translate this to persian:
Pretty much everybody seems to have had this idea of depth at the same
time. The term first arises in William James’s work The Principles of Psychology
(1890), where he prefers it to “train” or “chain” of consciousness. The fluidity
and continuum of depths suggested by “stream” make it more nearly ideal as a
descriptor of James’s notion of consciousness. Some of his brother Henry’s late
works begin to explore consciousness as operating simultaneously on a variety
of levels, although none of them could be properly described as stream-ofconsciousness novels. So far so good, right?
But here’s the thing: it had already begun to exist in practice. Two years
earlier, Édouard Dujardin did something remarkable in his short novel, Les
lauriers sont coupé (the first English translation: We’ll to the Woods No More,
the second, The Bays Are Sere—clearly imprecise renderings). He employed, for
the first time I believe, a technique that is recognizable as interior monologue.
It’s a lot like a regular monologue except that it is unspoken, inside the head, and
largely unshaped. What Dujardin recognizes at once is that thoughts go where
they will, leap in ways that defy logic, and take on a life of their own.
A drop of wine. Empty, the seats opposite; between the seat and the
mirror, leather upholstery. I must see what happens with a note—
anyway. My card-case; my address card, that’s more suitable; my
pocket-pencil; very well. What shall I put? A rendezvous for tomorrow. I
must indicate several. If that solid solicitor knew what I was up to! I
write: ‘Tomorrow, at two, in the reading room of the Magasin du
Louvre…’The Magasin du Louvre, not very chic, but still the most
convenient; and then, or somewhere else? The Louvre? go on with you!
At two o’clock. Need to allow enough time; at least from two till three;
that’s it; I change ‘at’to ‘ from’ and I’m going to add ‘until three’. Next
‘I…I will wait for you…’No, ‘I will wait’; that’s it; let’s see.
Perhaps not surprisingly for an experimental work, Dujardin’s novel lapsed
into neglect and was largely forgotten in 1902 when Joyce stumbled across a
copy in a bookseller’s shop in Tours, France. The impact is undeniable, for
despite a twenty-year gap, Joyce copies Dujardin’s style exactly for many of
Leopold Bloom’s monologues in Ulysses.
Didn’t catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I’d
like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped
corners, riveted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him
his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of
it from that good day to this.
Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has
just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in
its way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don’t you know? In
the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can’t he
hear the difference? Think he’s that way inclined a bit. Against my grain
somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up
there doesn’t get worse. Suppose she wouldn’t let herself be vaccinated
again. Your wife and my wife.
Part of being a genius is knowing when you’ve found a winner. What the
interior monologue does for Joyce is allow him—and us—to follow the
meanderings of his characters, especially Leopold Bloom, who is a world-class
meanderer. Of his wife Molly, more anon.
The intellectual sanction for this new fiction is largely derived from the work
of French philosopher Henri Bergson. In works such as Matter and Memory,
Laughter, and Time and Free Will, Bergson lays out a theory of mind, memory,
and the subjective experience of time that gives free reign to the novelistic
explorers of consciousness.