There was cold sunlight outside the window. He wondered if he would die. You could die just the same on a sunny day.
December 25, 2010 | Categories: James Joyce, Litrature, The Portrait of the artist as a young man | Tags: A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man, Arts, Authors, beck, Fox News Channel, Irish, James Joyce, Literature, United States, World Literature | Leave a comment
From the biography: Fredrick Douglass
by Booker T. Washington
[…] He finally determined to propose to his owner, Master Thomas Auld, that he be allowed to have his own time. In other words, he would agree to pay him so much a week, and all in excess of that sum he would keep as his own. This proposition merely angered Mr. Auld, who accused young Douglass of scheming to run away, and threatened him with severe punishment, if he ever mentioned such a thing again. But Douglass had too much at stake to give up. He made the same proposition to Master Hugh Auld and it was accepted. By the terms of this agreement young Douglass was to be allowed all of his time, and to make his own contracts and collect his own wages; while in return for these privileges, he was to pay his master three dollars each week, board and clothe himself, and buy his own tools.
This was a pretty hard bargain, but it meant his first step toward freedom, so he entered upon it cheerfully. […]
All is not lost–the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to be overcome?
John Milton —Paradise Lost
A Flower Given to My Daughter
Frail the white rose and frail are
Her hands that gave
Whose soul is sere and paler
Than time’s wan wave.
Rosefrail and fair — yet frailest
A wonder wild
In gentle eyes thou veilest,
My blueveined child.
Some man that wayfaring was stood by housedoor at night’s oncoming. Of Israel’s folk was that man that on earth wandering far had fared. Stark ruth of man his errand that him lone led till that house.
Of that house A. Horne is lord. Seventy beds keeps he there teeming mothers are wont that they lie for to thole and bring forth bairns hale so God’s angel to Mary quoth. Watchers they there walk, white sisters in ward sleepless. Smarts they still sickness soothing: in twelve moons thrice an hundred. Truest bedthanes they twain are, for Horne holding wariest ward.
(His cock’s wattles wagging.) Hello, seventyseven eightfour. Hello. Freeman’s Urinal and Weekly Arsewiper here. Paralyse Europe. You which? Bluebags? Who writes? Is it Bloom?
(Mr. Philip Beaufoy, palefaced, stands in the witnessbox, in accurate morning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of hankerchief showing, creased lavender trousers and patent boots. He carries a large portfolio labeled Matcham’s Masterstrokes.)
James Joyce: Ulysses
A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.