silly-cleo:sophiagratia:{Referring to this glorious Tom Gauld cartoon.}Here’s the thing. I bet that
silly-cleo:sophiagratia:{Referring to this glorious Tom Gauld cartoon.}Here’s the thing. I bet that mousie spent his days talking over women in seminars, twirling his hair and longing not to be burdened with the horrible weight of male privilege, constructing elaborate scenarios that allowed him to enact his 1950’s-Oxbridge-male-bonding fantasies, and building a shrine to Ezra Pound in his living room. He invited his fate, Cleo.If we wish young mousies to survive their blind devotion to James Joyce, we must agitate for systemic change. The revolution begins at home, kids: read a George Eliot novel.Ahahah, we read this totally differently. My intepretation is that mousie is struggling with Joyce and is reading it because they HAVE to and they were so busy trying they froze to death. Hence, poor mousie.I have a lot less sympathy for your mousie, it’s true.But this begs the question: were that the case, why did not the mousie’s birdfriend help with gathering food for winter while the mousie was thus engaged? Because the mousie is an asshole mousie, is why. (Possibly also because birdgamers are narcissists; it’s hard to tell.)The bottom line is that I just have absolutely no tolerance for Ulysses. And if you get stuck in the snow while you’re jerking off to Leo Bloom, hey: that’s what you get. -- source link