By Thomas Cleveland
To read Joyce requires one to aid a sense of music with the intellect and memory, as well as the “lowbrow” with a knowledge of literature and history. In the last 50 years, the arts have been overtaken by intellects who superficially engage in a mixture of these two approaches, but who are really too much enamored with the “Concept” and kinesis (or “didactic pornography” as Campbell interpreted it), lacking the essential musicality, and in fact in direct contrast with Joyce’s sublime stasis. Reading Joyce has eternally contextualized any aspirations I have for writing; he is at once an inspiration and a burden of influence causing an immense anxiety (in H. Bloom’s terms) that must somehow be overturned to allow for an original voice of my own to develop. This essay is ultimately as trivial as the works of the type of people mentioned and precedes any real development, as it is rutted in a parody of Finnegans Wake. Despite the nightmare of history that directly precedes me, however, I hope to escape from mediocrity by first winning this scholarship and applying it to my studies at St. John’s College in Annapolis where I will have the opportunity to develop my intellect so that I might be better able to understand Joyce and to write of him what has never been written of any man.
The Rub Itself
to sea, to readjoyce coalls for ading the auriculear pèare (the musical fathroot:Pprrpffrrppffff) with the anntediluvial cerabelle (composed of the mummory and creatrex equilaterally); that is the bowelly tympabum with savvy of kibbledyledge and infobits, knowsom and forgetsom, all by and bout dedaladantearistristhomshaquespear-nellkellshelleswiftumptypoleonaugustinfinnolanmacotoolwildevicomer.
Hail! Hullo! How! How now! holy Seer, that mithck of a man, Julioyce Sayer (as Amer’s own would say of him) offspringing since the nouveauld begunning or of th’eternal, co-eternal recoeternaliteration, seeing despite veils of dim suffursurption, and a dam fine Pèresident chiefly of his most homelystasistately garden (if a member Anthe manyed house of Burgesses, checking the Supremely Curtigan, taken miny a pride in the prolichariot, may hum so hymnself). I do know, though read little writing and underhood less, I cain’t, am almost anabel to respirinspirate, standing under Armoryed floods of arcane seals simpling him to a Sayer salad, and disingestigrating him into all their pettyt lytlle Farts (unmuseicked by contrast) for arts ake, -alseways members of the childergarten claiming infinitehood, not knowing enfin their tessimal points, stuck repeating their kenesibet, not understamping that as fallows: a Stein is a Dali is a Rauschenberg is a Pahlaniuk is a Ginsberg is a Marxifemipsychoanalyticstructuro-postructuradeconstructionalist is a the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poets ain’t a rose is a Cage is a Koons is a Warhol is a Reinhart is a Vonnegut is a Barney is a Hockney is a Apollinaire is a Cleverlittleland lubber like myself just trying to reapjoyce from the cropse of the Gardener Himself the (multifoliate) Rose Itself which he, reofcourso, has no trouble knowing himself (unlike those premiconceptionists) as it sowed itself in his bellyself forom the void and fromless infinite, and they unjustinjesting his buds as I go on shemming myself, shauming meself with all these selfy bruteous blunderwords; I mayn’t express him unblam’d.
Malgré, malgroing through my dublyartyssesganhood, ever the Essayer, trying after the trulying cruell droughts of march’s wasteland to cremake into Aprill with his (Aprill’s) wordy shoures shifting to meet May’s flower-de-louis, a mayd reknowed all the whiles and charms one might suspect, with much clepting and much cattycalled all: the Vertygreen Mary, the Girl of 1000 Faces (and bucketsfull more of wooden teeth), Denty Dubois, Les Filles de Papier de Monet, Buckminny Fuller, (more than a) Souzanne Beatrichitude, Iseult “Izzy” Pound, Ella Penchée, Judesster Splitsintwain, Frieda “Bigger Than a Breadbox” Lawrcents, Anaïs Ninepence, Gerty MacDough (loveswell the boy who has the bisickle), but mostlly Milly Clamsworth, and I mark to retake her on my scholarbarque, schoolyship, kinderbargin’ ‘cross the salt, salt sea on to Annasburg (a dear, fairminded port city stjolohng the Chesapeake) to brimfullfill my cerabelle to the timtiptop with all the beforeginningmentioned toptidbits with everychan eye on he, the low, patchèd pirate of the hautbrowseas, old father, old fartificer whose cup run forth over, froth ever in vinny vedi vico, while I, Jubilate Agon, by sièckles around axpire him to share the road with a “Me too! pedalus” urping and luning my whorarse totley and oh sous poetica-ly on this notlonginuff subsublime sheef for whole the panelboard
By Thomas Cleveland
Hickory High School
1996 Hawk Blvd.
Chesapeake, VA 23322