/lit/ - Literature

bugs..
easy on
the carrots..

Has there ever been a greater passage written in English than the final sequence of The Dead by James Joyce?

the power of christ compels you!

they'll be long gone in a jiffy, no sweat literatiz

JAMES JOYCE,
J'AIME JOYCE

I think I already have everyone on /lit/ but here is my profile

goodreads.com/user/show/23578098-l-an

>>7118795
>age
23

>education
last year of college

>single
yes

>virgin
yes

>living at home
yes

>state of parents
divorced

>daily routine
Study. That's all I do until get it done with my thesis.
Some weekends I watch a movie.

>Employed
No.

>currently reading
On Certainty - Wittgenstein
Gothic Art - Camille
Confessions - Augustine
Kant's Construction of Nature - Friedmann

>Favorite book
I don't have a favourite book.

>at what age did you start reading a lot
16

>His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and The Dead.

Dubliners, short story 'The Dead.'

^
>What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk! tbh

bamp

ATHEIST

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree;

And only God who makes the tree
Also makes the fools like me.

But only fools like me, you see,
Can make a God, who makes a tree.

His gaze traveled outside the window-glass,
and found rest in the snow covered floor.

In the poorly lit streets his memory found a
theme, one of the living and the dead, and
it spoke the pressure building in his chest.

The moon, spying you shyly, understands how
alone you feel, her eyes too wandering companionless.

He looked back into the room and stared idly at her wife's
hair as she slept. What a day it had been for her... It isn't
easy to lose someone, to accept they are gone.

The pressure building in his chest was reaching for his
throat, and a urge to speak, to talk, to tear apart in tears
distilled his mind. His eyes moistened, he wanted to cry.

In an effort of reason he shook his head, and looked
Back at the street: snowdrops, obliquely falling, falling faintly,
faintly falling, plagiarizing some vague memory that hid in his mind.

What memory? He struggled to remember. He wanted to remember.
He was a child, he was sure. And his father was there, on a Christmas

Evening. He was alone with his father, he remembered, yes, that was it, and
Her mother was out to get some bread. And they were both looking at the people,

At night, illuminated by some weak lamplights, as they crossed the streets alone,
And against the silence that covered them two his father spoke, with his grave voice,
(which he dearly missed), those very words that had changed him. His eyes watered, as

In his mind those words formed and spoke to him. He was not alone anymore.