Sunday Book-Thought 123

Founded on faith in the possibility of insight – the Joycean epiphany, the Poundian image that can flash in an instant of time; on faith, too, that technology need not consign the arts to irrelevance, the Modernist enterprise evolved its verbal technologies, its poem- and novel-machines of intricate interacting discrete pieces. The technology on which it drew for tacit analogies is largely obsolescent now: as much so as, say, Dante’s Earth-centered cosmos. The Dublin trams are long gone, and the linotype machine; the typewriter is going; Bloom’s watch with hands will some day need a footnote. Already students need the explanation that when a telephone whirs and a man says ‘Twentyeight. No. Twenty. Double four, yes’ [7.385] he has cranked the magneto and is now requesting a number. That world survives now, like Dante’s world, in art. Its assumptions survive in the structures of its art: complex artifacts we even sometimes take apart for maintenance.
Hugh KennerThe Mechanic Muse (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 110-111.

Sunday Book-Thought 52

The adventures related in the literature of the Wild West were remote from my nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape. I liked better some American detective stories which were traversed from time to time by unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing wrong in these stories and though their intention was sometimes literary they were circulated secretly at school. One day when Father Butler was hearing the four pages of Roman History, clumsy Leo Dillon was discovered with a copy of The Halfpenny Marvel.
‘This page or this page? This page? Now, Dillon, up! “Hardly had the day” … Go on! What day? “Hardly had the day dawned” … Have you studied it? What have you there in your pocket?’
Everyone’s heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the pages, frowning.
‘What is this rubbish?’ he said. ‘The Apache Chief! Is this what you read instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find any more of this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote it, I suppose, was some wretched fellow who writes these things for a drink. I’m surprised at boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I could understand it if you were… National School boys. Now, Dillon, I advise you strongly, get at your work or…’
This rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the glory of the Wild West for me, and the confused puffy face of Leo Dillon awakened one of my consciences. But when the restraining influence of the school was at a distance I began to hunger again for wild sensations, for the escape which those chronicles of disorder alone seemed to offer me. The mimic warfare of the evening became at last as wearisome to me as the routine of school in the morning because I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.
James Joyce, ‘An Encounter’, in Dubliners (London: Collector’s Library, 2005 [first published 1914]), pp. 19-29 (19-20)