Back in Tokyo and I felt so hungry for Joyce, so I reread Dubliners over the past four or five days. To give my reading life a bit of a structure, I think I'll keep reading Joyce poco a poco this year.
His soul approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling. (The Dead, 223)
Thus one acquires a regard d'outre-tombes. Yet I wonder: can we ever get away from the spells of the dead and CREATE anew, not just PRO-create in an eternal repetition?
