Amanuensis to Moby Dick, Guardian Mentality No. 2

Dreamt I stood in a china shop so crowded from floor to far-off ceiling with shelves of porcelain antiquities etc. David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas, p.43

William Gaddis, for the uninitiated, is a fine writer, and my edition of The Recognitions has a far less elaborate jacket, a lamination of white green yellow blue, like an atheist Christmas card, but the novel, while a precursor to the genius of David Mitchell, is a ponderous effort, a hell on earth labor to actually finish, living as I did, on the edge of the badlands, 1500 W. Page Street, closing a tome about frauds, fakes, originals, with the final phrase "rarely played." reverberating with the stark imprint of an epitaph. Perhaps Gaddis's publisher believed Gaddis was a modern James Joyce, but no. Whatever one feels about the author who murdered the novel, Joyce is a lively labor. Gaddis is a dissertation down the rabbit hole, with a density somewhat thicker than the later Gravity's Rainbow, if my imprint dates are in alignment. and following on the heels of my first nominee, you can still appreciate what literary movements like Modernism have to offer without adding The Recognitions as a very long spooling funnel to your archives. I started the first chapter again approximately six months ago, and if I wind up as a most unfortunate casualty of this youthfully old birth city of American independence, I may never get to fully reengage with William's game theory.

Ali darlin, I have absolutely no idea who you are, and I almost have absolutely not a creative word to post about the fact you've followed me. I do not stream much. Don't have a playlist, and don't use my 5c like an iPod, though I am sure Apple and ATT and Google would be ecstatic if I grasped at the straws of my zealous turning thirteen obsession with Elton John and went back to the British sound of my era as opposed to being part of the problem, as tommyturbo asserted, but what I can convey is the amazing ability of language, to create a word like amanuensis, a word I never knew until Mitchell gave me a visceral existential crisis. If Modernism killed the novel, Mitchell destroyed the aspiration of any ambition I ever had, and yet, I did not expire on the table when this revelation sucker punched me after I finished his profound display of virtuosity. I passed on my battered and stained copy to young Lance, who patiently waltzed this spastic through Ulysses in 2013. I kindly offered Lance my edition and he said no he had to give it back because he needed to buy Cloud Atlas in hard cover. I cannot guarantee you I'll trudge on at this softer pace, as my intention to vacate this unfortunate studio apartment I've inhabited since 1994 by the end of July is not, in fact, particularly salient to the imagination. Disabled writers on entitlements simply do not vacate section 202 housing. It is not done, but I cannot stay. My ability to cope with Presbyterian corporate methodology, beating and beating at me as long as it has, because I was a naive 23 year old who saw this way of life as a mere stepping stone toward a fulfilling literary adventure-- I do not know what I thought. I thought I could become like my mentor Jerry, whose name I weary of typing, but anyway, what was I saying? Oh.

Even though I do not stream all that much, as I am sorting all of this out, listening to your work is on my list, but Tony's radio show comes first. If you have, oh, I do not know, access to writer's studio digs where I could bring my cats. I love the feline children, one cannot help that, well, let me know. If you're interested in what I have to say, well, I've reached across the generation then. Now I need to rest a bit, but I had to log on and dissect this. Compulsion must be satisfied.   

Colon Viscosity

Save any free email addresses you inadvertently receive from current or former faculty @ Harvard. You could imitate Pynchon's illustrious  homage to Joyce in Gravity's Rainbow and suck the excrement straight from Wood's colon, using the hose portion directly affixed from the scope. I take this link to James Wood on faculty to be the James Wood I've so often read on TNR. In another life, Wood may not have found me the perfect good wife, but we might have gone snit to snit over an anomalous crab salad in the faculty cafeteria. I am actually deploying my stalking skills on another Personaged Instructor, who shall remain unnamed because I am going to WHINE as politely and literately as possible about writing a post on my pet light bulb for him; but I can't read every thing, and this is me screaming about reading everything and raging at the ridicule of taking down a supervisor I looked up to because of a homoerotic panic that was fake and triggered by other underlying anxieties, not that it doesn't mean she did not deserve a comeuppance. More will follow, perhaps in accelerated fashion, because I will be a centurion before the Congress of the United States yields to the spastic dowager. Where were we again? The unnamed academic, yes, not that I have not named a few. Sheldon would not be entirely startled to discover he is the digitized father-rabbi I never had. He is a good man, and that is spastic's seal of approval. Where was I?

Research, yes, sick to my puss. I have no desire to set foot in Paley ever again but I have to schedule a contact. Alma mater electronic utilization. Lie down an hour. I have too much to do, oddly enough, though spastic can't stop the train. My savings may evaporate entirely by spring.

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.

Spirometry or Cornmeal

"Why we are mired in this virtually unsolvable problem is the reason I wrote this book."-- David Stockman

Paul Krugman's oblique critique of conservative alarm is patently ridiculous. Economics, sciences, humanities, health, physics, literary endeavor, agriculture, demographics, third rate quality controls which have decreased population pressures a billionth of a percent, none of these are divorced from each other. This relates to Ulysses hostilities. As superlative and versatile as Joyce proves to be, and as indebted post modernists of the future are to the man of schizoaffective verisimilitude, James Joyce evades a great deal of responsibility with his "damned masterpiece," to corrupt one of his complaints about his novel, and channel Mads Mikkelsen as a derivative virtuoso. Other authors beholden to the modernist tradition do not evade their responsibility. Hermann Broch. Marcel Proust. John Gardner. Even Laurence Sterne, who is a Joycean pater familias, does not evade responsibility.

I am still in Ithaca, after having made such expenditure as I have, although my aging family made up the difference of my support for the tiny and ensconced Jewish bookseller museum of nomenclature in this provincial urban backwater that fomented the birth of the United States, but now that I am past the guidance of Lance Walhert, who has two names because he was warned to be wary of furious spastic mettle, not that my family consciously decided to underwrite my contribution to the Rosenbach-- I had a birthday, veterinary bills, and mother's side and mio padre write off their guilt. Perhaps I will finish Molly's chapter by Bloomsday, perhaps not, and if you would be happier if I focus on small positives, I like young Althena, who looks like cousin Dana, and the guy with the glasses who listened for five minutes to now significantly ill and angry invalid's tale of misery-- I need to get back to my own concerns, however, before I acquire the scars of lung reduction surgery. The Mayo Clinic chastises that COPD is not the end of the world.

Of course it is for those with ambition and aesthetic desire and livid hatred of brain damage and a body broken with never a chance for its own beauty over indolence. I have had a craving for cheese puffs and in indulging it, breathed better. Breathing now. So why do I not behave and be compliant and script myself on the appropriate steroid combination before a machine takes over for me? I did observe that Amy seemed delightful, didn't I?

Mnemonic Agrarian

Given my personal history with the last post modern beatnik progeny on earth, his powers waning in my estimation (alas, the undercurrent of antagonism stems from? psychoanalytic drum roll, but this morning it is not a primary concern, father fucking as an act of annihilation which did not happen...) I am unresolved on what attracts me to the work of Allen Tate, whether it is, in fact, Tate's mimetic qualities conjoined to his violent modernism, which Yezzi recognizes in ridiculing fashion in his New Criterion piece, an article I have been attempting to digest off and on since 2007, and will continue to absorb, only to note here that Yezzi's hyperbole, highlighted below, while charming, is the normative hogwash of the literary critic, and his or her concerns toward peer review:

Without a proper appreciation of Tate, the full story of recent American poetry cannot be told.

Really? Jerry recognized early in our journey that I was interested in literary imitation, but I am not sure I recognize my youthful curiosity in my appreciation of the poems themselves. We'll come back to it, as I am contemplating asceticism as a form of reactionary protest, except to add something about Tate's *inherited racism,* as Yezzi calls it.

Slapping labels on people is a way of turning them off. Unlike the event of Gore Vidal's death, my demise will not have much public reverberation, but commentators burned bright to excoriate Vidal as a racist elitist pig. What does that mean exactly? That his intellectual endeavors are worthless? Not every form of reaction is an atavistic backslide.

Princess Andromache, Croupier

.... not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away. "Old man," said he, "let me not find you tarrying about our ships, nor yet coming hereafter. Your sceptre of the god and your wreath shall profit you nothing. I will not free her. She shall grow old in my house at Argos far from her own home, busying herself with her loom and visiting my couch; so go, and do not provoke me or it shall be the worse for you."-- Samuel Butler's translation

How is it that one can eschew James Joyce and still appreciate the consequences of Modernism? There is much to appreciate in Ulysses, regardless if a pauper invalid spends well over five hundred dollars on cheat sheets and the nullification of her own pretensions, particularly the Calypso section, and then Nausicca, and the disjunctions from Nausicca between Bloom and Gerty leading into Circe which I absorbed with psycho-sexual shock, and will ponder beyond the conclusion of this reading group cycle. Joyce is  on par with the blindness of subsuming into appetite, and still illicits my scorn.

Scorn is a strong sentiment, a reaction against pity and the pathos of Joycean grandiosity, something that glimmers in Dubliners, rises in Portrait, and reaches a crescendo in Ulysses. Perhaps I am more Cartesian than I realize, certainly not as skillful as Nick Davis in deconstructing Greenaway. Nick helps me to see why The Belly of an Architect preoccupies and remains an insufferable pretension, and the argument it makes about feminism and legacy is to some extent historically relevant, structuralist, to say the least. Problematic films like these are needed even more than masterpieces. If you need to visualize what I mean in my charge toward a thesis, there is the gnat chameleon aspect of Jake Gyllenhaal's roles: the sounding center geek in Proof, The Zodiac Killer, a type against his A list swashbuckler bid Prince of Persia, a formula for which I could not sit still. Moving in part, more rugged in its realism than Errol Flynn's output, reminiscent of Douglas and Curtis maiming each other unto death, a film based on a game nevertheless doesn't belie expectations.

I ended my implicit contract with the long winded Timothy Artis, the talking mule of the Torah, and this time, I ended it for good. There is little between me and a major shit fest if I do not find a replacement soon, or return to the Medicaid waiver.

Should I give up, prepare for death? Like anyone has the balls to type in my comment section on accepting limitations and the inevitable. I have only a thin, thinning veneer for African American dominion in Philadelphia-- indeed, the cracks in black identity toward true matriculation into the mainstream has ushered itself in a little late for my adoption of developmental dove like expressions.

Arcane Limey

Pressed for time this evening. Barreling through the hardest part to get done with this damned revolution that is now standard academic static. Need to finish so I can return to my own concerns, but am I glad I did this? No. Simulating the return to class has not made me healthier or more optimistic. I could not even move to the neighborhood where the museum is located, which, if I could, would make me healthier and more optimistic. Am I glad I discovered the museum? Perhaps I enjoy the association with their archivist, but this is where I can use the help of any Joycean enthusiast:

I am trying to ascertain how familiar James Joyce was with the work of Henry James, specifically if there is any proof that Joyce read the James novella What Maisie Knew without spending 5,000 hours researching the question. I did ask the Jamesians and I suppose off hand none of them knew. Does James Joyce offer any evidence in his letters? I will take any biographical testimony any Joycean could point me to, either in affirmation or negation.

Oligarchs

"Snakes don't eat people."-- the incredulous Jennifer Lopez

Luis Llosa may have been offering a homage to Spielberg with Anaconda, but the film was ridiculous, barely lucid in its underlying subtext of preserving the Amazon's mystique. At this point in my life I fail to see why mechanical sharks and snake machines with a malevolent sense of humor shouldn't be made Secretary General of the United Nations, and if I ever get through The Feast of The Goat by Llhosa the novelist, I will have to view the filmmaker's adaptation, and this unwittingly brings me back to my trouble: my literacy fluency has done absolutely nothing for me, not in terms of personal security, and Llhosa has stated to English media repeatedly that he belonged to a Latin American left which thought it could change things. But that seemingly took forever in blue jeans.

Modernism changed literature and left it for dead, which does not mean that content will not continue to be sold as impulse products for consumers, but what has modernism done to the moral glue, the third chimpanzee's empathy? And by that I mean us, culling Jared's title. I have spent my entire life consuming the English novel and science fiction, and only later getting into the subtlety, sheer marvel, of the action taking place on the continent. Stendhal is more than Balzac's equal, and I can only wonder at where Marcel picked up his cues, not quite 100 years later-- but Joyce? If we were to superimpose Ulysses onto the scripts for The Following, aren't we saying that an abstract modality, taken to its absurd forms, makes it easier to clear the way for immolation? And yes, I get the subversive irony of the fact that James Purefoy brings the terminal degree scholar into the ever burgeoning tent of the American serial killer (hello to my internal vengeance driver). Late 20th century cold war thrillers were an early version of this video game mentality, with the real monster being the American operative flipped for money, or the thrill of it.

In the good old days, I would not have feared a Soviet agent. The Soviet agent believed in what Lenin and Stalin bequeathed, but today's Russian thugs lead us back to Bulgakov's ridicule, which doesn't need an apologia for its reductionist, dystopian tendencies. Bulgakov may not be the best counter example for me to use to bolster hostility towards Joycean meta-fictional overlay, because I may hear the jazz in Mikhail's masterpiece, but cannot say he is right about Christian orthodoxy, but unlike Joyce, Bulgakov is empathetic to the need for hope.

I said something stupid in group when some there asked me if I was a grad student. I said we have a lot to blame the Modernists for, in the accusative. Let me put it this way: I doubt Joyce could have foreseen Osama Bin Laden, but I can see what the rise of Al Qaida means when I read the mock epic of this over educated Anglo-Irishman.

Since I had my bowel impaction yesterday, went off schedule, and have to go to the store, I leave you with that questionable lucidity.

Lyricism Minutiae

Lifting a term from Naomi Perley in her 19th century literature studies, it is the rich intratextuality of Proust that I prefer over Joyce and his Homeric Shakespearean parody, and in this sense, I am an Italian Germanic Francophile over a Saxon Anglo satirist. Eliot critiqued that the novel as we once knew it ended with Flaubert and James. True, but Joyce and Proust, then David Mitchell, broke the bank.

The novel as a literary form is dead, and Joyce took a deconstruction to its limit and essentially failed. His word smashing may strike the funny bone, but is not a consciousness simulation. Proust, on the other hand, mimics the complexity of biology by turning detailed precision of memory into a musical score. Mitchell then in the 21st century gives it digital connective tissue with historical allusions bound by chance connections that unify from the center.

Nothing more can be done with narrative except for the arbitrary perspective that seeps in the cracks.

Naughty woman with a schedule I need to keep, I should be lying down, but I wrestle with my two bit tap on why the quiet Italians, limping in on the backs of the titans, should have the last word. It turns out I can play Russian roulette with both e-cig cartridges and the simple plastic poke tubes. My constructs are slow to form, but my advantage is I am a stubborn bitch, and I am going to take my place in the field, even if I have to tutor remedial English to grasp at straws. I hate Joyce, so there, but why?

You see?
*
Lazy troping.  I can appreciate certain things in the fabled Joycean virtuosity, and of course, Western civilization survived the onslaught of Modernism deconstructing the fabulism, the assurance, of the Elizabethan world order, but it could not stop personal autonomy from turning yesterday's warrior into the modern terrorist. Is this too damning a charge to aim at Broch, Bloomsbury, their successors?

In My Journal

The Sunlight Aria: Urethra Knives                                                                                      01/20/13

                                                                                                                                                  (36)

 Dialing down the spastic dowager voice, I have to step off the blogger platform now and again, even if hate is truly beginning to consume me, as an issue even on the most pragmatic terms, what does it matter? Much like Sebold’s dead and virgin fuck worthy adolescent, vivacious and charming as the young actor was on screen, the hate itself is all that I have left, stark, veering toward crone cryogenics, this is how a constantly thwarted lust for life dies, its embers encased in stone cold methane, not any one thing, merely the cumulative total, besotting myself with Jerry, our 2007 contact the last gash, really, the last expenditure I had to exhaust. Did I love him, Frank asked with his Puerto Rican imbecility, and I cannot remember what I actually said to my bonny bastard nearly ex husband, but no, one does not love a glass fractured mortal icon now balding into a praying mantis post Vietnam boomer posture, no, but I would do anything now to reset the relative idyll, my brother engaged with his needle via which AIDS would waste the masculinity of his flesh into yellowish pink fevered bones no one wanted to touch, this that was Ridley Park, had I not answered the phone, and wrote “Professor McGuire,” on a notepad, dwelling on his professional title with nascent awe, had I not been there to let him the key to go look at my father’s little upstairs studio, had I not asserted myself, and found myself shaken to the core that he was a Shakespearean about to teach where I was about to be a freshman, poor Joanie looking at me like what’s the big deal?
 Exactly, the big deal is I am dying in Philadelphia because I made a dynamic and once beautifully manic intellect that his was, as I then saw it, the biggest deal of my life, and no Frank, that is not love. It is the sentiment of wounded, even crippled primates, that gives fanaticism its power to do so much harm, that is what I experienced. The divine revelation of Christ for a Renaissance post modern sensibility. I could not just settle for getting raped by one of my mother’s trailer trash lovers, crying through the then necessary aborting drill bit no, me? I had to worship a somewhat gifted educator, sitting here at fifty looking at all the pieces of that puzzle, and how they, those pieces, accentuate the multiplicity of my wounds in a taunt pickle of aging urine, dark or light, depending on what liquid I utilize when I am not utilizing, like Kerouac, an intake of 32 ounces of coffee. Bladder cancer would actually be something of an upset, but then, if that is actually what it is, if not a cervical issue also. even if I do not lose to it outright, would give a plebeian sanctimonious owl hooting woman like Josie her justification, wouldn’t it? I need no imagination to know how a rabid bitch like that would take the news that I went down over a degrading rubber balloon, offering up a little prayer perhaps, in the happy consolation of her congregation, her and that insufferable God loves me as he made me hope. The stupid mechanisms we use, non viable females.
 I do not know whether or not I am strong enough to handle a temporary fieldwork assignment, courteous as I and the ACLU woman were to each other, someone like me, forced to turn to the radical left, blind to the pain they bred in me, but going to the interview will, at least, be yet another matron whaling in the dark engagement. We’ll see, whether or not I ever forgive myself. Do I love him? It reverberates, a challenge to any rationale, like his daily familiarity with Susan. The doubt in my mind will never entirely settle, whether my finalist poem “On Goodbyes” was a love song of a turbulent girl in the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong thunder in her heart for men who could not accept her as a loving intimate, not that way, and had he dared it, not that it would have been right, but had it happened, and not been the stuff of real sexual fulfillment, I would have laughed, his gaunt and ugly energy, my flaccid spastic body and thick black pubic hair, I would have laughed, for that which is a broken heart. I hope Joanie did well. She was a good girl, a sweet soul, never was unkind to me.
6:03 am, Sunday

Leitourgos

I am a liberal Row-Ark. What I am not is a card carrying ACLU radical
-- Matthew McConaughey

Many people are turned off by Joyce's meta-textual efforts, myself included; the saga of Ireland's violins are wearisome, even if this is a callous modern sensibility, and makes me pea green, and thereby inducted, when I think of the money I spent. You do not want to know what I paid to become a patron of a small slice of Philadelphia's cultural history, but it is comparable to what a three credit course went for when I was a student. One among the group is a novelist, and he and I were the first two people in the room, generation divided, I read and typed notes on my kindle, and he had three huge books. Our exchanges were clipped, heightened, and I caution myself to remain passive and let the clover patriots indulge themselves. I am only there to contrast Joyce with Lampedusa and Proust and Broch, who I am slowly rereading, scribbling notes in the book. I did not know The Sleepwalkers was in the Modernist family when I bought the novel, and only remember the anarchist, with a strange jolt, a pang, as if his death was my loss. I am more familiar with Joyce than I let on, but harbor an ambivalent hostility (you gasp! no!). He is one of the greatest writers in the English language, but those Irish violins, the Troubles, the Celtic warriors who corrupted my Roman legions, I sigh... Perhaps the novelist is published, not play acting an amateur. We shall see, and I suppose I should reread Portrait and really make an effort and be a good girl; tis my money, but I think Joyce, and perhaps Marcel, were creating a secular liturgy, and that is my very simple defense of Ulysses and Finnigans Wake. Not sure I shall ever attempt the latter, though I cannot be definitive.

Hoping to get to the DMV today, but not positive. Partly the problem is the distance of the drive; the Septa routes are bothersome for such a short distance, but I do need to get the mug updated. If I hate PresbyHomes as much as I assert, I am not on an intracounty transfer list because I fail to see the point. Every other location is problematic, and I was on the suburban transfer list but DCCC HUD lost me. I can go as blue in the face as is survivable, but this doesn't change the fact that I have set myself up for trouble, barring charitable private property. For all the nerve it took me to write to Babette, getting an acknowledgement is elusive, which does not bode well for my late life cause of independent living center reforms; my public avatar and private sentiments are slowly merging, however, because I do believe that disability centers kill the disabled through incompetence, I really do.

This is the danger inherent in building managers like Trudy Richardson and her bulldog, Debra. They are handed power without the professionalism or training to handle it without violating the very civil liberties the ACLU holds dear, but the ACLU spikes a fever on fusion centers and their infringement of privacy, right of association, or sex, or fringe protest; if I was in Columbia having Marxist orgasms with trade unionists, I'd expect the FBI to have a hard on for my hard drive data. What compliance and case management are doing to our basic rights, however, never mind; it's an afterthought, like me, the scars I carry. The glare  Obama bored into Romney is my own, except the odds that my injustices will be rectified are virtually nil, and yes, it was in part my social fear, and the knowledge that the cruelty of my former employer destabilized me.

I worked last night during the debate, and I'm pushing my body beyond what is safe. Have a good one peepbles.

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

Soirées à Marcel

"There are people who should die." Rose might be discussing the price of milk. "Americans have a hard time with that, because they think everyone who is bad got broken somehow and someone else is at fault."
                   --Timothy Hailinan, A Nail Through the Heart, kindle edition, location 672