Re: Joyce 119: Sadness and Souvenirs

sep 19, 2012

Re: Joyce 119: Sadness and Souvenirs

Columbanus, Fiacre, and Scotus. Stephen’s return from Paris, with dirty magazines and a fateful telegram.

“You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to
Europe after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their
creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots,
loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Euge! Pretending to speak broken
English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence,
across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment? Rich booty
you brought back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of
Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge; a blue French telegram,
curiosity to show:
—Mother dying come home father.”

Now I am curious?  What is this about Stephen’s trinity?  Columbanus, Fiacre and Scotus?

Scotus will take more research.  I do not know why Joyce was fond of him. Columbanus is covered well in past entries of Ulysses.

Fiacra, however, as I’ve learned from Wikipedia is the patron saint of gardeners and gardens.  He was a greatly renowned herbalist, and from this comes the reference–perhaps–to gardens, veneral disease, hemmorhoids, and taxicab drivers. (I guess if you’re a taxicab-driver, you’re likely to get ’em).


Re: Joyce 118: Shooting & Shaking

sep 12, 2012

Re: Joyce 118: Shooting & Shaking

Stephen’s remembered self, still in Paris, walks like the dispossessed – and murders in his mind. The Linati schema.

“Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like?
Forget: a dispossessed. With mother’s money order, eight
shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in
your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. Encore deux
minutes. Look clock. Must get. Ferme. Hired dog! Shoot
him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered
walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack
back. Not hurt? O, that’s all right. Shake hands. See what
I meant, see? O, that’s all right. Shake a shake. O, that’s all
only all right.”

Re: Joyce 117: Puce in Paris

sep 05, 2012

Re: Joyce 117: Puce in Paris

Nostalgia for Paris: medical studies and cheap stew, ticket stubs and alibis.

“My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the
character. I want puce gloves. You were a student,
weren’t you? Of what in the other devil’s name?
Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: physiques, chimiques et
naturelles. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet,
fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say
in the most natural tone: when I was in Paris; boul’ Mich’, I
used to. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an
alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice.
On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the
prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it:
other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c’est moi. You
seem to have enjoyed yourself.”