Ion’s blog

Somewhere in underground Iraq, a Baathist production of “The Tempest” might be in rehearsals, depicting the godlike Prospero, a ruler unfairly deposed but undiminished and lording over his kingdom of exile until he can return home.

Though her interpretation will undoubtedly be debated, Joyce scholars say that Ms. Shloss’s work is important because Lucia was pivotal to Joyce’s work. But it is a biography that almost did not get published because of objections from Joyce’s grandson, Stephen J. Joyce, the son of Joyce’s son, Giorgio. Ms. Shloss said he had threatened a lawsuit if she quoted from material relating to James Joyce.

“I had to rewrite this book over and over again,” she said. “The process of deleting things that had taken years to find out was just excruciating.” She added, “The ability of people to use quotes from Joyce has ground to a standstill.”

This is not the first time that Stephen Joyce, the beneficiary of his grandfather’s copyrights, has tried to stop quotations from his writings in films, plays and scholarly works. He has been particularly vigilant about material relating to Lucia and has written that he destroyed some of her letters.

For a person to desire to create a blog is only natural – and therefore regrettable. The love of novelty is a pleasant sort of cross, it’s evidence of a naive don’t-give-a-damn attitude, a passing, positive, sign without rhyme or reason. But this need is out of date, too. By giving “this art” (the blog) the impetus of supreme simplicity – novelty – we are being human and true in relation to innocent pleasures; impulsive and vibrant inorder to crucify boredom. From a very shallow pond I’m writing a pronunciamento and there’s nothing I want, and yet I’m saying certain things, and in principle I am against pronunciamentos, as I am against principles (quantifying measures of the moral value of every phrase – too easy; and the approximations that were recently reinvented by the postmodernists).

Blog – this is a word that throws up ideas so that they can be shot down; every bourgeois is a little playwright, who invents different subjects and who, instead of situating suitable characters on the level of his own intelligence, like chrysalises on chairs, tries to find causes or objects (according to whichever psychoanalytic method he practices) to give weight to his plot, a talking and self-defining story.

Every linker, spectator and lurker is a plotter, if he tries to explain a word (as if one really knows the meaning!) from his padded refuge of serpentine complications, he allows his instincts to be manipulated. Whence the sorrows of conjugal life.

Do the amusements of bloggers lie in the mills of empty skulls?

Cuando nombro monarqu