My great blue bedroom, the air so quiet, scarce a cloud. In peace and silence. I could have stayed up there for always only. It's something fails us. First we feel. Then we fall. And let her rain now if she likes. Anyway let her rain for my time is come. I done me best when I was let. Thinking always if I go all goes. A hundred cares, a tithe of troubles and is there one who understands me? One in a thousand of years of the nights?. . . from near the end of Finnegans Wake
- over christmastime I was reading Joysprick, a study of James Joyce language, by Antony Burgess, yes him who wrote about clockwork oranges and thought he had a brain tumour. He liked this little section from the book Ulysses (it is from a section wherein the narrative is made from questions and answers, sort of):
What spectacle confronted them when they, first the host, then the guest, emerged silently, doubly dark, from obscurity by a passage from the rere of the house into the penumbra of the garden?
The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.
paintings by Joan Mitchell, following deKooning's style and dying alcoholic somewhere in the french country.
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