My Own Private Ulysses: Forced Confession of Deadly Sin #1 – Lust
Lust may be found in every love letter I write on the wall of this online shithouse. “Nabokov on Nausicaa” has been voted most likely to get your ass banned from a James Joyce Facebook Group.
The Deadly Sin of Ginger spilled its milk all over my dissertation on Naughty Nabokov’s lecture notes. For the record, I penned it during a lonely, unbearably cold winter in Southern California. I almost had to wear long sleeves!
Ulysses’ illegal Nausicaa episode stars femme fatale, dirty little Gerty MacDowell with her “Greekly perfect rosebud mouth,” “lustrous lashes,” “silkily seductive brows.” “Why have women such eyes of witchery?” She hikes up her “navy threequarter skirt…showing off her slim graceful figure to perfection,” revealing her “blue for luck…undies,” knowing damn-well that her audience, Leopold Bloom, is playing a rough game of public pocket pool.
The “hot little devil’s” seaside peepshow resulted in Bloom’s soiled skivvies, Joyce’s New York publishers’ incarceration (the heroic Margaret Anderson and Jane Heap), and my banishment from a Facebook Group. “O Lord, that little limping devil.”
But that’s only the half of it. This tortured contrition is about the Lust that Dare Not Speak its Name. In a major Freudian slippage, I admitted that the only romance novel I’ve ever read is Fight Club. A Deuteronomy double-whammy of damnation.
More forced confessions coming.
Same titillating time, same tingling channel.