Tony Benn

“I dreamed last night that the house was covered in green slime and fungus, and I went upstairs and in the bedroom was Caroline lying on the bed, and the bed was a complete mess of papers and things. She was absolutely white, her eyes were red, and a fattish woman was cutting huge chunks of bloody meat and giving it to her to eat. I said something and the woman replied, and I said, ‘Never speak to me like that again – get out!’ And she shouted at me. There was Caroline, with all this meat around her … and I woke up and Caroline was gone. Strange!”

It may be that lurid meat-dreams like this one are a common feature of the vegetarian/vegan life – or, more generally, that dreams of misused animals are recurrent in the sleep of anyone properly alive to their sufferings in the real world. I notice, for instance, a series of such dreams in the diaries of John Ruskin, the art critic and professor who resigned his chair at Oxford University in 1885 when a vivisection laboratory was first built there. But this particular meat-dream was recorded on 2 March 2009 by a more recent Oxford alumnus, the politician Tony Benn. Those who know of his remarkable life (those for instance who have seen the stage play titled Tony’s Last Tape which has been on tour this year, or who have seen the 2014 documentary film about his life, Will and Testament) will recognize some of its characterizing elements in the dream: the huge archive of papers (and tapes) recording day by day his long political career; the big old house in Holland Park Avenue, West London, which habitually let in the rain; his devotion to his wife Caroline, whom he had married in 1948 and whose loss from cancer in 2000 the dream makes him relive, in the ruthless way dreams have (how did Freud ever suppose that dreams were wish-fulfilments?).

But yes, the meat. Tony Benn had stopped eating meat in 1970. He had been persuaded by his young son Hilary (who later became the U.K.’s first vegetarian cabinet minister instarvation-text charge of food and environment) that the crops which should have been feeding the world’s poor were being fed to cattle to produce meat for the affluent. But it wasn’t a matter only of inter-human injustice to him; it was morally shocking in itself: “I am particularly revolted by religious slaughter but the slaughter of all animals is barbaric. Why breed animals simply to kill and eat them. How is it different to killing people?”

A little background to explain Tony Benn’s thoughts about animals. Although his reputation is that of a politician and political diarist, passionately involved in some of the most acute political controversies of his time in the U.K., Tony Benn should really be classified as a moralist. Bismark’s famous and worldly saying about politics as the art of the possible would have repelled him. Politics for him was a moral cause: “Is it right or is it wrong? You can argue about it, but that is really the key question to ask.” He did not call himself a Christian, but he inherited from his devout mother at least her faith in “prophets as against kings”: that is, ideas and ideals challenging and subverting authorities and powers, just as the Old Testament prophets challenged their kings. He himself was exactly a prophet, in the sense a moral teacher and visionary. He was, accordingly, too absolute in his convictions to appeal to his party’s pragmatic kings and king-makers. A successful minister in the 1960s and 70s, Benn was at one time regarded as a probable prime minister, but in fact he never again served in government after the 1979 election.

When he finally left parliament in 2001, he explained that he wanted to devote more time to politics. It was Caroline Benn’s joke, but it was founded on a serious conviction that the House of Commons was no longer where political power resided, or where the important decisions were made. All his working life, Benn had for his purpose “the democratic reform of our savagely unjust society”. Instead, he had had to watch power migrate ever further away from the people and their representatives in the House of Commons and into the hands of financiers, media owners, unelected global agencies like the International Monetary Fund, and president-like prime ministers and their cliques.

So, more and more, Benn came to trust only the radical and unmediated expressions of democracy. He told a ‘Stop the War’ rally in Trafalgar Square, “Parliament belongs to the past; the streets belong to the future.” (“They really liked that”, he adds in his diary.) He loved the annual Durham Miners’ Gala, with its brass bands, embroidered banners (at least two of them picturing Tony Benn himself), and vehement political speeches, all indeed there on the streets: “It’s a tremendously moral event really.” Latterly he was a regular speaker at the Glastonbury Festival: “Glastonbury’s always fantastic … it’s really the recreation of the old folk-festival atmosphere, so I love going.” He admired these radical scenes not as something nostalgic or touching, though they did move him very much, but as confirmations and promises of what he believed: “everything comes from underneath”. They were his hope for the future.

Therefore the following scene, recorded in Tony Benn’s diary, was wholly characteristic. In June of 2007 he was attending former American president Jimmy Carter’s honorary degree ceremony in the grand Sheldonian building in Oxford (elaborate robes, the Chancellor reading the award in Latin, etc.: “institutions love all that ceremonial stuff”). At that time, the University was in the middle of building its new vivisection laboratory, and outside the Sheldonian could be heard, as habitually at the such events, “a lot of animal-rights protesters shouting”. The University had been doing all it could, with limited success, to prevent these protests against the laboratory, or at least to move them to more manageable times and places; its recourse meanwhile was to pretend they weren’t there. Of course Tony Benn would have nothing to do with that: “when it was all over, I thought I’d go and have a word with the animal-rights protesters. I walked up and down and shook hands with quite a few of them …” From ex-presidents and other establishment tony-benn-at-demodignitaries congratulating each other, then, he came out into the street among the placards and passions – the “underneath” from which the future must come – and showed his approval publicly with that most egalitarian of ceremonies, the hand-shake. A photograph of the occasion catches him at no loss for words or commitment.

Vivisection had dismayed Tony Benn since early childhood. During family walks in London, he had seen one of those window-displays which were a feature of earlier anti-vivisection campaigns, showing a model monkey among gruesome equipment (a street-show again). When Oxford University began to build its new laboratory, and the controversy was at its height, he chaired a debate on the subject, doing his best as chairman to redress the imbalance of rank and numbers, there in the University, against the dissenting side. He was a patron of Voice for Ethical Research at Oxford, and when the laboratory was formally opened, he helped publicize VERO’s objection by joining us at Nuffield College, and speaking to the press: “Vero is one of the courageous organisations challenging outdated orthodoxy.” tony-benn-with-othersFor him, again, it was a matter of morality: as he asked  the science-publicist Richard Dawkins, during a television discussion at about this same time, “where is your moral teaching in science?”    

Tony Benn was (notoriously to some) a socialist. There may well be other political philosophies capable of accommodating the interests of animals: let’s hope there are many. (I see there’s an argument about this in the web-pages of the new online forum called Animal Justice Currents.) But more essentially Benn was a radical democrat, restlessly arguing for political powers to be passed downwards to the people – or more plausibly, as we’ve noticed, for the people to reach upward and take them (take them back, as he would have said). Perhaps he romanticized ‘the people’. Certainly he was a romantic, but then prophets have to be: “All real progress throughout history has been made by those who did find it possible to lift themselves above the hardship of the present and see beyond it to an ideal world.”

In recent years, Tony Benn became less of the public bogeyman which he had been, at least for cropped-tony-benn-17-11-08-img_3737the right-wing press, in the 1970s and 80s (“The most dangerous man in Britain?” asked the Sun newspaper). Now instead he was sometimes called, rather patronizingly, a ‘national treasure’. He was bemused by this, but quite unassimilated: “To my surprise and delight I am rediscovering idealism as I enter my eighty-fifth year.”

Animals were increasingly a part of this latter idealism. They can, after all, be viewed politically as the most ancient of the ‘folk’, battered and dispossessed even more ruthlessly than the rest of their kind by capitalist modernity. Watching his garden birds taking their immemorial part in the common pursuit of food and security, Benn indeed felt them to be “a scaled down version of humanity” (a ‘more modest’ or ‘less rapacious’ version might say it better). And since they can have no money and no votes of their own, one must suppose that the only kind of democracy which will adequately provide for the lives and interests of the non-human animals is exactly the folk-minded kind which Tony Benn prized: one that seeks the common good not primarily through the spread of individual affluence and consumerist power, urged and promised by vote-seeking politicians at successive elections, but rather by promoting the sense of mutuality and life-solidarity. As the banners at the 2008 Durham Gala declared, while the 83-year old Tony Benn stood watching them pass by from his hotel balcony (“there were moments when I was in tears”): “Fellowship is Life”, “Fellowship is All”. Yes, there’s surely a place in that scheme for all of us, human and other.



Tony Benn’s comments on animal slaughter come from an interview he gave to Tony Wardle for Viva!LIFE (issue 31, Spring 2006).

The phrase about democratic reform, and what Benn says about progress through idealism and about his own renewed idealism, are quoted from The Best of Benn, ed. Ruth Winstone, Arrow Books 2014, pp.73 and 323-4.

“Is it right or is it wrong?” and “prophets as against kings” come from the rather oddly titled but excellent Skip Kite film, Will and Testament (released in 2014).

Other quotations are from The Last Diaries: a Blaze of Autumn Sunshine, ed. Ruth Winstone, Hutchinson, 2013: the meat dream from p.225, the Stop the War rally p.109, Durham Gala p.150 and Glastonbury p.18, his question to Dawkins p.162, and the Oxford degree ceremony, where he talked with members of the SPEAK campaign, p.15.

Other material comes from a talk given for Animal Aid in December 2007 and from personal conversations. The discussion in Animal Justice Currents can be read at

The photograph of Tony Benn at the demonstration is kindly provided by SPEAK campaigns. The other photographs are by Paul Freestone.


For not quite all of the Fallen

Next Sunday, November 13th, a few hours after the remembrance services have ended in Whitehall and elsewhere in the UK and far beyond, a service for the other war-dead will take place at the Animals in War Memorial in Park Lane. The Memorial was designed by the sculptor David Backhouse, and built there in 2004. Its commissioning and making blog memorialwere a notable achievement, giving permanent and very public recognition for the first time to the part which animals have been made to play in human wars.

In letters cut into its pale Portland stone, the Memorial declares, “This monument is dedicated to all the animals that served and died alongside British and Allied forces in wars and campaigns throughout time. Officially, therefore, it remembers only the animals who sided with ‘us’, rather than all the animals who have anywhere been forced, tricked, or otherwise induced to risk their lives in war-efforts. In this respect, perhaps disappointingly, it’s a very traditional war memorial, rather than (like the Brown Dog statue shown in the post for 7 August 2015) a statement of dissent.

But at least it doesn’t glorify or sentimentalize its subject. The suffering of the animals, and their preference for freedom, are plainly shown: burdened, crowded, unnaturally jumbled as to species like the ruin of Noah’s Ark which war indeed makes of them, they war_horse_bannerpress towards a gap in the curving stone stockade, and out into the freedom of the grass and trees beyond – a freedom actually reached and enjoyed by a great bronze horse and dog. And any disingenuousness in that word “served” is properly corrected by the brief but eloquent sentence cut into the stone by itself at the far right: “They had no choice.”

Better still would have been ‘They have no choice’, reminding the visitor to this monument that ‘they’ are not simply history, but have a countless posterity today and to come. Perhaps in fact this memorial does have too much of a historical – specifically a First World War – feel about it. But then that was the war in which animals have been most visibly used: not just the ubiquitous horses but, as the Memorial shows, mules, dsc04737camels, goats, dogs, cats, pigeons, even elephants. But yes, horses most visibly and numerously of all. Hence that cry of distress in a letter written by the composer Edward Elgar as early as 25 August 1914: “Concerning the war I say nothing – the only thing that wrings my heart and soul is the thought of the horses – oh! my beloved animals … Oh, my horses.”

And that too was the war which set the style for modernity in battle, where humans and animals would be only the perishable element in a contest largely to be characterized and determined by science and machinery. And here the setting of the Memorial is uncomfortably apt: not a pastoral or even a tolerably quiet scene, but Park Lane’s contribution to carmageddon, vehicles crowding past on either side (the Memorial is in between the two carriage-ways), suggesting in their roar and stink that peace, in a consumerist society, is only the continuation of war by other means.

There is one aspect of that war, however, about which the memorial says nothing. It was the First World War, specifically its science front, which enlisted animals into a wholly new variety of war work: weapons research, which for the UK began in 1916 at Porton Down with the study of poison gas.

This is the least glorious and photogenic of all types of animal ‘war service’, lacking any scope for the mutual affection and loyalty suggested in that telling word “alongside” in the text of the Memorial, and unlikely to earn any animal the PDSA’s Dickin Medal inscribed “For Gallantry (we also serve)”. All the more reason to give it this much recognition, a place among the representations here in Park Lane. But most unfortunately no such place is made for it. There are no images of monkeys to recall, for instance, their service to ‘allied forces’ on the hellish Primate Equilibrium Platforms at Brooks Air Force Base in Texas, or their continuing service at Porton Down testing the fatal effects of biological agents. There are no dolphins or whales to memorialize the ways in which their kind have served in cruel and unnatural trials at the Kaneohe Bay Naval Undersea Centre near Pearl Harbour. (It was about these last experiments that the marine biologist Jacques Cousteau commented, “No sooner does man discover intelligence, than he tries to involve it in his own stupidity.”)

Nor are there any pigs shown on the Memorial, to record the service of their species in the training of British military surgeons. The gruesome nature of that service, and its needlessness, were the subject of an open letter addressed to the Ministry of Defence a while ago by a group of vets led by VERO’s science advisor André Ménache. It has been taking place for some years mainly at Jaegerspris, Denmark: courtesy, then, of other ‘allied forces’, though a Ministry of Defence enterprise. Until recently, it was code-named ‘Exercise Danish Bacon’, a helpful insight into the Porton Down mentality.

The exigencies of battle may impose cruel demands upon the animals innocently induced to take part. The Park Lane Memorial records something of those demands with proper sadness and respect, if without explicit protest. But fear of war is an even more pitiless taskmaster. One witness speaking on behalf of Porton Down to a House of Lords committee a few years ago said, of the possibility that pneumonic plague might be used as an infective agent against us in war, “For an agent like that, there is virtually no price not worth paying to get an effective antidote.” He meant, of course, ‘not worth their paying’. The familiar mixture of cowardice and ruthlessness in that attitude – qualities so antithetical to the conduct of war as we prefer to remember it in our memorials – perhaps provides an explanation of why this aspect of animals’ war-work was omitted in Park Lane. It’s simply too ignoble to be willingly remembered.


‘For the Fallen’ is the title of Laurence Binyon’s famous poem about remembrance (“At the going down of the sun and in the morning / We will remember them.”

Edward Elgar’s letter (“Concerning the war …”) is quoted by Andrew Neill in ‘The Great War: Elgar and the Creative challenge’, The Elgar Journal, vol.11 no.1, March 1999, pp.9-41 (at p.12).

The Dickin Medal was instituted in 1943 by the founder of the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals, Maria Dickin. The first recipients of it were three pigeons.  

The experiments using the Primate Equilibrium Platform are described in Peter Singer, Animal Liberation (Pimlico Books, 1995) pp.25-29, and those at Kaneohe Bay in Richard Ryder, Victims of Science (Poynter Davis, 1975) pp.79-80, where also Jacques Cousteau is quoted.

Because weapons research is especially secretive, up-to-date instances are not easily available, but an example of the use to which Porton Down’s colony of marmoset monkeys is presently being put can be read here:

The open letter to the Ministry of Defence was reported in the Daily Mail for 6 May 2014: a link to the article can be found on the VERO web-site under that date (see ).

The quotation “For an agent like that …” comes from evidence given by Dr Lewis Moonie, Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Defence, to the Lords’ Select Committee on Animals in Scientific Procedures, April 2002.

This post is a revised version of the one posted on 4 November last year.

How to Learn about Magpies

Another of those ‘They’re smarter than you think!’ stories appeared in the Times last week. In fact probably they appear every week, somewhere around page 15, reporting on new research thought charming or grotesque enough to engage the readership. This one was headed ‘Magpies show their caring, sharing side’. Apparently, biologists at the University of Vienna have discovered that azure-winged magpies (cyanopia cyanus) will make food available to their flock-fellows in routine acts of “unsolicited altruism”: a surprise, it seems, because until very recently “many researchers believed that this sort of selflessness was a uniquely human characteristic.” Yes, they would have believed that, of course. Who had ever supposed that scientists were merely unprejudiced students of nature?

The middle of a daily paper, with views in all directions of murders, wars, law-court wrangles over huge fortunes, poverty, acts of cruelty and scenes of deranged luxury, isn’t where one can best appreciate that comfortable old scientific belief in selflessness as a human speciality. Nor was this magpie research itself exactly a kindly and sympathetic attention to other ways of life. On the contrary, it was a calculated interference. The birds which showed their altruistic behaviour were not enjoying what the original report (in Biology Letters) so evocatively calls “naturalistic contexts” (= freedom). They are (or perhaps were, their after-careers not being specified) caged birds, and were performing in a drastically simplified and controlled version of flock-life. But indeed, the whole behaviourist tradition to which this research belongs is the theoretical equivalent of such experimental settings, a drastically simplified conception of animal life.

Putting aside whatever cruelty may be thought implicit in the technique of the experiment, the project can’t even be called dis-interested as science. The larger problem which this research – like other such research, on other species – claims to illuminate is “the evolution of human altruism”. As the author of the book featured in the previous post, The Science of Animal Behaviour, said in 1963 (perhaps the high noon of the behaviourist tradition), “there is essentially only one basic scientific interest in the study of animal behaviour and that is to learn more about man himself.” And the comprehensive world-view in which that assumption plays its part is this: that the whole astonishing many-million-years history of animal life is properly seen as a warm-up act for ourselves. Whereas really (if I’m to keep to this on-stage analogy), the brief but savagely destructive contribution made by humans to the show is probably best likened to the house-fire which destroys both the show and most of the venue.

Fortunately the behaviourist tradition in animal studies has for some time been challenged or at least complemented by ethology, the study of animals as far as possible in their “naturalistic contexts”. As its great pioneer Konrad Lorenz has shown, such studies may include everything from meticulous and self-effacing observation in the field to full human participation. In fact ethology, though newish as a tolerated science, has been a going concern over many centuries in the form of amateur natural history and, more generally, of human curiosity and affectionateness. For a brilliant and delightful instance of this longer tradition, and therefore as an Corvus.JPGoffset to the Vienna University research, I recommend Corvus: a Life with Birds by Esther Woolfson (Granta 2008).

One of the rescued birds whose life in the Woolfson household the book describes is a magpie (not of the azure-winged sub-species, though of course both are corvids). It was christened Spike, and being part-domesticated from earliest life it could never safely leave the house. You might therefore expect a series of anecdotes of cute and humanized behaviour. No: Spike’s stubborn otherness (I have to use that fashionable term here), and the strength of will through which his nature as a magpie expressed itself, are everywhere insistent. At the same time, qualities and conduct which we might carelessly regard, following our scientific mentors, as “uniquely human” – thought, empathy, practical joking, football games – this history of Spike compels us to believe we see fully translated in him (or pioneered, rather: magpies, after all, knew and enjoyed the world long before we arrived).

Scepticism about own assumptions, and about what we really can know, is not a monopoly of scientists. Esther Woolfson certainly has it, but she qualifies its mental austerity or aloofness with a generous and affectionate egalitarianism, participating in these other lives without speciesist reserve.

On the one hand, then, she doesn’t wish or guide her birds to behave humanly; she doesn’t yearningly impute human motives to them, or make humanity the measure of value (in this, she is more ‘scientific’ than the Vienna researchers). She says, “I don’t want birds to be other than they are.” And habitually she tempers or quizzes what, as a human, she sees and thinks. For example, when Spike takes a fervent part in family ball-games, she describes him “shouting with what seemed remarkably like joy” (my italics).

On the other hand, she is always moved to see how much there must be that Spike and the other birds do share with humans, in emotions and in conduct: “it makes me feel as if I live in an indivisible world, that my belief that we’re nearer in every respect than I could have imagined is correct, that we are, whatever we are, something of the same.” Those last nine words, with their intellectual modesty and life-hospitable “we”, bring together all that is best in science and in humanity.

No doubt the research done at Vienna will make a useful addition to a certain kind of knowledge of some bird-life. It may even do a little to counter our prejudices against magpies: the Times correspondent very properly thinks it should. But I would say that one can learn more about the life of magpies (to say nothing about their possibilities as individuals), and therefore about our true and proper relation to them, from such a book as Esther Woolfson’s than from all that can ever come from the world’s cages and laboratories.


[References: The Times news article was written by its science correspondent Oliver Moody, and appeared on 19 October, at p.15. The original report of the research, titled ‘Proactive prosociality in a cooperatively breeding corvid, the azure-winged magpie’, was published in the Royal Society’s journal Biology Letters on 18 October, and is accessible in full online. Quotations from Corvus: a Life with Birds are taken from pp. 163, 199, and 169.]


Remembering the Founding Text of the Animal Rights Movement (not by Peter Singer)

It’s now forty five years since the book of essays Animals, Men and Morals was published. Its editors were three post-graduate philosophers at Oxford, and several of their fellow-writers for the book were likewise University people. Accordingly some of its chapters are academic studies of one kind or another, though written with unacademic fervour and impatience. Others lay out the facts of factory farming, fur and cosmetics, and experiments on animals. Although it made no great splash at the time, this book proved to be the pioneering text for the modern animal rights movement, in both its philosophical and animals-men-morals-coverits political forms. The chapter on vivisection was written by Richard Ryder, then a psychologist in an Oxford hospital, and since that’s the unhappy subject of this blog I shall say a little more about his part in the book.

Ryder himself had done research work with animals (I politely use that richly euphemistic “with”). Therefore he knew the things of which he came to write. What he first wrote was a pamphlet titled Speciesism, which he published and distributed round Oxford in 1970. He had coined its title-word on the analogy of ‘racism’ and ‘sexism’, in order to show at a lexical glance that the moral revolution of the 1960s, unfinished as it obviously was, had still another ancient orthodoxy to start to undo. By placing the subject of animal welfare in a political context in this way, he also freed it from its conventional associations with the minor good works of well-off old ladies (i.e. courageous women who meant to get something right done, as fortunately many still do). When another Oxford post-graduate, Peter Singer, reviewed Animals, Men and Morals for the New York Review of Books, and when he went on to write Animal Liberation (1975), he used ‘speciesism’ as his key word for just those reasons and despite its awkwardness (“the word is not an attractive one, but I can think of no better term”[i]). Defining as it does the essential wrong, Ryder’s word remains a complete work of animal ethics and a rule-book in ten letters.

Singer’s review spoke of Animal, Men and Morals as “a manifesto for an Animal Liberation movement”[ii]. In the event, it was his own book which became that manifesto, and it has been so ever since. But it was the earlier book which had established the proper way to look at the subject: not just as a miscellany of improvised cruelties, calling on the services of kindly people to press for remedies, but as an enormous and systematic wrong requiring a fundamental change of mind. As the book’s ‘Postscript’ says – so much in the spirit of that time, as well as of that project – “we want to change the world.”[iii]

Richard Ryder’s chapter of the book, surveying the law and practice of animal research, was a good deal longer than any of the others. It gives many examples of contemporary experiments, illustrative of what animals might be asked to endure: rats in their ‘Wright Auto-Smoker’, dogs having their legs crushed in the notorious ‘Blalock Press’ (ah, those evocative trade-names!), pregnant baboons in car-crash simulations, and so on. A few of the examples are from Oxford’s laboratories. It’s a disgusting read, and it all sits in the baleful shade of the chapter’s epigraph, taken from the works of one of experimental psychology’s leading practitioners, Harry Harlow: “most experiments are not worth doing and the data obtained are not worth publishing.”[iv]

It is often asked of those who oppose vivisection why they don’t bother about the far greater numbers of animals killed for food. The simple answer of course is that they do. As Animals, Men and Morals insisted, it’s all one subject, though some may specialize within it. But there’s a more unpleasant answer too. Factory farming is itself a product of scientific research. Ruth Harrison showed as much in her chapter of the book, and she had already written, in Animal Machines (1964), that “every batch of animals reaching market is a sequel to another experiment or part of an experiment.” The laboratory may exemplify speciesism in an especially stark and modern way, but it also promotes and facilitates it elsewhere.

A popular account of animal research published in 1963 makes this last point very clearly, and also helpfully illustrates the orthodox thinking of the time. The Science of Animal Behaviour was written for the Pelican imprint by P.L.Broadhurst, a professor at Birmingham. He was presumably aiming the book at the lay-person and the aspiring young scientist, and it is clearly and reasonably intended as an advertisement for his profession. There is not much in it about animals as they can be observed in nature. The laboratory is Broadhurst’s preferred setting, partly because that was his own place of work (rats and the misleadingly fun-sounding “shuttle box” were his customary tools), but mainly because animals in themselves do not quite constitute a subject: “there is essentially only one basic scientific interest in the study of animal behaviour and that is to learn more about man himself.”[v] 

Accordingly, a high point of Broadhurst’s presentation is the contemporary research of that same Professor Harlow into maternal deprivation as it affected baby rhesus monkeys, and therefore might be supposed to concern humans. “Mothers are important, it is generally agreed”, muses our author, himself a family man. “But just how important …?” Harlow’s work with his artificial mothers, carefully graded as to their lovelessness and delinquency, seemed to provide some exciting answers. For instance, as Broadhurst reports, these forlorn babies “preferred a soft cloth model even when it did not provide milk to a hard one which did!” Not just that bumptious exclamation mark, but the cover of the book itself, picturing a monkey in the throes of this pathetic decision, show that the experiment, which ought to bring tears to the eyes of any person of ordinary sensibility, is thought to instance the discipline of animal research at its most thrilling.

I’m sure that Professor Broadhurst was a kind enough man, though of Harlow one can be rather less certain. Both had wives who helped them in their research, if that’s relevant. As Richard Ryder says in Victims of Science, “My intention is in no way to defame scientists, but to question their conventions.”[vi] And the convention in which Broadhurst was working is very clear: it is the old master/slave convention. And not just at work, where what he calls “the lowly rodent and his laboratory master” live out that relationship. Those two are the template for a much larger project, because, so he proposes, the “exploitation in the service of man of the behavioural resources of animals has hardly begun.” In the editorial foreword to The Science of Animal Behaviour, this “service of man” is frankly and enthusiastically called “slave labour”.

It seemed natural at that time, at least to Broadhurst and his editor, to cast the scientist as the designer of our future relations with animals. So at the same moment that Ruth Harrison, in Animal Machines, was warning of the horrors of industrialized farming, Broadhurst was telling his Pelican audience that the present role of animals in food production would soon “seem pitifully small” (a most interesting choice of adverb). It’s true that to some extent science has begun to provide its own corrective in the new academic discipline of Animal Welfare (where Oxford University has been taking a leading part). But I believe that Broadhurst and his colleagues in the profession would have welcomed this, as keeping the story within the laboratory and its variants, and in the hands of scientists. Besides, science has not been brought to a pause in this matter. New ways of exploiting animals for food, indeed new animals, are being thought up and made real now for new forms of slavery.

No, it’s not by inventing techniques for the study and measurement of animal welfare that speciesism, as exposed in Animals, Men and Morals and still going strong now, can be understood and undone, and new varieties of it prevented. What’s needed of mankind is a “re-appraisal of his position in relation to the creatures with which he shares the environment” That quotation is from Ruth Harrison’s chapter in the book. It’s the chapter about factory farming, but it’s also the first chapter, and it acted as an introduction to what followed. Her first sentence accordingly takes a fully re-proportioning view of our standing in the natural world: “It is a sobering thought that animals could do without man yet man would find it impossible to do without animals.” This is a radical fact: if you read “could” as a past tense (‘were perfectly able to’), you have the whole tragic history of human/animal relations before you. Animals, Men and Morals was the first full statement of that tragedy as it looked in the twentieth century, and the first authoritative call to put it right.


[i] Animal Liberation, Pimlico, 1995, p.6

[ii] New York Review of Books, vol.20, no.5, April 5, 1973

[iii] Animals, Men and Morals, ed. Stanley and Roslind Godlovitch and John Harris, Gollancz, 1971, p.232. Later quotations are from p.11.

[iv] Referenced in the text to Journal of Comparative and Physiological Psychology, 1962

[v] The Science of Animal Behaviour, Penguin Books, 1963, p.12. Later quotations are from pp.74, 73, 100, 135, and 132.

[vi] Davis-Poynter, 1975, preface

This post is a revised version of an article first published in the Oxford Magazine (the University’s house journal) in 2013.

Animal Pains and Human Attitudes: the new Ipsos MORI survey

Another spectacular show of numbers has just been put out on the subject of vivisection, this time by the government’s Department for Business, Energy and Industrial Strategy. The new numbers aren’t about the supposed facts of the matter, which is Home Office business (see post for 1st August). They’re aimed instead at charting ideas and opinions sri-public-attitudes-to-animal-research-2016.jpgabout the facts. This may explain why the pictorial motifs on the cover of Ipsos MORI’s report, Public Attitudes to Animal Research in 2016, include no animals – otherwise a rather curious absence. The stylized ‘isotype’ images of test-tubes, helices, etc. may be there to make the point: it’s all in the mind – at least, in the minds of the 987 individuals interviewed for this survey.

And some of the ideas and opinions are certainly quite a way from the real thing. For instance, many of the respondents believed that vivisection was wholly or mainly illegal: in fact the percentage of those who knew that any one of the particular varieties of vivisection (medical research, testing drugs, testing chemicals, etc.) was lawful never exceeded 50% [p.11]. This is a bewildering figure. The authors make no comment on it, though you’d think that it affected all the rest of the survey, perhaps even subverted it. Commendably, 24 % of respondents did realize that they were “not at all informed” about animal research. 1% didn’t like to go even that far; they preferred to say that they didn’t know whether they were at all informed or not [p.25].

I’m certainly not meaning to make fun of their doubts or ignorance. How can we tell what we really know of this secluded activity, unless we’re actually practitioners? As a later question shows [p.34], there’s a wise distrust of the available sources of information. Laboratory vets get the highest rate of trust at 41%, then universities, then ‘animal protection organisations’ with 33%, fading on down at the far end to ‘organisations that support the use of animals in research’ (e.g. Understanding Animal Research) with their 8%, and politicians on 6%. Businesses selling the products of animal research come bottom with 4%. And the most commonly chosen characterization of the institutions which practise animal research was “They are secretive” [p.17]. The wonder is, then, that so much was elicited in the way of laboriously calibrated opinion on a subject which, after all, most people would be happier not thinking about at all.

As I’ve said, the survey is based on interviews with only 987 adults, the results being weighted to match the social make-up of the U.K. population as a whole. This may not seem a persuasive number (it certainly doesn’t to me), but presumably the statisticians at Ipsos MORI know what they’re doing. And anyway this survey is only the latest in a series conducted over several years, and although the surveys have not all been identically designed and worded, some of their results are cumulatively consistent in a very convincing way.

Most important of them is the acceptability or otherwise of animal research, the fundamental question with which this 2016 survey very reasonably starts its own summary:

A majority (65%) say they can accept the use of animals in research as long as it is for medical purposes and there is no alternative – down (but not statistically significantly) from 68 per cent in 2014. [p.1]

The equivalent number for 2012 was 66%. That in turn represented a fall from 76% in 2010. It was this fall which prompted a sudden PR effort on the part of the vivisection industry, specifically the portentous ‘Concordat on Openness on Animal Research’ of that year. These subsequent numbers, 66, 68, 65 – none of them showing what Ipsos MORI regards as a statistically significant change – suggest that nothing much has come of that PR push. And we’ve already seen how far the “openness” has been trusted by the public, or by 987 representatives of it. But note that these percentages comprise support for the use of animals in medical research only. There is no majority at all for the real present situation, where medical research forms just one part of the great U.K. vivisection scene. Only 39% of respondents are said to be happy with that scene as a whole [p.5], assuming they know what it is. Even this number is precarious, as we’ll see later.

Meanwhile, the numbers opposing animal research for ethical reasons has grown from 30% in 2010 to 32% in both 2012 and 2014, and 35% this year. Those wishing the government to ban it outright have grown in that same period from 17% to 26%. The survey chops up these numbers by age, gender, class, ethnicity, even newspaper readership. For instance, this last category of outright abolitionists rises to 37% among women aged 15-34. That’s a finding which anyone involved in the animal rights movement would easily recognise – and be both moved and encouraged by. In fact the survey is at its most readable and illuminating in these social details, mystifying and almost nonsensical as some of them are.

But the most striking results of all in this 2016 survey arise from the questions about particular animal species [pp.8-10]. Here the respondents are invited to think about vivisection not in the abstract terms illustrated on the report cover, but in terms of imageable animals. This is the form of the question:

which, if any, types of animals do you think it is acceptable to use for .. medical research to benefit people / research into animal health / environmental research?

And now there is no majority in favour of any variety of animal research. The nearest to it is for medical research using rats (48% approval) or mice (47%). Approval for the use of fish (a growing category in vivisection, notably at Oxford University) scores only 23%, rising to 27% if the research is said to be for “animal health” (for which fraudulent term, see the post on 14 August). In the case of pigs, it’s 25% and 27%; for frogs and other amphibians it’s 22% and 26%. For none of the other species is there an approval rating of even 25%. Where the purpose is ‘environmental’ (testing the effects of chemicals in the food chain, etc., a very busy department of vivisection), the approval rate for all the species is consistently lower. Finally, those who think “any/all animals” may properly be used in any of the varieties of research comprise just 1% (one per cent) of the 987 respondents.

What? I’ve stared carefully at this chart, which has a pleasant sky-blue colouring scheme, and as far as I can understand it this 1% does indeed finally represent the number of people who, when obliged to think it through, still approve unconditionally of vivisection as regulated by the 1986 Animals (Scientific Procedures) Act. Can that be right? I’d be glad of further advice.

Anyway, here is the Ipsos MORI comment on these particular numbers:  “Public views broadly align with statistics on the actual use of animal species in research”. That’s a curiously upbeat, even disingenuous, interpretation. It would be more exact to say that public views are remarkably dis-aligned from actual use in the case of every animal species, never rising to a majority in favour, but that they’re especially opposed to the use of the ones that U.K. scientists exploit only in their hundreds or thousands, rather than in their millions.

So you see what happens to that first figure of 65% when real animals, or at least real species, are brought into the picture, as they conspicuously aren’t on the report’s cover. In fact that cover design is a helpful reminder of how much the public discussion of animal research is done in generalisations and abstractions which actually keep our minds off the real thing. Effectively they’re euphemisms. Even numbers, for all their factual appearance, have this effect; once they exceed picturable quantities, they simply cloud the view. Charts and tables beguile the attention even more efficiently (the Ipsos MORI ones are multi-coloured, and very nice to look at). Even the division by species is largely a mental imputation, managing animals into great uniformed cohorts which obscure their individual beings. And yet these individual beings are the only forms in which any pain and privation can be felt. They are therefore the sole reason for all the statistics and surveys which so diligently conceal them.

But that’s not, I guess, how politicians, scientists, and civil servants see it. For them, the statistics, etc., are there to address the human question: what animal suffering is “acceptable” to humans?  Their subject is the human politics of vivisection. After all, being animals ourselves, we already know what the animals think about their suffering. It’s what we think about it that matters. It would simply confuse the issue, then, to have them cluttering up that cover.


The Ipsos MORI survey can be read at https://www.ipsos .


Let My People Go! Animals and the Law

Last week, BBC Radio 4’s legal affairs programme Unreliable Evidence, in its 47th episode, finally got round to the non-human animals. Given the numbers of these animals, vastly greater than the human population, and their vulnerability (a key concept in law) to cruel and fatal interferences by humans, this figure 47 is itself suggestive of the law’s complacent speciesism. However, the presenter, Clive Anderson, conceded at the start that animals “suffer in much the same way as we do”, and he invited four lawyers practising in this area to say whether the law was doing enough to recognize and address this fact.

Two of the lawyers act for organisations that promote field sports, farming, and other varieties of animal-use (the Countryside Alliance and the Country Land and Business Association). Naturally enough, then, they approve of the present law, based as it is on the principle that animals should be protected only from “unnecessary” suffering – that is, suffering which isn’t “proportionate to the purpose” to which humans are lawfully putting them (quotations from the Animal Welfare Act 2006). In such law, animals have no rights of their own; the question is only how absolute the rights of human beings over them shall be. “The idea that animals have a right to liberty”, said Jamie primate-psychology-brain-animal-experimentation-picture-1Foster, the lawyer from Countryside Alliance, “is fundamentally absurd”. Besides (he added, straying for his supporting evidence into Buddhist philosophy), “all life is suffering.”

The other two lawyers argued for a radical change in the law’s thinking: it should start conceding, to non-human animals, rights that are founded on their own interests, rather than simply reliefs from the more unreasonably demanding interests of humans. One of these two, Steven Wise, described the desired change for animals as a move from among “the things of the world” into their proper company among “the persons of the world”, and he is even now trying to achieve this change, for chimpanzees, in the courts of the United States. His voice was coming to the programme by telephone from the U.S.A., and it had something of the feel of a voice from the future. In fact when Clive Anderson wound up the discussion by asking him whether we might really be going to see chimpanzees and other animals winning, through the courts, that ‘right to liberty’ which Foster had ridiculed on their behalf, Wise’s voice enthusiastically replied “It’ll come! It’ll come!”

Two of the four chimpanzees which Wise is at present representing in the courts are called Hercules and Leo. They ‘belong’ to the University of Louisiana, but have been on loan (for one does lend “things”) to Stony Brook University for research purposes. The “proportionate” suffering of Hercules and Leo in that institution has consisted, during a period of six years, in repeated operations to insert electrodes into their muscles in pursuit of anatomical knowledge about early human locomotion. More essentially their suffering has involved near-solitary confinement throughout these years, and it’s this imprisonment which Wise has been asking the New York Supreme Court to declare unlawful. (Incidentally, the chimpanzees have recently been moved out of the New York jurisdiction and back to incarceration at the New Iberia Research Center in Louisiana, perhaps with a view to frustrating Wise’s case. His proposed destination for them is the Project Chimps sanctuary in Fannin County, Georgia.)

In statutory law, American or British, such imprisonment for non-humans is of course wholly permissible. They have no presumed right to liberty – rather the reverse, as Mr Foster confirms in the quoted comment. The claim for Hercules and Leo is therefore founded in so-called common law, whose terms of reference are much wider and more liberal. They do not only consist in a body of case-law – decisions and reasonings recorded in previous cases. They consist also in general principles of equity, derived from what the nineteenth-century American judge Lemuel Shaw summarized as reason, natural justice, and enlightened public policy, modified and adapted to the circumstances of all the particular cases which fall within it.” “Natural justice and enlightened public policy”: animals might well hope that their claims to liberty would not seem “absurd” in such contexts. And the crucial instrument of liberation in the common law is the writ of habeas corpus, by which a person being detained by private or public force, or others acting on his behalf, may petition the courts to declare the detention unlawful. (The phrase habeas corpus means ‘produce the body’ – i.e. the writ directs the captor to bring their prisoner into court, at least figuratively, and show reason for the situation.)

It is with a writ of habeas corpus, then, that Steven Wise is even now before the courts on behalf of Hercules and Leo. And his key supporting reference is the decision made at Westminster in 1772 by Lord Chief Justice Mansfield in the case Somerset versus Stewart. Charles Stewart ‘owned’ a slave, James Somerset, whom he brought with him on a trip to England in 1771. Having made a break for freedom, Somerset was recaptured and chained up ready for return to Jamaica. But a writ of habeas corpus was issued on his behalf by a group of London citizens, and Lord Mansfield determined that Somerset’s slavery was “so odious” that the common law could not countenance it. Effectively he made slavery illegal in Britain on the grounds that it was morally objectionable, the very reason for which you or I might even then (we hope) have deplored it, and for which we certainly ought to do so now.

There was no precedent in law for Lord Mansfield’s decision; there was, indeed, a strong presumption against it, urgently represented to him by Stewart’s counsel in court. But as Steven Wise said to the Supreme Court of New York last year, speaking of Lord Mansfield and hoping to instil in the court something of that man’s independence and courage, “one of the reasons he’s such a great judge is that he understood that there’s a first time for everything.”

The writ of habeas corpus is the best hope for the unjustly imprisoned, and therefore pre-eminently for the slave. It must also then be the best hope for the non-human animal, because, so Wise re-iterated during the radio discussion, our relation to other animals at present is exactly a master-slave relation. Jamie Foster objected to this “constant use of the word slavery, on the curiously pre-Darwinian grounds that “it’s offensive to anyone who comes from any population that ever was enslaved to suggest it’s simply another version of the same thing.” He thereby illustrated the advocate’s maxim that you should never put a point to a witness which you don’t already know his or her answer to. Wise’s reply came back from America, “My people were enslaved by Pharaoh a long time ago, and I understand it.” 

It is a part of Steven Wise’s case in the American courts to show, through the testimony of stevewise-tekoexperts in chimpanzee mind and culture, that Hercules, Leo, and the others have what he calls ‘autonomy’, and it is upon this autonomy that he bases their title to legal personhood: “They are self-conscious,” he told the New York court; “they have a theory of mind. They can understand what others are thinking. They understand that they are individuals, that they existed yesterday, that they are going to exist tomorrow, that their lives mean something to them. They plan what their life is going to be like.” But this sort of autonomy is not, of course, something that can be claimed for all other species of animal, although it very likely can be said of the elephants, orcas, and African parrots, who are next on Wise’s list of proposed clients. Therefore it’s true what his fellow animal-rights lawyer on the programme, David Thomas, pointed out: the Nonhuman Rights Project (NhRP) which Wise has founded to promote and staff the legal campaign seems likely to help only a few animal species, if perhaps many individuals.

However, Steven Wise argued that although ‘autonomy’ was a sufficient condition for personhood in law of the sort he was seeking to establish, it was not a necessary condition: “We don’t know what other sufficient conditions may exist.” He hoped and expected the common law to proceed case by case, conceding rights to such fundamental interests as could be shown by science and reason to exist in any other species. On the NhRP web-site he again quotes Lord Mansfield: “The common law is a step-by-step process that, in Mansfield’s words, ceaselessly ‘works itself pure’. It rights the most egregious wrongs first. Then it turns to the harder questions.” Besides, once the breach in legal personhood is made, and lets in even one non-human species, or a single non-human animal, our collective assumptions about the human relation to other animals must be transformed. It’s indeed this fact which must explain the angry hostility and near-irrational alarm which the NhRP seems to evoke, in the courts and in such airings as the BBC discussion. We are seeing, in fact, a most interesting reprise of the sort of indignation which Charles Darwin’s science encountered about a century and a half ago. And that, I suppose, is because we’re at last beginning to appreciate what that science implies, morally and socially, and to act upon it.  Unlocking The Cage - Synopsis Image

But isn’t all this court-bothering “a very long-winded way of going about it?” asked the fourth of the lawyers, essentially putting that familiar objection ‘why not start somewhere else?’ (i.e. ‘Why not go away?’) And he added helpfully, “there are other ways of making things better for animals.” Good; then let’s get on with those other ways too, and meanwhile celebrate Steven Wise and his fellow-workers at the Nonhuman Rights Project for their heroic attempt upon the antiquated and ignorant human-freemasonry of the law. Certainly there’s a very long story ahead, but as Wise says in the documentary film Unlocking the Cage“It’s time to begin.”


[References: The episode of Unreliable Evidence can be heard again at The quotation from Judge Shaw is from Steven Wise, Rattling the Cage, Profile Books 2000 (p.90), published in the U.S.A. by Perseus Books (1999). The Nonhuman Rights Project web-site is at , where you can find the transcript of the case recently heard in the New York Supreme Court, and other details of past and pending cases. The film Unlocking the Cage was released earlier this year. A trailer and other details for it can be viewed at .The photograph of caged mother and child is by Brian Gunn, copyright IAAPFA. The still of Steve Wise with Teko, and the poster for the film, are by courtesy of Pennebaker Hegedus Films.]









Remembering Dolly the Sheep

The sheep called Dolly, the first viable clone to be made from an adult cell, was born at the Roslin Institute near Edinburgh twenty years ago. Her birth was certainly a remarkable achievement, and the anniversary is understandably being celebrated this year at Roslin and elsewhere. Dolly herself died of Dollylung disease in 2003, and was donated to the National Museum of Scotland. There she was stuffed – it’s still done, evidently – and the result has recently been put into a new display in the Museum’s Science and Technology galleries, with associated salesmanship (“she’s a science superstar and one of our most iconic objects”). There she’ll stand, thus insulted, for the remainder of her material existence.

The research at the Roslin Institute, as at the Pirbright Institute spoken of in the previous post, is said to be “focussed on the health and welfare of animals”. In both cases this is largely a euphemism for new and better ways of putting animals to human use. Thus the Dolly research had as its main aim to breed animals which would produce human medicines in their milk. According to an anniversary article on the subject in last month’s Scientific American, “interest in that idea has declined with the rise of inexpensive synthetic chemicals” [‘Twenty Years after Dolly the Sheep Led the Way – Where is Cloning Now?’, 5 July 2016]. However, cloning apparently continues to interest people who make money from livestock. The same article quotes one cell biologist as saying “The benefits genomically for production excellence and driving up production parameters is very good”. In so far as one can see through that cloud of words, the meaning seems to be that cloning will make animals yet more useful and profitable to humans.

But whatever the immediate applications of the cloning success at Roslin, it was undoubtedly a momentous advance in science’s long-term ‘men like gods’ project (to use the phrase of H.G.Wells). And it’s in this connection that the choice of name for the sheep is somewhat ominous.

The sheep’s laboratory name, for purposes of identification, seems to have been ‘6LLS’. It was a very suitably opaque name for an animal whose identity was uncertain in a revolutionary way, and who would be making way for the exploitation of further millions of de-individualized sheep, cows, pigs, and others. It hints, too, in its suggestion of a series, at all the messy and painful failures which formed the history to that one successfully cloned animal (and which evidently continue to characterize cloning projects today).

However, for public use, the brilliant and ingenious scientific minds leading the research hit upon the more saleable name ‘Dolly’, facetiously connecting the mammary gland cell, from which the sheep was made, to the busty singer Dolly Parton. You couldn’t call this joke, if such it is (or leer perhaps), improper; it’s only puerile. While the research comes from the highest reaches of science, the joke comes straight from behind the bike sheds of human culture. An apocryphal extension to the joke, also enjoyed by these science giants, is that Dolly Parton’s agent, on being asked for permission to use the name, said that there was “no such thing as baaad publicity”. If the Roslin team’s science had been of a piece with its larger culture, as suggested by these forays into life outside the laboratory, they’d have been making stink bombs rather than clones.

Perhaps it would have been better if they had been. In such institutions as Roslin they are making new worlds which we shall all, including of course the animals, be obliged to be part of. In that sense, they are men and women like gods. It’s worth wondering how fit they are, or can be induced to be, for that elevation.

When the Liberal politician Norman Baker spoke to a VERO audience in Oxford last year [see VERO’s web-site, at], he began by expressing concern about the moral or emotional immaturity of many scientists. The Animals (Scientific Procedures) Act of 1986, for which Mr Baker once had responsibility at the Home Office, is one way in which the larger national culture, such as it is, tries to keep scientists within the pale of its own hard-won humane values. Unfortunately we can’t rely on politicians to help in this sort of way; most of them are as easily dazzled by the prestige and futuristic promises of scientists as any other people. Here, for instance, is a member of the 2001 House of Lords Select Committee set up to examine the working of that 1986 Act, commenting on the idea that animal researchers might respond to criticism by making more effort to explain and justify their work:

I think a lot of it [i.e. the criticism] is nothing to do with science but is to do with the sentimentality of the population as a whole … about dear little animals which is coupled with the sort of nature programmes which tend to encourage that kind of approach.

This helpful prompt allows the scientist giving evidence to the Committee at that moment to speak with modern science’s characteristically absolutist voice:

If I may just add, my Lord Chairman, I think there has become an increasing gulf and disconnect between the necessary exploitation of animals by man and this fluffy image.

The ennobled spokesperson for the national conscience in this case was a church minister, whose priestly caste used once to enjoy, for good or ill, the cultural authority which now belongs to science. The respondent giving evidence, and succinctly putting the case for scientific pragmatism, was a representative of Huntingdon Life Sciences, and is now Director of Veterinary Services in the laboratories of Oxford University.

Of course it’s too large a question to encompass in a blog-post, but by way of contrary illustration, here is a reminder of the sort of dis-interested attention to the living (including human) world on which Western culture at its best has always been founded. It’s the sculptor Henry Moore, explaining how he came to make his own studies of sheep:

These sheep often wandered up close to the window of the little studio I was working Sheep 1in. I began to be fascinated by them, and to draw them. At first I saw them as rather shapeless balls of wool with a head and four legs. Then I began to realize that underneath all that wool was a body, which moved in its own way, and that each sheep had its own character.

The art critic Kenneth Clark shows how art of this kind acts as a moral education:

We expect Henry Moore to give a certain nobility to everything he draws; but more surprising is the way in which these drawings express a feeling of real affection for their subject. It is no exaggeration to say that many of his sheep are drawn with love … We do not think of the brilliant technique. We think only of the sheep, and we grow to have an affection for them almost equal to that of Moore himself.

Of course I don’t offer drawings of sheep, or comments on them, or any of the art, literature and philosophy which constitute the ‘humanities’, as an alternative to the science of genetics. What they are, or ought to be, is the setting or condition for that and every other science. This is how the novelist and philosopher Iris Murdoch puts the case:

It is totally misleading to speak … of ‘two cultures’, one literary-humane and the other scientific, as if they were of equal status. There is only one culture, of which science, so interesting and so dangerous, is now an important part … We are men and we are moral agents before we are scientists, and the place of science in human life must be discussed in words.

Scientists have no special privileges in that discussion, or oughtn’t to have, and its quality and progress will be far more important to us in the long run than any of the wonders with which they meanwhile astonish the world.


[References: The official description of the Roslin Institute is from The Scientific American article can be found at For the cloning and naming of Dolly, as recounted by the people involved, see The exchange from the House of Lords enquiry is from evidence taken on 10 July, question and answers 334 and 335, accessible at  Henry Moore’s Sheep Sketchbook is published by Thames and Hudson (1980). The Iris Murdoch quotation comes from The Sovereignty of Good, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1970, p.34. Other quotations are from the relevant web-sites. The photograph of Dolly is used by courtesy of the Roslin Institute, the University of Edinburgh, U.K.]