Saturday, November 23, 2013

Page 5 (1.66-105) "Scutter... Across the"


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Delaney: [8] Useen: [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [map] [*]
Delaney: [7]

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— 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.


"Scutter" = diarrhea

I don't find "art colo[u]r" as a phrase until 1912's "Art Color Plate Engraving Company"

"almost taste it" (BM and JAJ share this synesthesia)

"mounted to" = simultaneously stepping forward and up (J's descriptive invention?)

(isn't "fair oakpale hair" redundant?)


— 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 harbour mouth of Kingstown.
— Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.


[what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother] (Swinburne was OG's idol. Twice he had made a pilgrimage to Putney.)

"scrotumtightening" (this cremaster reflex to keep the testicles safe and warm can be triggered by cold, fear, or just immersion in water)

ἐπὶ οἴνοπα πόντον winedark?
 
"Thálatta! Thálatta!" (Greek: Θάλαττα! θάλαττα! 'The sea! The sea!')
BM's Greek seems simple/limited [cite]

JAJ: "My father wanted me to take Greek as third language, my mother German and my friends Irish. Result, I took Italian."

"mailboat" = 8:15am (the sun has been up for 3hrs)

1918 mailboat
1916

[mighty mother] Pope, Dryden, Jonson, Spenser, Virgil... but mainly AE?

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.
— Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.
— You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you....


in a letter from Dec 1903 Gogarty's mother claims to have forbidden an unnamed 'bad Catholic' from visiting Gogarty there.


Delaney: [8]
He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips.
— But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all!
He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.


"The aunt thinks you killed your mother" she died a year ago, but BM's insensitivity is still heartless and shocking (maybe a sort of Tourette's?)
"[Gogarty] had a defect that prevented him being a companionable man: he had no reserve in speaking about people, even those he had cause to admire, even those who were close to him. If they had some pitiful disability or shortcoming, he brought it right out. It was an incontinence of speech... The result was that people gave him license and kept a distance from him." --Padraic Colum
"Someone killed her" (anthropomorphic/pathetic fallacy? God?)

[hyperborean]

"He broke off" (the preceding ellipses emphasize that Gogarty is holding something back)

"showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder... lathered again lightly his farther cheek"

"mummer" Bulfin contrasts JAJ to OG: "The other poet listened in silence..."


Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coatsleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge

why "rested" not 'resting'? detachment/distance? past action?

"shiny black coatsleeve" shiny = worn

only BM's silence allows SD to form thoughts [Benstock]

"not yet the pain of love" (a very philosophical criticism of SD's immaturity? could he be thinking this about himself? is it a phrase he's saved?)


>


mysteries:


[DD 02:10-03:40]
[DD 00:00-01:59]


[IM 05:22-08:32]

[LV1 06:58-09:47]

[LV2 04:30-07:05]


telemachus: 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23


1 comment:

  1. -- 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 harbour mouth 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.

    -- Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.

    -- You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you....

    He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips.

    -- But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all!

    He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.

    Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coatsleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge

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