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Who loves ya, baby?
very twee isnt he. tiddlybum squeak
i was actually surprised at how un-twee it was. that was what i expected. but i think once you've read a few hundred pages, you get into his language and style. so that by the end, it's like it's your mum talking to you
Have to agree with Catalog here. There isn't much of that stuff. You just get the odd phrase from time to time.
 

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Who loves ya, baby?
Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Horseness is the whatness of allhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the street: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow. Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
 

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Who loves ya, baby?
Love the jump from Stephen and co. going back and forth on Shakepseare in S&C to Father Conmee ambling around in Wandering Rocks. Complete change of mood. Genuinely feels like going from in-depth discussion inside to just enjoying being outside. Room to breathe.

It was a charming day.

The lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of cabbages, curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of small white clouds going slowly down the wind. Moutonner, the French said. A homely and just word.

Father Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning clouds over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the stubble of Clongowes field. He walked there, reading in the evening, and heard the cries of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the quiet evening. He was their rector: his reign was mild.
 

version

Who loves ya, baby?
O, lest he forget. That letter to father provincial.

Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy square. Yes: they were from Belvedere. The little house: Aha. And were they good boys at school? O. That was very good now. And what was his name? Jack Sohan. And his name? Ger. Gallaher. And the other little man? His name was Brunny Lynam. O, that was a very nice name to have.

Father Conmee gave a letter from his breast to master Brunny Lynam and pointed to the red pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon street.

-- But mind you don't post yourself into the box, little man, he said.

The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed.

-- O, sir.

-- Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Conmee said.

Master Brunny Lynam ran across the road and put Father Conmee's letter to father provincial into the mouth of the bright red letterbox, Father Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoy square east.
 

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
If I as in the olden days I would have been a priest, it's like being a local celebrity. They don't have to be celibate do they?
 

constant escape

winter withered, warm
Father Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning clouds over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the stubble of Clongowes field. He walked there, reading in the evening, and heard the cries of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the quiet evening. He was their rector: his reign was mild.
What are the thoughts on haptic writing in general, or writing to orchestrate the senses?

Next time you are in a train, or car, and can see vast spans of nature, green, hillsides, imaging reaching out and touching it with a hill-sized hand, feeling trees as if they were an inch tall, and hone the sensation you get in your hand. Begins to reveal how the world impresses us - the howness of allimpress! You aren't touching, yet that's what you sense. Signal error as an escape hatch?
 

constant escape

winter withered, warm
Thats good. How do you feel about imaginary excursions that play to multiple senses? Is that what is called Astral navigation/projection?
 

version

Who loves ya, baby?
What are the thoughts on haptic writing in general, or writing to orchestrate the senses?

Next time you are in a train, or car, and can see vast spans of nature, green, hillsides, imaging reaching out and touching it with a hill-sized hand, feeling trees as if they were an inch tall, and hone the sensation you get in your hand. Begins to reveal how the world impresses us - the howness of allimpress! You aren't touching, yet that's what you sense. Signal error as an escape hatch?
There's a bit where he talks about an Aristotle experiment with touch,

Stephen looked down on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his ashplanthandle over his knee. My casque and sword. Touch lightly with two index fingers. Aristotle's experiment. One or two? Necessity is that in virtue of which it is impossible that one can be otherwise. Argai, one hat is one hat.

184.28-9 Touch lightly... Aristotle's experiment: Aristotle, Problemata, xxxv. 10 (965a36 et seq.): 'Why is it that an object which is held between two crossed fingers appears to be two? Is it because we touch it with two sense-organs? For when we hold the hand in its natural position we cannot touch an object with the outer sides of the two fingers' (rev. Oxford trans., ed. Johnathan Barnes (Princeton University Press, 1984)).
 

Corpsey

call me big papa
Keep wondering lately if I was deprived (in relative terms needless to say) by not having a classical education, or if knowing about Aristotle, Plato, Plotinus and even Homer is just a poshboys badge of honour.
 

Corpsey

call me big papa
An ignorant postmodern part of me can't help thinking it was all so long ago it must all be outdated and superseded.
 

Corpsey

call me big papa
But I'm quite sure I'm wrong, besides which we basically live in a society with foundations in and assumptions born of Greece.
 

craner

Beast of Burden
Keep wondering lately if I was deprived (in relative terms needless to say) by not having a classical education, or if knowing about Aristotle, Plato, Plotinus and even Homer is just a poshboys badge of honour.
It's never too late to start reading the Western Canon in chronological order, Corpsey.
 

constant escape

winter withered, warm
I do generally believe in meta-narratives, which I gather is characteristically modern.

As for the poshboy badge - it certainly can be that. Especially if someone is only churning through all this stuff because everyone around them is also, no?
 

luka

Well-known member
Staff member
Meant more your faith in progress. That with every passing moment we get ever closer to objective reality.
 
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