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tom waits for alice

Av tom waits for alice
i Sosialt

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Glemte å ta med meg boka jeg kjøpte i dag..tenkte jeg skulle sitte å lese og kose meg i natt men neeeeiiiida :roll:

Haf sum Ulysses:

 

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:

-- Introibo ad altare Dei.

Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely:

-- Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!

Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.

-- Back to barracks! he said sternly.

He added in a preacher's tone:

-- For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.

He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.

-- Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you?

He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.

-- The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek! He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.

Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on.

-- My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?

He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:

-- Will he come? The jejune jesuit!

Ceasing, he began to shave with care.

-- Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.

-- Yes, my love?

-- How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?

Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.

-- God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knifeblade.

He shaved warily over his chin.

-- He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase?

-- A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?

-- I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off.

Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

-- Scutter! he cried thickly.

He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said:

-- Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.

Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:

-- The bard's noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can't you?

He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.

-- God! he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look.

Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown.

-- Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.

He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face.

-- The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you.

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TLDR O_O

Kanskje mer en Einstein-type, du?

 

The Meaning of Life

 

What is the meaning of human life, or of organic life altogether? To answer

this question at all implies a religion. Is there any sense then, you ask, in

putting it? I answer, the man who regards his own life and that of his

fellow-creatures as meaningless is not merely unfortunate but almost

disqualified for life.

 

The World as I see it

 

What an extraordinary situation is that of us mortals! Each of us is here for a

brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he sometimes thinks he

feels it. But from the point of view of daily life, without going deeper, we exist

for our fellow-men--in the first place for those on whose smiles and welfare all

our happiness depends, and next for all those unknown to us personally with

whose destinies we are bound up by the tie of sympathy. A hundred times

every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life depend on the labours

of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in

the same measure as I have received and am still receiving. I am strongly

drawn to the simple life and am often oppressed by the feeling that I am

engrossing an unnecessary amount of the labour of my fellow-men. I regard

class differences as contrary to justice and, in the last resort, based on force. I

also consider that plain living is good for everybody, physically and mentally.

 

In human freedom in the philosophical sense I am definitely a disbeliever.

Everybody acts not only under external compulsion but also in accordance

with inner necessity. Schopenhauer's saying, that "a man can do as he will, but

not will as he will," has been an inspiration to me since my youth up, and a

continual consolation and unfailing well-spring of patience in the face of the

hardships of life, my own and others'. This feeling mercifully mitigates the

sense of responsibility which so easily becomes paralysing, and it prevents us

from taking ourselves and other people too seriously; it conduces to a view of

life in which humour, above all, has its due place.

 

To inquire after the meaning or object of one's own existence or of creation

generally has always seemed to me absurd from an objective point of view.

And yet everybody has certain ideals which determine the direction of his

endeavours and his judgments. In this sense I have never looked upon ease

and happiness as ends in themselves--such an ethical basis I call more proper

for a herd of swine. The ideals which have lighted me on my way and time

after time given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Truth,

Goodness, and Beauty. Without the sense of fellowship with men of like mind,

of preoccupation with the objective, the eternally unattainable in the field of art

and scientific research, life would have seemed to me empty. The ordinary

objects of human endeavour--property, outward success, luxury--have

always seemed to me contemptible.

 

My passionate sense of social justice and social responsibility has always

contrasted oddly with my pronounced freedom from the need for direct

contact with other human beings and human communities. I gang my own gait

and have never belonged to my country, my home, my friends, or even my

immediate family, with my whole heart; in the face of all these ties I have never

lost an obstinate sense of detachment, of the need for solitude--a feeling

which increases with the years. One is sharply conscious, yet without regret,

of the limits to the possibility of mutual understanding and sympathy with one's

fellow-creatures. Such a person no doubt loses something in the way of

geniality and light-heartedness ; on the other hand, he is largely independent of

the opinions, habits, and judgments of his fellows and avoids the temptation to

take his stand on such insecure foundations.

 

My political ideal is that of democracy. Let every man be respected as an

individual and no man idolized. It is an irony of fate that I myself have been the

recipient of excessive admiration and respect from my fellows through no

fault, and no merit, of my own. The cause of this may well be the desire,

unattainable for many, to understand the one or two ideas to which I have

with my feeble powers attained through ceaseless struggle. I am quite aware

that it is necessary for the success of any complex undertaking that one man

should do the thinking and directing and in general bear the responsibility. But

the led must not be compelled, they must be able to choose their leader. An

autocratic system of coercion, in my opinion, soon degenerates. For force

always attracts men of low morality, and I believe it to be an invariable rule

that tyrants of genius are succeeded by scoundrels. For this reason I have

always been passionately opposed to systems such as we see in Italy and

Russia to-day. The thing that has brought discredit upon the prevailing form of

democracy in Europe to-day is not to be laid to the door of the democratic

idea as such, but to lack of stability on the part of the heads of governments

and to the impersonal character of the electoral system. I believe that in this

respect the United States of America have found the right way. They have a

responsible President who is elected for a sufficiently long period and has

sufficient powers to be really responsible. On the other hand, what I value in

our political system is the more extensive provision that it makes for the

individual in case of illness or need. The really valuable thing in the pageant of

human life seems to me not the State but the creative, sentient individual, the

personality; it alone creates the noble and the sublime, while the herd as such

remains dull in thought and dull in feeling.

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Kris

Kris

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Skrevet (endret)
Så hva skjer her?

 

Her om dagen gikk det en film på tv3, "stolthet og fordom", lurer egentlig på hva den filmen het på engelsk, altså originaltittelen. Noen som har peiling eller?

 

Orginaltittelen er Pride & Prejudice.

 

Edit: Var visst for sen

Endret av Kris93
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Hashtægg

Hashtægg

Skrevet
Skrevet (endret)
EDIT: Forresten; *kle av seg foran demille*

Pent.

 

STOP DIS! NAO!

From off a hill whose concave womb reworded

A plaintful story from a sist'ring vale,

My spirits t'attend this double voice accorded,

And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale,

Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,

Tearing of papers, breaking rings atwain,

Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,

Which fortified her visage from the sun,

Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw

The carcase of a beauty spent and done.

Time had not scythed all that youth begun,

Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven's fell rage

Some beauty peeped through lattice of seared age.

 

Vil du se resten, PM me lxxzm ;--------D

Endret av Demille
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