JAMES JOYCE

References to words and their effects in
**APOTAAAYM.**

The letters of the name of Dublin lay heavily
upon his mind, pushing one another surily
hither and thither with slow boorish insistance.

p. 127

The names of articles of dress worn by women
or of certain soft and delicate stuffs used
in their making brought always to his mind a
delicate and sinful perfume.

p. 180

; and he found himself glancing from one casual
word to another on his right or left in stolid
that they had been so silently emptied of in-
stantaneous sense until every mean shop legend
bound his mind like the words of a spell and
his soul shrivelled up with age as he walked
on in a lane among heaps of dead language.

p. 208

But the word and the vision capered before his
eyes as he walked back across the quadrangle
and toward the college gate. It shocked him
to find in the outer world a trace of what he
had deamed till then a brutish and individual
malady of his own mind. His monstrous reveries
came thronging into his memory. They too had
sprung up before him, suddenly and furiously,
out of meere words.

p. 101

Words which he did not understand he said over
and over to himself till he had learnt them
by heart: and through them he had glimpses of
the real world about him.

p. 67-68

JAMES JOYCE

References to words and their effects in
ULYSSES

He could hear, of course, all kinds of words
changing colour like those crabs about Ring-
send in the morning, burrowing quickly into
all colours of different sorts of the same
sand where they had a home somewhere beneath
or seemed to. Then he looked up and saw the
eyes that said or didn't say the words the
voice he heard said -. if you work.

p. 628

Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brode de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre ame, helas! n'est pas assez hardie.

Au Lecteur
Les Flours Du Mal
Charles Baudelaire

PET BIRD: LOST

Outside of love he tried to stand
in other winds and lonely
who once took crumbs from her lips only
but then walked lamely

frozen in the ruined wood
hearing in the light guns' chatter.
'It does not nor it cannot matter
about the crater

where there was heart that beat with power.
A corpse is valid food
and though not ladies' crumbs is good.'
The blackbird ate.

Samuel Johnson

SONNETS - REALITIES

I

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautifull and have comfortable minds
(also, with the church's protestant blessings
daughters, unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things -
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
... the Cambridge ladies do not care, above
Cambridge if something in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

II

goodby Betty, don't remember me
pencil your eyes dear and have a good time
with the tall tight boys at Tabari'
s, keep your teeth snowy, stick to beer and lime,
wear dark, and where your meeting breast are round
have roses darling, it's all i ask of you -
but that when light fails and this sweet profound
Paris moves with lovers, two and two
bound for themselves, when passionately dusk
brings softly down the perfume of the world
(and just as smaller stars begin to husk
heaven) you, you exactly paled and curled

Lips
with mystic<sup>A</sup> take twilight where i know:
proving to Death that Love is so and so.

## III

ladies and gentlemen this little girl
with the good teeth and small important breasts
(is it the Frolic or the Century whirl?
one's memory indignantly protests)
this little dancer with the tightened eyes
crisp ogling shoulders and the ripe quite too
large lips always clenched faintly, wishes you
with all her fragile might to not surmise
she dreamed one afternoon

... or maybe read?

of a time when the beautiful most of her
(this here and This, do you get me?)
will maybe dance and maybe sing and be
abslatively posolutely dead,
like Coney Island in winter

## IV

when you rang at Dick Mid's Place
the madam was a bulb stuck in the door.
a fang of wincing gas showed how
hair, in two fingers of shrill colour,
clutched the dull volume of her tumbling face
scribbled with a big grin. her sow-
eyes clicking mischief from the thick lids.
the chunklike nose on which always the four
tablets of perspiration erectly sitting.
If they knew you at Dick Mid's
the three tickling chins began to traipse
into the cheeks "eet smeestaire steevensun
kum een, dare ease Bet, an Leelee, an dee beeg wun"
her handless wrists did gooey several shapes.

V

"kitty". sixteen, 5' 1", white, prostitute.

ducking always the touch of must and shall,
whose slippery body is Death's littlest pal,

skilled in quick softness. Unspontaneous. cute.

the signal perfume of whose unrepute
focusses in the sweet slow animal
bottomless eyes importantly banal,

Kitty. a whore. Sixteen

you corking brute
amused from time to time by clever drolls
fearsomely who do keep their Sunday flower.
The babybreasted broad "kitty" twice eight

- beer nothing, the lady'll have a whiskey-sour -

whose least amazing smile is the most great
common divisor of unequal souls.

VI

TAKEN

when thou hast Athy last applause, and when
the final curtain strikes the world away,
leaving to shadowy silence and dismay
that stage which shall not know thy smile again,
lingering a little while i see thee then
ponder the tinsel part they let thee play;
i see the large lips livid, the face grey,
and silent smileless eyes of Magdalen.

The lights have laughed their last; without, the stre
darkling awaiteth her whose feet have trod
the silly souls of men to golden dust:
she pauses on the lintel of defeat,
her heart breaks in a smile - and she is Lust....

mine also, little painted poem of god

e. e. cummings

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Youth of delight! come hither
And see the opening morn,
Image of truth new-born.
Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,
Dark disputed and artful teasing.
Folly is an endless maze;
Tangled roots perplex her ways;
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead;
And feel - they know not what but care;
And wish to lead others, when they should be led.

A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said, "I've a pretty rose tree,"
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

WILLIAM BLAKE

Of thee (kind boy) I ask no red and white
To make up my delight,
No odd becoming graces,
Black eyes, or little know-not-whats, in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store
Of love, for her I court,

I ask no more,
'Tis love in love that makes the sport.

There's no such thing as that we beauty all,
It is meer cosenage all;
For though some time ago

Like it certain colours mingled so and so,
That doth not tie me now from chusing new,
If I a fancy take

To black and blue,
That fancy doth it beauty make.

'Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite
Makes eating a delight,
And if I like one dish
More than another, that a Pheasant is;
What in our watches, that in us is found,
So to the height and nick -

We up be wound,
No matter by what hand or trick.

Fragmenta Aurea, 1646

Sir John Suckling

BODY AND SOUL

If we seek far enough, we shall invariably
find the genesis of every serious moral reform
in some physical enigma, some non-satisfaction
of the flesh, irration or anomaly.

Dostoevsky (p. 179)

Gide

... the material evils of society always and
everywhere undergo transformation into
immorality.

Sexual Life of Our Time
(p. 329) Bloch

What a pity, what a loss, that so intellegent
an observer and physiologist should not write
the book... that should display all the
revolutions of the soul in the sufferings of
the body.

Journal (p. 258) (May 18, 1868)

E. and J. de Goncourt

O my body I dare not desert the likes of you
in other men and women, not the likes of the
parts of you,

I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall
with the likes of the soul, (and that they are
the soul)

****

O I say these are not the parts and poems of the
body only, but of the soul,

O I say now these are the soul!

I Sing The Body Electric

And if the body does not do fully as much as the
soul?

And if the body were not the soul, what is the
soul?

Turn upon her friend at any rate Miriam does;
and one of my main points is missed if it fails
to appear that she does so with absolute sincerity
and with the cold passion of the high critic
who knows, on sight of them together, the more
or less dazzlingly false from the comparatively
grey-colored true. Sherringham's whole
profession has been that he rejoices in her as
she is, and that the theatre, the organised
theatre, will be, as Matthew Arnold was in those
very days pronouncing it, irresistible; and
it is the promptness with which he sheds his
pretended faith as soon as it feels in the air
the breath of reality, as soon as it ask of him
a proof or a sacrifice, it is this that excites
her doubtless sufficiently arrogant scorn.
Where is the virtue of his high interest if it
has verily never been an interest to speak of
and if all it has suddenly to suggest is that,
in face of a serious call, it shall be blushing
unblushingly relinquished? If he and she together
, and her great field and future, and the whole
cause they have armed and declared for, have
not been serious things they have been base
make-believes and trivialities - which is what
in fact the homage of society to art always
turns out so soon as art presumes not to be
vulgar and futile. It is immensely the fashion
and immensely edifying to listen to, this
homage, while it confines its attentions to
vanities and frauds; but it knows only terror,
feels only horror, the moment that, instead of
making all the concessions, art proceeds to ask
for a few. Miriam is nothing if not strenuous,
and evidently nothing if not "cheeky", where
Sherringham is concerned at least: these, in
the all-egotistical exhibition to which she is
condemned, are the very elements of her figure
and the very colors of her portrait.
The Art of The Novel: The Tragic Muse: p.94-95

NOTE: Society and Art may be substituted for
Sherringham and Miriam respectively throughout
as they are compared to in one clause.

How happy literature would be if it were not
fashionable, and if only the people for whom
it exists troubled about it... In our days
genius has an attraction for creatures of
whom it ought never even to think without
condescention.

Stendhal
Introduction to On Love

"There are, " he says, "two different selves, one of which is, as it were, the external projection of the other, its spatial and, so to speak, social representation. We reach the former by deep introspection, which leads us to grasp our inner states as living things, constantly becoming, as states not amenable to measure. . . But the moments at which we thus grasp ourselves are rare, and that is just why we are rarely free. The greater part of our time we live outside ourselves, hardly perceiving anything of ourselves but our own ghost, a colorless shadow. . . Hence we live for the external world rather than for ourselves; we speak rather than think; we are acted rather than act ourselves. To act freely is to recover possession of oneself, and to get back into pure duration." *

In order to acquire a real understanding of this psychology we must "carry ourselves back in thought to those moments of life, when we made some serious decision, moments unique of their kind, which will never be repeated - any more than the past phases in the history of a nation will ever come back again." It is evident that we enjoy this liberty pre-eminently when we are making an effort to create a new individuality in ourselves, thus endeavouring to break the bonds of habit which enclose us. It might at first be supposed that it would be sufficient to say that, at such moments, we are dominated by an overwhelming emotion; but everybody now recognises that movement is the essence of emotional life, and it is, then, in terms of movement that we must speak of creative consciousness.

Reflections on Violence
Georges Sorel - Introduction
pp 29 - 30

* Bergson Time and Free Will, Eng. trans., pp 231 - 232.

"Everything finds its mate," he said. The
ermine and the pole-cat and the buzzard. One
thinks so often that only the dove and the
nightingale and the stag with his antlers have
gentle mates. But the pole-cat and the ice-
bears of the north have their mates. And a
white she-bear lies with her cubs under a rock
as a snake lies hidden, and the male-bear slowly
swims back from the sea, like a clot of snow or
a shadow of a white cloud passing on the speckled
sea. I have seen her too, and I did not shoot
her, nor him when he landed with fish in his
mouth, wading wet and slow and yellow-white over
the black stones."

"You remember, dear Lady Daphne, that the
adder does not suck his poison all alone, and
the pole-cat knows where to find his she-pole-
cat. You remember that each one has his own
dear mate," he laughed. "Dear, deadly mate."

"The she-adder is dainty, delicate, and
carries her poison lightly. The wild-cat has
wonderful green eyes that she closes with
memory like a screen. The ice-bear hides like
a snake with her cubs, and her snarl is the
strangest thing in the world."

D. H. Lawrence - The Ladybird - p. 26 and 34