Lil Swamp Booger Baby posted:

Good post Cubone.

The reason I was so drawn to Joyce in my teens and why obsessing over his work became such a passion is because Joyce himself was a master at abstracting the English language by expertly melding meaning and sound. That kind of fluidity and ability to express stark yet nebulous emotions is ultimately what fated him to create conscious worlds rather than told ones.

Joyce's goals are so clearly demonstrated in The Dead because it's another man being overwhelmed by the passions and genuineness of someone who had died long ago, who he only knows in a pithy, incomplete way, yet the events of the night, his own weak attempts to show spirit and energy, and the despondency of his wife, suddenly create a context that has formed him into an entirely susceptible, malleable consciousness, where he can be completely innervated of all his naive assumptions yet contact some greater essence of humanity and its propensity to rise up beyond simple emotions to ones where we might be willing to give our lives so we may indulge in them.

Gabriel is basically experiencing what Joyce ultimately wanted others to experience by reading his words, a place in time, a place in feelings, a place in someone else's soul.

The Dead was Joyce standing at the window of a facsimile of an other's consciousness, Portrait was him opening it, and Ulyssess was him stepping through, by the time Finnegans Wake was finished he had finally fully stepped into a complete abstraction of human sensation and stimulus, thought and feeling.

Ulysses was you floating around someone else's brain, a live feed of actions, thoughts, feelings. Finnegans Wake is this experience amalgamated into a single feed, where sound echoes meaning and each thought (word, statement or phrase) is the truthfulness of it. What if you thought not in words and categories, but rather in outright sensation and raw input? It's the dream of human existence, when the walls come down and we realize that organization is an illusion and our minds and selves are just gibbering goblets of chaos purely defined by context, memory, language, speech - if you were actually to peer into our minds, the way we truly perceive the world, in fact why we fail to perceive it perfectly and only strain it out through our flawed mental digestive process - the inherent disorganization, how our greater social and cultural identity is not a clearly drawn out blueprint at all would become clear. Not a box, or a straight line. It is only a constant smattering of thoughts tied into words, bundled with images, sounds and sensations, tempered by the conditioning imposed by our surroundings.

We aren't linear in how we perceive things, the recursiveness of Finnegans Wake is a huge part of us. Our minds don't progress in a singular wavelength as we perceive them to, we go back, we go forwards, living in another human's head wouldn't be a simple story like watching the TV. It wouldn't chug along smoothly while the channel never changes.

If you were to actually experience another human's consciousness, it would be a roiling dream, an uncertain landscape in shifting arrangement, with shifting boundaries and sense.

That's what Finnegans Wake is. It's you assuming the consciousness of a depraved, drunken Irishman with a skull obscenely rich in cultural knowledge and history. Just like in The Dead, he desired to be a Michael Furey people can be connected to through a timeless passage between two worlds.

Jose posted:

Should I make the thread title about how much he loves farts

Kak posted:

fart

Lil Swamp Booger Baby posted:

He's a depraved Irishman and was a warlock of farts and anal sex.

Cubone posted:

reading Dubliners is like watching early Kubrick, because you're seeing a guy who famously got Real loving Weird later in his career, and you get to see that, when it came to not being weird... he kind of had nothing left to prove?

from "The Dead":
[context: protagonist Gabriel and his wife Gretta spent the evening at a Christmas dinner party. Gabriel was pumped up, looking forward to them getting back to their hotel room and loving each other's brains out. unbeknownst to him, a song that was played at the party had reminded Gretta of her high school sweetheart, a boy named Michael Furey, who died tragically while they were dating, after braving winter storms to come see her in spite of his illness, and she'd been dwelling on it ever since. after telling her husband this, Gretta goes to sleep, and Gabriel is left alone with his sleeping wife]

this is like my fifth time reading this and it still gives me a tiny little knot of despondency in my gut and those asmr chills you get when your brain is confronted with the precipice of a cavernous metaphysical void.
motherfucker could write.
if he had just stopped here, it would still have been a remarkably impressive career

it's like finding out Andy Warhol was an accomplished technical draftsman and portrait artist before pop art, instead of the truth, which is that Andy Warhol was a failed commercial illustrator who couldn't even draw a dog

I don't want to say I doubted the scholars who studied Ulysses, Finnegan's Wake, and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, but there was a time when I was content to own my ignorance because I was not convinced that learning about it would have been worth the effort, like with Andy Warhol
there may have even been some smug, condescending adolescent part of me that had decided Joyce was somebody who simply couldn't do a good job at his craft in the traditional sense and instead of developing his skills just decided to be a pretentious rear end about his mediocrity, and people were just tripping over themselves lining up to be impressed with it, lest they be perceived as not "getting" it, and everything ever since had just been an embarrassing congaline of conjecture and rationalization, as it is with Andy Warhol, an rear end in a top hat, who sucks. but if this part of me was ever there it got slapped in the face so hard by Dubliners that it vanished in a puff of shame and I forgot it ever existed, something which will never, ever happen with Andy Warhol, the failed illustrator who was so fundamentally terrible at conveying meaning through abstraction, the very essence of anything that we could call art, that he couldn't even make surviving his own homicide attempt seem interesting

Dubliners also made me realize that timelessness and universality are not necessarily functions of accessibility, which seems obvious, but it was something I needed to be shown. Hemingway's "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place", for example, finds its universality very nearly by deftly ignoring its setting. It follows an English-speaking man in a Spanish-speaking place, but Hemingway took great pains to focus his prose on the very general nature of the human experience the man was going through. Joyce otoh was singularly obsessed with telling stories only of a very particular place in a very particular time. his stories are laced with specific, alienating details, and he makes no special effort to clue the reader in on what the gently caress "mutinous Shannon waves" are, yet he finds universality by seldom generalizing at all. to go back to "The Dead", Gabriel is experiencing a very specific, very unlikely situation, going from horny to being forced to ponder if the relationship that exists between him and his wife could even be considered love in comparison to the tragic youth romance he just learned she lived through, yet the feelings it evokes are still so raw and so undeniably human they effortlessly transcend those boundaries, even succeed because of them. you don't need a map of Dublin and a dictionary of contemporary slang and deprecated words to appreciate it (though, I did read Dubliners as an e-book compiled by a university that provided exactly that and it did add to the experience) something that could never be achieved by silkscreening soup cans. (sorry, for anybody who thought the weird Andy Warhol tangents in this post might have been going somewhere, they weren't, I just think it's funny to dump on him because he was an rear end in a top hat and he sucks and I hate him.)

Nooner posted:

Is this like the new galt speech or something holy gently caress

Cubone posted:

im cubone

lol but posted:

farts are gross james what yhe hell are you doing?

quote:

gently caress me if you can squatting in the closet, with your clothes up, grunting like a young sow doing her dung, and a big fat dirty snaking thing coming slowly out of your backside.

Xaris posted:

poisonpill posted:

I see the English have finally arrived

Xaris posted:

Xaris posted:

Master J Plus posted:

All I'm saying is two famines weren't enough.

Master J Plus posted:

Ireland is so devoid of culture and anything worthwhile that James Joyce, King of Lady Farts, became the most famous trash from Trash Island.

strange feelings re Daisy posted:

James Joyce made a Faustian bargain with the devil wherein he would be remembered for some of the greatest literature in the English language but also farts.

CaptainSarcastic posted:

First they came for the Irish, and I did not speak out --
Because LOL the Irish

Enfys posted:

you just wish someone found you worthwhile enough to write intensely beautiful letters about your farts

poisonpill posted:

I see the English have finally arrived

Sarah Bellum posted:

Enfys posted:

you just wish someone found you worthwhile enough to write intensely beautiful letters about your farts

Cubone posted:

reading Dubliners is like watching early Kubrick, because you're seeing a guy who famously got Real loving Weird later in his career, and you get to see that, when it came to not being weird... he kind of had nothing left to prove?

from "The Dead":
[context: protagonist Gabriel and his wife Gretta spent the evening at a Christmas dinner party. Gabriel was pumped up, looking forward to them getting back to their hotel room and loving each other's brains out. unbeknownst to him, a song that was played at the party had reminded Gretta of her high school sweetheart, a boy named Michael Furey, who died tragically while they were dating, after braving winter storms to come see her in spite of his illness, and she'd been dwelling on it ever since. after telling her husband this, Gretta goes to sleep, and Gabriel is left alone with his sleeping wife]

this is like my fifth time reading this and it still gives me a tiny little knot of despondency in my gut and those asmr chills you get when your brain is confronted with the precipice of a cavernous metaphysical void.
motherfucker could write.
if he had just stopped here, it would still have been a remarkably impressive career

it's like finding out Andy Warhol was an accomplished technical draftsman and portrait artist before pop art, instead of the truth, which is that Andy Warhol was a failed commercial illustrator who couldn't even draw a dog

I don't want to say I doubted the scholars who studied Ulysses, Finnegan's Wake, and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, but there was a time when I was content to own my ignorance because I was not convinced that learning about it would have been worth the effort, like with Andy Warhol
there may have even been some smug, condescending adolescent part of me that had decided Joyce was somebody who simply couldn't do a good job at his craft in the traditional sense and instead of developing his skills just decided to be a pretentious rear end about his mediocrity, and people were just tripping over themselves lining up to be impressed with it, lest they be perceived as not "getting" it, and everything ever since had just been an embarrassing congaline of conjecture and rationalization, as it is with Andy Warhol, an rear end in a top hat, who sucks. but if this part of me was ever there it got slapped in the face so hard by Dubliners that it vanished in a puff of shame and I forgot it ever existed, something which will never, ever happen with Andy Warhol, the failed illustrator who was so fundamentally terrible at conveying meaning through abstraction, the very essence of anything that we could call art, that he couldn't even make surviving his own homicide attempt seem interesting

Dubliners also made me realize that timelessness and universality are not necessarily functions of accessibility, which seems obvious, but it was something I needed to be shown. Hemingway's "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place", for example, finds its universality very nearly by deftly ignoring its setting. It follows an English-speaking man in a Spanish-speaking place, but Hemingway took great pains to focus his prose on the very general nature of the human experience the man was going through. Joyce otoh was singularly obsessed with telling stories only of a very particular place in a very particular time. his stories are laced with specific, alienating details, and he makes no special effort to clue the reader in on what the gently caress "mutinous Shannon waves" are, yet he finds universality by seldom generalizing at all. to go back to "The Dead", Gabriel is experiencing a very specific, very unlikely situation, going from horny to being forced to ponder if the relationship that exists between him and his wife could even be considered love in comparison to the tragic youth romance he just learned she lived through, yet the feelings it evokes are still so raw and so undeniably human they effortlessly transcend those boundaries, even succeed because of them. you don't need a map of Dublin and a dictionary of contemporary slang and deprecated words to appreciate it (though, I did read Dubliners as an e-book compiled by a university that provided exactly that and it did add to the experience) something that could never be achieved by silkscreening soup cans. (sorry, for anybody who thought the weird Andy Warhol tangents in this post might have been going somewhere, they weren't, I just think it's funny to dump on him because he was an rear end in a top hat and he sucks and I hate him.)

Sarah Bellum posted:

amusinginquiry posted:

BrigadierSensible posted:

In conclusion James Joyce was a man of contrasts.

quote:

At every gently caress I gave you your shameless tongue come bursting out through your lips and if I gave you a bigger stronger gently caress than usual fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I hosed 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 gently caress a farting woman when every gently caress drives one out of her. "How do you make love to me if you are such a dirty oval office?" I asked with a cocky grin. "You know that you must stop it, you poor little oval office. I don't care. Just keep on loving me, all day long."

"No I really don't think I can..." I was a bit embarrassed. So the next time I hosed you she seemed, perhaps in the midst of a heavy night and having got off with her best friend.

"I want to see that hole full..." I told her.

She had a little bit of a laugh and looked a little disappointed. I knew from that that she knew, but my cock wasn't to blame. It felt good on me. I knew there had to be something to me.

I walked over to her oval office. "gently caress that oval office..." I said, with no pretence at humour.

It didn't take long for her mouth at first opening wide as she felt herself sliding down the shaft. As I entered her she started to shake in her restraints and then began to moan. "P-please, my oval office, please please let me cum." she pleaded, her cries coming up quite suddenly and hard.

After about ten minutes of loving she finally managed to relax, and when she lifted her head, my cock was hard again, so easy to take.

I slowly pushed deeper until you could see my cockhead through her pussy lips.

I began to gently caress her oval office, feeling her thighs moving to take me all the way. All the while her rear end was moving, pushing my face along her back, which I was beginning to gently caress harder, so I kept thrusting, keeping pace with her. Eventually I was about to cum, and then she took hold of my dick, pulling me in until her rear end pushed my cock through her, which was a really wonderful experience, to say the least - with two or three orgasms it was quite easy to push my cock further in, then she stopped me.

I pulled out a couple of times to get off a little, but she just kept loving me faster, while I just lay there and let her gently caress me, as well as making moans of pleasure and pleasure. She would pull out of her pussy a couple of times, but then pull out again when I could no longer get in the same position, and she was enjoying herself more, more every time.

The second part would start with her doing what I was doing, loving me with a large vibrators, before switching to my rear end. This was a lot of fun for me. It always seems that something is a bit wrong with people, I didn't care if it was my cock or not, but she made me very happy and even wanted more of it. Her pussy was wet enough that you could practically feel it as she squeezed and squeezed, feeling every drop of oil in and out of that clit she was rubbing so tightly. Her face was covered in cum so it didn't matter if it was a thick black sticky stuff, I liked the feeling of it.

I guess then, a week has passed and she's still enjoying myself and I'm still a bit turned on by it, so we make it our daily routine to gently caress in our spare bedroom, where she can continue to play with her toy and I can enjoy my new toy inside of me.