The grave of Joseph Grimaldi. A weathered headstone and grave is surrounded by black, ornate, cast-iron railings. The twin masks of tragedy and comedy — also in black iron — hang on the railing.
Joseph Grimaldi’s Grave, Joseph Grimaldi Park, Islington. Loz Pycock via Flickr. CC BY-SA 2.0 DEED

#409 — DEAD OR ALIVE

The Possibility of Flight

Marsha Adams
Tantalizing Tales
Published in
8 min readApr 27, 2024

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Suitably rested, I feel strong enough to bear the eyes of people once again, in order to visit an old friend, Joseph Grimaldi. From the limited perspective of humanity — and that of an angel bound to Earth — my old friend is dead. He has this quality in common with all my old friends, which is the reason I seldom make new friends: two centuries is too long to miss someone, let alone two millennia.

It is less than three furlongs from Claremont Square to Collier Street, a brisk five-minute walk for someone of my stature. I take the Donegal Street route, for its edifying effect: I will pass the Elizabeth Garret Anderson Language College for Girls, and be reminded of mankind’s progress.

I was never fortunate enough to count Elizabeth as a friend, although we met on occasion. I do not doubt she had friends, but she did not become Britain’s first woman doctor, or first woman dean of a medical school, or first woman mayor, by frittering away her time in theological discussions, as is my wont.

The school is named for her, but not strictly for her accomplishments in medicine. Henry Maudsley, a misogynist who styled himself a psychiatrist, had made the suggestion that educating women over-exerted their minds…

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