Thursday, May 28, 2009  Ulysses, by James Joyce   Stateless,
narrow white Jason came from the doorway, bearing a bag blue
plastycanvas on which an iPod touch and a laptop lay crossed.
--Come up, James Joyce. Come up, you fearful Jesuit.  He stood
very solemn, and looked at the eBook. It was slender in it's
bits, and in it's slenderness, less imposing then a heavy
paperback.  In came Amanda, looking up over another novel, one
far less imposing, one far more enjoyable, one perhaps more
enlightening.  --Tell me, Jason, Amand said quietly  --Yes, my
love?  --How long is Mr. Joyce to stay in this house?  A
boyishness pervaded young Mister Jason Dedalus, a fearful sort
of vigor, that wished to seek out truth and goodness. The book
lay heavy in his palm, despite it's being only a circuit and a
set of magnets switched in a predetermined pattern.  --There is
a hole, a hole in my past, and a father of the modern day, and I
haven't read him all through, or given him a proper chance. What
if all these modern snobs are j