He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air: just drop in to see. Per second, per second. Per second for every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.
He handed the card through the brass grill.
— Are there any letters for me? he asked.
While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far last time.
August 18, 2010 | Categories: Authors | Tags: American Symphony Orchestra, Bloomsday, George Antheil, Gottfried Keller, James Joyce, Joyce: Selected Letters, Leon Botstein, Military recruitment, Novel, Othmar Schoeck, Ulysses | Leave a comment
A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.