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Who loves ya, baby?
Oxen of the Sun. Jesus. Probably the hardest section thus far. There's a paragraph after the opening three sets of three incantations in which I kept expecting a comma which never came,

"Universally that person's acumen is esteemed very little perceptive concerning whatsoever matters are being held as most profitable by mortals with sapience endowed to be studied who is ignorant of that which the most in doctrine erudite and certainly by reason of that in them high mind's ornament deserving of veneration constantly maintain when by general consent they affirm that other circumstances being equal by no exterior splendour is the prosperity of a nation more efficaciously asserted than by the measure of how far forward may have progressed the tribute of its solicitude for that proliferent continuance which of evils the original if it be absent when fortunately present constitutes the certain sign of omnipollent nature's incorrupted benefaction."
 

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Who loves ya, baby?
Finished Oxen... last night and within maybe the last ten pages or so, if that, it kept throwing things at me which I'd recently noticed or mentioned elsewhere. I saw someone refer to accelerationism as "acc/kali" ("kali" presumably meaning Kali Yuga) then the term Kali appeared in the book. I made a joke about Leo being Geriatrix from Asterix then it said "old man Leo". I was reading about the ongoing Trump shitshow and the book referred to "Trumpery insanity". I read Matthew's Quietus piece where he mentioned different forms of yoga, one of which was the path of knowledge, the intense study of books, then Mulligan said "Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods."

The Trump one was the last which popped up and I did actually say something out loud at that point. I can't remember what though. Think it was just like "Fucking hell. What?!". Felt as though the book had been observing me and kept dropping hints.
 

catalog

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This is exactly what happened to me, but a bit later on in the book, when bloom is doing all the questions.

It was around the time of BLM and George Floyd and it was like I was being sung to whether I had the book or not.

I was walking round the garden looking at stuff, having random thoughts, writing them down, then I'd go and read the book and it was all the same things.

On one particular morning, it was like a game, like I wrote 3 things down and then in the next 20 pages they all came up.

I wrote it all down and have screenshoted the relevant pages so could probably bring it all together but it would be a bit of work.

Leaving it for a while seems the right thing to do just at the moment.
 

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Another one was Luka saying this in The Pit,
Probably a bit of that grot you get from being indoors too much breathing dust and not seeing your friends enough too.
And this appearing in the book a few hours later,
Mr M. Mulligan (Hyg. et Eug. Doc.) blames the sanitary conditions in which our greylunged citizens contract adenoids, pulmonary complaints etc. by inhaling the bacteria which lurk in dust.
 

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Who loves ya, baby?
Love this bit,

The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is the infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the soul is wafted over regions of cycles of cycles of generations that have lived. A region where grey twilight ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her dusk, scattering a perennial dew of stars. She follows her mother with ungainly steps, a mare leading her fillyfoal. Twilight phantoms are they yet moulded in prophetic grace of structure, slim shapely haunches, a supple tendonous neck, the meek apprehensive skull. They fade, sad phantoms: all is gone. Agendath is a waste land, a home of screechowls and the sandblind upupa. Netaim, the golden, is no more. And on the highway of the clouds they come, muttering thunder of rebellion, the ghosts of beasts. Huuh! Hark! Huuh! Parallax stalks behind and goads them, the lancinating lightnings of whose brow are scorpions. Elk and yak, the bulls of Bashan and of Babylon, mammoth and mastodon, they come trooping to the sunken sea, Lacus Mortis. Ominous, revengeful zodiacal host! They moan, passing upon the clouds, horned and capricorned, the trumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned the giantantlered, snouter and crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all their moving moaning multitude, murderers of the sun.
 

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Who loves ya, baby?
Circe's the section which seems to have had the greatest influence on GR. The animals and objects speaking, the impossibility of telling hallucination and fantasy from reality. The way stuff fades in and out. People just appear out of thin air then vanish as quickly.
 

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Who loves ya, baby?
Circe's the section which seems to have had the greatest influence on GR. The animals and objects speaking, the impossibility of telling hallucination and fantasy from reality. The way stuff fades in and out. People just appear out of thin air then vanish as quickly.
BLOOM I was just going back for that lotion whitewax, orangeflower water. Shop closes early on Thursday. But the first thing in the morning. (He pats divers pockets.) This moving kidney. Ah!

(He points to the south, then to the east. A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.)

THE SOAP

We're a capital couple are Bloom and I;
He brightens the earth, I polish the sky.


(The freckled face of Sweny, the druggist, appeals in the disc of the soapsun.)
 
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