Re: Joyce 116: Rabbits & Geese

aug 29, 2012

Re: Joyce 116: Rabbits & Geese

Thinking of Paris and Irish expatriates: Patrice, dynamite, and wild geese. The Michelet view of women, and a little French dialogue.

“Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me
in the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan
of Paris. My father’s a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud
with pink young tongue, plump bunny’s face. Lap, lapin.
He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of
women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie
de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.
—C’est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne
crois pas en l’existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re.
—Il croit?
—Mon pere, oui.
Schluss. He laps.
My Latin quarter”

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Re: Joyce 115: French Fun

aug 22, 2012

Re: Joyce 115: French Fun

Stephen is not going to his aunt’s house after all. Kevin Egan, and the works of the blasphemous M. Leo Taxil.

“He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara’s. Am I
not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned
northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the
Pigeonhouse.
—Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?
—c’est le pigeon, Joseph.
Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me
in the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan
of Paris. My father’s a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud
with pink young tongue, plump bunny’s face. Lap, lapin.
He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of
women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie
de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.”

Re: Joyce 114: Nets and Shells

aug 15, 2012

Re: Joyce 114: Nets and Shells

Musings on the sand, shells, lost ships, and sewage. A stogged bottle, and Christ imagery on a clothesline.

“The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His
boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells,
squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats,
wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.
Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles,
breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed
smouldered in seafire under a midden of man’s ashes. He
coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up,
stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel:
isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the
land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away
chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a
dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams
of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.”
He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara’s. Am I
not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned
northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the
Pigeonhouse.

Re: Joyce 113: Under a Cloud

aug 08, 2012
Re: Joyce 113: Under a Cloud

Stephen imagines his writings lasting an epoch, a mahamanvantara. Then: back to the third-person narrative of grainy sand and squeaking pebbles.

“Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria?

“Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once…

The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man’s ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shell.

Re: Joyce 112: Epiphany Time

aug 01, 2012
Re: Joyce 112: Epiphany Time
Still Chapter 3, on the Sandymount Strand. Stephen reflects on his childhood reading habits, literary ambitions, and private conceits.

    Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria?

Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once…”