the works attributed to his name – and comes down, quite definitively, on the side of Shakespeare. Shapiro notes, in the opening pages of the book, his interest, which lies “not in what people think – which has been stated again and again in unambiguous terms – so much as why thy think it. No doubt my attitude derives from living in a world in which truth is too often seen as relative and in which mainstream media are committed to showing both sides of every story.” Noting the prevalence of opposing viewpoints in modern society – such as those on creationism vs evolution, whether or not man walked on the moon, and “more disturbingly,” those who deny the Holocaust deniers – Shapiro states, “I don’t believe that truth is relative or that there are always two sides to every story. At the same time, I don’t want to draw a naïve comparison between the Shakespeare controversy and any of these other issues. I think it’s a mistake to do so, except insofar as it too turns on underlying assumptions and notions of evidence that cannot be reconciled. Yet unlike some of these other controversies, I think it’s possible to get at why people have come to believe what they believe about Shakespeare’s authorship, and it is partly in the hope of doing so that I have written this book.”

Shapiro begins with the first attempts, in the eighteenth century, to expand knowledge of Shakespeare’s life and works, with George Steevens and Edmund Malone arguing their various perspectives. This idea of construction, of needing to find reasons in Shakespeare’s life for the events and viewpoints in his plays, led to a somewhat desperate search on the parts of Samuel Ireland and his son, William-Henry, for new evidence about Shakespeare’s life. Unfortunately, these gentlemen came to the idea several decades too late; any evidence not already preserved was long gone. William-Henry, motivated in Shapiro’s depiction as somewhat pathetically frantic to bolster his father’s deflated confidence, embarked on an orgy of forgery, creating numerous documents in “Shakespeare’s hand”: deeds, letters, inscriptions, even entire plays. Briefly celebrated, then proved false under William-Henry’s own confession of fraud, these documents nonetheless opened the door to the search for biography in Shakespeare’s plays. Even Malone, who vigorously attacked the Irelands for the fraud, still entertained:

the presumption that Shakespeare could only write about what he had felt or done rather than heard about, read about, borrowed from other writers, or imagined. The floodgates were now open and others would soon urge, based on their own slanted reading of the plays, that Shakespeare must have been a mariner, a soldier, a courtier a countess, and so on. By assuming that Shakespeare had to have experienced something to write about it with such accuracy and force, Malone also, unwittingly, allowed for the opposite to be true: expertise in the self-revealing works that the scant biographical record couldn’t support – his knowledge of falconry, for example, or of seamanship, foreign lands, or the ways that the ruling class behaved – should disqualify Shakespeare as the author of the plays.

Delia Bacon, c. 1853Shapiro also positions these early days of the search for authorship evidence in light of the early attribution studies for the Bible and the works of Homer; for the first time, literary monoliths were subject to question and interrogation. Shapiro then moves through the first seeds of the anti-Stratfordian argument to its full-blown manifestations in the propositions of first Francis Bacon and then Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, as alternate candidates. The Baconian theory, for instance, began with Delia Bacon (no relation) in the mid-19th century. Shapiro explains how Delia’s ideas about Francis Bacon connected to the notion of a grand conspiracy, focused on the polymath English courtier as the center of a radical proto-republican political movement. The evidence for these claims, she determined, was present in a close reading of the plays as biographical in nature. Shapiro demonstrates how the logic of such an association is inherently flawed, thanks to the limited scope both of Delia’s historical awareness and of the plays which she examined:

The framework within which [Delia Bacon] imagined the world of the English Renaissance, also typical of her day, was limited to monarchs, courtiers, and writers. The rest were written off as ignorant masses. […] It was history from the top down and limited geographically to London and the court. Her Shakespeare canon was no less restricted and also typical of nineteenth-century readers: at the center of it were Hamlet and The Tempest, and it extended to the plays meatiest in philosophical and political content – Othello, Julius Caesar, Lear, Romeo and Juliet, Richard the Second, and, unusually, Coriolanus – but not much further. While she had surely read the other thirty or so plays, as well as the poetry, they didn’t serve her purpose, and for the most part she passed over them in silence.

Delia Bacon published, to moderate success, though most people who supported her initially came to regret it, because of the mental instability she developed following a very public jilting. Shortly after the release of her book, she was institutionalized, and spent the last two years of her life in an asylum. Despite this tragic end, her ideas caught fire in the decades following her death, earning the attention, if not always the outright endorsement, of celebrities including Ralph Waldo Emerson, Mark Twain, Helen Keller, and Henry James. Delia Bacon also introduced the notion of a secret cipher embedded in the texts of the plays, an idea picked up and popularized by Ignatius Donnelley – and an idea risible under even the lightest scrutiny for several reasons, not least of which is that a tweak of the cipher could yield any result the seeker wanted, but also because, as Shapiro points out, “Donnelly didn’t have a clue about how compositors worked in Elizabethan printing houses, where such a scheme would have been unimaginable and the layout he describes impossible to reproduce.”

By the 1920s, however, Shapiro points out that “Philosophy and politics were out, Oedipal desires and mourning for dead fathers in,” giving rise to the new Oxfordian theory. Psychoanalysis imagined a link between the writer of Hamlet and the character of Hamlet, based on repressed sexual urges and dysfunctional family relationships. Sigmund Freud questioned Shakespeare’s identity but did not embrace Bacon as the alternative; John Thomas Looney (pronounced “loany”, despite temptations to the contrary) picked up the psychoanalytic thread and proposed Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford. Shakespeare’s life did not mirror the required narrative; the Earl of Oxford’s could, especially if you layered on other theories about de Vere being Queen Elizabeth’s lover and/or son. From a secret political group under Bacon’s direction, the anti-Shakespearean case now rested on a more lurid narrative: a conspiracy tinged with sexual misconduct, succession anxiety, and disrupted inheritance.

For decades, the Oxfordians plagued themselves with divisive conclusions about this reading, however: nobody knew about the conspiracy; everyone knew and didn’t think it worth mentioning; everyone knew but was kept silent by Queen Elizabeth’s totalitarian state; a select group knew and kept it quiet to protect the Queen; and so on. Never mind that Oxford died in 1604, before many of Shakespeare’s plays were written; in the scope of such an all-encompassing conspiracy, Oxfordians find that small matter to explain away. They were written earlier, and released after his death, as a way of perpetuating the myth of William Shakespeare as the front man. Shapiro details how, in more recent years, the Oxfordian theory has gained traction due to the public’s increasing fascination with conspiracy theories of all sorts. From moon landings to who shot JFK to the vast circulation of conceptions about secret government involvement in nearly every act of tragedy or terrorism of the past three decades, modern culture has propagated a pervasive suspicion of authority. “In such a climate,” Shapiro says, “a minor act of conspiratorial suppression on the part of Tudor authorities made perfect sense.”

Overall, the impression this book leaves a reader with is that the anti-Shakespearean case is one stuffed with tragic figures and ulterior motives. Its very earliest characters are among the saddest: poor William-Henry Ireland, desperately seeking a father’s approval, and jilted Delia Bacon, who clung to her theories as a way of reclaiming agency over her life, but with a paranoid mania that drove her to madness and death. These are the figures often left out of the Baconian and Oxfordian narratives; they prefer, naturally, to tout the support of such grand figures as Mark Twain and Sigmund Freud. As Shapiro demonstrates, however, the rationale of the great figures is not untainted, either. They all require vast constructs, additions and suppositions to the historical record. Freud’s support of the Oxfordian case is deeply tied to his own theories about Oedipal desire; he had to read Hamlet in terms of Oxford’s own familial-sexual-philosophical entanglements, because to suppose that the story came from any other origin was a strike against the psychological theories on which he made his living and his fame.

Mark Twain's book questioning Shakespeare's identityIt’s Twain’s rationale, and Shapiro’s dissection thereof, that I find most interesting and most telling. Twain echoes Malone in supposing it impossible for a writer to draw from anything but experience; “For Twain, the notion that great writing had to be drawn from life – rather than from what an author heard, read, or simply imagined – was an article of faith, at the heart of his conception of how serious writers worked.” It is, in many ways, a very strange idea, taking imagination so entirely out of the equation, but it was a product of its time; in the 19th and early 20th centuries, more and more writers were publishing memoirs, and biography was a popular genre. The close association between fiction and experience was deeply embedded in the culture, providing fertile ground in which the anti-Shakespearean attitudes could take root. This is one of the more difficult veils to penetrate when looking back at the early modern period through modern eyes – the idea that the early modern writers simply did not view their craft in the same way that the Victorian tradition has convinced us all writers must.

Shapiro asserts that this legacy lives on in writing today, that modern readers retain assumptions that “novels necessarily reveal something about a writer’s life.” I would argue that this is more true in so-called “literary” fiction than it is of genre fiction. Readers of science fiction and fantasy novels (or viewers of those movies) — and to an extent, of mysteries, thrillers, and romances as well — have no more expectation of a creator’s personal experience with the subject matter than Shakespeare’s original audiences had. We need no more assume that Shakespeare had first-hand knowledge of Italy than that George Lucas had of Tatooine, J. R. R. Tolkien of Middle-Earth, or J. K. Rowling of Hogwarts. While “serious” fiction often retains a more autobiographical bent, I think it is in genre fiction that writers operate more like Shakespeare did: indulging freely in the realm of imagination, drawing off of previous stories, history and mythology, and timeless tropes for their inspiration. There you find writers more interested in telling a good story than in talking about themselves – which is not to say that glimpses of a writer’s viewpoint won’t peep through from time to time, but they don’t dominate in the way that post-Romantic assumptions would indicate. (It is in many ways ironic that the very people who disdain the use of imagination in writing are so wonderfully and copiously imaginative themselves, at least when it comes to creating the fantasy narratives necessarily to support alternate authorship candidates).

The final chapter of the book is a tour de force in defense of Shakespeare – though Shapiro acknowledges the absurdity that Shakespeareans should even be on the defensive, that the burden of proof has somehow shifted to us to prove there is no conspiracy, rather than on the Oxfordians to prove that there is. After entertaining the anti-Stratfordians and exposing their flaws, Shapiro comes down unquestionably (and refreshingly unapologetically) on the side of Shakespeare of Stratford:

When asked how I can be so confident that Shakespeare was [the plays’] author, I point to several kinds of evidence. The first is what early printed texts reveal; the second, what writers who knew Shakespeare said about him. Either of these, to my mind, suffices to confirm his authorship – and the stories they tell corroborate each other. All this is reinforced by additional evidence from the closing years of his career, when he began writing for a new kind of playhouse, in a different style, in active collaboration with other writers.

Shapiro then defends Shakespeare with a barrage of real, concrete evidence – text-based evidence including examples of speech prefixes, the process of printing plays, the relationship of typesetting to the variant spellings of Shakespeare’s name, his demonstrated familiarity with actors, and so forth. The proof of such deep association with the playing companies, the theatre building, and the workings of the shareholders effectively eradicates any validity to the presumption that the plays could have been written by someone who did not inhabit that world.

From Ben Jonson's epitaph to Shakespeare, in the preface of the 1623 First FolioShapiro also engages with the testimonies of so many of Shakespeare’s contemporaries, identifying the man from Stratford as the man who wrote the plays: George Buc, Master of the Revels; Robert Greene, vitriolic pamphleteer; Francis Meers, whose Palladis Tamia lists all of Shakespeare’s plays which had been acted by 1598; Gabriel Harvey, poetry critic; William Camden, historian; playwrights John Webster, Francis Beaumont, and Thomas Heywood — the list goes on and on, but the trump card is fellow playwright, rival, and friend, Ben Jonson, who “left the most personal and extensive tributes to Shakespeare. For many, his testimony alone resolves any doubts about Shakespeare’s authorship of the plays.” Consider me one of them. Even if we did not have the voluminous other evidence that we do have, Jonson alone would convince me. He comments both so prolifically and so personally on Shakespeare’s writing that I find it a violation of Occam’s Razor to imagine that he was either ignorant or part of a vast conspiracy – and knowing what I know about Jonson, I really can’t believe he could have kept a secret of that magnitude.

Finally, Shapiro draws a connection between Shakespeare’s plays and the playing spaces he wrote for, discussing how the space affected what kind of story Shakespeare could tell and how he could tell it, particularly thanks to a distinct change towards the end of his career:

We have also had drummed into us that he was Shakespeare of the Globe – though that playhouse was built only in the closing years of Elizabeth’s reign. Long forgotten are the other playing spaces in and around London in which he had built his reputation over the previous decade: the Theatre, the Curtain, Newington Butts, the Rose, Richmond, Whitehall, perhaps a brief stint at the Swan. … But had you asked anyone on the streets of London in the winter of 1610 where you could go to see Shakespeare’s latest play, there would have been only one answer: ‘Blackfriars.’ The Blackfriars Theatre means little today to most admirers of Shakespeare; so far as I know, only a single replica of it has ever been erected, in rural Virginia, which attracts both spectators and scholars. The story of the Blackfriars Theatre is also the story of the Jacobean Shakespeare, and of the particular challenges he faced toward the end of his playwriting career. And that, in turn, helps explain why only Shakespeare could have written his late plays that were staged there.

Shapiro’s recognition is apt and accurate, and that close relationship between writer and playing space is one we frequently refer to in our educational materials and workshops. A different kind of theatre demanded a different kind of plays, and Shakespeare’s latest works reflect that shift, making a reconstruction of the plays’ timeline to fit a 1604 death date absurd. I hope this spatial connection becomes a stronger part of the narrative of the “controversy” – perhaps it will help the Blackfriars Theatre and its descendent, our Blackfriars Playhouse in Staunton, earn greater recognition as one of Shakespeare’s prominent theatrical homes.

The final chapter of Contested Will ought to hammer home, once and for all, that Shakespeare was Shakespeare, setting the matter entirely to rest. Except, as Shapiro ably points out, there is no arguing with a conspiracy theorist. Any evidence just gets twisted to support the idea of a vast cover-up. Nonetheless, Shapiro’s book is a veritable armory of weapons, both offensive and defensive, for the Shakespearean set. What’s more, he delivers all of his information with felicity and wit; the book is a wonderful read as well as an intellectual triumph. I highly recommend it to anyone with a dog in this fight, as it were, but also to anyone who is simply interested in writing and in how ideas about it have evolved over time. Shapiro provides us not only with a rousing defense of Shakespeare, but also a valuable peek through the veils of time, rolling back our assumptions and laying bare the reality, insofar as it is knowable.

(Originally posted at the American Shakespeare Center Education Blog).

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8 Comments

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8 responses to “Contested Will: Who Wrote Shakespeare?, by James Shapiro

  1. Simon

    Congratulations. A review worthy of its subject. This sounds like an excellent book. I heard about it in the Elaine Charles radio show, The Book Report, where it was reviewed. The audio book also sounds excellent. They played an extract from it. You can hear the review on http://www.bookreportradio.com

  2. Knowing little yourself, and trusting in authority, even self-interested authority, you have been led by a partisan prating the status quo pablum that continues its strangle-hold on discussion of the troubling origin of the Shakespeare canon. His arguments are ad hominem–to be sure, not all-out vitriol like direct polemicists pitch, but of the “Isn’t it too bad they are so quaintly wrong” variety. Freud, the giant of early psychological study, was the dupe of a harmless Midlands school-master, who found astounding parallels between the life of Edward de Vere and the Shakespeare plays? Clemens a giant of American literature and commentary(Shapiro never calls him by his real name) was an egotistical stick in the mud who wrote from life so deluded himself he actually doubted a miserly money-lender could write the greatest corpus of literature in English history? Roger Stritmatter, who discovered a high statistical incidence of biblical parables in Shakespeare matching the marginalia of Edward de Vere’s personal bible, is a fraud trying to imitate respectable scholarly work? Then, don’t try to argue with a “conspiracy theorist”, i.e., anyone who like the brilliant figures of the past doubt the Stratford instant-phenom fable, a predisposed position of cynical disbelief no matter what inconvenient facts are presented. And so on. And you ate it up.

    At this point you are entitled to wonder what substantive support I offer my “conspiracy theory” that Gulielmus Shakspere of Stratford, other than having a similar name, had nothing to do with writing the Shakespeare canon. Let us simply take Shapiro’s windbag claims and show them to be false. “[His] first [proof] is what early printed texts reveal; the second, what writers who knew Shakespeare said about him. Either of these, to my mind, suffices to confirm his authorship.”

    Early printed texts of Shakespeare in the 1580’s were anonymous. Hamlet, supposedly written in the early 1600’s and published in 1603-4, was current in the late 1580’s, before Shakspere had even arrived in London. Its content would have put a commoner in prison to die. The earliest specifically Shakespeare/Shake-speare plays shown to the public had been already shown at Elizabeth’s court–produced by de Vere–in the 1570’s-80’s, when Shakspere was still a child. I could say much more, but this is a response to an utterly empty claim by an uninformed authority playing on his status, so best to cut it short. His second claim is that writers knew Shakespeare and wrote about him. No writer at any time in the Elizabethan era ever wrote about Shakspere as a writer, poet, or author of any kind. The First Folio was an exception, but it was a ruse to shift authorship to Shakspere for political expediency.

    However writers did write about him as an imposter, a knave, a dealer in plays, a conniver and pretender. For example, your ace-in-the-hole Ben Jonson. His characters Crispinus, Mathew, and Stephen, Sogliardo and Sordido, were all contemptuous satires of Shakspere. In the Shakespeare canon, William in MWW,AYLI, and the two Williams in 2HIV are likewise satires of the dishonest and manipulative Shakspere. Gullio in the Parnassus is the gull or the fool,based on GULielmus Shakspere.

    These two proofs by Shapiro are completely fallacious. His assumptions are so deeply seated he doesn’t even know their shamefulness as scholarship.

    In general among the Shakespeare establishment, there are two faulty assumptions that characterize its wrong thinking. One, that autobiography has nothing whatever to do with the Shakespeare canon. This is being peddled, contrary to virtually all other high art, because Edward de Vere’s life so parallels the Shakespeare plays and poems that it would be the end of the status quo to inquire. de Vere’s recondite career as a playwright for the public has everyting to do with solving this strange anomaly in literature. Two, the logical error that Shakspere of Stratford and the pseudonym Shakespeare/Shake-speare were one and the same person, making the former the writer using the latter’s pseudonym. de Vere had been associated with the term “Shakespeare” since 1578.

    Long-standing confused legend has been officially endorsed into a quasi-factual narrative that is presently being heavily questioned, and a good thing for the truth if it is. A particularly ad hominem tactic is claiming that that this inquiry began with a crazy woman, Ms Bacon, –otherwise everything would have been hunky-dory. This is categorically false. Writers contemporaneous with Edward de Vere wrote in no uncertain terms that he was the author of the Shakespeare canon, using a “borrowed” or “shadowed” or “veiled” name. Since de Vere told all on the monarchy of his time via the plays, it was expedient to transfer attribution of the plays posthumously to an allonymous cipher. That was the scorned Shakspere. So the counterfeit is being worshipped officially as pure gold, him that the author of the plays characterized as a money-grubbing knave.

    You could educate yourself on this subject. There are excellent books by which to do so. But I doubt you will, since you have given evidence of such naive trust in a point of view that is painfully awry–and about the hugely important subject, the core talent in the language. The people who should be telling the truth are not interested, but they sound good to accepting ears. It is a pity this lax intellectual quality is so wide-spread in the educated classes. But as de Vere wrote, long before MforM was staged and the same thought was spoken aloud by Isabella, “Truth is truth though never so old, and time cannot make that false which once was true.” There is hope.

    • Aww, I was wondering when I’d get one of these. Didn’t take long.

      Actually, I do know quite a lot about this. I hold a Master’s degree in early modern theatrical studies, and I work in the education department of a Shakespeare theatre, where my entire job is to analyze early modern texts. From the scansion and rhetoric to the ways in which the plays reflect the unique staging conditions of the playing spaces Shakespeare wrote for, I’ve got a pretty good grip on the language — but I do thank you for your concern that I might be under-educated on the issue. I’ve also read plenty on both sides of the argument. The simple fact of the matter is that there is no — absolutely no evidence in support of the Oxfordian theory — or any other candidate. It’s entirely a fiction — an amalgamation of logical fallacies, misinformation, and outright lies– and I couldn’t be more pleased that more and more eminent Shakespearean scholars have stopped playing the polite game of demurral and are calling it what it is. The fiction is a dangerous one, because it so demeans the value of imagination and of talent and because it promotes an elitism that our society can ill afford to support. For that reason, I was tremendously grateful when the Utah Shakespeare Festival, soliciting 500-word opinions on the topic, were good enough to ask me for and to post my thoughts on this topic. I can also cheerfully recommend Edmondson and Wells’s Shakespeare Bites Back. Not that I have the slightest optimism about influencing your clearly entrenched thoughts, but it may be useful for others, so that no one seeing your post will be led astray by the campaign of misinformation the anti-Stratfordians propagate — some in innocent ignorance, some in recklessness, and others, tragically, in outright malicious disregard for truth. I should hate for anyone new to the argument to be so sadly led astray simply because I neglected to provide the resources at my disposal.

      Thanks for your input, though! You really do have a wonderful imagination. These are some of the more creative inventions on behalf of de Vere I’ve seen lately. And you also prove, so neatly, what Shapiro says — there’s no evidence that will convince a conspiracy theorist. Cheers!

      • Sorry, ad hominem won’t get to the truth. Is it imagination that Oxford wrote Romeus and Juliet at age twelve, with some of the same phrases reappearing in Two Gentlemen of Verona and Sonnet 64? Imagination that the prototype of Macbeth was Tragedie of the Kinge of Scottes by the adolescent Oxford in 1567, using sources only available at Burghley’s library at Theobalds where Oxford lived? Imagination that the prototype of Hamlet was the revenge play Horestes, played at Gray’s Inn in 1568, written under pseudonym by Oxford? Imagination that the routes, means of travel, particular geographies, landmarks, streets, names for neighborhood, Italian idioms in the Italian series of plays came from exactly those places visited and resided at by Oxford in his stay in Italy 1574-5? All fiction according to your catechism.

        No imagination on my part at all. I can best your empty assertions with one hand tied behind my back and you cna’t present one fact to support them. All it takes is love of the truth and the energy to keep learning.

        As far as what Shapiro proved about conspiracy thinkers, he proved nothing but that pre-emptive denial can brush off any set of facts or logic. Which was all he did in ‘Contested Will’. If you read the book you know he didn’t encounter the substantive argument, just who was writing. His book will be remembered as a sad apostrophe to the blindness of status quo dogma. But “Truth is truth though never so old and time cannot make that false which once was true.” Not Isabella in Measure for Measure, staged 1604. But Edward de Vere, Lord Oxford, May 7, 1603.

  3. Pingback: Contested Will: Who Wrote Shakespeare?, by James Shapiro | The Incurable Bluestocking « everreader

  4. Yes, William. Imagination. I do have refutations for every single invention of yours, but I’m certainly not going to waste my effort on someone determined to prefer his own conspiracy theory. Anyone who is interested in historical facts can read, as I suggested, either ‘Contested Will’ or ‘Shakespeare Bites Back’, or they can look at the many documents affirming Shakespeare’s authorships on services such as EEBO. The proof very much exists in the historical record — not that I expect you to recognize it.

    Also, I don’t believe you know what ‘ad hominem’ means. I did not attack your character in any way, but you directly called me underinformed, in my own field of study and my career — which is pretty insulting. You are the one who made a personal attack. I must warn you that I will tolerate nothing further in that line. I attack only the dangerously ill-informed ideas which form the basis of this “controversy”. Your character is your own business. Your determination and imagination are admirable. Your research is not. I’m sorry for you that you’ve chosen misinformation and fallacies over fact, but that is your choice.

  5. Pingback: The Bookman’s Tale, by Charlie Lovett | The Incurable Bluestocking

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