A blog is a book disappointed.
Let a thousand Leopold's bloom.
Give us this day our daily dread,
Give us this night our stifling rooms.
Happy Bloomsday Everyone!
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Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax -- Of cabbages -- and kings -- And why the sea is boiling hot -- And whether pigs have wings.
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3 comments:
happy bloomsday.
what a man, and what a legacy.
beckett doesn't gush. ever. it takes a certain kind of man to elicit repeated encomium from S.B.
a tribute then to joyce's writing, through beckett's words:
"Here form is content, content is form. You complain that this stuff is not written in English. It is not written at all. It is not to be read - or rather it is not only to be read. It is to be looked at and listened to. His writing is not about something; it is that something itself."
-- From Dante...Bruno. Vico..Joyce in "Our Exagmination Round His Factification For Incamination Of Work In Progress"
-hatshepsut
Mmm yes.
Btw, I shall assume that the misplaced apostrophe is a typo.
CBSE in NINETY-SIX? How wise the young are in this day.
J.A.P.
Neela: Huh?
hatshepsut: hmmm... I can't say I'm that enthusiastic about Joyce. I mean I enjoy him (well, I enjoy everything I read - I never managed to make much progress with Finnegan's Wake, truth be told) but I'm not sure he's someone I'd gush over madly. On the whole, I'd rather be reading Beckett. Or Virginia Woolf.
JAP: Yes, it is. And see, the CBSE in '96 part is what makes me think of myself as OLD.
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