I am sharing my favorite English Author with you.

 

For your celebration, I put together a small sampler of his four major works. I hope you enjoy and re-joyce in reading it.

Lloyd

 

Bloomsday, 2012, 90th Anniversary of Ulysses' publication.

 

A Joyce Sampler

 

From the last paragraphs of the last story of the Dubliners, "The Dead":

 

She was fast asleep.

 

Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfully

on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening to her deep-drawn

breath. So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her

sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband,

had played in her life. He watched her while she slept, as though he and

she had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes rested

long upon her face and on her hair: and, as he thought of what she must

have been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange,

friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say even to

himself that her face was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it was

no longer the face for which Michael Furey had braved death.

 

Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the

chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string

dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen

down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of

emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt's

supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the

merry-making when saying good-night in the hall, the pleasure of the

walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon

be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had

caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing

Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same

drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds

would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying

and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast

about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find

only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.

 

The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself

cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by

one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other

world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally

with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her

heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told

her that he did not wish to live.

 

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that

himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love.

The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness

he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping

tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where

dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not

apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was

fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself,

which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and

dwindling.

 

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun

to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling

obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on

his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general

all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central

plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and,

farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves.

It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the

hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the

crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on

the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling

faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of

their last end, upon all the living and the dead.


From the beginning paragraphs of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man:

 

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming

down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road

met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo...

 

His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a

glass: he had a hairy face.

 

He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne

lived: she sold lemon platt.

 

    O, the wild rose blossoms

    On the little green place.

 

He sang that song. That was his song.

 

    O, the green wothe botheth.

 

When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put

on the oilsheet. That had the queer smell.

 

His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano

the sailor's hornpipe for him to dance. He danced:

 

    Tralala lala,

    Tralala tralaladdy,

    Tralala lala,

    Tralala lala.

 

Uncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father and

mother but uncle Charles was older than Dante.

 

Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet

back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back

was for Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her a

piece of tissue paper.


From the last soliloquy of Molly Bloom in Ulysses:

 

ah yes I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody

that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so there you

are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun

shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on

Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to

propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth

and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long

kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain

yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he

said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I

liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew

I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could

leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first

only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many

things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and

old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop

and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front

of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil

half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their

tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and

the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and

Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharons

and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the

cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts

of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those

handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit

down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the

posadas 2 glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron

and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we

missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his

lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson

sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the

Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and the pink

and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and

geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower

of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian

girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the

Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked

him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to

say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and

drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his

heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

 

Trieste-Zurich-Paris 1914-1921


From the beginning and ending of Finnegans Wake:

 

[beginning:]

riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.

Sir Tristram, violer d’amores, fr’over the short sea, had passen-core rearrived from North Armorica on this side the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor to wielderfight his penisolate war: nor had topsawyer’s rocks by the stream Oconee exaggerated themselse to Laurens County’s gorgios while they went doublin their mumper all the time: nor avoice from afire bellowsed mishe mishe to tauftauf thuartpeatrick not yet, though venissoon after, had a kidscad buttended a bland old isaac: not yet, though all’s fair in vanessy, were sosie sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe. Rot a peck of pa’s malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface.

The fall (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonner-ronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthur — nuk!) of a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in bed and later on life down through all christian minstrelsy. The great fall of the offwall entailed at such short notice the pftjschute of Finnegan, erse solid man, that the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends an unquiring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes: and their upturnpikepointandplace is at the knock out in the park where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green since dev-linsfirst loved livvy.

 

 

[ending:]

My leaves have drifted from me. All. But one clings still. I’ll bear it on me. To remind me of. Lff! So soft this morning, ours. Yes. Carry me along, taddy, like you done through the toy fair! If I seen him bearing down on me now under whitespread wings like he’d come from Arkangels, I sink I’d die down over his feet, humbly dumbly, only to washup. Yes, tid. There’s where. First. We pass through grass behush the bush to. Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thous-endsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given ! A way a lone a last a loved a long the

PARIS,

1922–1939.