AT Plas Penrhyn, his comfortable country house in northern Wales, he worked until the very enda sparrow of a man, 97 years old and still trying to straighten out the world. A statement went off to Cairo on the Middle East crisis; letters and papers were prepared on Viet Nam and the plight of political prisoners. Then, after a whisky, he retired with a touch of flu to his bedroom overlooking Tremadoc Bay. Not long afterward, the long, passionate life of Bertrand Russell came to an end.
Only five mourners, including members of the...
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