For the better part of this century, Malcolm Muggeridge, 79, the great gadfly of British letters, has unleashed his rapier prose on much that civilized man has too foolishly held dear, including, from time to time, organized religion. Late last month, however, the durable old iconoclast, who had been raised a Methodist, marched his fervent bundle of contradictions down to a tiny white chapel in Hurst Green, Sussex, and with his wife became a member of the Roman Catholic Church. Once a hearty drinker and womanizer, Muggeridge somewhat stunned his readers in 1969 with...
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