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Anand Bose, Glyph Agog In 7 Ecclesia Street, Time: 8 AM
On James Joyce
Page 6
The eyes of the scholar went deep into a land beyond the spectacles, a land of visions. It's a land of blindness where sight lies with Borges in spirit. The vision was terrifying with the presence of 'vlad-tepes'- the original Dracula. Yes the representation is possible in the glyph of being the psychic of gothic macabre. There's a semblance of vision in their moustaches. They are identical, except that one is down and the other is up. Its 'metm[art]chosis'.
The cats became afraid; the sound of howling could be heard from a distant past. The cats decided to leave, as the desire for food became sweat of Hitchcock in climax. One last look at the other display. It was cubic lingerie with faces of gazing. The caption read: 'slip of lingerie in deconstruction'.
The juggle of the cosmic in my earthly hovel woke me up from the land of reverie. The tightening of pressure as well as the awakening of doves rising was Archimedian in aphrodisia. The palm of the body read the 'laschivia', of a psalm of wanting to return as well as painful in being exiled. I went to my coven for the puja purge. It was western and I thought of Duchamp's functionalism in commode aesthetics. Bowels aren't museums, they are functional in being alive. By this time the thud, plop and pieces. I became 'Guernica' complete.
[Epilogue]
Dear James Joyce, the time which you have lived and the time, I live is different. You did share the epic of being ordinary and fantastic through the ink of immortality. I could never finish reading you. If I did it would do justice for a silly exam. If I did injustice in taking the imagination of your youth and making myself a character in it, it's with the spirit of fondest admiration and celebration. " You are smiling: I see it" That's the most happiest gift that you could give as a token. The sensations of touch, taste, smell and sight are colours of ink, with which you breathed the life of making the extraordinary in the mortal, human, humane and epic. The rhythm of your prose is 'lyric' on paper. In you the artist has fulfilled the mortality of Helen to be epic of the humane.
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
