Caught in the life-labyrinth constructed by men of wealth and title, love's thread will lead the way out. But a certain quantity of dynamite is still required to carve the exits.

For a series about the destructive effects of masculinity, Half Man sure did suck at having well written, fully formed women characters. It also overlooks the main reason Scottish people are like this: centuries of rabid Presbyterianism, booze guilt, clearances, and James Watt all combining to turn them into sexually-repressed loom appendages.

Stranded among the shoals of a fading utopia, the exile builds anew from ancient shipwrecks and the tattered cartography of the dead.

Arsenal are an abomination, the most toxic miasma to come out of London since the Great Plague.

Part of why Joyce is great is that he's a Medievalist in Modernist guise, someone who cherishes and revives the humour, the polyphony, the riotous texture and colour of the Middle Ages and its literature. This is unlike many of his generation, such as T.S. Eliot, for whom the past was often mere imaginative scaffolding for twitter level resentment.