Apropos

Aaron: \TA\ V.i.102

Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day—and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse,—
Wherein I did not some notorious ill,
As kill a man, or else devise his death,
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it,
Accuse some innocent and forswear myself,
Set deadly enmity between two friends,
Make poor men's cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends' doors,
Even when their sorrows almost were forgot;
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,
'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly,
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.

— Shakespeare —

\Ulysses\ [1920]: Episode 9 – “Scylla and Charybdis”

The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet:

Everyman His own Wife or A Honeymoon in the Hand (a national immorality in three orgasms) by Ballocky Mulligan

He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, saying:

-- The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.

He read, marcato:

-- Characters:

TOBY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole)
CRAB (a bushranger)
MEDICAL DICK and (two birds with one stone)
MEDICAL DAVY
MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier)
FRESH NELLY
and ROSALIE (the coalquay whore)

He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on, followed by Stephen: and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men:

-- O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters of Erin had to lift their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!

-- The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for whom they ever lifted them.

About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside.

Part. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates leave his house today, if Judas go forth tonight. Why? That lies in space which I in time must come to, ineluctably.

My will: his will that fronts me. Seas between.

A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting.

-- Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.

The portico.

Here I watched the birds for augury. &Aelig;ngus of the birds. They go, they come. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men wandered. Street of harlots after. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see.

-- The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. Did you see his eye? He looked upon you to lust after you. I fear thee, ancient mariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril. Get thee a breechpad.

Manner of Oxenford.

Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.

A dark back went before them. Step of a pard, down, out by the gateway, under portcullis barbs.

They followed.

Offend me still. Speak on.

Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street. No birds. Frail from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and in a flaw of softness softly were blown.

Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline, hierophantic: from wide earth an altar.

Laud we the gods
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
From our bless'd altars.

— Joyce —

My self was born XVII: XLII, Dies Lunae, XI.V.MCMLXIV at Latitude: 33-17’40” N Longitude: 083-57’58” W: Jackson is in Butts County, Georgia at an elevation of 705 feet, state of canorous brown thrashers [Toxostoma rufum], chorusing green tree frogs [Hyla cinerea] and invasive Cherokee roses [Rosa laevigata]. Interests include reading/writing, currently working on hodgepodge book: poetry, essays, other [140 p of 207 complete]. Retired, United States Air Force. Divorced. Ephemeris heavily populated by Taurus: Sol, Luna, Mercury, Mars, Jupiter — my son and daughter say — I like old things; classics, I would counter. Interests: formatting documents/tables, classical music *a pattern forms*, Shakespeare, Joyce, Jung: maybe I was born old. Sadly, I have not published anything [well, I have on this blog :)] — more critic than creator, so far. However, English major still tantalized by math.

WebLog commenced to act as space for whatever occurs to me to be aesthetically pleasing that I am able to create for the edification of the so inclined.

Textual Adventures:

Textual Adventures:

[Everything is a Text.]

Apropos