New Left Review I/221, January-February 1997

Sheila Rowbotham

Some Memories of Raphael

My first memory of Raphael is at a history meeting in St Hilda’s, Oxford in the early 60s. I think it may have been the Stubbs Society, anyway it was august and formal and donnish and he was a dark, thin, extraordinary figure with a flop of hair which persistently fell over his eyes. His subject was the potato famine in Ireland in the 1840s—a topic about which I knew nothing at all, for it had been side-stepped by my school ‘A’ levels and the Oxford history curriculum. Both conspired to eschew subjects they deemed emotive.

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