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H229 Narrative Fiction 1
Lecture 2 1995
Realism—again and still
What is meant by picaresque? Some definitions
The picaresque in Spain: origins and definition
Guzmán de Alfarache as typical picaresque tale
The original pícaro
The second phase of the picaresque in Spain
Biography and travel as structuring devices typical to many narratives
The road as narrative archetype
I began the course last week by throwing around a few ideas about narrative theory in general and about realism and representation in particular. I discussed 'realism' as opposed to romance, as a concept used in association with a historical view of literary periods, as being associated with particular writers such as Balzac and George Eliot, and as a view of human existence as being at times rather grotty and yucky; and I concluded that lecture with this quotation from John Hartley, who writes that 'realism is an effect not of "life" but of texts.'
This week we are considering that type of text called 'picaresque'—and it may not have struck you when you read the picaresque tale Lazarillo de Tormes that it was particularly 'realistic'; but there is a sense in which it may have been considered to be realistic—as Ian Watt writes:
… the fabliau and the picaresque tale are "realistic" because economic or carnal motives are given pride of place in their presentation of human behaviour. 1
You may remember me quoting John Hartley last week writing that 'realism tends to be used to describe … attention to the grubbier or less edifying aspects of life.' But as Ian Watt continues, in The Rise of the Novel:
This use of "realism," however, has the grave defect of obscuring what is probably the most original feature of the novel form. If the novel were realistic merely because it saw life from the seamy side, it would only be an inverted romance; but in fact it surely attempts to portray all the varieties of human experience, and not merely those suited to one particular literary perspective: the novel's realism does not reside in the kind of life it presents, but in the way it presents it. 2
But what is this 'picaresque'—which is so grubbily, un-edifyingly, seamily, carnally, and economically realist—which makes it sound a bit like John Hewson? In much of what I have to say in answering this question I'm relying heavily on Harry Sieber and his book called The Picaresque. 3
The OED defines 'picaresque' as 'belonging or relating to rogues or knaves applied esp. to a style of literary fiction dealing with the adventures of rogues, chiefly of Spanish origin.' Note the three essential characteristics: it's a literary phenomenon, a style of fiction, and its origins are found in Spain.
In 1895, Fonger de Haan, in An Outline History of the Novela Picaresca in Spain, which was published in 1903, wrote that picaresque fiction is 'the autobiography of a picaro, a rogue, and in that form a satire upon the conditions and persons of the time that gave it birth.' This makes two additions to OED: it's autobiography and its style is satire.
Then, in 1899, Frank Wadleigh Chandler published a thesis luxuriating in the title Romance of Roguery: An Episode in the History of the Novel, in which he goes into more detail. 4 See if this describes what you already know of the picaresque.
The picaresque novel of the Spaniards presents a rogue relating his adventures. He is born of poor and dishonest parents, who are not often troubled with gracing their union by a ceremony, nor particularly pleased at his advent. He comes up by hook or crook as he may. Either he enters the world with an innate love of the goods of others, or he is innocent and learns by hard raps that he must take care of himself or go to the wall. In either case the result is much the same; in order to live he must serve somebody, and the gains of service he find himself obliged to augment with the gains of roguery. So he flits from one master to another, all of whom he outwits in his career, and describes to satirize in his narrative. Finally, having run through a variety of strange vicissitudes, measuring by his rule of roguery the vanity of human estates, he brings his story to a close.
So much for the origins of the picaresque. We now need to consider the question: why should we be still interested in this form which had its origin in the sixteenth century and was already satirisable in 1605, as Vijay Mishra points in his reference to Don Quixote and Ginés de Pasamonte. Well, one of the reasons, as Sieber points out—though he is not very happy about it—is that people have more recently taken the term and used it more loosely, as for example Walter Allen does in his book, The English Novel. Allen writes that the picaresque includes 'any novel in which the hero takes a journey whose course plunges him into all sorts, conditions and classes of men …' Claudio Guillén, in Literature as System, limits his definition to one characteristic only: that a picaresque narrative is the 'confessions of a liar.' 7
A. A. Parker, on the other hand, is less interested in the mode or veracity of picaresque narration, so much as in the '… atmosphere of delinquency'—which is to be expected in a book with the main title Literature and the Delinquent. 8
The English word 'picaresque' is taken from the Spanish picaresco as used by Mateo Alemán in the Guzmán de Alfarache, 1599, or from picaresca (Alfonso de Pimentel, c. 1587). These are adjectival forms of picaro—rogue, knave, sharper, gueux, voleur, Schelm, Abenteurer, pitocco, furbone. The word 'picaro' appears to come from the verb picar—to prick, puncture, nibble, or bite. It seems to have made its first appearance in 1525 in pícaro de cozine, a neutral term for a scullion, but began to acquire its pejorative connotations in about 1545. The first edition of Lazarillo de Tormes came out in 1554. Mateo Alemán's Guzmán de Alfarache was first published 1599, followed not long after by Don Quixote (Madrid, 1605), in Chapter 22 of which we meet Ginés de Pasamonte (who seems to be based on the character of Guzmán de Alfarache). (The Swindler, El Buscon, is much later again, being from 1626.)
The sixteenth century in Spain was a period of imperial expansionism, which involved the movement of vast armies of pike-men (picas secas and /or piqueros secos, again, you should note, from the verb picar). These soldiers were not provided for by the army as such in the way that they would be today. They were garrisoned anywhere their officers could commandeer, including private houses, and they must have taken advantage of their situation and their power to make more than nuisances of themselves. I think you get some idea of what this might have been like in some of the middle chapters of Tom Jones. A historian of the period describes the period in these terms, appealing to some alleged picaresque characteristics in the process:
The increasing resort to criminals as sources of recruits can only have accentuated the innate unruliness of the troops, especially when the men were lodged in overcrowded private houses away from the supervision of their officers. The soldiers soon came to exhibit the same picaresque values which invaded Spanish society in the late sixteenth century: idleness, brutality, and bravado, the thirst for gambling, the urge for falsification. 9
As the Spanish military lost its ascendancy as the century waned, many of the soldiers deserted, joined the armies of other countries, or tried to return home, begging and stealing on the way. 'It is possible,' Sieber suggests, 'that some of the deserters carried their previous military title of piquero with them into "civilian" life.' 10
So that's something of the background to the period which gave rise to the idea of the picaresque: a period of great social change, and, for a great many people, a period of confusion, poverty, delinquency, lawlessness, but also of travel and upward mobility.
We should turn now to the literary genre which first appeared in the middle of the sixteenth century but reached its full flowering at the turn of the seventeenth, when in 1599 an enterprising book publisher brought out not only a new edition of Lazarillo de Tormes, but also the first edition of Guzmán de Alfarache, atalaya de la vida humana—watch-tower of human life. The importance of this publishing event is suggested by the passage from the first part of El ingenioso hidalgo don Quixote de la Mancha, published only six years later, and which is quoted in part by Vijay Mishra.
Here we meet one of 'a group of "unfortunate ones who, much against their will, were being taken where they did not wish to go." Sancho Panza identifies them as "galley slaves." Among them [is] one Ginés de Pasamonte, a convicted criminal who had written his autobiography during a previous sentence in the galleys. Don Quixote's interview with Ginés contains one of the earliest reactions to the then "new" narrative genre. Don Quixote wants to [10] know about Ginés's life, and the rogue responds by saying "'… If you want to know anything about my life, know that I am Ginés de Pasamonte whose life story ["vida"] has been written down by these fingers that you see here.'" The commissary who is guarding the prisoners intrudes to tell Don Quixote that Ginés has 'pawned' his book for 'two hundred reales,' only to have Ginés respond by placing a value on it of 'two hundred ducats.' Don Quixote asks if the book is that valuable:
'It is so good,' replied Ginés, 'that it will cast into the shade Lazarillo de Tormes and all others of that sort ["genero"] that have been or will be written…'
'And what is the title of the book?' asked Don Quixote.
'The Life of Ginés de Pasamonte.'
'Is it finished?'
'How could it be finished,' said Ginés 'when my life is not finished as yet? What I have written thus far is an account of what happened to me from the time I was born up to the last time that they sent me to the galleys.' 12
Cervantes draws attention, as Sieber points out, to three fundamental elements of Ginés's life, and therefore of picaresque fiction in general: it is the autobiography of a convicted criminal, it is written in the pattern of Lazarillo and other such works, and it open-ended, 'unfinished.' It also uses the language used by criminals.
The Lazarillo was reprinted only once between 1554 and 1599 and that was in a corrected version which expunged anything that was anticlerical, against the church. But it gained a new lease of life in its association with Guzmán de Alfarache, which 'was one of the first authentic best sellers in the history of printing,' At least twenty-five editions of the first part of the Guzmán were printed by 1605, the date of the appearance of Don Quixote. And nine separate editions of the Lazarillo were in circulation by 1603. The association is important: it is only by seeing the earlier book as being necessarily associated with the later that we arrive at full understanding of what was meant by the picaresque, as perceived by Cervantes and therefore by those who came after him. Lazarillo, as you know, is not a criminal; it is Guzmán who introduces this new and essential element, which is present also in The Swindler.
There are, however, several elements which are shared by both narratives: the first-person narration, the episodic plot, the many masters served by Lazarillo, his dishonourable birth and poverty, his concern with honour, and his desire for respectability, to become an "hombre de bien."
As you know a fair bit about the Lazarillo (having read it), I want to turn briefly to the Guzmán, because I believe that this is the true locus of the genre in its origins. The Lazarillo is really more of a precursor text, in the same way that Caleb Williams is a precursor of the detective novel, rather than the 'first detective novel' in English, and in the same way that Vijay Mishra argues that The Castle of Otranto is the precursor text of the Gothic. And The Swindler (which I haven't asked you to read) is a bit past the prime of the picaresque, being written at about the same time as Don Quixote, although not published until 1626. The Guzmán is the narrative to which Cervantes is really referring, although it is the earlier book that he names. The reason we've asked you to read the other story is simply to do with availability: the Lazarillo is only 75 pages in Spanish compared to the huge bulk of the Guzmán's 820: and the former is available in Penguin. So let me tell you a little about it instead—mostly as Harry Sieber told it to me.
The story 'was translated into English (as The Rogue) in 1622 and published with an introduction by Ben Jonson [not the Canadian runner, that is, but the author of Volpone and The Alchemist, among other works]. Guzman is by turns scullion, thief, gentleman, beggar, soldier, page to a cardinal and to a French ambassador, and his career gives occasion [as Hazlitt wrote] for "sketches of character and humorous descriptions to which it would be difficult to produce anything superior"'
It's in two parts, each containing three books. 'The first part traces Guzmán's progress from birth to his chosen career as a pícaro. The second takes up where he refuses to mend his ways, includes his steadily worsening situation—the high point of his life as a delinquent—and ends with his arrest, punishment and "repentance" of past crimes.' It's an autobiography, of course, and therefore has the typical divided time structure of the long autobiography, with the gap between the narrating present and the narrated present. This allows the narrator, the older Guzmán, to comment on the episodes that he recounts, and it's debatable whether the story exists for the sake of the digressions and comments, or whether they are the reason why the story had to be invented. This question arises in the present work with more point to it than usual, because the Guzmán is inherently concerned with morality. You would normally conclude that this is a non-question, and that the work just has these two faces, the entertainment and the moral comment, and they both have a right to exist in the one work, despite the fact that the two readings tend to cancel one another out. 'Does Guzmán really repent at the end?' is the question that has divided readers over the centuries. If this sounds uninteresting to you—as of course it must—then I direct your minds to the questions surrounding the reception of texts like A Clockwork Orange.
'The Guzmán, like the Lazarillo, is on the surface the story of a lad born in dishonourable circumstances who attempts to better his position in life. He was born in San Juan de Alfarache near Seville, the illegitimate son of a renegade Christian and a woman of easy virtue. After his father's death, poverty forces Guzmán to make his way to Madrid. He takes part in several "picaresque" exploits during the journey and arrives "hecho pícaro," already a rogue.' 18
I thought you might enjoy this excerpt from James Mabbe's 1622 translation of the summary from the beginning of Chapter 2 of Book 2, as giving some idea of the story as well as of the period.
How Guzmán de Alfarache leaving his Host, went begging to Madrid; and comming thither, how he set himselfe to learne to play the Rogue, and to beare a Basket; whereby the way he discourseth of Hunger, of Beggerie; and of Honour which hurteth the soule. 19
This 'Host' that he left is an innkeeper, and Guzmán comments that being an innkeeper's boy is worse than being the servant of a blindman, which connects this story with that from forty-five years earlier, whether intentionally or not. Guzmán loses the money he has '"gotten in a good warre,"' and is forced to learn to live on the margins to follow the trade of the pícaro, 'which consists in "exercising all your Cony-catching trickes, knavish prankes, fine feates, with slight of hand, and whatsoever Rogueries come within the compasse of that prowling office."' Some of these "feates" include standing in soup lines for free meals, learning to be card-sharper, stealing, and carrying baskets.' 20 All of which Guzmán seems to find quite rewarding.
What a fine kind of life was it, what a dainty and delicate thing, without Thimble, Thred, or Needle; without Pinsers, Hammer or Wimble, or any other Mechanicall Instrument whatsoever, more than one onely bare Basket; like unto those of your Brethren of the Order de Anton Martin, (though unlike to them in their goodness of life, and solitary retiredness) I had gotten me an Office whereby to live: and such a kind of Office, as seemed to be a bit without a bone; a backe, without a burthen; a merry kind of Occupation, and free from all manner of trouble and vexation. 21
According to Sieber, 'the pícaro, as Alemán defines him, is the product of poverty and of a social value system which prohibits him from being anything else. Both Lazarillo's and Guzmán's real crimes were having been born into the world as "losers," doomed to failure from the beginning in their attempts to create and to sustain that myth of "honour" for which they sacrificed their spiritual lives.' 22
He began as dishonourable offspring of thieves and prostitutes. His parents were descended from questionable ancestry, often from conversos. He was generally required to abandon home at an early age because of poverty and hunger in order to improve his situation. His goal was to serve himself, although he ended up serving others, and eventually to associate with people of means and honour. His knowledge of right and wrong was acquired through his experiences in the world, and invariably it was defined in terms of his own profit.
The narrator was more an adventurer than a rogue. He was born of more respectable parents. Thus his dishonourable beginnings were no longer an issue. His involvement in crime was often an effort on the part of the "real" author to disclose the crimes and corruption of those with whom he came into contact. At the end of his career he repented of his evil ways and prepared to die. The final novel in the Spanish tradition brought the genre full circle in one sense by recalling the early pícaro, but only to point him another direction by transforming him into a self-conscious clown. 23
What happens after the sixteenth century in Spain? Let me simply offer you Sieber's summary.
1. The picaresque novel in the strict sense comprises a few Spanish works closely associated with the Lazarillo and the Guzmán.
2. The "translations" of these novels were largely adaptations which feature the formal elements of the genre (narrative point of view, episodic structure, satiric purpose and the "servant-master" relationship).
3. The "imitations" tended to be blends of the adaptations and "native "fiction and sensibilities.
4. As a result the pícaro became or was replaced with the English "rogue" and "foundling," the Italian "vagabundo," the German "Schelm" and the French "gueux" or "gentilhomme."
5. Finally, his "picaresque" adventures and level in society were made to conform to the peculiar satiric, social and historical contexts of each country, the general effect of which was to turn him into an "anti-pícaro ."
In weeks to come we shall be considering whether or not it is useful to think of other narratives on this course as being picaresque novels or at least containing picaresque elements, and I suggest you might want to think in this context about Tom Jones, Caleb Williams, Frankenstein, and Oliver Twist.
Perhaps the most interesting present locus of the picaresque genre is the kind of neocolonial narrative found in books like Archie Weller's Day of the Dog (which was made into the film Blackfellers). You may also by able to think of applications of the picaresque to films like Easy Rider and Paris, Texas and Thelma and Louise and TV series like Route 66—or whatever has replaced it more recently. Perhaps you can think, in the days and weeks to come, of further—or for that matter contrary—examples.
Well, that was the historical part; now I want to come to the theoretical bit.
In these lectures, in relation to particular primary texts, I want also to try to deal with some of the major theoretical works which are recommended for this unit, and I'd like to refer now to Georg Lukács's book The Theory of the Novel. I don't strongly recommend this as a whole, partly because it is very old (it was written in 1914), partly because its title is misleading (it is a very partial and polemical view of the novel), and partly because it refers to texts with which I would not expect you to be familiar; but I do want to draw on one section of it, because I think it throws an interesting an unexpected light on the picaresque—although Lukács does not himself use the word at all. Lukács, as Michael Holquist points out, shares with René Girard (the author of Deceit, Desire and the Novel), 'the assumption that biography, the story of an idiosyncratic person, is the determining model of the novel's narrative structure.' 25
The inner form of the novel [writes Lukács] has been understood as the process of the problematic individual's journeying toward himself, the road from dull captivity within a merely present reality—a reality that is heterogeneous in itself and meaningless to the individual—towards clear self-recognition. 26
And a page later, he writes this.
The beginning and the end of the world of a novel, which are determined by the beginning and end of the process which supplies the content of the novel, thus become significant landmarks along a clearly mapped road. 27
Of course, he's using the idea of the 'road' only as a metaphor—and yet it seems to me that it's a bit more than that. Of course the idea of dealing with the span of a life almost inevitably suggests the image of travel—but as works of art fundamentally deal in metaphors and other such tropes, it seems almost equally inevitable that travelling will frequently recur as one of the main actions, and the road travelled will be its locus.
The road both is and is not the point. The real point, according to Lukács, is the view from where you get to at the end of the road. Or, as he puts it:
The immanence of meaning which the form of the novel requires lies in the hero's finding out through experience that a mere glimpse of meaning is the highest that life has to offer, and that this glimpse is the only thing worth the commitment of an entire life, the only thing by which the struggle will have been justified. 28
But it is equally true that where you end up depends on which road you have taken. Not all roads lead to something worth seeing. Some of us get to climb Mount Purgatory, others never get out of the Slough of Despond. I quote Lukács again, in fact from the next sentence after the last one I read you.
The process of finding out extends over a lifetime, and its direction and scope are given with its normative content, the way towards a human being's self-recognition. 29
And again I stress the word 'way' in Lukács's text, equating that figure with the 'process of finding out' and with the direction and scope' that he refers to. As when Jesus is recorded as saying 'I am the way, the truth, and the life,' the first of those three is given equal force with the others. 30 And it's that metaphor which so often gets worked out, not only in novel texts, but also, and perhaps more prominently these days, in what are called 'road movies.'
Mikhail Bakhtin is more specific than Georg Lukács with regard to the idea of the road, and in his essay, 'Forms of time and of the chronotype in the novel,' which is in The Dialogic Imagination but not in your Reader, he discusses the road as a basic metaphor which is used to structure one of the major types of narrative. In this essay he distinguishes between three types of ancient narrative which were precursors of the novel.
Three basic types of novels [he writes] developed in ancient times, and there are consequently three corresponding methods for artistically fixing time and space in these novels—in short, there were three novelistic chronotopes. [By 'chronotopes' he means to refer to the way in which we understand one's place in society and in history by one's orientation in time and space.] These three types [he goes on] turned out to be extraordinarily productive and flexible, and to a large degree determined the development of the adventure novel up to the mid-eighteenth century. …' 31
[Morris:] 'The first type discussed is the Greek romance as [what he calls the] "adventure novel of ordeal" which would include all the so-called "Greek" or "Sophist" novels written between the second and sixth centuries AD.' 32 '[Then,] Bakhtin designates the second type of ancient novel the "adventure novel of everyday life."' 33 And it is in relation to this type of ancient novel that he has this to say about the road as "the path of life."
The most characteristic thing about this novel is the way it fuses the course of an individual's life (at its major turning points) with his actual spatial course or road—that is, with his wanderings. Thus is realized the metaphor "the path of life." The path itself extends through familiar, native territory, in which there is nothing exotic, alien or strange. Thus a unique novelistic chronotope is created, one that has played an enormous role in the history of the genre. At its heart is folklore. Various means for realizing the metaphor "the path of life" play a large role in all aspects of folklore. One can even go as far as to say that in folklore a road is almost never merely a road, but always suggests the whole, or a portion of, "the path of life." The choice of a real itinerary equals the choice of "the path of life" … 34
If you take Bakhtin's point that the road is one of the basic structuring devices of narrative (and road movies), then you can see that we have some justification for getting you to read this early example of proto-novel: the Lazarillo.
I think I should leave further discussion of the 'realism' of the picaresque in general and of Lazarillo in particular to tutorials. These are some of the questions we might consider.
I hope I have given you, in this lecture, some insight into the social and historical determinants of the picaresque genre and therefore of this aspect of what Ian Watt calls the 'rise of the novel,' and also, I hope of some the theoretical notions which can be brought to bear on its exemplars: the notion of realism as a construct, with its attendant political implications; and the idea of biography and travel as structuring devices which recur in narrative fictions. These are points in the spiral of narrative theory through which we shall pass again and again as we progress upwards to higher forms of knowledge. 35
1 Ian Watt 1972, The Rise of the Novel: Studies in Defoe, Richardson and Fielding, Pelican: 11.
2 Watt 1972: 11; emphasis added.
3 Sieber, Harry 1977, The Picaresque, Methuen, London.
4 Chandler, Frank Wadleigh 1899, Romance of Roguery: An Episode in the History of the Novel. Part I: The Picaresque Novel in Spain, New York: 45-6; cited in Sieber 1977: 2.
5 Allen Walter 1954, The English Novel: A Short Critical History, New York.
6 Allen 1954: 18, cited in Sieber 1977: 3.
7 Guillén, Claudio 1971, Literature as System: Essays Toward the Theory of Literary History, Princeton: 92; cited in Sieber 1977: 3.
8 Parker, A. A. 1967, Literature and the Delinquent: The Picaresque Novel in Spain and Europe 1599-1753, Edinburgh.
9 Parker Geoffrey 1972, The Army of Flanders and the Spanish Road 1567-1659: The Logistics of Spanish Victory and Defeat in the Low Countries' War, Cambridge: 180.
10 Sieber 1977: 6.
11 Sieber 1977: 6.
12 trs. Samuel Putnam, Modern Library: 172-3. This whole passage quoted from Sieber 1977: 9-10.
13 Guillén 1971: 143, cited by Sieber 1977: 11.
14 Sieber 1977: 11.
15 Harvey, Paul 1946, Oxford Companion to English Literature, 3rd ed., Oxford University Press: 346.
16 Sieber 1977: 18.
17 Sieber 1977: 19.
18 The Rogue, or the Life of Guzmán de Alfarache, was reissued in 1622, 1623, 1630, 1633, 1634, 1655 and 1656. Sieber 1977: 51.
19 Alemán, Mateo 1967, The Rogue, or the Life of Guzmán de Alfarache, trs. James Mabbe, 4 vols, New York (reprint): I, 249, quoted in Sieber 1977: 20.
20 Sieber 1977: 20-1, quoting Alemán 1967: I, 251.
21 Alemán 1967: 249, quoted in Sieber 1977: 21.
22 Sieber 1977; 23.
23 Estebanillo González (1646)
24 Lukács, Georg 1971, The Theory of the Novel, tr. Anna Bostock, MIT Press, Cambridge, Mass.
25 Holquist, Michael 1977, Dostoevsky and the Novel, Northwestern University Press, Evanston, Illinois: 166.
26 Lukács, Georg 1971, The Theory of the Novel, tr. Anna Bostock, MIT Press, Cambridge, Mass.: 80.
27 Lukács 1971: 81.
28 Lukács 1971: 80.
29 Lukács 1971: 80, 'corrected' at the end of the quotation. Lukács actually wrote '… man's recognition of himself.'
30 John 14: 6.
31 Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1994, 'Forms of time and of the chronotype in the novel,' in The Bakhtin Reader: Selected Writings of Bakhtin, Medvedev and Voloshinov, ed. Pam Morris, Edward Arnold, London: 184; originally from Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination, ed. Michael Holquist, trs. Caryl Emerson & Michael Holquist, University of Texas Press, Austin, 1981 [: 86].
32 Pam Morris, Introductory headnote in Mikhail M. Bakhtin 1994, The Bakhtin Reader: Selected Writings of Bakhtin, Medvedev and Voloshinov, ed. Pam Morris, Edward Arnold, London: 180.
33 Morris 1994: 181.
34 Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1994, 'Forms of time and of the chronotype in the novel,' in The Bakhtin Reader: Selected Writings of Bakhtin, Medvedev and Voloshinov, ed. Pam Morris, Edward Arnold, London: 186; originally from Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination, ed. Michael Holquist, trs. Caryl Emerson & Michael Holquist, University of Texas Press, Austin, 1981 [:120].
35 Bruner, J. S. 1966, Towards a Theory of Instruction, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass.
Garry Gillard | New: 11 January, 2018 | Now: 20 December, 2018