“The Duchess of Malfi” by John Webster

Webster was much possessed by death,
And saw the skull beneath the skin,
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

– from “Whispers of Immortality” by T. S. Eliot  

The White Devil and The Duchess of Malfi, the twin pillars on which Webster’s reputation primarily stands, make for a fascinating comparison. They are both clearly products of a dramatist in full control of the craft of playwrighting; they are also, equally clearly, the products of an author who did not see much in humanity to inspire confidence in its essential goodness or nobility – who, indeed, could not even see the possibility of redemption. But while The White Devil is a flamboyant work of bold, vigorous and colourful strokes, sweeping the audience along in its seemingly irresistible torrents, The Duchess of Malfi looks inwards, finding as often as not a stillness, and room for contemplation. It finds also a curious lyricism, dark and death-possessed; and also a rather strange beauty. Those daffodil bulbs that appear for eyes are given, in Webster’s hands, a peculiar fascination.

We are, once again, in an Italian court, but the cast of characters is smaller than it had been in The White Devil, and the plot simpler and more concentrated. The action here belongs, effectively, to the world of what we now regard as Gothic horror – demonic villains, sadism, terror, madness, death. In such stories, there are, in general, two types of villain – the unstable psychopath on the one hand, and the cool, calculating type on the other: here, Webster gives us both, and they both happen to be brothers of the Duchess of Malfi. There’s the Duke, Ferdinand, whose lust for his own sister is barely concealed, and who, after having had his sister and her children murdered, goes quite spectacularly mad:  

PESCARA.          Pray thee, what ‘s his disease?
DOCTOR.  A very pestilent disease, my lord,
They call lycanthropia.
PESCARA.                 What ‘s that?
I need a dictionary to’t.
DOCTOR.                     I’ll tell you.
In those that are possess’d with’t there o’erflows
Such melancholy humour they imagine
Themselves to be transformed into wolves;
Steal forth to church-yards in the dead of night,
And dig dead bodies up:  as two nights since
One met the duke ’bout midnight in a lane
Behind Saint Mark’s church, with the leg of a man
Upon his shoulder; and he howl’d fearfully…

The other villain, the other brother, is the Cardinal. Not for him lusting after his sister, and walking the streets with limbs of dead men on his shoulders; however –

The spring in his face is nothing but the engendering of toads.

In The White Devil, Isabella was murdered by coating with poison a picture she was known regularly to kiss; and here, Webster gives this already bizarre plot device an extra twist: the Cardinal murders his mistress by making her kiss a poisoned Bible. That’s right: a poisoned Bible. In such a world, in which God’s own word is poisoned and becomes an instrument of death, there seems little room for anything but the most crudely and ingeniously horrific and sensational; but Webster surprises us. In the first place, he is not particularly interested in plot, and thins out its elements: compared to The White Devil, the plotline presented here is very straight-forward, and is easily summarised in a few sentences. As a consequence of this reduced emphasis on the action, not much time need be spent explaining to the audience the mere mechanics of the plot; and this leaves room for other, more important matters. Even towards the end, as the action is approaching its denouement, Webster is happy to hold up the action to give us a scene which advances the plot not a whit, but which adds significantly to the darkly poetic atmosphere: Antonio, not yet knowing that his wife, the Duchess, and their children, have been murdered, is in the ruins of an abbey, and an echo in the voice of his dead wife eerily tells him of the doom that envelops him:   

ANTONIO.  Echo, I will not talk with thee,
For thou art a dead thing.
ECHO.                       Thou art a dead thing.
ANTONIO.  My duchess is asleep now,
And her little ones, I hope sweetly.  O heaven,
Shall I never see her more?
ECHO.                        Never see her more.

Such a scene would have been very much out of place amidst the more frenetic action of The White Devil, but it is perfectly in place in this play with its more measured pacing, and its atmosphere of intense private grief.

The plot, such as it is, is simple enough: the still young and recently widowed Duchess of Malfi, against the express instructions of her two villainous brothers, secretly marries a social inferior, Antonio; and, when her two brothers find out, they visit upon herterrible punishment. Such a plotline doesn’t really leave much room for the revenge – for, after all, who is to be the revenger? The obvious candidate is the Duchess’ husband, Antonio, but he is relatively weak, and is more easily cast as victim rather than avenger. The avenger turns out, in what may be, I think, a twist to the usual formula, an instrument of the original crime – Bosola, who, in service of the villainous brothers, murders both the Duchess and her children. His reasons for his turning against his employers after the murders are not obvious: it is true that despite the appalling nature of the crimes he has committed, he is not entirely without scruples: he even comforts the Duchess in her last moments; but one suspects that the key factor here is the lack of gratitude on the part of his employers.

Such ambiguity of character could easily be either a dramatic weakness, leading merely to lack of clarity; or it could be quite the opposite – a dramatic strength, leading the author to examine the ambiguous nature of human motivation itself. But here, it is neither, for it is not the revenge that is at the centre of the drama: rather, we have at the centre human evil and human suffering, and the vexed question of whether, in the midst of such unmitigated horrors that make up so much of life, where even the divine word of God is coated with poison, there can be any such thing as a higher order.  

DUCHESS. What are you?
SERVANT.       One that wishes you long life.
DUCHESS.  I would thou wert hang’d for the horrible curse
Thou hast given me:  I shall shortly grow one
Of the miracles of pity.  I ‘ll go pray;       [Exit Servant.]
No, I’ll go curse.
BOSOLA.              O, fie!
DUCHESS.                      I could curse the stars.
BOSOLA.                                        O, fearful!
DUCHESS.  And those three smiling seasons of the year
Into a Russian winter; nay, the world
To its first chaos.
BOSOLA.              Look you, the stars shine still.

Bosola’s response to the Duchess – “look you, the stars shine still” – denotes, at one level, the insignificance of human agency: the Duchess can curse the stars – those manifestations of a higher order – as much as she wishes, but they shine still. But equally, Bosola’s response may betoken the existence of a higher order that the Duchess in her suffering denies. His words are as ambiguous and as double-edged as is his role in the drama.

But it is on the suffering that most of the dramatic focus falls, and on human life lived in the close proximity of death. There is, throughout, as Eliot put it, an awareness of “the skull beneath the skin”. And from this awareness there emerges a strange and eerie poetry. The long scene in the fourth act in which the Duchess and her children are murdered is, at the same time, the most horrific and yet the most poetic of scenes. To see horror presented in so poetic a manner is rather unnerving: I do not think I have encountered elsewhere such an unlikely fusion. And the poetry is, of course, the poetry of death.

It is a long and carefully paced scene, and seems to contain in it the very kernel of Webster’s strange vision. First, Bosola brings in, seemingly for the Duchess’ entertainment, a troupe of madmen, whose lunatic singing and dancing and meaningless gibberish create a quite extraordinary atmosphere: one gets the impression that reality is somehow suspended, and that we have entered a world that occupies some vague borderland between sanity and insanity, between life and death – a world that is not quite our own. Bosola, still the loyal servant, is soon to kill the Duchess, but he tries before doing so to comfort her, to bring her to terms with the inevitability of death:

Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but a salvatory  of green mummy. What’s this flesh? a little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in; more contemptible, since ours is to preserve earth-worms.  Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage? Such is the soul in the body:  this world is like her little turf of grass, and the heaven o’er our heads like her looking-glass, only  gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison. 

By the time the Duchess is strangled onstage, she is reconciled to her fate, but that does not make the fate any less horrific. Her waiting-woman Cariola is also strangled onstage, and then the bodies of the strangled children are brought in. Ferdinand then enters to see the corpse of the sister he had sexually desired:  

FERDINAND.            Is she dead?
BOSOLA.                             She is what
You ‘d have her.  But here begin your pity:       [Shows the Children strangled.]
Alas, how have these offended?
FERDINAND.                      The death
Of young wolves is never to be pitied.
BOSOLA.  Fix your eye here.
FERDINAND.                   Constantly.
BOSOLA.                                   Do you not weep?
Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.
FERDINAND. Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: she died young.

Anyone can depict a succession of gruesome savageries, but it requires a poet, I think, to pen that line of Ferdinand’s – so apparently simple, and yet so haunting and resonant. A poet, yes, but a damn strange one.

I am not quite sure, to be honest, quite what to make of Webster’s poetic sensibility. It had seemed relatively straight-forward in The White Devil: there, life is but a teeming pit of human evil, a mere succession of horrors, and the humans occupying this pit utterly irredeemable. But here, Webster seems to add a quite different dimension: even in his contemplation of the skull beneath the skin he seems to find an eldritch yet hauntingly beautiful music. It is a sensibility unlike any other I think I have encountered, and occupies regions of the mind that I don’t think I have ever till now been led into. I ended The White Devil repelled by the horror, and yet invigorated by the sheer dramatic energy of it all; but The Duchess of Malfi took me on a quite different journey, and led me into regions of human experience that, though astonishingly vivid, seems impervious to any rational analysis.

17 responses to this post.

  1. I first came across The Dutchess of Malfi through that brilliant line – “Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: she died young.” It’s the centrepiece of Agatha Christie’s “Sleeping Murder”, which I read during my Christie-obsessed early teenage years. I think you have it spot on when you say that it’s an uncanny, eldritch poetic sensibility that would come up with that line!

    Bosola’s ambiguity is what stands out the most for me. I think it lifts the play from the realm of the very good, but unexceptional, revenge tragedy, to the brilliant. The rest of the characters are fairly clear-cut in their villainy, or their innocence, or their weakness – but Bosola is perenially conflicted and unpredictable – and I think, for that reason, his villainy resonates more, and alarms us more – to use that old cliche, I think we see a bit of ourselves in him.

    I was fortunate enough to see a performance at the Old Vic in 2011, when I was studying in England. Bosola was played by a phenomenal actor, and the director spared nothing – the on-stage strangling scene was spread out over a full minute or so – about as long as it would actually take to strangle someone to death.


    • Hello Gautam, it’s hard for me to comment on the impact made in performance, but from reading it, I must admit that what struck me most forcibly is not so much the characterisation, but the underlying poetic sensibility underlying the drama. Bosola is certainly an ambivalent and conflicted character, and I am sure a good actor could make much of it. But Bosola is not really at the centre of the play, and, in the text at least (as opposed to what a good actor can add to the text), the ambivalence of Bosola’s character seems to me merely stated rather than explored. This is, indeed, the first revenge Tragedy I have come across where it is the victim rather than the revenger who is at the dramatic centre.

      But as I say, these are but the reflections of someone who has only read the play: the only production I have experienced is the one going on in my head while I was reading it!
      Cheers, Himadri


  2. I think this is a brilliantly written, and profoundly flawed, play. I’ve seen it performed two, maybe three times and I’ve read the text (I contradict myself, very well, I contract myself. I am large, I contain multitudes).

    It’s key problem is its seriousness. There’s no real humour, and when performed it can therefore easily tip over into farce. The sheer amount of horror gets silly, the audience laughs not merely for discomfort but because the text ultimately is absurd.

    Shakespeare tended to include a note of tragedy in his comedies, and comedy in his tragedies. Even then when the plot is absurd (King Lear for example), the audience is carried with it because of the changes of tone in the play (among other things). Here it’s just so horrible and in such a sustained way that there’s no leavening.

    The writing is tremendous, and it does have huge power which is why it remains with us as a play that’s still performed, but it’s also rather adolescent which isn’t necessarily a bad thing (The Smiths are for me one of the most adolescent bands of all time, and yet also one of the greatest), but it does mean it doesn’t go to the depths say of a Macbeth where the horror is set against other emotions.


  3. Aren’t we, post-20th century theater, well prepared for absurd plays that constantly threaten to tip into farce? Or do more than tip. Plunge.

    The word I would put in place of “adolescent” is “Romantic.” The great example is “Death’s Jest-Book” by Thomas Lovell-Beddoes, who thought that Webster was not absurd enough, and not horrible enough.

    Webster is certainly awfully narrow compared to Shakespeare. Maybe that is why we only got two great plays from him.


  4. Well, it’s no Accidental Death of an Anarchist, which I’d argue is a highly successful black absurdist farce. I think the issue here is that the tip feels unintentional, when I’ve seen audiences laugh at this (and I have) they’re laughing at rather than with it.

    Romantic is fair enough. I didn’t mean adolescent disparagingly, and Romantic is the better term.

    For all my criticisms, two great plays is still no small achievement. I’d still rather see a rerun of Wycherley’s Country Wife though than another Malfi.


    • When I was reading these plays, I took the dramatic content completely seriously. I wasn’t bothered by the death by Bible-kissing (for instance) any more than I was by the death by spontaneous combustion in Bleak House: in each case, the author has successfully, I think, created a very stylised fictional world in which such things are possible. Once again, I can’t answer for how it works on stage, but on the page, I did not find any unintentional laughs. Nor any intentional laughs either, for that matter: I don’t get the impression from these two plays that Webster had any great sense of humour.

      Not that I necessarily consider lack of humour to be a problem: I don’t insist that all works must contain humour. No single work can focus on all aspects of human experience, after all, and I see no problem for a work to focus only on certain aspects of human life, and not on all others. Would it be reasonable to complain that The Importance of Being Earnest contains no element of the tragic? I personally do not find lack of humour in Webster’s plays to be any great drawback. But that’s possibly a comment merely on myself.

      I don’t know that these works are entirely devoid of changes in tone: the fourth act of The Duchess of Malfi, for instance, modulates into a tone very distinct, I think, from the surrounding acts, but yes, I agree, Shakespeare’s tragedies encompassed a wider range of tone. There’s more “leavening”, as you say, in King lear. But the relatively unleavened tone of Webster’s plays does induce a sense of brooding claustrophobia, and that in itself can be dramatically powerful.

      If I were director (and one can’t read plays without playing the director – at least in one’s mind) I’d like to try to create a very stylised environment where horrors can and do happen, and play the whole thing very straight: there would be no wink and a nudge to the audience along the lines of “we don’t take all this too seriously, do we folks?” I appreciate that such winks and nudges do not necessarily negate the horror or the tragic import of the piece, but I do feel that the whole play was intended seriously, and I think it can work on its own terms. It would be worth trying it out, at any rate.

      When reading the plays of Shakespeare’s contemporaries and near-contemporaries, I have tried – not always very successfully, I admit – not to compare with Shakespeare. Of course Webster’s range is narrow compared to Shakespeare’s: whose isn’t? However, Webster certainly achieved wonders within that narrow range; and also, I think, Webster’s range covers ground that is not covered by Shakespeare’s. There’s nothing anywhere in Shakespeare that resembles the fourth act of Malfi, for instance: the regions of the human mind that Webster depicts are very different from anything I have come across.

      Ultimately, Shakespeare’ vision is not only broader, but also deeper. In Webster, Evil is the monster that is out there; in Shakespeare, it is a monster that lies latent within us. But I do feel that Webster’s art deserves to be taken seriously throughout.

      Cheers, Himadri


      • It’s the lack of a sense of humour that can make it lapse into comedy, it takes itself so very seriously. It may deserve to be taken seriously throughout, but I think audiences struggle to do so and I think that’s due to flaws inherent in the play.

        Comedy of course isn’t necessary for a play. The Cherry Orchard is a masterpiece, but it’s pretty light on laughs. I could cite a bunch of other examples as could you. My argument isn’t that a lack of humour is a problem for a play per se, but that a lack of contrast is a problem specifically in Malfi.

        The issue I think with Malfi is that much of what it portrays is a bit absurd. The same is true of course with much of Shakespeare in plot terms, but Shakespeare is much better at managing changes of mood within a play so carries you with him. It takes a bad production of Lear to make the audience notice that the plot is utter nonsense (though I’ve seen two bad productions, and some parts of Lear really are pretty silly). The play itself though, Lear I mean, has enough power and also changes of tone that well produced that stuff isn’t foregrounded and instead what’s foregrounded is why that stuff is in there.

        In other words, I agree that Shakespeare’s vision is broader and deeper. I think Malfi is a bit one-note. In fact, on reflection, I’m not sure I think it’s a great play. Very good, sure, but it’s no Chekhov, it’s no Eugene O’Neill.

        I take your point though on brooding sense of claustrophobia, and one couldn’t get that with the leavening so artistic choices must be made and Webster made them.

        As for his vision of evil, while it seems absurd and lacks Shakespeare’s portrayal of inner evil, we do live in a world where massacres and atrocities happen.

        Of course, all this criticism is a compliment. If I thought it were without merit, or even merely average, I wouldn’t bother criticising it.

  5. Wait, The Cherry Orchard is full of laughs, big laughs. What have the directors you have seen done to sardonic Chekhov? This one I have seen with my own eyes, with an audience. It’s not as funny as Uncle Vanya, I grant that.

    Is Malfi more “one-note,” with fewer contrasts, than Volpone or She Stoops To Conquer or Woyzeck or Ubu Roi? Max may have a higher threshold for “great play” than I do.


    • I’ve not seen those plays, so I can’t speak to them. I do though have a high threshold for using the word great. It’s a big word. We risk cheapening the discourse if we use it too lightly. Macbeth is a great play. So’s Uncle Vanya. Is Malfi at that standard? Really? I don’t think so, though I have no issue with others disagreeing since it is after all a subjective evaluation.

      This isn’t me saying it’s bad or even close to bad. I think it’s a good and interesting play which merits still being produced to this day, that’s why I’ve seen it so much – a production of it still seizes my interest. Saying something isn’t great isn’t slamming it. Great though, yes, I do have a high standard for what I call great and I don’t think Malfi quite meets it. I don’t think though that I have an absurdly high threshold, I just think it should be a very high test to apply that particular word.

      It’s a bit like masterpiece. I’ve had a book blog now for maybe seven years. In all that time I’ve referred to books as being masterpieces maybe a handful of times (mostly for Proust, though not only). For the word to mean something, it must be given rarely.

      Also, and on a slightly separate note, I think it’s important we don’t put historic plays on a pedestal. It makes them less approachable, and worse risks making theatre like opera, a static art robbed of its vitality. Much of the best theatre I’ve seen in the last year or two were new plays, plays never shown before. If we hold the old up too high, we crowd out the new. There are great artists working in opera today, but the audiences as a whole (ie not everyone in the audience but the aggregate effect) are highly conservative and the result is that we see the same operas produced over and over, with little new entering the repertoire. I’m still on the waiting list for Glyndebourne and Bayreuth though. One of these years…


    • No hint of “slamming,” no need to clarify that.

      I use the word “masterpiece” all the time. Every journeyman has to create a masterpiece to become a master craftsman – so masterpieces can’t be all that rare.

      I don’t see any pedestals here. Yes, please, get that opera audience to go hear Robert Ashley.


  6. Whoa! Hold on there! I go off for a few hours to do some work, and you two have already taken this debate way beyond where it was when I last saw it!

    Yes, we are certainly into semantics here, as is bound to be the case when we use terms such as “great” or “masterpiece” that aren’t precisely defined. If your threshold for greatness is somewhere around the King Lear mark, then obviously The Duchess of Malfi falls short. So does just about everything else. But in my recent re-reading of plays of Shakespeare’s era (I read through a whole lot of them many years ago, but barely remember them), these two plays by Webster do seem to me to be far closer to being masterpieces than the others I have so far come across. To use that expression again, Webster does indeed have a tragic vision, and, I think, a very individual and idiosyncratic poetic sensibility: somehow, he seems to find a strange but exquisite beauty in the grotesque and the horrific, and I don’t think I have encountered that in any other writer. (Certainly not in Poe, though many would claim otherwise.)

    We come across a paradox in talking about literary merit, for, while we do believe it exists (we’d hardly be talking about the quality of literature otherwise), we also know that the idea of a league table of literary works is absurd. We all know that the likes of The Iliad or King Lear or Don Quixote are up at the top, and yet, any thought of ranking them in order of literary merit is clearly absurd. The Duchess of Malfi is not up there with King Lear, no, but what it achieves is so different that I don’t know that any comparison is meaningful. It probably isn’t up there with The Cherry Orchard either (which, I agree, is a very funny play: at least, it makes me laugh a lot), but once again, their aims are so divergent that comparison doesn’t really make much sense.

    So leaving aside contentious words such as “great” or “masterpiece”, I think Webster achieved perfectly in these two plays what he had set out to achieve; and what he had set out to achieve is so far removed from the mainstream of drama that I cannot really think of any adequate comparison.

    On the question of Old vs the New, I suppose I have nailed my colours to the Old rather than to the New. (Certainly as far as novels are concerned.) But that is mainly because I am a slow reader, and, given how little time there is to read with the mind fully open (i.e. not at night after work when I’m falling asleep), I think it best to focus on what I like most. It is true that too intent a focus on the Old can, as Max says, sideline the New, but the opposite can also happen: too intent a focus on the New, purely because it is new, can sideline the Old. Getting a balance is by no means easy, and I certainly don’t pretend to it. As far as drama is concerned, I do think the last few decades (i.e. during my lifetime) have been a sort of golden age for drama in UK – with works by the likes of Harold Pinter, Edward Bond, David Storey, Tom Stoppard, Joe Orton, etc.But someone else will have to blog about them: I can’t do everything, y’know! 🙂


  7. A fine essay. I first read The Duchess of Malfi as a teenager in my final year at school. The three years before that had all had a Shakespeare play as the main dramatic text, so Webster offered a fascinating contrast. It may well have been the first non-Shakespearean ‘old’ play I’d encountered.

    As for the alleged faults of absurdity and lack of humor, I disagree. I think there is humor to be found, though it is of a very dark hue (certainly, it’s more likely to provoke a thin, grim smiles than belly laughs). Think of the way the Cardinal toys with Julia before doing away with her, and the glee with which he reveals her doom (not to mention Julia’s line that she will swear secrecy on the bible ‘most religiously’ – multiple ironies there). I love, too, the opening exchange of Act II Scene v:

    FERDINAND: I have this night digg’d up a mandrake.
    CARDINAL: Say you?

    I can well imagine a pair of good actors earning a few guffaws with this. Then there’s the scene in which the Cardinal’s desperate pleas for help as Bosola comes to kill him are ignored by the four noblemen who hear them outside the room. The Cardinal had previously warned them that he might feign such pleas, but had ordered that they be disregarded; they follow his orders, and so abandon him to his fate. Of course, it’s absurd, but it seems to me intentionally absurd; how else to take the quartet’s sceptical discussions as the Cardinal cries out in terror from within?

    CARDINAL: The sword ’s at my throat!
    RODERIGO: You would not bawl so loud then.

    I think Webster is laughing at the conventions of his own genre. Of course the Cardinal’s orders, given in the previous scene, are going to rebound on him; you can almost imagine the actor winking at the audience (though I suspect that would be taking it a little too far).

    CARDINAL: It may be, to make trial of your promise,
    When he ’s asleep, myself will rise and feign
    Some of his mad tricks, and cry out for help,
    And feign myself in danger.
    MALATESTI: If your throat were cutting,
    I ’d not come at you, now I have protested against it.
    CARDINAL: Why, I thank you.

    The important thing is that none of this negates the gravity, beauty and power of the play. The lines that always spring to mind when I think of it are these, delivered by the Cardinal, just before Bosola’s entrance:

    I am puzzl’d in a question about hell;
    He says, in hell there ’s one material fire,
    And yet it shall not burn all men alike.
    Lay him by. How tedious is a guilty conscience!
    When I look into the fish-ponds in my garden,
    Methinks I see a thing arm’d with a rake,
    That seems to strike at me.


    • Yes, you’re right. I had written lately on the importance of reading plays, but I think my play-reading skills have possibly let me down here: the instances you cite are certainly capable of getting laughs, and I agree, the laughs are not unintentional. As you say, they provide a greater richness, and do not distract from the essential seriousness of the work.

      For it still strikes me as a very serious work, and it does seem to me that there is a danger, given our modern insistence on seeing everything as “a bit of a laugh”, of missing the seriousness of Webster’s vision amidst a sea of knowing giggles. Perhaps or that very reason I was over-reacting against the humour.

      That speech of the Cardinal’s you quote at the end is particularly striking, isn’t it? I particularly like the use of “tedious” – not an adjective one might have thought of in this context. It reminds me rather of Macbeth –

      I am in blood
      Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more,
      Returning were as tedious as go o’er


  8. My favorite use of the word tedious, Paradise Lost, Book 9:

    … to dissect
    With long and tedious havoc fabled knights
    In battles feigned…


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

<span>%d</span> bloggers like this: