Archiv der Kategorie: GIACOMO.JOYCE

Whirling wreaths of grey vapour upon the heath. Her face, how grey and grave! Dank matted hair. Her lips press softly, her sighing breath comes through. Kissed. >>>> Giacomo Joyce 44 Giacomo Joyce 42 <<<< Editorial <<<<

Her body has no smell: an odourless flower. On the stairs. A cold frail hand: shyness, silence: dark languor-flooded eyes: weariness. >>>> Giacomo Joyce 43 Giacomo Joyce 41 <<<< Editorial <<<<

These quiet cold fingers have touched the pages, foul and fair, on which my shame shall glow for ever. Quiet and cold and pure fingers. Have they never erred? >>>> Giacomo Joyce 42 Giacomo Joyce 40 <<<< Editorial <<<<

My Words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire. >>>> Giacomo Joyce 41 Giacomo Joyce 39 <<<< Editorial <<<<

Loggione. The sodden walls ooze a steamy damp. A symphony of small fuses the mass of huddled human forms: sour reek of armpits, nozzled oranges, melting breast ointments, mastick water, the breath of suppers of sulphurous garlic, foul phosphorescent farts, … Weiterlesen →

She stands black-robed at the telephone. Little timid laughs, little cries, timid runs of speech suddenly broken … Parlerò colla mamma … Come! chook, chook! come! The black pullet is frightened: little runs suddenly broken, little timid cries: it is … Weiterlesen →

She says that, had The Portrait of the Artist been frank only for frankness‘ sake, she would have asked why I had given it to her to read. O you would, would you? A lady of letters. >>>> Giacomo Joyce … Weiterlesen →

Once more in her chair by the window, happy words on her tongue, happy laughter. A bird twittering after storm, happy that its little foolish life has fluttered out of reach of the clutching fingers of an epileptic lord and … Weiterlesen →

Operated. The surgeon‘s knife has probed in her entrails and withdrawn, leaving the raw jagged gash of its passage on her belly. I see her full dark suffering eyes, beautiful as the eyes of an antilope. O cruel wound! Libidinous … Weiterlesen →

The housemaid tells me that they had to take her away at once to the hospital, poveretta, that she suffered so much, so much, poveretta, that it is very grave …… I walk away from the empty house. I feel … Weiterlesen →

Nebenbei bemerkt: indem Renoir sich vom Buchstaben der Stevensonschen Erzählung löste, gelang ihm wieder einmal eine Verfilmung, die dem Geist des Schriftstellers näher ist als jede andere. André Bazin: >>>> Jean Renoir (1974). >>>> Giacomo Joyce 34 Giacomo Joyce 32 … Weiterlesen →

She walks before me along the corridor and as she walks a dark coil of her hair slowly uncoils and falls. Slowly uncoiling, falling hair. She does not know and walks before me, simple and proud. So did she walk … Weiterlesen →

I expound Shakespeare to the docile Trieste: Hamlet, quoth I, who is most courteous to gentle and simple is rude only to Polonius. Perhaps, an embittered idealist, he can see in the parents of his beloved only grotesque attempts an … Weiterlesen →

In the raw veiled spring morning faint odours float of morning Paris: aniseed, damp sawdust, hot dough of bread: and as I cross the Pont Saint Michel the steelblue waking waters chill my heart. They creep and lap about the … Weiterlesen →

I play lightly, softly singing, John Dowland‘s languid song. Loth to depart: I too am loth to go. That age is here and know. Here, opening from the darkness of desire, are eyes that dim the breaking East, their shimmer … Weiterlesen →