From Notre Dame's list of Rhodes Scholars. (Scholarly note: 1597 is just a tad early for Moran; 1957 would seem to be a slightly more likely date, Notre Dame webmaster.) (Not to be confused with)

I was at a thrift store and came across a huge trove of great books, which I began grabbing until this one fell open & I saw the name inside: Dennis V. Moran. Dr. Moran had been one of my favorite college professors. He had also recently died. Unlike most of my professors, Moran was intelligent and disdainful of bureaucratic nonsense and the p.c. foolishness that was taking over universities. He was also witty, sarcastic, and impatient with stupidity. The former alienated him from the university bureaucracy; the latter from many of the students, who typically harbored varying degrees of fear toward his imposing demeanor. One day Moran gave us one of his dreaded tests: three huge essay questions and ten or so identification items. This time the final identification item was sinned narom. That sounded so familiar, but I couldn't place it, so just for the hell of it I decided to make a try at BSing it, just to see what Moran would do. At the next class meeting he passed back the blue books and instead of chewing me out when he gave me mine, he smirked and said, "Nice try." I should have recognized instantly that narom sinned was merely dennis moran backwards—the test had come out a few odd points short of totaling one hundred, so he had thrown in that question & awarded the points no matter what the answer. After that, Moran seemed to accord me a little more tolerance than was his custom. Another thing that helped was my presence as a sophomore undergrad in his graduate-level Anglo-Saxon language class. The others were all grad students who had to be there and didn't want to be. I wasn't in college to get a degree; I was just taking classes to learn stuff I wanted to know (which I was permitted to do only until the university computer figured it out and forced me to graduate). Back in the undergrad classes, if I said anything halfway clever, Moran would beamingly announce, "I gave this man all his command of the Anglo-Saxon language," always following up with a glance over his glasses and the qualifying phrase, "such ... as it is." Though a Catholic of some sort, Moran used to refer to himself as a Lethargic Vitalist. He had been a Rhodes Scholar, and his lectures often included echoes of his time at Oxford. Whenever India was mentioned in whatever he was reading aloud, he would look away wistfully and say, in his best pukka British accent, "Pit-ehhhh-y we lost INNNNNN-jah..." and then continue on as though this was just what one properly did whenever one encountered the word India. As a longtime accumulator (not collector) of books, finding Moran's books haphazardly strewn about in a thrift store was an eye-opening reminder of what it all comes to: your library—thousands of books, linked by threads nearly as personal as DNA and incomprehensible to anyone else—broken up and carried off in every direction. "Dust to dust" applies to paper as well as flesh. I didn't need most of his books that were sitting there in that thrift store, but I couldn't allow Dennis V. Moran's books to be pawed over by bargain hunters, so I bought them all. Some I gave away to others who knew him, others to people who would just appreciate them, and one I still have. (Like Kit from Badlands, however, I quickly realized that I should've kept a smaller one.)