#dirtyyear

[crazymontecristo]

(What is your opinion of “ Ulysses,” by James Joyce?) Yes, I have smeared my fingers with that vast work. It has given me one exquisite moment of amusement. I gathered that if I hoped to retain my reputation as an intelligent shade, open to new ideas, I must peruse this volume. It is a singular matter that a countryman of mine should have produced this great bulk of filth. You may smile at me for uttering thus when you reflect that in the eyes of the world I am a tainted creature. But, at least, I had a sense of the values of things on the terrestrial globe. Here in “ Ulysses ” I find a monster who cannot contain the monstrosities of his own brain. The creatures he gives birth to leap from him in shapeless masses of hideousness, as dragons might, which in their foulsome birth contaminate their parent. , . . This book appeals to all my senses. It gratifies the soil which is in everyone of us. It gives me the impression of having been written in a severe fit of nausea. Surely there is a nausea fever. The physicians may not have diagnosed it. But here we have the heated vomit continued through the countless pages of this work. The author thought no doubt that he had given the world a series of ideas. Ideas which had sprung from out his body, not his mind! I, who have passed into the twilight, can see more clearly than this modern prophet. I also  know that if he feels his work has sprung from courage, which is innate in him, he should be led to realise that “Ulysses ” is merely involuntary. I feel that if this work has caught a portion of the public, who may take it for the truth, that I, even I, who am a shade, and I who have tasted the fulness of life and its meed of bitterness, should cry aloud : “ Shame upon Joyce, shame on his work, shame on his lying soul.” . . . Compare this monster Joyce with our poor Shaw. Here we find very opposite poles. For both these writers cry aloud that they have found the truth. Shaw, like a coy and timid maiden, hides his enormous modesty with bluster. Joyce, on the other hand, is not a blusterer at all. In fact he has not vomited the whole, even in this vast and monumental volume—more will come from Joyce. For he has eaten rapidly; and all the undigested food must come away. I feel that Joyce has much to give the world before, in his old age, he turns to virtue. For by that time he will be tired of truth and turn to virtue as a last emetic.

Psychic Messages From Oscar Wilde by Hester Travers Smith (1923). 

“Pity poor whiteoath! Dear gone mummeries, goby! Tell thewoyld I have lived true thousand hells. Pity, please, lady, forpoor O.W. in this profundust snobbing I have caught. Nine dirtyyears mine age, hairs hoar, mummery failend, snowdrift to myellpow, deff as Adder. I askt you, dear lady, to judge on my treeby our fruits. I gave you of the tree. I gave two smells, three eats.My freeandies, my celeberrimates: my happy bossoms, my allfallingfruits of my boom. Pity poor Haveth Childers Everywherewith Mudder!” James Joyce Finnegans Wake p.535

[rahulkurkute]

Happy Birthday to my beautiful sister! She out here Queening! Str8 slaying! Love you much!! 🎉🎊🎁🎂#loveislove #DirtyYear #Dirtyday #HappyBirthdaySis #happybithday #loveyou #smile #thursday #5 #july #birthday #loveyoutothemoonandback🌙 #followme #rahulkurkute #10