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Anand Bose, Glyph Agog In 7 Ecclesia Street, Time: 8 AM
On James Joyce
Page 5
Moly the magic herb licked her tongue over her lips.a metamorphosing insect was on the look out for polony. Insects became non-vegetarian, the flesh is ascetic only in imposition. The cats were disappointed. The rats were growing with magic of fleshy hams. They were learning magic in eluding the cats. The rats are defying gravity in a special way. The fiction is there in a special book, only one of its kind. We are becoming blind with the verses in the book. The more we read, the more myopic we become. The book says- not to tolerate any other type of fiction different from it. There are some towers, which are older than fiction. It's different from the tower in the book, so what to do? We blow it up. Little by little so that we can show how headless our fiction is. The cats are shouting zindabad, zindabad.These rats are so traditional they have talismans in their hams.
The cats wanted to fly like Concorde-they asked Hermes for his sandal wings. In return they offered classes on catechisms. Off they flew into the museum all of them were specially attracted to the 'autumn of the cannibal', as they were hungry. The scholar cat adjusted his frame of vision to have a closer look. It was pudding in blood all soaked with gory of limbs. The learned one pondered a bit -thought about the fusion of 'cooked Vs raw' and raw in the cook. It's written in the name of jeans called levi-straus. The other cats started mewing pitifully. The wise one smiled with the zen of discernment. Revelation requires zero thinking. Simple, the logic is 'the glyph is resistant to olfaction's'. The cats were proud in admiration you come to conclusions at the spur of the movement; wisdom is fleshy because it loves to smell.
Reference: James Joyce, A portrait of the artist as a young man
Cf. Goethe on Tragedy (in German) | Aristotle Anthology | Rilke, Letter to a Young Poet | Plato, Whom are we talking to? | Kierkegaard, My work as an author | Emerson, Self-knowledge | Gibson - McRury, Discovering one's face | Emerson, We differ in art, not in wisdom
