Your writer of pulp has struggled with the title Mathurin. His main problem is that he doesn't actually like the name until he puts it into the context of Saint Maturin. Then it all makes sense to him, except for the spelling of the Saint's name. And true what sometimes makes sense to your writer of pulp doesn't make sense to anyone else. This he's been told is one of the penalties paid by those who dwell in splendid isolation and have reached that point in life where neighboring counties are foreign countries which should really require passports to visit.
Then there's the problem of naming places. Our hero has spent time in a number
of them, developed an understanding of them that might not be entirely accurate
but his opinion of them could well produce what the legal professionals have
dubbed libelous activity, and it's that sort of area where some religious
professionals see their opportunity to engage medieval solutions. But along with
the title Mathurin, a time comes when your writer of pulp puts his
sunglasses on, he comes down from the mountain with his stuff written in stone,
and for a couple of minutes like Moses, he's kind of pleased with himself.