/lit/ - Literature

>bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthur-nuk!

>>18464659
>Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober
inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was
not so old - thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just at the
point of maturity. There were so many different moods and impressions
that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried to
weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy was the dominant
note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered
by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give
expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would
never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd, but he
might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics,
perhaps, would recognize him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the
melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions. He
began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book
would get. 'Mr. Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse'... 'A
wistful sadness pervades these poems'... 'The Celtic note'. It was a pity
his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert
his mother's name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler; or
better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it.
Literally me

you were filtered by->

Dubliners

Portrait

Ulysses

FW

Who are your favorite Jewish writers?

>>17932535
because he wrote a really good book about a literal cuck

Can you write some rap lyrics in the manner of his writing?

>Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and lace scarlet asters in their buttonholes leap out. Each has his banjo slung. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires. Flashing white Kaffir eyes and tusks they rattle through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back to back, toe heel, heel toe, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.
>Ulysses - Circe

What did Joyce mean by this?

Joyce killed literature by writting ulysses, a book so good that all literature now lives in his shadow as poor imitations or pieces that exist to spite his style.
He knew this, however, and gave us the keys to revive our art. We must learn from finnegan, authors must cease using these dreary shells we call tongues and become architects of their own languages, each novel being it's own contained linguistic dream, every page being it's own cypher. We must finish the wake, we must understand his greatest piece, only then can literature move forward

>>17031274
It takes an Irishman to show the English how to write in English

>>16995002
>Stands in your way.

So when are we gonna stop pretending he's any good?

>has "joy" in his name
>never had much joy in his life

>pisses in your garden

I tried reading Finnegan's Wake, but it was too hard for me. Are his other novels easier to read?

Do you actually enjoy reading James Joyce?

Lelonge doggy doge from the snowy snowsharks longnosedongs sits in the winterreise eis a sharpface sharkface lollygaggin and his double snowman there sits be or rather it shall be called sigmund snowpointer

James Joyce... more like lame Joyce.
Has a story called Ulysses doesn't even take place in ancient Greece!

TFW you realize James Joyce invented brapposting

> I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.

Circe is the heart of the book. In circe we see every aspect of bloom: we see boom the king and bloom the slave; bloom the pervert and bloom the righteous; bloom the jew and bloom the christian; bloom the father and bloom the son; bloom the adulter and bloom the cuckold; bloom the man and bloom the woman. We finally get to understand all the ghosts that live in stephen's head. And we finally learn molly's true nature and what she represents in the grand scheme of the novel, that being deciding if bloom is worthy to live or not. Everything before and everything after is rooted in the revelations of circe, one can not look at the novel in the same way after reading it. Also best chapter, discuss

— Did I kill him, says he, or what?
And he shouting to the bloody dog:
— After him, Garry! After him, boy!
And the last we saw was the bloody car rounding the corner and old sheepsface on it gesticulating and the bloody mongrel after it with his lugs back for all he was bloody well worth to tear him limb from limb. Hundred to five! Jesus, he took the value of it out of him, I promise you.
When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld the chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven. And they beheld Him in the chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness, having raiment as of the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not look upon Him. And there came a voice out of heaven, calling: Elijah! Elijah! And He answered with a main cry: Abba! Adonai! And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over Donohoe's in Little Green street like a shot off a shovel.

>Oxen of the Sun

Why? Is he just flexing? The different prose styles aren't as interesting as his own writing. He should have just developed the language like he did in Portrait, it would have been much better.

What makes Ulysses so difficult? Having not read it myself