He spoke then, and they all listened to his words of love as he depicted it was, or should be, and he prayed —though he had disclaimed himself from his rightful rearing as a Catholic in his country of Ireland. James Joyce knew in his heart he would one day become a Catholic again —if only in fact he was the only other to know his heart remained open and truthful influencing the words he so gave the world.
They say James Joyce was one of the first true modernist writers of his time. His credo was to say yes to life, with or without reservations for what it might or might not deliver. No minor truths were to be kept from his readers’ reach. James Joyce the scripter wasn’t a man of algorisms. He was driven by the truth of, and from his heart, and the rich overly and discernable use of alcohol. He died at age fifty-nine.
Today, that guy, da harv, exists and creates his dreams within what he allows himself. His is an abstract “peace” while at the same time of life bearing a deep mistrust for those who choose to think for him; today for his children and new generations to come.
When da harv dreams his wonderful dreams, they come free form, void of mitigation, and free of judgments; never with a political bent driven by spirals, trying desperately to stay aloof from those in my employ or life’s work, in their sacred attempts at telling me what I should or shouldn’t be thinking.
…And if you like, a touch more about James Joyce:
“James Joyce was born in Dublin in 1882, the oldest of ten children in a Catholic family. He attended Jesuit schools and, in 1904, moved first to Trieste, then Paris, with Nora Barnacle; they married in 1931. After publishing his first novel. In 1916, Joyce developed glaucoma, and his eyesight steadily diminished for the rest of his life. His seminal novel Ulysses was published by his friend Sylvia Beach out of her Paris bookstore.”
Source: https://www.mhpbooks.com/books/the-dead/
