Re: Joyce, Episode 72a. Joyce the Impressionist

oct 28, 2011

Re: Joyce, Episode 72a. Joyce the Impressionist

In this bonus episode, Frank draws from Frank Budgen’s memoir to illuminate Joyce’s painterly grasp of detail and language.

Advertisements

Re: Joyce, Episode 72: Shells and Shillings

oct 26, 2011

Re: Joyce, Episode 72: Shells and Shillings

“—First, our little financial settlement, he said.
He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a
leather thong. It slapped open and he took from it two
notes, one of joined halves, and laid them carefully on the
table.
—Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook
away.
And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen’s
embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the
cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard

shells: and this, whorled as an emir’s turban, and this, the
scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim’s hoard, dead
treasure, hollow shells.
A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the
tablecloth.”

A little financial arrangement.

Re: Joyce, Episode 71: Of Coins and Spoons

oct 19, 2011

Re: Joyce, Episode 71: Of Coins and Spoons

“Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of
drab abraded leather of its chairs. As on the first day he
bargained with me here. As it was in the beginning, is
now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base
treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their
spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles
having preached to all the gentiles: world without end.
A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor.
Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the
table.
—First, our little financial settlement, he said.”

As Stephen waits in the headmaster’s study, we learn something about its inhabitant.

Re: Joyce, Episode 71: Of Coins and Spoons

oct 19, 2011

Re: Joyce, Episode 71: Of Coins and Spoons

“Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of
drab abraded leather of its chairs. As on the first day he
bargained with me here. As it was in the beginning, is
now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base
treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their
spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles
having preached to all the gentiles: world without end.
A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor.
Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the
table.
—First, our little financial settlement, he said.”

As Stephen waits in the headmaster’s study, we learn something about its inhabitant.

Re: Joyce, Episode 70: At Last, Nestor

oct 12, 2011

Re: Joyce, Episode 70: At Last, Nestor

“The sum was done.
—It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.
—Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.

He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper
and carried his copybook back to his bench.
—You had better get your stick and go out to the
others, Stephen said as he followed towards the door the
boy’s graceless form.
—Yes, sir.
In the corridor his name was heard, called from the
playfield.
—Sargent!
—Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.
He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry
towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife.
They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came away
stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. When he
had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending
called to him. He turned his angry white moustache.
—What is it now? he cried continually without
listening.
—Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir,
Stephen said.
—Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy
said, till I restore order here.
And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old
man’s voice cried sternly:

—What is the matter? What is it now?
Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their
many forms closed round him, the garish sunshine
bleaching the honey of his illdyed head.”

A new character enters the stage in the longest and least complicated passage yet.

Re: Joyce, Episode 69: Dark Palaces

oct 05, 2011

Re: Joyce, Episode 69: Dark Palaces

“In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting
always for a word of help his hand moved faithfully the
unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind
his dull skin. Amor matris: subjective and objective
genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had
fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.

Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this
gracelessness. My childhood bends beside me. Too far for
me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Mine is far and his
secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark
palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny:
tyrants, willing to be dethroned.”

More on mothers, their love, and secret childhoods.