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.”

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”

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.