La Vongola

This was Joyce before he was Joyce, Lance Walhert, Ulysses instructor.

Susan Hayward certainly fits the part she was to play as Barbara Graham, and I Want to Live! represents a superb movie conflagration, with the Mann Act representing a continuous growth, from the Jazz Age of Fitzgerald, encapsulated by Warren Beatty, with varying degrees of success (cf The Fortune with Stockard Channing), carrying us through the Depression with a more hale Spencer Tracy escaping certain darkness, to the regulation of womens' make up and attire during the war years, well examined in feminist studies, and perhaps relevant even today, with Nicholas Kristof's ever omnipresent guilt tripping our suffering against the animal tripping third world. I list his wife's documentary to raise the interrogative possibility of helping these girls with a McCarthyesque law that everyone feels, intuitively, as sinister, but might be used to decrease trafficking? I am also a little sore with the almighty liberal, as he followed me on twitter using his other account on my other account for less than two days, and brother man, my admissions of bigotry does not mean I do not have relevant arguments, and perhaps not one to be dismissed so readily. You are a big enough brand that the boost helped my esteem. He can tackle vultures stalking starving children in the Sudan, but a struggling disability journalist dying on her own lung fluids and her own abuse from the left, ah, Nicholas won't absorb that, merci vous! I think he is still on my list, but I have not checked recently. Do I care?

How authentic Hayward's Graham is remains open to question. If Barbara was arrested in the process of coitus interruptus with her gang, this is somewhat less than sympathetic, but Hayward seems merely to imprint her own brassy attributes onto her parts. Again, having a telegenic command is an intangible, difficult to penetrate, but it can obscure the truth and the nature of complicity, even if it represents an ongoing conversation with a more brutal narrative, like Monster.

Joyce started this process of interlocking roots, along with his dialectical rival. The effort I took, getting up, getting to the class, gnashing my teeth, getting what I expected in a young post graduate and a cluster of ethnic plebeians, deferring to him with awe, knocked me out, took me all day, not that I claim to be more erudite, but I could have done this study without an analytical boy wonder who seemingly handled me with diffidence. I am really really ill, more so than I have realized in quite some time, living on light roast hot coffee, toast, a constantly upgraded temperature, and an inflammation that expectorants no longer ease, entirely. One use of phrasing where Lance and I would disagree is what Joyce achieved, if I heard the man correctly. Ulysses does not push realism to its limits, so much as linguistic intricacy, which makes being versed in the work of James seem like prep school.

It begins with Dubliners, which indicts authority and progressive modalities alike, exposing the limits of imperialism, the tunnel vision of ethnic unity under which we're all bound, suffocating in it, the brutality of caste, whether it leads to the loss of control in a hot toddy, or inhaling your own asphyxiation in cyanide, with all its complex and complimentary flavors