Cover Story 0015

Irish Wake Amusements

Finnegans Wake

Bloom's Day in Seanhenge

... today means weeding weeding weeding

 instead of reading

or even making words words words

which, by the way, easily can become a sword.

Tonight I might open page 506 of Richard Ellman's Joyce biography, though.

Why page 506 (pp)?

The answer you could find by visiting Stan's dwelling, while its owner - so to speak - is celebrating Molly's Day. 

Enjoy.

Pitch'n'Putt with Andrew'n'Calum

Postscriptum:
Oh sorry. Just notice: Correct title, wrong video. Or ...?

Anything else than triste

Cheers!

The heirs of today's birthday child who once finished his masterpiece in Triest will feel a bit triste when thinking of next year as then they can't suck any more honey / money from their ancestors' genius - in January 2011 the copyright expires.

How cometh I am looking forward to January 13th? :)

soliloquy, blooming A ... or so

Stream of consciousness. In a blogpost? Lovely. Ha ha ha ha. I am not Molly Bloom, hm? Ah, a Joycean. Nah. Although, in a way. Four times? Four times that I read the 'Ulysses'? Five times? Yes. Five times. I think. Gosh. Did I write 'Yes'? "Plagiarism!!!!!!!!!!", I hear them shout, the heirs of the late James Joyce. And: "One million cun ... err ... punts for a Yes!" Fastards. Bucking. Sucking honey from the dead. Can't even spell the German philosopher´s name correctly. Phonetically, alright. Kant. But. Anal Ivia Plurabelle. Language, Sir. Language! Language? Language = Ethic = Fairplay. Thierry Henry. God's hand. Frog's hand. To be fair: Would Robby Keane have beseeched the referee: "No goal, ref. No goal. I played the ball with my hands"? Hypocrisy. Punt. Pound. Euro. Guinea, Guinness. Guinnessis. Money money money. Mon(d)ey. Monday? It's Thursday, isn't it? Thirsty. Thuirsdy. Nah! Not what you think. I'm drinking warm milk with honey. Bloody cold. Hm. Interesting. Do they say it´s every six seconds a child, a woman, a man dies of starvation? After all there can't exist poverty, hm?! 1,3 trillions being sacrificed each year to defend enduring global freedom. Praised be the defence (sic) industry. Malnutrition. No. No! Not in this lovely little village. See this tree?

Click to enlarge

Apples. Lots of apples. In front of the pub. Public tree. No one cares. No one is hungry. Otherwise ... Tomorrow morning I shall go and pick them. Up. Winter's coming. Hm? The blackbirds love apples. In winter, anyway. Lovely to watch them. Creatures. Hungry. In Seanhenge they will find food. Always. Ah! Watching them in the morning. While smoking a first cigarette on balcony. Phewwwwwwww! Smoking? Yep. Gosh, in the last moment. One ought always to have Mr Joyce's heirs in one's mind. Not to forget my former finance minister who when in 2003 once again raising the tobacco tax let me know that the more I smoke the more I support the 'war on terror', while the health minister ... Fucking hypocrites!! Sorry about this tiny aprosdoketon. There is something rotten ... not only ... in the state of ... Israel. I mean not only Joyce's heirs one ought to have in one's mind, but the peace-loving people of Israel, too. This sounds kafkaesque? Well, si. Mr Kafka(´s work) is national heritage, isn't he? National heritage? Well, at least heritage of the state of Israel, hm? After all, Kafka died only 24 years before Ben Gurion proclaimed a state of Israel. Shshhhhhh! A German ought not to write such naughty things. That's anti-semitism. Each Arab, Maltese etc. will get infuriated. Won't he? Not to speak of her. And what did the friendly looking elderly Turk in Bremen say three or four years ago when being asked about a most suprising campaign, in which the Turkish tabloid Hurriyet tried to elucidate that women are human beings, too, and that it's not nice to beat one's wife, at least not on a daily basis? "A man who does not beat his wife is not a man."
Ah, nuff written. What one cometh to think of within but a few minutes! Time to fall into the feathers, put my head on the pillow and have a dream: All semites and other machos with immediate effect do veil their faces up til infinity ... yes ... and walk four steps behind their wives ... yes ... when lugging the shopping bags. Yes.
The peace of the night.

A gem for Joyceans ...

... and those (perhaps / hopefully) to come.
Praised be Chris god-free Morals for sending me the link(s) to following gem(s), taken from a series called "Great Modern Writers".
Enjoy!

Just in case you don't know ...

... what day we have.

Ah, a Joycean you might think. Well, there's also one book to be seen that's not written by or about Joyce.
It is said had he not been ding-dong Joyce would have written like this very gentleman. :)

Click to enlarge.

Related posts:

• Mrs Blooms 105th 33rd
  

James Joyce - Walking into Eternity

It's been said he would have written like Flann O'Brien had he not been crackbrained; and who am I to disagree.
On the other side, what James Augustine Aloysius Joyce put on paper is not the worst one could find in the realm of letters, would you agree?
And: It's Jim's 127th birthday today.

So, what about a(n informative and entertaining) 'walk into eternity' and - who knows? - on the very tower in Sandycove we might get served some pints of plain so that we can raise our glasses on Mr. Joyce and his protagonists.


Part one



Part two





For those who did not have the pleasure yet, and those who couldn't get enough of it - voilà:

Pitch'n'Putt with Joyce'n'Beckett:

Molly Bloom's Soliloquy


Enjoy(ce)! :)

Mrs. Bloom's 105th 33rd

I'd not easily offer links twice. However, exceptions exist to be made. And today there is a good reason to make one.

It's Mrs. Bloom's 138th birthday, thus she's now 100 years older than her husband uses to be since June 16th, 1904.

'Uses to be'? Well, in a most vivid dialogue I had the pleasure to witness some time ago, Mr. Bloom vehemently insisted on still being 38. Being asked to give evidence he said: 'cause June 16th 1904 I became immortal.

Thus, de facto the eternal Mrs. Bloom today is celebrating her 105th 33rd.

Happy birthday then, Lady Molly, and may I say: You're looking younger than ever. Younger than ever. :)

Molly Bloom's Soliloquy
Part I



Part II

Pitch 'n' Putt with Joyce'n'Beckett

Achtung!

There's an essay to be found at God-Free-Morals.
Read it, and dare you not to have your say.





May I ask for your kind attention, please.

Although my esteemed reader latest on reading the title, will easily have detected this is not my style I want to assure:

Only in order to have some piece and quiet I followed ... hm ... an advice - mind you, not obeyed a command) in the comment section to the previous post.

Is 'Finnegans Wake' a Novel?

- Which was said by whem to whom?

- It wham. But whim I can't whumember.

- Fantasy! funtasy on fantasy, amnaes fintasies! And there is nihil nuder under the clothing moon. When Ota, weewahrwificle of Torquells, bumpsed her dumpsydiddle down in her woolsark she mode our heuteyleutey girlery of peerlesses to set up in all bombossities of feudal fiertey, fanned, flounced and frangipenned, while the massstab whereby Ephialtes has exceeded is the measure, simplex mendaciis, by which our Outis cuts his truth. Arkaway now!

- Yerds and nudes say ayes and noes. Vide! Vide!

- Let Eivin bemember for Gates of Gold for their fadeless suns berayed her. Irise, Osirises! By thy mouth given unto thee! For why do you lack a link ...

More according the link later. :)

The passage above you'd find on page 493 when - as I did - randomly opening the Faber edition from 1975, which I typed to give those amongst you who would not read Finnegans Wake once a week a glimpse of what it's about.

Now being a Joyce expert, what's your answer to the question which is heading this post?

Careful, though.
Of course, for those contemporaries delectating themselves with mocking that poor Joyce would have written like Flann O'Brien had he not been completely ding-dong, the answer is easy.
However, is it? What will be the likely criteria to say or even enthusiastically shout 'Yes, it is!' or after a demonstrative yawn to groan in agony: 'No!' ?

Whatever the answer will be, it is a matter of taste. An excellent taste, of course. :)

And either one says 'Yes' or 'No', (s)he will claim to be in possession of the most exquisite taste.

Now, this could create one of those brainteasing and riddling conundrums, the more as ... what did Oscar say? About taste you can't argue; either you have it, or you have it not.

Who is right, then?

End of the beforegoing.

Let me rather create the above mentioned link.

Chris, philosopher and poet at Godfree-Morals has posted a - to my taste :) - remarkable essay. Indeed, it's an essay that I could not have written, not even if I did not happen to be ding-dong.

In the hope to create a vivid exchange of ideas, both a suggestion and a request: The discussion should take place at Chris' site, so that one can read it in one piece.


PS: For those finding this subject as interesting as the breaking news that there has been a cucumber glass detonation in Caracas: Do as if you had never read this post.
After all, it's a matter of taste, isn't it. :)

All others: Enjoy.

And thus spake Molly

Listen, watch & enjoyce. :)

That I am allowed to experience this!

Imagine you have missed the bus or the tramvai by a hair; and, alas, today of all days Flann O'Brien's The third Policeman is not at hand. So, what next? Boring yourself for some twenty minutes or ... rather walking to the next stop, on the risk of not walking fast enough and thus again missing the bus/tramvai?

To be on the safe side, all you need is but a bit knowledge of advanced probability and integral calculus.

Mathematicians Scott Kominers, Robert Sinnott (Harvard University) and Justin Chen (California Institute of Technology) derived a formula for the optimal time that you should wait for a tardy bus at each stop en route before giving up and walking on.

The research group found that the solution was surprisingly simple, as you will surely agree:



Now, are you grateful that you are allowed to live experiencing this magic moment, in which one of the last most brainteasing and riddling conundrums of all mysteriously puzzling enigmata has been solved, or are are you grateful to live experiencing this magic moment, in which one of the last most brainteasing and riddling conundrums of all mysteriously puzzling enigmata has been solved?

I thought so.

And now you'd like to get closer to the essential inheritent interior essence which is hidden in the root of the kernel of everything?

I thought so.

Here you are.


And here one anticipatory reaction:

'Science knows only one commandment: contribute to science.'
Bertold Brecht, Galileo, 1943

And one reactionary anticipation:

'The discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of mankind than the discovery of a star.'
Brillat-Savarin, The Physiology of Taste, 1825


In case you miss it, I can't serve you with a quotation from Tetrapilotomos. He'd not be amused if I disturbed Calvagh O'Seanacháin and him while celebrating the 126th anniversary of their friend's birthday.

?

Ah, yes, of course, it's James Joyce.