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I read The Dubliners because it was short. I tried reading Ulysses a couple times and gave up, just could not get into it. I've read the fart letter many times.
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May 19, 2019 14:45
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Shibawanko posted:There's something genius about referring to farts as "fellows" What a lovely fartfellow.
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May 19, 2019 14:51
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Guys are SO WEIRD
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May 19, 2019 15:54
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Ulysses is good but I had an annotated version and dedicated a whole summer to it. I can’t see myself doing that ever again for any other book, and I can’t say I would recommend it to people who aren’t already interested. That being said, a dumbass bartender with several Battlestar Gallactica tattoos once told me it “sounds like Ready Player One” so we can all agree literature was a huge mistake and humanity doesn’t deserve art.
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May 19, 2019 16:09
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A Joyce huff he own mistress' farts. A shameful Joyce.
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May 19, 2019 16:10
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My reading level is firmly locked at ‘crackhead with a library card’ and will probably never move beyond that but I look forward to this thread becoming about how hosed up animorphs was in fifty pages
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May 19, 2019 16:52
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*just pops in to see if someone mentioned the fart letter in the first 3 posts* Ok cool, carry on
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May 19, 2019 17:08
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I just tried to read the plot summary of Ulysses on Wikipedia and closed it after it didn’t make any sense Then I hugged some farts
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May 19, 2019 17:09
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Former DILF posted:all i know is dude liked lady farts
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May 19, 2019 17:10
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I wish I could have read Joyce’s musings if he was transported to today and was able to search fart huffing on pornhub
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May 19, 2019 17:14
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Ulysses is one long run-on sentence about handjobs.
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May 19, 2019 17:14
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Do it ironically posted:I just tried to read the plot summary of Ulysses on Wikipedia and closed it after it didn’t make any sense It's not about the plot, it's about the
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May 19, 2019 17:31
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I enjoyed Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man years ago. What I had not read until today were those filthy love letters. Brings to mind the Colbert skit about burning the bed from that Kanye West post-orgy video. Note: I thought goons were making GBS threads up the thread with lame, gross fart jokes at the expense of a literary genius. Plot twist: literary genius is far raunchier than any goon could dream of Mokelumne Trekka fucked around with this message at 17:53 on May 19, 2019 |
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May 19, 2019 17:49
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I wish I could write half as well about farts and loving as James Joyce did.
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May 19, 2019 17:59
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The main thing is that his wife was named Nora Barnacle.
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May 19, 2019 19:48
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Jose posted:Was he into pegging?
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May 19, 2019 20:00
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A fat mickey eh. Gonna start using that one.
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May 19, 2019 20:11
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hi. i heard you liked Irish lady farts
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May 19, 2019 20:14
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The barely coherent bit at the end of Ulysses inspired 80s hit music star/suspected actual fairy Kate Bush to make this cool song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h1DDndY0FLI She couldn't secure the rights to the actual text so she wrote that instead.
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May 19, 2019 20:30
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WatermelonGun posted:That being said, a dumbass bartender with several Battlestar Gallactica tattoos once told me it “sounds like Ready Player One” so we can all agree literature was a huge mistake and humanity doesn’t deserve art. Hahaha loving what
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May 19, 2019 20:34
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Pretty sure I've retained more general knowledge from SA threads than any kind of formal education or classes.
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May 19, 2019 21:06
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I enjoy Joyce and other eloquent pervets
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May 19, 2019 21:37
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Sarah Bellum posted:Farts So I read that letter when Kate Beaton made that comic, and then mostly forgot it for years. In the interim I came to the conclusion that maybe Nora had a gas problem she was self-conscious about and Joyce was like "naw, baby, I like your farts, it's okay" Nope the dude liked poo gas E: hey I just realized we can describe avshalom's Widowmaker-from-Overwatch fartfiction as Joycean Phy fucked around with this message at 23:37 on May 19, 2019 |
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May 19, 2019 23:34
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I would think when it comes to Irish authors up their own rear end that Samuel Beckett would be more GBS than James Joyce.
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May 20, 2019 00:02
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Joyce wasn’t up his own rear end; read those letters again
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May 20, 2019 00:05
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poisonpill posted:Joyce wasn’t up his own rear end; read those letters again
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May 20, 2019 00:18
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Paging Earwicker to the Joyce fart fellow thread.
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May 20, 2019 01:39
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The Lobotomy Kid posted:The main thing is that his wife was named Nora Barnacle. He considered that a point in her favor, believing she would "cling" to him in spite of any marital problems. He had a strange belief in the power of names, so much so that he asked a minor author named Stephen James to finish Finnegans Wake if his blindness prevented him from doing it, just because he shared his first name with Stephen Dedalus and his last name with Joyce. farts
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May 20, 2019 01:40
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gotta respect a fart sniffer. that is a man who knows something you do not.
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May 20, 2019 04:52
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Bea Nanner posted:gotta respect a fart sniffer. that is a man who knows something you do not.
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May 20, 2019 04:56
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Torquemada posted:fell asleep listening to robertantonwilson nextdoor tikitakitalkin bout everything the other night while swimdrifted off he heard him say juicyjames Joyce-man wroted a noveldiwovel where no-thing actually happens but people go about their day ‘o day ‘o someone takes a shitdrinks tea or whichever whatover whatever folk did back then instead of watching tittycomic Orientaliciousness and schlickfappening to notmoms does this have literary value ahhhhh what kind of dude was he though and do you feel like his work has any relewellyvency to our long ten minutes past blackened midnight on the doomsday ticktockclock culture Nobody is quoting this but it's really good and I liked it
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May 20, 2019 05:06
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Stalizard posted:Nobody is quoting this but it's really good and I liked it CaptainSarcastic posted:I would think when it comes to Irish authors up their own rear end that Samuel Beckett would be more GBS than James Joyce.
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May 20, 2019 07:28
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Cubone posted:a few weeks ago I was making GBS threads up an Avengers Endgame discussion by quoting Endgame out of context but I don't think anybody noticed This rules.
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May 20, 2019 07:57
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Cubone posted:yeah I was gonna emptyquote it until I got to your post and saw that it got some love, it's excellent I like to pretend that everyone for the past week or so has been talking about Samuel Beckett.
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May 20, 2019 08:29
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Blistex posted:I like to pretend that everyone for the past week or so has been talking about Samuel Beckett. the gay dude?
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May 20, 2019 08:32
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Should I make the thread title about how much he loves farts and if so whay
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May 20, 2019 09:41
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WatermelonGun posted:Ulysses is good but I had an annotated version and dedicated a whole summer to it. I can’t see myself doing that ever again for any other book, and I can’t say I would recommend it to people who aren’t already interested. Don't read Finnegan's Wake.
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May 20, 2019 09:46
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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] quote:Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfully at 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. 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.) Cubone fucked around with this message at 10:06 on May 20, 2019 |
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May 20, 2019 09:53
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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? 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. Lil Swamp Booger Baby fucked around with this message at 10:25 on May 20, 2019 |
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May 20, 2019 10:21
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Also the street Gabriel is looking out on at the end of The Dead is the one from the start of the very first Story, The Sisters, which aside from being a nice, subtle touch also manages to bring Joyce's version of Dublin as an epiphanic prison full circle.
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May 20, 2019 10:31
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