He took his doctoral exams and wrote his dissertation, Om begrebet ironi med stadigt hensyn til Socrates (On the Concept of Irony, with Constant Reference to Socrates), completing it in June of 1841 and defending it in September.
They are irony with kitsch.
We need irony with depth and bite.
"The Florist's Daughter" confronts this central irony with ruthless honesty.
It lacks not thesis but synthesis, and not irony with a capital I but irony with that crucial lower-case one.
Irony, with its killing metallic toxins, becomes the one safe Sherman tank.
What better demonstration of irony, with a lot of cynicism thrown in to boot.
The techniques involved are salvage and citation; the sensibility mixes hyper-referential irony with reverent nostalgia.
The irony with which, after all, you came face to face with death?
Atwood brilliantly marries pellucid irony with a cool, but marked empathy.
But even in this mundane context, Mr. Nucci, with his easy gift for alternating irony with sincerity, is irresistible.
