Giacomo Joyce Read Free

dusty skirt. It is the other. She. Gogarty came yesterday to be introduced.
Ulysses
is the reason. Symbol of the intellectual conscience…. Ireland then? And the husband? Pacing the corridor in list shoes or playing chess against himself. Why are we left here? The hairdresser lay here but now, clutching my head between her knobby knees…. Intellectual symbol of my race. Listen! The plunging gloom has fallen. Listen!
    —I am not convinced that such activities of the mind or body can be called unhealthy—
    She speaks. A weak voice from beyond the cold stars. Voice of wisdom. Say on! O, say again, making me wise! This voice I never heard.
    She coils towards me along the crumpled lounge. I cannot move or speak. Coiling approach of starborn flesh. Adultery of wisdom. No. I will go. I will.
    —Jim, love!—
    Soft sucking lips kiss my left armpit: a coiling kiss on myriad veins. I burn! I crumple like a burning leaf! From my right armpit a fang of flame leaps out. A starry snake has kissed me: a cold nightsnake. I am lost!
    —Nora!—
    [15] ←

[16]
    Jan Pieters Sweelink. The quaint name of the old Dutch musician makes all beauty seem quaint and far. I hear his variations for the clavichord on an old air:
Youth has an end
. In the vague mist of old sounds a faint point of light appears: the speech of the soul is about to be heard. Youth has an end: the end is here. It will never be. You know that well. What then? Write it, damn you, write it! What else are you good for?
    “Why?”
    “Because otherwise I could not see you.”
    Sliding—space—ages—foliage of stars—and waningheaven—stillness—and stillness deeper—stillness of annihilation—and her voice.
    Non hunc sed Barabbam!
    Unreadiness. A bare apartment. Torbid daylight. A long black piano: coffin of music. Poised on its edge a woman’s hat, red-flowered, and umbrella, furled. Her arms: a casque, gules, and blunt spear on a field, sable.
    Envoy: Love me, love my umbrella.
    [16] ←