Belated Modernist Friday: Heroes

Cheer up, James Joyce! You've just had another crippling eye operation and are snorting cocaine to recuperate, but look on the bright side: you've written and published THE seminal work of modernist literature...even though you had to self-publish because most potential publishers thought your book was smut. OK, let's think about something else. You're daughter inherited your genius! Isn't that great? Oh shit...she's going to spend the rest of her life in insane asylums, isn't she? And it's kind of partly your fault; but then again you didn't have much of a father yourself, did you? Let's not open that can of worms, you fearful Jesuit. Umm...hmm...well here's some good news! Finnegan's Wake is just months away from being finished, you live in beautiful Paris and Ernest Hemingway wants to take you on a safari! Isn't that all so exciting? Oh damn; I forgot. You're going to be completely blind by the time you finish Wake, so the beautiful Parisian panorama/the safari will be rather insulting to bring up, won't they? What with you not being able to see anything that's going on? Well here's something you cannot contest: you look really cool with that eye patch. You look like a complete badass. You look so cool that all these suburban kids who have known no real pain in their lives are imitating you right now.
Oh...shit. I guess that's kind of a bad thing, right? I'm really sorry I brought that up.

I'm sorry you feel so sad, James Joyce. Rest assured, though: you'll always be my hero. And David Bowie's.