R.L. Swihart's Blog, page 34

I am a painter too!

"Ranch' io son pittore!" I cried. "Unless I am mistaken, you have a masterpiece on the stocks. If you put all that in, you will do more than Raphael himself did. Let me know when your picture is finished, and wherever in the wide world I may be, I will post back to Florence and pay my respects to--the MADONNA OF THE FUTURE!"

Redhead Ducks @ Colorado Lagoon

More from the Redheads @ Colorado Lagoon. In their fave afternoon resting spot. Had to ruffle a few feathers to get their attention.:)🎈

#rlswihart13 #coloradolagoon #longbeachca #ducks #redheads #redheadsofinstagram #readheads #bookheads #natureandnurture #readabook #readmorepoetry2024 #enjoytheweekend 🎈🇺🇦🇮🇱🇵🇸🙏

The Madonna of the Future

The young James Joyce has gone from Trieste to Pola. In a letter to his brother Stannie he says that Nora's making his cigarettes and that he's going to buy Henry James' story "The Madonna of the Future" (which I've never read) that very day. Then JJ finishes the letter with the seemingly frustrated: 

"I really can’t write. Nora is trying on a pair of drawers at the wardrobe Excuse me."

&

I check my Kindle trove and sure enough: I have the Madonna. I'll pingpong between the two Jameses.:)

Excerpt:

We live in the evening of time! We grope in the gray dusk, carrying each our poor little taper of selfish and painful wisdom, holding it up to the great models and to the dim idea, and seeing nothing but overwhelming greatness and dimness. The days of illumination are gone!

We live in the evening of time! We grope in the gray dusk, carrying each our poor little taper of selfish and painful wisdom, holding it up to the great models and to the dim idea, and seeing nothing but overwhelming greatness and dimness. The days of illumination are gone!

James Joyce: Letters

To Nora (1904):

My mind rejects the whole present social order and Christianity—home, the recognised virtues, classes of life, and religious doctrines. How could I like the idea of home? My home was simply a middle-class affair ruined by spendthrift habits which I have inherited. My mother was slowly killed, I think, by my father’s ill-treatment, by years of trouble, and by my cynical frankness of conduct. When I looked on her face as she lay in her coffin—a face grey and wasted with cancer—I understood that I was looking on the face of a victim and I cursed the system which had made her a victim. We were seventeen in family. My brothers and sisters are nothing to me. One brother alone is capable of understanding me. Six years ago I left the Catholic Church, hating it most fervently. I found it impossible for me to remain in it on account of the impulses of my nature. I made secret war upon it when I was a student and declined to accept the positions it offered me. By doing this I made myself a beggar but I retained my pride. Now I make open war upon it by what I write and say and do. I cannot enter the social order except as a vagabond. I started to study medicine three times, law once, music once. A week ago I was arranging to go away as a travelling actor. I could put no energy into the plan because you kept pulling me by the elbow. The actual difficulties of my life are incredible but I despise them.

James Joyce: Letters

To Nora (1904):

I have been a half-hour writing this thing. Will you write something to me? I hope you will. How am I to sign myself? I won’t sign anything at all, because I don’t know what to sign myself.

James Joyce: Letters

To His Mother (1903): He had recently met JM Synge in Paris:

Every Sunday I try and get out into the country. Last Sunday I went out to the woods of Clamart and walked through them to Sèvres—coming back by steamer. I read every day in the Bibliothèque Nationale and every night in the Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève. I often go to vespers at Notre Dame or at Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. I never go to the theatre—as I have no money. I have no money either to buy books. Synge was over here selling out and gave me his play to read—a play which is to be produced by the Irish Literary Theatre. I criticised it. Synge says I have a mind like Spinoza!

James Joyce: Letters

To Lady Gregory (1902):

All things are inconstant except the faith of the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light. And though I seem to have been driven out of my country here as a misbeliever I have found no man yet with a faith like mine.

James Joyce: The Boarding House

She was a little vulgar; sometimes she said I seen and If I had’ve known. But what would grammar matter if he really loved her?

Brewer's Blackbirds @ Schat's Bakery

Brewer's Blackbirds @ Schat's Bakery in Bishop CA. The line of hungry skiers et al. wound like a snake through the bread racks and pastries. The blackbirds were atop the roof and sign. Beneath your feet or in an empty chair, waiting for the crumbs to fall. Too chilly to sit outside? Go eat in your car at the park across the road or the Vons parking lot.🎈

#rlswihart13 #bishopca #schatsbakery #travelingwithoutcharlie #ontheroadagain #brewersblackbirds #blackbirdsofinstagram #goblue💙 #readmorepoetry2024🎈

At Swim-Two-Birds

I was talking to a friend of yours last night, I said drily. I mean Mr. Trellis. He has bought a ream of ruled foolscap and is starting on his story. He is compelling all his characters to live with him in the Red Swan Hotel so that he can keep an eye on them and see that there is no boozing.