SMUGGLING WAY
FEARED BY DURN

Dropping of 740 From Cus
Patrol to Leave Port 'W
Open,' He Asserts

and honored. When he is in uniform, Ernie Pyle and a host of other correspondents watch him, note his casual expressions, solicit his opinions, record his hopes and fears, marvel at his fortitude. When he is in civilian clothes, the public opinion polls eagerly tabulate his beliefs, his prejudices, his tastes. Few contemporary novels reflect this revolution in the status of the Average Man so sharply as *Lower than Angels*. Its hero is a character Sinclair Lewis might have drawn: Marvin Lang, son of a Staten Island delicatessen merchant. The story records his progress to a butcher shop, to the Army in World War I, to ownership of a prosperous market.

There are only two settings in *Lower than Angels*. One is Brooklyn, where Marvin lived until he was ten, in a railroad flat in Grandma Lang's home. It was full of beaded curtains, canaries, chairs

Leja Gorska

WALTER KARIG
His Babbitt has more fun.

with claw feet and red leather seats, gaslights, knickknacks, onyx clocks and vases filled with cattails. From an upstairs window Marvin could look down upon flower gardens and a spider's web of clotheslines forever hung with grey underwear. His father, who then had charge of the hardware section of Bohan's department store, was a Republican with firm convictions about religion: "Live and let live is my motto. A man can be a better Christian than most and not go near a church."

**Delicatessen Adventure.** The other setting is the Lang delicatessen store in the village of Belle Bay on Staten Island. Bought with the $6,500 the Langs got for Grandma's house, the store was the biggest adventure of their lives. Until this point, *Lower than Angels* seems only another story of the decline of the lower middle class. But this store makes money. A tan, two-story-and-attic house, with its porch remodeled into a store front, it

stood in a village where there were sycamore and elm trees over the streets, a Methodist Church where Marvin got converted in a whirlwind revival campaign, the drugstore where he got his first job. There was a big house owned by rich people where Marvin learned to dance, and where the daughter of the family sat on his lap in the living room after school. Not far away was an obscure building disguised as a fortuneteller's establishment, where hoarse-voiced prostitutes introduced Marvin to sex.

But the unchanging center of his life was the delicatessen. There he retreated when his girl left him, and recovered his self-esteem. He went back to it when his wartime job in a munitions factory blew up. He rested upstairs while he recovered from the attack of "appendicitis" he caught from a girl he picked up.

**Honest History.** Husky, grey-haired Walter Karig, 46, a veteran Washington correspondent, is now a Navy commander. He co-authored the first volume of *Battle Report* (TIME, Dec. 11), is now working on the second. His style is breezy, formless, effective. Like Sinclair Lewis' books, *Lower than Angels* is remarkable for its accumulation of commonplace social history, and for its unsparing honesty. It is sometimes little more than a catalogue of impressions, saved from tedium and pretentiousness by Karig's humor. Marvin Lang has all the characteristics of Babbitt. He is smug, ambitious, self-righteous, calculating. Unlike Babbitt, he has a mean streak, especially in his relations with women. His life is actually harsher than Babbitt's was. But his enjoyment of his stale jokes is genuine; his faith in his secondhand opinions is profound; his comic-strip adventures with girls and jobs are funny.

## Rough Portrait

**STEPHEN HERO**—James Joyce—*New Directions* ($3.50).

Mrs. James Joyce has hitherto been noted chiefly for her comment after reading *Ulysses*: "I guess the man's a genius, but what a dirty mind he has, surely!" Now Joyce's admirers find themselves deeply indebted to this quiet, unpublicized woman for *Stephen Hero*, a fragment of the first draft of Joyce's autobiographical *A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man*. After it had been rejected by 20 different publishers, Joyce flung the 914-page manuscript into the fire. Mrs. Joyce risked her own skin to retrieve pages 519-902, now owned by the Harvard College Library.

**"Schoolboy Production."** *Stephen Hero* was written when Joyce was 19 or 20, rewritten into the *Portrait* when he was about 30. The two books are significantly different. The *Portrait* is masterfully compressed and polished; *Stephen Hero*, covering Joyce's college years, is comparatively diffuse, though a more human, spontaneous and revealing study of an embryonic genius. Though Joyce missed it as a "schoolboy's production," it is sensitive and readable by almost anybody's standards. In the early draft Joyce

TIME, FEBRUARY 26, 1945

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## Unfolding the story of endurance

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is a more recognizable college student— swaggering, confused, arrogant, emotional, but brilliant.

Stephen's (i.e. Joyce's) frustrating experience with the girl Emma Clery, touched on rather abstractly in the *Portrait*, is set forth with adolescent flourish. Emma's "loud forced manners shocked him ... until his mind had thoroughly mastered the stupidity of hers." But Stephen ached for her body. "I felt that I longed to hold you in my arms," said Stephen. "Just to live one night together, Emma, then to say goodbye in the morning and never to see each other again! There is no such thing as love in the world. ..." "You are mad," said Emma. "You must not speak to me any more."

**Denunciations & Epiphanies.** Other aspects of Joyce's intense life which are more extensively and dramatically reported in the first draft are his wild hero wor-

JAMES JOYCE (RIGHT) & FRIENDS* (1902)

*He felt a duty to record epiphanies.*

Ibsen ("Ibsen has the temper of an archangel"), his fierce denunciations of things Irish ("I don't think the Irish peasant represents a very admirable type of culture"), the "plague of Catholicism," and the Jesuits ("He spurned before him the stale maxims of the Jesuits and ... swore an oath that they should never establish over him an ascendancy").

The passage in *Stephen Hero* (omitted entirely from the *Portrait*) which throws most light on Joyce's artistic origins deals with epiphanies. "By an epiphany [Stephen] meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or in a memorable phase of the mind itself. ..." When one perceives the epiphany of an object, "its soul, its whiteness leaps out to [one] from the vestment of its appearance ... [becoming] that thing which it is. ..." Stephen felt that it is the artist's duty to record epiphanies.

* George Clancy, J. F. ("Cranley") Byrne.

100

TIME, FEBRUARY 26, 1945

I f at any time you are going to become accustomed to living in N.Y.
I would suggest that you confide in me and learn the whys and wherefores
of the way that the women and MEN? work in this town. I too would suggest
that you do not read over my shoulder while I am typing an important message
such as this to my public.

To begin with, it is seldom that you will find a women that you can not
make in this town. They are all hungry for meat and will go out of their way
to get it. I know that most of you men will enjoy this, for all men are inclined
to think they are ladies men and that all the women fall for them, but, it
is only that any women will take almost any man she may meet. Don't take any of
them serious for it will only cause you heartaches and get you in a mess of
trouble.

The question mark after the men is put there for a reason for there are
some very questionable characters in this town that are out for no good. These
men are called by different names, some of these being, queers, fruits and
Faires. You can usually tell them by the sissyfied way that they talk and
they may even get a little roamy with the hands. It is up to you just how you
want to treat them. Beat the hell out of them or if you want to get blown,
they do a good job and usually pay you well for it.

CHRISTMAS JEW-ELRY.

Out of the West came three WISE men,
Levi, Moses and Uncle Ben;
Chanting "Hark the Herald Agnels Sing"
See Cohen and Ginsberg for your diamond ring;
For Christians celebrate Christmas Day,
Moe Levy will give six months to pay. (plus 6%)

O Little Star of Bethlehem,
For Christmas gifts, see Abraham:
And when the Herald Angels loom,
Order your turkeys of Rosenbloom;
Buy your Christmas trees of "Pine"
But gifts and balls from Silverstein.

Down the chimney OLD SANTA comes,
With a bag of toys from Isaac Blum's;
Ring out the Old, Ring in the New,
For your money goes to some foxy Jew:
After "Peace on Earth and Good Will" to many,
You can hock your coat with Uncle Benny:
Silent Night - Holy Night,
Damned if I don't think "HITLER" was right.

Anonymous.

ENGLISH - 16

Fortune told by a little bird

# Your Character

after Mlle Lenormand.

Deep and dark are the secrets of future, like depths of
the ocean

Still we have divers who can reveal to us secrets of both.

You keep company with persons who are deceiving
you. Beware of their cunning ways. A lively, quick-
tempered character is yours which will soon recognize
its faults. You are apt to do good for bad. You are
very obliging to ungrateful persons, but you will find
true friends who esteem your benevolence.

You have not been very lucky till now, but soon
you will find a complete change therein. You are often
sad, when alone, but with friends you are exceedingly
gay. One single person, from whom you least expect it,
will make you happy. Be without jealousy, for then
only can you be happy.

Your planet foretells a number of many happy
incidents, a happy future is before the door, but a
good life will have to deserve it first, be careful that
in times of your activity, experience and smart men
will lead you to the road of honor and probity, then
you will find recompense in your own good conscience.
Disappointments and reverses will often appear, but
your kindness and your pity for the needy will conquer
for you the esteem of others.

Remember 845

Your lucky numbers are 46 70 88

Proust is a story, an endless story, told over drinks, tea or a highball.

Silvia Townsend Warner's prose is comparable to a harpsicord in its light perfect ring and repetition of vibration. (" and when the children had grown too old for school, the habit had grown too old to be broken.")

If in USA Dos Pasos has created a true picture of people in the labor movement and their work, then he has also explained their failure for not one of his characters is more than an outsider with himself and his interest at heart.

Carson Mc Cullard tries to achieve unforgettable one senetence delinations of character. The result is spangled but shallow writing, strangely childish and reminiscent of Hearst's American Weekly.

Oh the ladies they grow tall in Mobile
Oh the ladies they grow tall in Mobile
Oh the ladies they grow tall
and they marry in the fall
and they marry one and all in Mobile.

The skipper's in the cheese in Mobile
The skipper's in the cheese in Mobile
The skipper's in the cheese
and the biggest bumble bee
and you eat them if you please in Mobile.

Oh the buzzards they fly high in Mobile
Oh the buzzards they fly high in Mobile
Oh the buzzards they fly high
and it hits you in the eye
ain't you glad that cows don't fly in Mobile?

Call up the dogs, put the chairs in the wagon,
and piss on the fire, we're going home.

Lawd, child, take this here dishcloth and wipe
your nose. If there's anything I dispise in
my kitchen its nastiness.

Fore God, Minnie Bee, spit out that lizard
and come in this house.

Child, where's my straining rag?

Minnie Bee's got it on her sore leg.

Well give it a cold water rinsing and bring it
in here. How you think I'm ever going to get
my cooking done.

6/5/43

Dear D.

Do you think it ridiculous my answering your letter
before I've received it? Perhaps this isn't an
answer properly speaking, but rather a silly explanation,
not even that actually, just a summary of events as
sweet as they were impulsive which both of us felt
responsible for.

It struck me suddenly later that I had gone too
far when I frightened you with the declaration and I
was ready for fear of hurting you whom I understood so
imperfectly to keep going in the direction my impetuosity
had started me. You see I felt Britishly responsible.
And you, you felt that you had driven me past the point
of casualness, and tried in your most severe manner to
undo what you thought you had done. So you felt
responsible too. How wrongly we judged each other - I,
you; you, me! I listened to you in my own half-mystical
Apollonian way and heard the words all backwards. You
listened to me in your hardbitten epigamatic way and
your hearing was equally faulty. That happens so often
in the world. Thank God we had the good sense to find
out kids sometimes eat green apples.

My love to you,

D.

P.S. No matter really those
mistakes which two weeks
ago had not yet happened. I
know how much you dislike disection.

## INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS OF JOHN DONNE

The conflict of moods which the first group of these
poems betrays, the war of sense and spirit, the
awareness of body and soul as complementary and yet
antagonistic, becomes more intelligible against such
a background as I have suggested, the revolt against
a too strong superimposed bias. Donne's nature had
revolted, asserted its claim to life and experience.
But experience is bitter as well as sweet - sweet in
the mouth but bitter in the belly. Independence
humiliates as well as exalts. The emancipated instincts
realize their limitations. The spiritual and ascetic
influences reassert their claim when passion has spent
itself. Strife and bitterness succeed, finding vent
in scornful satire and an exagerration of sensuality
or an equally extravagant and abstract idealism, till
the tumult subsides, feeling gathers strength again,
and body and soul are merged in the passion of the
moment. 'The imagination of a boy is healthy and the
mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is
a space of life between in which the soul is in a
ferment, the character is undecided, the way of life
uncertain, the ambition thick sighted: thence proceeds
mawkishness and all the thousand bitters which these
men I speak of necessarily taste of in going over these
pages.' So says Keats in the preface to Endymion.

Sir H.J.C. Grierson p. xxii

No English poet of the past has exercised a stronger
influence upon the poetry of the younger poets of
to-day, for their experiments too have a root in the
consciousness that the ugly and the beautiful are
strangely blended in passionate experience, their
prosody is a result of an effort to keep metre in
touch, not alone with music, but with human speech,
phrases and cadences such as men do use, and their
poetry seeks to charge itself, not with experience
only, but with the metaphysic which strives to
transcend and to interpret experience.

p. xlvii

HOPE OF A HAPPINESS

"Meanwhile it was getting dusk. Wearisomeness and general depression were making themselves felt through the drunkenness and the debauchery. The prisoner, who an hour before was holding his sides with laughter, now sobbed in a corner, exceedingly drunk; others were fighting, or wandering in a jottering manner through the barracks, pale, very pale, and seeking whom to quarrel with. These poor people had wished to pass the great festival in the most joyous manner, but, gracious heaven, how painful the day was for all of them! They had passed it in the vague hope of a happiness that was not to be realised. Petroff came up to me twice. As he had drunk very little he was calm; but until the last moment he expected something which he made sure would happen, something extraordinary, and highly diverting. Although he said nothing about it, this could be seen from his looks. He ran from barrack to barrack without fatigue. Nothing, however, happened; nothing except general intoxication, idiotic insults from drunkards, and general giddiness of heated heads."

Dostoevsky - The House of the Dead
page 163

THE EYE

(from The Art of Seeing be Aldous Huxley)

The extent to which perception and, consequently,
vision are dependent upon memory and imagination
is a matter of everyday experience. We see familiar
things more clearly than we see objects about which
we have no stock of memories. And when, under emotional
stress or excitement, our imagination is more than
ordinarily active, it often happens that we interpret
sensa as manifestations of the objects with which our
imagination is busy, rather than as manifestations of
the objects actually present in the external world.

(p. 89 - English edition)

THE EYE

The eye, which is called the window of the soul,
is the chief means whereby the understanding may most
fully and abundantly appreciate the infinite works of
Nature; and the ear is second in as much as it acquires
its importance from the fact that it hears the things
which the eye has seen. If you historians or poets
or mathematicians had never seen things with your eyes
you would be ill able to describe them in your writings.
And if you, O Poet, represent a story by depicting it
with your pen, the painter with his brush will so
render it as to be more easily satisfying and less tedious
to understand. If you call painting 'Dumb poetry',
then the painter may say of the poet that his art is
'blind painting.' Consider then which is the more
grevious affliction, to be blind or dumb. Although
the poet has as wide a choice of subjects as the painter,
his creations fail to afford as much satisfaction to
mankind as do paintings, for while poetry attempts to
represent forms, actions, and scenes with words, the
painter employs the exact image of these forms in order
to reproduce them. Consider then which is more
fundamental to man, the name of man or his image? The
name changes with changes of country; the form is
unchanged except by death.

Leonardo da Vinci.

Letters to THE GIRLS from their father, and mother.

Dear Children, we certainly miss you a great deal,
the house is just as quiet as it can be, except
for the barking of those two hounds, both of whom
I am sure miss you as much as we do. I brought
them some bones from the A&P last time I went down.

Today we ate dinner with Beth, and tomorrow
we are eating supper with Louise and Cotton & the
children, then playing a lit le bridge afterwards.

Louise, Cotton and the children went to
Ashburn for the weekend. Louise said that both of
the children were as good as gold. They all seemed
to have enjoyed their little trip & Bery gave them
a pure blooded pig to bring home with them,- in
the back of the car. Cant you just see them now,
sailing back home with the pig looking out of the
back of the car? They were SO thrilled to get
that pig.

The baseball team is out of town all this week,
and there are no pictures worth seeing, so we are
just keeping the home fires burning.

Shirley's dress hasn't come yot - so I think that
I will drop her a line while I am here to tell her
why she hasn't received it.

Hope that you are having a marvelous time- can't
wait to hear all about everything.

Give love to Sally please - Judge and Deaver are
in the big city too- Love Mother

Dear Chickie and Jeannie:

I want to thank you both for the telegram
which I received from you. I spent a very pleasant
day but of course I missed you both very much.

Your mother, Beth, Randolph, Blanche and her
husband and I went up to Indian Springs for lunch.
We called on the "Doctor" and had some right good
barbecue.

Louise and Cotton and the children went down
to Ashburn to spend the day. Cotton's friend down
gave him a pig and of course he was very much pleased.

Your mother and I had dinner with Beth today.
Beth is looking pretty well and seems to be feeling
pretty good. Randolph had a tooth giving him a lot
of pain so he had it pulled out yesterday. It has
been pretty hot down this way for some time but we
get a rain once in a while which cools things off
some.

Man during life is tender and delicate. When
he dies he is stiff and stark.

The ten thousand things, the grass as well as
the trees, while they live are tender and
supple. When they die they are rigid and dry.

Thus the hard and the strong are the companions
of death. The tender and the delicate are the
companions of life. Therefore he who in arms
is strong will not conquer.

When a tree has grown it is doomed.

The strong and the great stay below. The
tender and the delicate stay high.

Lao Tze

They say that persons standing on the verge of
a precipice have a tendency to throw themselves
into the abyss. For my own part, I believe
that many a case of suicide and murder has
arisen from the mere fact of a revolver having
been taken into the hand.

The Gentle Maiden
Dostoievsky

Woe to the crown of pride, to the drunkards
of Ephraim, whose glorious beauty is a fading
flower, which are on the head of the fat
valleys of them that are overcome with wine.

Isaiah 28

Behold the fig tree, and all the trees; When
they now shoot forth, ye see and know of
your own own selves that summer is now nigh
at hand.
Luke 21:29

"Habit is everything, even in love," says Vauvenargues, and you remember La Rochefoucauld's maxim? "How many men would never have known love if they had never heard of love?"
Are we not justified in asking: How many would never be jealous, if they did not hear jealousy spoken about, and had not persuaded themselves that it was imperative to be jealous?

Yes, convention is the great breeder of falsehood. How many are flocked to play their life long a part strangely foreign to themselves? And how difficult it is to discern in ourselves a feeling not previously described, labelled, and present before us as a model! Man finds it easier to imitate everything than to invent anything. How many are content to live their lives warped by untruth, and find, none the less, in the very falsity of convention more comfort and less need for effort than in straightforward affirmation of their personal feelings!
Such affirmation would require of them an effort of invention utterly beyond them.

P 137
Gide's
Dostoevsky

From the heights of pleasure we have dropped
straight into boredom. We are badly organized
and quick to be sated. One week of love disgusts
us for three months. Indeed, we emerge from
passion with dejected souls and sickened hearts,
dead to desire and possessed by a vague, shape-
less, endless gloom. Our body and our mind
have morning-afters so grey that they cannot be
described, when life seems as stale as flat
wine. After a few impulses and ardours we
become the prey of a spiritual repugnance
which makes us feel that we could vomit up the
orgy of the night before. Replete and surfeited
with material things, we come away from those
lace beds as if they were so many anatomical
museums. Nobody can know what disconsolate
surgical memories we retain of those lovely,
pleasing bodies.

Edmond and Jules de Goncourt
Journal - 1855 August

In this world the same thing never happens
twice and man ought never <u>redesire</u> that which
he once thought good.

ibid
June 1, 1857

This woman possesses the veritable and intimate
characteristic of the whole, which is passivity.
She is the heedless and unknowing subject of
the fatality of her existence. She lets fortune
accost her as she would let a man accost her -
someone who comes upstairs, whom one accepts,
who goes off, and whom one forgets.

ibid
April 22, 1862

I spew up my contemporaries. Today, in the world of letters, in the highest world of letters, judgement grovels on the ground, and conscience and opinion have crumbled. Life, the sky, the fortunes of our times, is so base, the air is so filled with cowardice, the enervating habit of compromise is so universal, that at the first contact with society, the first rubbing up against people in power, even the frankest and most irascible and most plethoric of men lose their feeling of revolt and are hard put to it not to think every success a thing of beauty.

Edmond and Jules de Goncourt

Journal - 1867 : March 17

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

ibid

May 18, 1868

From JAMES JOYCE by Louis Golding

It is largely a history of Stephen's
spirit, but it is surely incorrect to speak
of the "careful subconscious delineation of
the mind that is so vast a part of Joyce's
first novel," as Mr. Herbert Gorman does in
his admirable work on Joyce. The subconscious
is the provience of the medical and literary
analyst, who engage on the same quest for
different reasons. The artist himself deals
with those events that direct of effect the
course of the subconscious history, but the
thoughts he deals with are, however hazily,
on the plane of consciousness. There is no
instance in which this is not true, either
in the Portrait or Ulysses, or in the
somewhat cognate "stream of consciousness"
writings of Proust, Miss. Richardson or Mrs.
Woolf. The later writings of Miss. Stein or
her school may be the rending of the
subconscious into words; but it is only the
physician who can check the verisimilitude of
the process, and then only after a very
special training. In the Portrait we learn
nothing of the thoughts of Stephen which he
could not, with little or great effort, have
set down at the time they presented themselves,
though the passage of a decade or two was
needed before the adult and artist could
disentangle them from the multitude of less
significant thoughts which compassed them.
The same is true of the thoughts of Bloom
later, as his mind wanders from the open
grave of Paddy Dignam, or from the prospectus
of the Palestinian melon-fields. It is true
of Marion Bloom, simmering in the warm juice
of her recollected lusts.

Page 46 - 47

A word or two must be said of the method
of the *Portrait* before we pass on. Here is a

book as brief as *Ulysses* is enormous. Each
produces the impression that there is no
excessive wordin it, largely because not a
word is used saving in its strictest and
most athletic meaning. When the mere fragments
of a word are presented, or words scans new
combinations, it is because the mind is
functioning fragmentarily or on several
planes simultaneously, or simply because
Joyce is making the effort to transcribe
a shade of thought or emotion for which no
accepted word exists. The sense of economy
is heightened by the way in which he shifts
from episode to episode or scene to scene
without connecting them with the explanatory
mortar usually provided by writers more
concerned with the good will of their readers
than Joyce is. Just as effortlessly he slips
from vision to vision. We learn, for instance,
that a young gentleman at Clongowes named Boyle
was called Lady Boyle by some fellows because
he was at his nails, paring them. Whereon his
mind is confronted at once with the vision of
Elieen, "who had long thin cool white hands
too because she was a girl." In *Ulysses* the
technique is carried a stage further, frequently
not even the constituent periods of thought are
connected. A word enters the mind as if by
hazard. It is actually the latest link in a
chain absolutely determined by the mind's
nature. The same word, just as inevitably,
sends the mind obliquely off in some new
direction along a fresh track of associations
and suggestions.

Narrative is as sparse as words. Wewaste
no time in being informed, for instance, that
Uncle Charles is dead. It is permitted us to
assume he goes the way of all flesh. When it
becomes relevant we become aware that Uncle
Charles is but an image among the images of
the dead. Similarly developements of great
importance are not advertised by a fanfare of
demonstration; as when we learn for the first
time of the sense of sin which has possesed
itself of Stephen and is to produce consequences
so dire. On the desk of the anatomy theatre of

his fathers college the word Foetus is carved
several times in the dark stained wood. The
word strikes a single note of warning. It
does not cease to toll, louder and more
dreadfully, till Stephen is plunged into hell,
and comes broken out again and is made whole
on the windy seashore in the mystery of lovely
words.

Pages 58 - 60

Every portrait is a rendering of those
aspects of a subject which compel in the
artist his aesthetic functioning.

Page 95

I see one divorced from Nature, but unreclaimed
by art; instructed, but not educated; assimilative
but incapable of thought. Trained in the tenets
of a religion in which he does not really believe
- for he sees it flatly contradicted in every
relation of life - he dimly feels that it is
prudent to conceal under a mask of piety the
atheism he is hardly intellegent enough to avow.
His religion is conventional; and, what is more
important, his morals are as conventional as
his creed. Charity, chastity, self-abnegation,
contempt of the world and its prizes - these
are the words on which he has been fed from
his childhood upward. And words they have remained
for neither had he anywhere seen them
practiced by others, nor has it ever occurred to
him to practice them himself. Their influence,
while it is strong enough to make him a cronic
hypocrite, is not so strong as to show him the
hypocrite he is. Deprived on the one hand of the
support of a true ethical standard, embodied in
the life of the society of which he is a member,
he is duped, on the other, by lip worship of
an impotent ideal. Abandoned thus to his
instincts, he is content to do as others do,
and, ignoring the things of the spirit, to
devote himself to material ends. He becomes
a meere tool; and of such your society is composed
By your works you may be known. Your triumphs
in the mechanical arts are the obverse of your
failure in all that calls for spiritual insight.
Machinery of every kind you can make and use
to perfection; but you cannot build a house,
or write a poem, or paint a picture; still less
can you worship or aspire. Look at your streets!
Row upon row of little boxes, one like another,
lacking in all that is essential, loaded with
all that is superfluous - that is what passes
among you for architecture. Your literature
is the daily press, with its stream of solid
fatuity, of anecdotes, puzzles, puns and police-
court scandal. Your pictures are atories in
paint, transcripts of all that is banal, clumsily
blotched by amateurs as devoid of tradition as
of genius. Your outer sense as well as your

inner is dead; you are blind and deaf.
Ratiocination has taken the place of perception;
and your whole life is an infinite syoolgism
from premises you have not examined to
conclusions you have not anticipated or
willed. Everywhere means, nowhere an end!
Society a hugh engine, and that engine itself
out of geer!

Letters from a Chinese official

G. Loews Dickinson

p27-29

from ASPECTS OF THE NOVEL by E.M.Forster

Joyce has many qualities akin to prophecy and he has shown (especially in the *Portrait of the Artist*) an imaginative grasp of evil. But he undermines the universe in too workmanlike a manner, looking round for this tool or that: in spite of all his internal looseness he is too tight, he is never vague except after due deliberation; it is talk, talk, never song.

p. 177-178

in music fiction is likely to find its nearest parallel.

p. 216

EYES in Joyce

Dubliners

His cheekbones also gave his face a harsh
character; but there was no harshness in the
eyes which, looking at the world from under
their tawny eyebrows, gave the impression of
a man ever alert to greet a redeaming instinct
in others but often disappointed.

P. 134

The eyes were very dark blue and steady. Their
gaze began with a defiant note but was confused
by what seemed a deliberate swoon of the pupil
into the iris, revealing for an instant a
temperament of great sensibility. The pupil
reasserted itself quickly, this half-disclosed
nature fell again under the rein of prudence,
and her astrakhan jacket, moulding a bosom of
a certain fullness, struck the note of defiance
more definately.

P. 136

ULYSSES - JAMES JOYCE

No doubt one result of this will be the
production of works of a mixture of kinds,
part narrative, part homily, part description,
part dialogue, and (possibly) part drama -
works that can be read, but not acted.

Bernard Shaw . Plays Pleasant and
Unpleasant . Preface Vol. I

Note the reversion back to action on page
612 by use of word association through side.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
NOTES

transition through words

p. 1 smell

p. 3 belt

p. 10 cold

a through examination will show more.

repetition of words before transition weather
connecting word or not

p. 10 Wells

transition through thought

p. 3 Rody Kickham

*

last paragraph on p. 68 paralell to story in
Dubliners, An Encounter.

the milkman on p. 69 is also in the play, The
Exiles

*

p. 73 to 76 is a seriese of small incidents.

p. 80- two years lapse with no indication by
device. a flashback (p. 87 to 91) includes
part of this lapse.