ABSTRACT
I have pushpinned two photocopied portraits of Dr Raimundo Nina Rodrigues (1862–1906) on the wall of my office in Amsterdam. They have been sitting there for months now, stuck somewhat unceremoniously between postcards from a summer’s trip to the baroque churches of southern Spain, a printout with several how-to-avoid-rsi-exercises from my physiotherapist and teaching schedules for the next semester.
