Austrian Perocet

An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking, but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack-- Count Guido Franceshini

Sixsmith, for an avatar, had a persuasive critical ability within the forum community. I do not know if he is still a part of Chris Beasley's rigid, insecure, and unjust virtual authoritarian play land, nor do I know his gender for sure, but he is a gifted critic who I believe respected my faculties as long as I kept my cyber sexual fancies to a minimum, and in one thread he asked me what I thought of Musil's posthumous, inconclusive masterpiece.

What I'd be able to convey to Six, in light of what I've written in Spirometry, is that Musil also deliberately engages in evasion within the massive tome that comprises Ulrich'es adventurous sexual escapades. It took an Austrian soldier to flush out Henry James jibe to Howells about publishing a story on incest, and at nearly two thousand pages, Henry James would have delighted in Musil's prolificacy. The Man Without Qualities is also the first modern novel to feature what we now categorize in the terms of psychopathy, the predator Moosbrugger. Beyond this assessment, I cannot offer more, at present, since I will be rereading, slowly, as I am rereading Broch, slowly, except to add that the gaming of Robert Musil is more accomplished than anything James Joyce indulges through linguistic playfulness. The great modernists lived through or anticipated WW1; perhaps WW2 killed them because they could not prevent it, despite realizing the consequences of European implosion, and why these men of genius could not recognize the rise of Fascism on the continent and try to stop it remains a mystery. Scholars laud Joyce for Leopold Bloom's metamorphosis, but the reductionist and incisive cruelty of Joycean humor makes me recoil, in light of the horror that launched itself upon the world past the publication of Ulysses. Unlike my former transvestite ally, (and whatever you read in this picture, s/he is a crook) I assign blame; it may be a heavy onus to put on a failed Jesuit with his own vulnerabilities couched in grandiloquence, but Joyce knew better, yes, even for circa 1922, and this is what sticks in my throat. Walt Whitman believed Leaves of Grass would prevent the Civil War. What Joycean frolic with Antisemitism  achieves is the laying of a red carpet for a bloodbath. 

This is no reflection on Lance Walhert; he is a competent instructor; neither is this a reflection on the Rosenbach. It was good to get out, good to engage, despite that my intellectual restlessness needs to push further than a paid discussion group, and if you were wise, and entered a profession like engineering for financial security, but always wanted to read Moby Dick, outsourced class structures such as this would satisfy you, as they did Cassie in the what's cooking pic. She is the gamy legged woman I rolled with now and again, a gimp Annie Proulx would have enjoyed subverting.