#saw the best performance of Hamlet of my life read so many new books made out with some hot girls trip to France took train thru rocky mtns

[hamletthedane]

2023 year in review:

#got into a major car wreck had a family member die had my best friend disown me bc she joined a cult grandpa nearly died #got bad case of COVID likely permanently lost 60% of my hearing in one ear stepped on a 2in rusty nail and got an infection #on the other hand: #saw the best performance of Hamlet of my life read so many new books made out with some hot girls trip to France took train thru rocky mtns #saw les mis tour sewed 15 full sized quilts presented at a conference did good job at work stayed alive #quite the year…whew! #…maybe I should type out all the good things more often

[clarasimone]

Iain Glen nailing Hamlet (1991)

In 1991, after winning the Evening Standard Film Award for Best Actor, Iain Glen gave his soulful all, not on the stage in London, no, not yet, though really he could have, but at the Old Vic in Bristol, donning the persona of the Dane, Hamlet. He won the Special Commendation Ian Charleson Award* for his performance and yet it appears we will never see but stills from this production as no video recording was made, not even by and for the company. The University of Bristol has the archives of the production: the playbook, the programme and black and white stills. The V&A archives have the administrative papers. In our day and age, this sad evanescent corporeal sate of affairs is unimaginable. The memory of the play, of this performance fading away? We rebel against the very thought. We brandish our cell phones and swear we shall unearth and pirate its memory, somehow, somewhere. Even if we have to hypnotize patrons or pull out the very hearts of those who saw Iain Glen on stage, those few, those happy few, to read into their very memory and pulsating membrane just how brilliant he was. Because he was, he was. That’s what they’ll all tell you... 

Below, those pics and testimonies....

*(The Charleson Awards were established in memory of Ian Charleson, who died at 40 from Aids while playing Hamlet at the National Theatre in 1989)

- Iain Glen is a rampaging prince, quixotic, technically sound, tense as a coiled spring, funny. ‘To be, or not to be’ results from throwing himself against the white walls, an air of trembling unpredictability is beautifully conveyed throughout. ‘Oh, what a rogue and peasants slave’ is blindingly powerful. My life is drawn in angrily modern post Gielgud Hamlets: David Warner, Nicol Williams, Visotsky, Jonathon Price. Iain Glen is equal to them. He keeps good company. THE OBSERVER, Michael Coveney

- Paul Unwin’s riveting production reminded me more strongly than any I have ever seen that the Danish Court is riddled with secrecy. Politics is a form of hide and seek: everyone stealthily watches everyone else. Iain Glen’s Hamlet is a melancholic in the clinical sense: his impeccable breeding and essential good nature keep in check what might be an approaching breakdown. His vitriolic humour acts as a safety valve for a nagging instability, his boyish charm is deployed to placate and deceive a hostile and watchful world. Glen brings out Hamlet’s fatal self absorption: the way he cannot help observing himself and putting a moral price tag on every action and failure. He is a doomed boy. And his chill but touching calm at the end is that of a man who has finally understood the secrets behind the closed doors. The Sunday Times, John Peter

- This is an excellent production of Hamlet from the Bristol Old Vic. The director Paul Unwin and his designer Bunnie Christie have set the play in turn of the century Europe. Elsinore is a palace of claustrophobically white walls and numerous doors. All this is handled with a light touch, without drawing attention away from the play. Our first encounter with Hamlet shows him bottled up with rage and grief. Glen gives a gripping performance. The self-dramatising side of the character is tapped to the full by this talented actor. The Spectator, Christopher Edwards

**************************************************************************************************

The following though is my favorite review/article because it situates Iain Glen’s creation is time, in the spectrum of all renowned Hamlets.

How will Cumberbatch, TV’s Sherlock, solve the great mystery of Hamlet? by Michael Coveney - Aug 17, 2015

In 1987, three years before he died, the critic and venerable Shakespearean JC Trewin published a book of personal experience and reminiscence: Five and Eighty Hamlets. I’m thinking of supplying a second volume, under my own name, called Six and Fifty Hamlets, for that will be my total once Benedict Cumberbatch has opened at the Barbican.

There’s a JC and MC overlap of about 15 years: Trewin was a big fan of Derek Jacobi’s logical and graceful prince in 1977 and ended with less enthusiastic remarks about “the probing intelligence” of Michael Pennington in 1980 (both Jacobi and Pennington were 37 when they played the role; Cumberbatch is 39) and emotional pitch and distraction of Roger Rees in 1984 (post-Nickleby, Rees was 40, but an electric eel and ever-youthful).

I started as a reviewer in 1972 with three Hamlets on the trot: the outrageous Charles Marowitz collage, which treats Hamlet as a creep and Ophelia as a demented tart, and makes exemplary, equally unattractive polar opposites of Laertes and Fortinbras; a noble, stately Keith Michell (with a frantic Polonius by Ron Moody) at the Bankside Globe, Sam Wanamaker’s early draft of the Shakespearean replica; and a 90-minute gymnastic exercise performed by a cast of eight in identical chain mail and black breeches at the Arts Theatre.

This gives an idea of how alterable and adaptable Hamlet has been, and continues to be. There are contestable readings between the Folios, any number of possible cuts, and there is no end of choice in emphasis. Trewin once wrote a programme note for a student production directed by Jonathan Miller in which he said that the first scene on the battlements (“Who’s there?”) was the most exciting in world drama; the scene was cut.

And as Steven Berkoff pointed out in his appropriately immodestly titled book I Am Hamlet (1989), Hamlet doesn’t exist in the way Macbeth, or Coriolanus, exists; when you play Hamlet, he becomes you, not the other way round. Hamlet, said Hazlitt, is as real as our own thoughts.

Which is why my three favourite Hamlets are all so different from each other, and attractive because of the personality of the actor who’s provided the mould for the Hamlet jelly: my first, pre-critical-days Hamlet, David Warner (1965) at the Royal Shakespeare Company, was a lank and indolently charismatic student in a long red scarf, exact contemporary of David Halliwell’s Malcolm Scrawdyke, and two years before students were literally revolting in Paris and London; then Alan Cumming (1993) with English Touring Theatre, notably quick, mercurial and very funny, with a detachable doublet and hose, black Lycra pants and bovver boots, definitely (then) the glass of fashion, a graceful gender-bender like Brett Anderson of indie band Suede; and, at last, Michael Sheen (2011) at the Young Vic, a vivid and overreaching fantasist in a psychiatric institution (“Denmark’s a prison”), where every actor “plays” his part.

These three actors – Warner, Cumming, Sheen – occupy what might be termed the radical, alternative tradition of Hamlets, whereas the authoritative, graceful nobility of Jacobi belongs to the Forbes Robertson/John Gielgud line of high-ranking top drawer ‘star’ turns, a dying species and last represented, sourly but magnificently, by Ralph Fiennes (1995) in the gilded popular palace of the Hackney Empire. Fiennes, like Cumberbatch, has the sort of voice you might expect a non-radical, traditional Hamlet to possess.

But if you listen to Gielgud on tape, you soon realise he wasn’t ‘old school’ at all. He must have been as modern, at the time, as Noel Coward. Gielgud is never ‘intoned’ or overtly posh, he’s quicksilver, supple, intellectually alert. I saw him deliver the “Oh what a rogue and peasant slave” soliloquy on the night the National left the Old Vic (February 28, 1976); he had played the role more than 500 times, and not for 37 years, but it was as fresh, brilliant and compelling as if he had been making it up on the spot.

Ben Kingsley, too, in 1975, was a fiercely intelligent Royal Shakespeare Company Hamlet, and I saw much of that physical and mental power in David Tennant’s, also for the RSC in 2008, with an added pinch of mischief and irony. There’s another tradition, too, of angry Hamlets: Nicol Williamson in 1969, a scowling, ferocious demon; Jonathan Pryce at the Royal Court in 1980, possessed by the ghost of his father and spewing his lines, too, before finding Yorick’s skull in a cabinet of bones, an ossuary of Osrics; and a sourpuss Christopher Ecclestone (2002), spiritually constipated, moody as a moose with a migraine, at the West Yorkshire Playhouse.

One Hamlet who had a little of all these different attributes – funny, quixotic, powerful, unhappy, clever and genuinely heroic – was Iain Glen (1991) at the Bristol Old Vic, and I can imagine Cumberbatch developing along similar lines. He, like so many modern Hamlets, is pushing 40 – as was Jude Law (2009), hoary-voiced in the West End – yet when Trevor Nunn cast Ben Whishaw (2004) straight from RADA, aged 23, petulant and precocious, at the Old Vic, he looked like a 16-year-old, and too young for what he was saying. It’s like the reverse of King Lear, where you have to be younger to play older with any truth or vigour.

Michael Billington’s top Hamlet remains Michael Redgrave, aged 50, in 1958, as he recounts in his brilliant new book, The 101 Greatest Plays (seven of the 101 are by Shakespeare); Hamlet, he says, more than any other play, alters according to time as well as place.

So, Yuri Lyubimov’s great Cold War Hamlet, the prince played by the dissident poet Vladimir Visotsky, was primarily about surveillance, the action played on either side of an endlessly moving hessian and woollen wall. And in Belgrade in 1980, shortly after the death of Tito, the play became a statement of anxiety about the succession.

There’s a mystery to Hamlet that not even Sherlock Holmes could solve, though Cumberbatch will no doubt try his darndest – even if he finds his Watson at the Barbican (Leo Bill is playing Horatio) more of a hindrance than a help; there are, after all, more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in his friend’s philosophy.

*************************************************************************************************

Oh! Did I say that we were never going to see Iain Glen in the skin of the great Dane? Tsk. How silly of me. Meet IG’s Hamlet in Tom Stoppard’s postmodern theatrical whimsy ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN ARE DEAD, shot the year before the Bristol play.

Though almost surreal and most often funny as the film follows the Pulp Fiction-like misadventures of two forgettable Shakespearian characters, crossing paths with other more or less fortunate characters, their time with Hamlet makes us privy to the Dane as we never quite see him in the Bard’s play... but for one memorable scene,  in which Iain Glen absolutely nails it, emoting the famous “To be or not to be” which you see tortures his soul, brings tears to his eyes and contorts his mouth; the moment made all the more memorable by the fact that it is a silent scene. You never hear him utter the famous line, but you see the words leave his lips and feel them mark your soul.

I’m kinda telling myself that it’s 1991 and I’m sitting in the Old Vic, in Bristol, not London. Not yet.

#Iain Glen #hamlet

[thedaughterofkings]

Tag Game: Dig a Little Deeper

Thank you for the tag, @theproblemwithstardust! These are always fun to think through!

1. do you prefer writing with a black pen or a blue pen? Blue

2. would you prefer to live in the country or in the city? Depends on the city - I was very happy in Edinburgh, but wouldn’t be able to live in New York, I think, at least not for long. In general, the happy middle is ideal - big enough to get most of the advantages of a city (big shops with long opening hours, good travel connections, some cultural options), but small enough and close enough to the country side to have a garden and a short way into a forest

3. if you could learn a new skill, what would it be? I think I’d like to be better at handy man type things, and just feel more confident to try them out? Other than that there are so many instruments I’d love to learn!

4. do you drink your tea/coffee with sugar? I very, very rarely drink coffee, and if I do I’ll often add some sugar. But I drink tea every day and take no sugar there.

5. what was your favorite book as a child? An old book of my grandma’s, from when she was a child, which I used to read every single time we visited! It was about four sisters and their coming of age and I just loved it! I really need to reread it. Other than that our fairy tale books (good old German bloody versions, no disney sugar in this household!), and Max Kruse’s Urmel series!

6. do you prefer baths or showers? Showers for sure! I pretty much only take a bath in winter and then I’ll usually take a quick shower afterwards to wash my hair, because washing my hair in the bath is a pain that will lead to flooding.

7. if you could be a mythical creature, which one would you be? A DRAGON!!!!! If that’s for some reason not an option, then a selkie!

8. paper or electronic books? Paper books and electronic fics - though I’ve seen some book binding tutorials making the rounds and I’m very tempted now to print out my favourites and bind them prettily!

9. what is your favorite item of clothing? Gosh, I don’t even know? Probably a dress, but I wouldn’t be able to choose between them...

10. do you like your name? would you like to change it? I like it and wouldn’t want to change it! It’s relatively rare here (though not world wide, so not some strange invention from my parents), but not to the point of being incomprehensible (usually - there have been some interesting spellings, especially from English speaking people) and I think it fits me!

11. who is a mentor to you? My mum? But she’s my mum, so does she really count as a mentor? Singing wise perhaps my conductor, but she’s also a pain, so there’s that? I can’t really think of someone I’d truly call my mentor!

12. would you like to be famous? if so, what for? To do Dancing with the Stars! (Or Strictly, or Let’s dance, wherever they’ll take me!) No seriously, I’d love to do one of the dance shows, and that’s the only reason I’d like to be famous. I’d like to be reasonably rich of course, to be financially secure enough to be able to easily help family and friends and causes close to my heart (and buy and uphold a Scottish castle), but you don’t necessarily need to be famous for that. But just being famous for famous-sake? To be recognised wherever you go? No thanks. That sounds absolutely horrible.

13. are you a restless sleeper? That’s a pretty resounding yes unfortunately.

14. Do you consider yourself to be a romantic person? Oh god, I don’t even know. Do I enjoy romance? In fic yes, in books and films often not, in realy life excessive PDA creeps me out and honestly, my threshold for that is super low, so excessive probably means more like ‘any PDA’. As for whether I’m personally romantic? I’ve never been a romantic relationship and I’m not sure I even want to be!

15. which element best represents you? Earth perhaps? I’m not really sure what the elements even represent, though, so who knows! Probably not fire, though :p

16. who do you want to be closer to? I’m good actually, I think!

17. do you miss someone at the moment? Not in a particular ‘I miss you right now and won’t miss you in an hour’ way. I always miss my dad and grandpa, but that’s a different kind of missing, I think.

18. tell us about an early childhood memory. I remember the blinds and doors of the holiday home we stayed in when I was ... four? five? And the path to the beach!

19. what is the strangest thing you have eaten? I’m not the most adventurous eater admittedly, but as far as ‘I’ll never eat it again’, I took a bite out of a pickled egg once and it was properly disgusting!

20. what are you most thankful for? My family and my living circumstances (is that a word? term? It sounds weird)

21. do you like spicy food? Not reallyyyyyy - some spice is okay, and some spiciness is worse than others, but in general I’m a total wuss.

22. have you ever met someone famous? I said good morning to David Tennant, but I’m not sure I’d call that “having met him”.

23. do you keep a diary or journal? Nope! I’ve started one a couple of times, but never made it beyond three days or so!

24. do you prefer to use pen or pencil? Generally a pen, but a pencil is fine, too!

25. what is your star sign? Leo

26. do you like your cereal crunchy or soggy? Crunchy! (though I haven’t had actual cereal in ages)

27. what would you want your legacy to be? Positive, if I’m to have a legacy at all

28. do you like reading? What was the last book you read? Very much so! I last read Cornelia Funke’s Reckless series.

29. how do you show someone you love them? I try to tell them, and I try to make sure they know I’m here to listen or help or talk or whatever they need. I’m not sure I always succeed, though...

30. do you like ice in your drinks? No.

31. what are you afraid of? Not being good enough.

32. what is your favorite scent? My roses - individuals with a superb scent are The Lady of Shalott, Rose de Resht and Sweet Juliet, but there’s something really special about that first breath of rose air when Frühlingsduft (scent of spring), the first rose of the year blooms!

33. do you address older people by their name or surname? Surname! Unless they offer their first name and the ‘Du’, and even then I’ll probably try to avoid using either^^°

34. if money was not a factor, how would you live your life? I’d buy a Scottish castle and plant so many roses!

35. do you prefer swimming in pools or the ocean? Definitely pools, I’m always just a little afraid something is going to happen in natural water^^°

36. what would you do if you found $50 in the ground? I’d collect them (Unless I just saw who lost them) but try to put it towards something charitable (not 50, but one day I found two pounds on the ground, gave them to the homeless person with the kitty on Princes Street, found another pound, gave that to the one with the pupper and found another three, I think! That was a really nice day)

37. have you ever seen a shooting star? did you make a wish? Yes and yes!

38. what is one thing you would want to teach your children? To be kind? To themselves and others

39. if you had to have a tattoo, what would it be and where would you get it? A watercolour tattoo probably, perhaps of a dragon or fox, or a flower, and somewhere not always on display

40. what can you hear now? If I opened the window I’d probably hear at least some birds (some woke me up this morning with unholy yowling)

41. where do you feel the safest? At home.

42. what is one thing you want to overcome/conquer? My perfectionism that usually appears through some really strong procrastination. I also wish I was better at talking to people, especially people I don’t know or who are intimidating (which is everyone I don’t know and quite of those I know a little). I’ve mostly come to terms with my shyness, but that doesn’t make everything easy suddenly, unfortunately.

43. if you could travel back to any era, what would it be? There’s way too many! But for just one I’d love to see a Shakespeare play in the Globe when it was performed originally, ideally Twelfth Night or Hamlet! And I’d like to meet Queen Elizabeth I!

44. what is your most used emoji? 😘 probably or 😊

45. describe yourself using one word. overwhelmed (I am also hungry and tired right now, and that plays a big part in that - ask me again in an hour or so when I’ve eaten and the world will look a little more rose-y again^^°)

46. what do you regret the most? I can’t think of anything I truly regret - there are things I wish I’d done differently, but what’s done is done and I have to do the best with what I have now

47. last movie you saw? The Martian!

48. last tv show you watched? Die purpurnen Flüsse/Les rivières pourpres (the purple rivers), a French (German co production?) series based on the novel the Jean Reno film was based on!

49. invent a word and its meaning. This is hard because in German you can just compound away, so for every thing I think of, I’m like ‘but you could just put these three words together for the same effect!!!’ But this is English, so I’ll go with “pflundering” - the sound a bird makes when it takes a very enthusiastic bath!

This took quite a bit, and my brain is no longer able to come up with people to tag, so I’m tagging you, person who actually read through this! Do it (be honest, you already thought up most of your answers while reading it^^) and tag me, I’m curious!

#lessa says #lessa plays tag games #theproblemwithstardust #thank youuuuu #sometimes I wanted to just take your answer^^°

[insanityclause]

Just months ago, following a critically acclaimed run at London's Harold Pinter Theatre, the four-person cast of Betrayal all made their Broadway debuts. One of the four was Eddie Arnold.

With poetic precision, rich humor, and an extraordinary emotional force, Betrayal charts a compelling seven-year romance, thrillingly captured in reverse chronological order. Arnold brings humor to the revered Pinter play, not only starring as the Waiter, but also understudying 'Jerry' and 'Robert'- roles played by stage and screen stars Charlie Cox and Tom Hiddleston.

Before Betrayal, Eddie starred in stage productions of Hamlet, The Vote, Journey's End, Jumpy, Saki. His film credits include: Mary Queen of Scots, Dead in October, Guardians, The List. Television credits include: "People Just Do Nothing," "Sticks and Stones," "De Infiltrant," "Man in an Orange Shirt," "The Vote."

As the play begins its final weeks on Broadway (closing on December 8, 2019), Eddie checked in with BroadwayWorld to reflect on the show's journey so far and how he is preparing to say goodbye to Broadway.

I know that a lot has happened in the past year, from opening in London to coming here... has it all hit you yet that you're really on Broadway?

I don't think it will hit me until it's too late and I get back home and say, "Oh no, it's over!" [Laughs] I feel like I'm living in this hyper-reality of the world that I used to be in. London was so incredible and such a lucky experience to get to share the stage with these three geniuses, and to be directed by Jamie [Lloyd], and to speak Harold Pinter's lines. But to then have the opportunity to come to New York, which I've only been on holiday to, and be able to come and offer it up to a new set of eyes is incredible. The American audience gets to experience it in a different way now. It was all so incredibly lucky. I feel like i've been floating on this bubble of happiness the whole five months I've been here. I've fallen in love with this city.

You're now a few months into the run. How has it been going at the Jacobs since opening night?

We are definitely all counting our lucky stars every night that we got this lovely, beautiful theatre that we've been invited to perform in. The audiences have been so receptive and so responsive. The funny thing is that the play has so many different threads that you can follow throughout, that an audience can be laughing hysterically one night and almost silent the next night... and yet they are just as into it at the end. They end up getting lost in the words and liking or disliking one of the characters for whatever reason. Or the next night someone else becomes vilified or loved or pitied. Each time it is so different.

It's really beautiful to see that every night, because I get to listen to it through the relays for about two thirds of the show. I get to watch how the audience is gauging it and how the actors are honing in on parts of each scene and working it in a different way. It really pumps me up. Like a football team has "Eye of the Tiger," I get to listen to Tom Hiddleston, Charlie Cox and Zawe Ashton perform scenes 1-6.

The magic of live theatre! Every time is something different...

Coming into the show in a later scene, in a production where the other characters don't leave the stage, I always get this beautiful feeling as the audience turns and watches me walk on. They're going, "Who the heck is that guy and why is he on stage?" And then it moves to, "Oh, ok! Here is a new dynamic that we haven't seen that will spice things up." They warm very quickly. I think Pinter has written it in a really great spot, where all of these characters that have been onstage before have been firing at each other constantly. Now suddenly, they have this new person who they can direct all of their anger and sadness and annoyance at. He's not going to beaten down that easily though!

This being a drama, with some comedic moments, you're the biggest moment of comic relief in the play. Is there pressure in that?

There's never any pressure going on because you've got to live in the reality of the moment- there are these very angry, posh men in front of you, who are trying their best to conceal their feelings for each other, especially with the information and power they hold over each other. So I've been caught up in this very awkward conversation and how do I talk my way out of it as quickly and effectively as possible? And of course they keep going in berating me. The comedy is really written into it already. So I just try to go into it as naturally as possible. Sometimes people laugh! At the end of the day you just have to be truthful to what you're playing and hopefully the writing and direction will help you out when you're not firing on all cylinders.

Were you intimidated at all at the beginning of the rehearsal process in London?

I had seen a lot of Jamie's work before. Three Days of Rain was such an incredible production and I had seen lots of the Pinter stuff as well. Obviously he is very big director who has done a lot of acclaimed work in London. Then the other guys, if you don't know who they are, you've been living with your head in the sand. At the end of the day I just wanted to nail the part as much as possible.

And luckily for someone like myself and others in this industry, between jobs, you serve at bars or restaurants. It's part of being a gigging actor. I made sure that I brought all of that experience- how many times I've bitten my lip at someone dropping their food and looking to me to pick it up... I thought, I can do this. I've done it before. It's actually a lot more pleasant this way because I can do it with lovely people and we can have a laugh about it in the end.

So intimidated wasn't it... more like honored. I'm so happy to have been allowed to perform and learn. You learn so much just from watching actors of this much talent and ability. Hopefully some of it will seep in and I'll be able to take it to my next job.

Have the four of you become close?

Oh yes, we've had a lovely time!

Your Halloween costumes were incredible.

Oh! They were great, weren't they? Captain America fit the bill for me. And I had to come out first as the leader of the Avengers. But we had so much fun dressed up like that. It was pure laughs backstage.

You've got a lot of time offstage throughout the course of the play. How do you occupy yourself?

I've read quite a few books! Right now I'm halfway through Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. It is about 800 pages and people call it the most remarkable achievement of the modern era of novel-writing. Then I've got another called A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara. That one is about 700 pages long! So I'm trying to eat my way through both of those.

Then Dylan [S. Wallach] and Jesmille [Darbouze] are right above me. We get to hang out and catch up, which is lovely. We watch the show and run lines once or twice a week. Then I get to chill in pants and wait for my turn to go on.

So you have your own dressing room?

Yes! I bought a couple of plants to zhuzh it up, but I'm going to be really sad to leave it. It's been home for the last five months and it feels very much a part of me. I have very quickly adapted to life here.

What have you enjoyed the most about being a New Yorker?

Everyone is so incredibly welcoming. Also, New York has the best Italian food ever- I love Italian food. I still haven't bee to the Bronx, where I'm told the proper, old-school Italian restaurants are. That is definitely on my list of things to do before we finish.

Also, there are all these sports that don't even exist in England, like basketball and American football, baseball, ice hockey. I've been to see the Knicks and the Mets! I'm really trying to soak up every but of this American lifestyle before it gets taken away from me. [Laughs]

Have you gotten to see any other shows?

Oh goodness, yes! We saw Sea Wall/A Life, with Jake Gyllenhaal and Tom Sturridge. That was incredible. In the same way as our play, it felt so natural and timeless. It was so beautifully acted. I went to see Dear Evan Hansen as well. That was phenomenal. Tom and I went to see it and then we've been singing the songs ever since. We're backstage singing our hearts out! That kind of acting, where you come on and sing for two and a half hours... it seems like an alien thing to me. I cannot imagine ever being to do that. How do they do that?

So doing a musical is not on your bucket list?

It might be on my bucket list, but I don't think that anyone would come to see it! [Laughs]

With just a few weeks until the end of the show's run, what are you most looking forward to in the time you have left?

I want to eat as much American food as I can! [Laughs] No, it's about not taking anything for granted. Everything becomes so happy and easy until these last few weeks and now I have to start saying goodbye to people. I need to make sure I've said thank you to about 500 people who have made this experience what it is. I need to seek them out and tell them personally. Any of my free time will be spent hunting people down to show my appreciation.

#Eddie Arnold #Betrayal #interview #i hope Eddie gets lots of work out of this

[theatricks]

The Epilogue is Behind the Mask - English Translation

Here is a Google Drive with the videos if you'd like to watch along!

Chapter 1: A Tale of Love and Isolation

Junna: "To be, or not to be. That is the question." Junna: 'To let things continue as they are, or to not. To me now, that is the most difficult of questions.' Junna: Phew... Junna: ("Hamlet", one of Shakespeare's four great tragedies. The official title is "The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark".) Junna: (A resplendent royal court where nobles gather... And beneath that squirms ugly jealousy, intrigue, and revenge...) Junna: (No matter how may times you reread it, there's still more to be impressed by...) Junna: (One day, I'd also like to take part in this kind of sparkling play...) Junna: (...Okay, it's decided.) Junna: (Today I'll read a resplendent drama to get my motivation up!) Junna: (Speaking of... Of course, there's Shakespeare, but...) Junna: (No, it has to be "The Phantom of the Opera"!) Junna: (A Paris opera house, a beautiful songstress... A drama of love and hate unfolding on the grand and glamorous world of the Stage.) Junna: (I've been fascinated by that blindingly beautiful tale since I was young...) Junna: (I'll soak up its radiance and draw closer to the Star...!)

Junna: (It's gone... It's all gone.) Junna: (Not just the "The Phantom of the Opera" play, but everything from the novel to the reference books has been borrowed.) Junna: (Is someone researching it? I might have to go to the town library...) Junna: Oh? Nana: ............ Junna: (What's she reading that has her so serious? ...Wait, that's...) Nana: ............ Junna: Naaana. Nana: Ah, Junna-chan. Junna: So it's you, I see. The one who's researching "The Phantom of the Opera". Nana: Ah... Were you looking for these? Sorry, I didn't mean to hog them all to myself... Junna: So, why are you gathering all these materials? Are you writing a script for "The Phantom of the Opera" or something? Nana: Fufufufu, Junna-chan, bulls-eye♪ Nana: It was a request from my middle school drama club teacher. Junna: Is that... the teacher who encouraged you to go to this school? Nana: That's the one. She's still working hard for the drama club even now. Though still small, apparently they're members are increasing... Nana: She said she wants a play that could become a club tradition, one that would rejuvenate the club. Junna: So that's why you're working on a script... Nana: Yeah. Seems she remembered all this time that I used to write scripts. Nana: Me being here, and meeting you and the others, it's all thanks to Sensei. Nana: So, I wanted to repay her. Junna: What a nice story... Then you have to do your best to write it by all means! Nana: Yeah. So... I was thinking that I'd write a script for "The Phantom of the Opera" since I've had an interest in it for a while. Junna: That's the first I've heard you had an interest in it. Nana: This might be the first time I've mentioned it♪ Nana: The loneliness and suffering of Erik, the 'Angel of Music'... And his love for Christine. Nana: It's heartbreaking, but in a very passionate way... I love it. Junna: I know, isn't it? I like it, too. I love it. Nana: Junna-chan, too...? Junna: You know, I got completely absorbed in "The Phantom of the Opera" for a time while the musical was being performed here in Japan. Junna: I read the original work and watched the movie. Also, it was only a video, but I saw an even older musical, too. Nana: Wo~w. So you know everything there is to know. Junna: I wouldn't go that far... But, if there's anything I can help you with, let me know. Nana: Junna-chan... Thank you. Nana: The truth is, I'm at a bit of an impasse, so I was thinking of returning to the dorms and asking for your help. Nana: Will you lend me a hand? Junna: Of course. For you and your teacher. Nana: Thanks. Your cooperation will be a tremendous help♪ Junna: With that decided, I better reread the original work and the play again. Nana: Me too. When I watch the musical, I'm floored all over again. Such a grand and glamorous play, do you really need anything else? Junna: I know, right? It's an eternal masterpiece in the world of musicals! Junna: Oh, oops... Raising your voice in the library is forbidden... Junna: So... What sort of script do you plan to write? It's going to be performed by middle schoolers so you can't really go with 'grand and glamorous'. Nana: That's true. I was hoping to write the type of script that those watching could empathize with, even if it's being performed by middle schoolers. Junna: I see... It'll be difficult, but it's worth doing. Nana: Yeah. What I'm worried about the most right now is how to write the mysterious lead... the Phantom. Junna: True, the way the Phantom is perceived changes according to how he's written. Junna: "The Phantom of the Opera" has been made into a play many times by the hands of many different directors, but... Junna: It feels like the way the Phantom is portrayed changes a little bit every time. Nana: In the original novel, the Phantom is portrayed as an enigmatic individual... Nana: In another play, the story is spun through the eyes of the heroine Christine... It's getting a bit confusing... Junna: That will happen when you try to read this amount of materials in one sitting. Nana: That may be true, but... Apparently they want to perform it for the freshman opening ceremony, so I wanted to write down as much as I could as quickly as I could... Junna: Geez... And I'm saying that's unreasonable. Junna: Although, I understand getting fired up when you start something new. Nana: Junna-chan... Junna: Should we get started right away, then? But, if we're going to do this, let's make it the best. Right? Nana: Yeah! Then, what should we start work on first? Junna: For the time being, it's got to be the way the Phantom is portrayed. Did you have a plan? Nana: Hmmm. If we're just talking about the Phantom role, he's an isolated musician overflowing with wisdom... Nana: To hide his unsightly face, he lives a life brooding in the basement of the opera house. The reason for the wisdom that gets him called the 'Angel of Music'... Nana: I was thinking I would decipher that in the materials, but there's too many, so I haven't yet... Junna: The fact that there are so many materials on it is one of the reasons it's considered a classic. It's a tale that's been loved by many over a long period of time. Junna: But, what's important isn't the past materials, but what you want to convey... Right? Nana: Ah...! Junna: Your theme... Shouldn't the first step be to make it clear? Nana: My theme... Nana: Yeah... You're right, it's exactly like you say. Nana: What I want to convey and put into "The Phantom of the Opera" for Sensei and the others... Nana: ...... Nana: For those on stage to perform with all their might, and for those watching to have something left behind in their hearts. Nana: I'd be nice if I could write a script like that. Maybe that's... my theme. Junna: Yeah... I think that's a fantastic, precious theme. Bananice! Nana: Junna-chan... Junna: I have a weighty responsibility as your assistant! Let's do our best, Nana! Nana: Yeah! Karen: Banana, Junjun! You're writing a script!? You're doing a play!? Both: Waah--!?

Chapter 2: Everyone's Banana is a Loved Banana

Nana: K-Karen-chan!? Karen: And? So? You're writing a script!? You're doing a play!? Mahiru: Karen-chan, you have to be quiet in the library... Karen: Oh, right, sorry...! Junna: It's rare for Karen to come here. Are you escorting Tsuyuzaki-san? Karen: Hmph, even I come to the library, you know! Karen: I mean, I'm only here today because Mahiru-chan needed to return a book, but... Junna: Yeah, that's what I figured. Karen: More importantly, what kind of script? What kind~? Mahiru: Umm.. Could we hear more about it? If it's a secret, then... Nana: Don't worry, Mahiru-chan. I'll explain properly from the beginning♪

Karen: Oo~h, so it's like that. Mahiru: That's amazing, Banana-chan. I'm sure your teacher will love your script. Nana: That... would be nice. I'm still completely inexperienced, though♪ Mahiru: "The Phantom of the Opera", huh...? My Grandma loved it so we went to see it together many times. Mahiru: At first I couldn't understand Christine having so much empathy for the Phantom, or how she felt rejecting his confession, or having to choose between lovers... Mahiru: But, every time we saw it, my Grandma would give a different explanation... It taught me the complexity of human relationships. Mahiru: I'm sure if I watched it now, I'd have an even greater understanding of the characters' feelings. Karen: I want to hurry and read the script Banana writes~! Junna: Like she said, she's just now writing it. You're so impatient, Karen. Mahiru: But, with this amount of materials... even just reading them seems tough. Karen: Butbut, if you just start writing, won't it work itself out!? How does it go, y'know, "pear exaggerates"... the... the ginger? Mahiru: "Fear exaggerates the danger", Karen-chan. Karen: Yeah, that! Banana, I'll lend a hand, too! Mahiru: I'd also... like to be of assistance. Karen: Aaalright! Let's all collaborate on Banana's script making! Junna: Hold on, Karen, don't just advance the conversation as you please. That's for Nana herself to decide. Nana: It's okay, Junna-chan. I was thinking I'd have everyone take a look at it when I was done writing anyway♪ Karen: Yay! I get to read Banana's script! Junna: If everyone puts their heads together, we should definitely make a great work. Karen: Okay, I'm off! Gotta go to the lesson room! Mahiru: Oh, geez, Karen-chan. You can't run in the library! Junna: In like a storm, out like a storm. Nana: She's always full of energy, that Karen-chan. Junna: I wish she wouldn't keep running in circles like that, though... Junna: I'm going to head out for now, too. Nana, you continue to read the materials. Nana: Yes, let me to do just that. Junna: I'll be back. You can't handle that mountain on your own, right? Nana: Yeah. You're a lifesaver♪ Junna: I know. Well, see you later. Nana: Take caaare. Nana: Oookay. With everyone helping me, I have to give it my all, too.

Chapter 3: An Unendable Tale

Nana: Maya-chan, Kuro-chan. Thank you so much for gathering here today♪ Nana: What I handed out just now was the first version of the script I wrote for "The Phantom of the Opera". Nana: The middle schoolers' parts, the cast number, and the scene changes I tried to arrange in my own style, but... Nana: The final conclusion is all I have left to write... Claudine: So if we put our heads together to come up with an idea for that... and it makes it into the final manuscript, that'd be good, wouldn't it? Nana: Yes! I look forward to cooperating with you! Maya: Same here, thank you very much for the valuable opportunity. Maya: A script for your former teacher... It's an honor to engage with a work filled with such sincerity. Claudine: Nana's "Le Fantome de l' Opera"... Claudine: You said it was the first version, but... isn't it close to perfect? Claudine: There's still a lot I want to say about it though, so prepare yourself! Nana: Yeah! Point out all you want! Karen: Sorry for making you wait~! We got the opera costumes! They were made by alumni, apparently! Mahiru: So the upperclassmen also performed "The Phantom of the Opera". You're well-informed, Junna-chan. Junna: Fufu, this is something you can find out easily by investigating. Well, shall we get started right away? Karen: A play, a play, I can't wait~! Mahiru: Karen-chan, this is for the sake of Banana-chan's script, remember? Karen: Yeah, I know~! Karen: But, this is the first time I've done a performance in order to help complete a script. It's kinda exciting! Nana: I thought that maybe by seeing you all perform, the characters would start to shift. Sorry for having you help out. Karen: It's fine, it's fine, bananice! Junna: Remember, until the end, the main point is script making. You're not allowed to insert your own ad-libs, okay? Karen: I knooow, Junjun! And, and, what about the cast? Nana: Fufufufu, for you, Karen-chan, please play the role of Christine's lover, Raoul. Karen: Oooh~ I'm Raoul~! Hmmm.... My first choice was the Phantom, but no worries, just leave it to me! Karen: And, whoever could "my darling Christine" be!? Nana: It's Junna-chan♪ Junna: Eh, me? Nana: Yeah. Perfect, right? Karen: Along with Christine's dress! ...Yeah! It really does fit! Mahiru: It's true. You have the habit of keeping good posture, so you really give off the vibe of a songstress whose voice can carry. Nana: Yeah, I thought you'd be able to express Christine not just on the inside, but on the outside, too. Junna: Nana... Junna: Got it. It's an important role, but I'll take on that responsibility. Claudine: After Christine comes the Phantom, right? Nana: Ah, about that... Can I do it? Nana: If I try it myself, I might get a better feeling for the emotions of the role. And if so... then I think I'll be able to write the final scene. Karen: Yepyep, that's a good idea! I mean, this is your script, after all! Mahiru: Yeah. I want to see your Phantom. Maya: The one writing the script is you. We're merely playing your cast. Claudine: The opera's sub-cast is interesting, too. I'll put my all into performing whatever role I'm responsible for! Nana: Everyone, thank you. With that, I'll quickly announce the rest...

Nana: Haa... Haa... Oookay, time for a ten minute rest. Karen: Phew... I knew it, the lines are tough~! There's so many musical scenes too, I'm all worn out~ Mahiru: Good work, Karen-chan. I prepared sports drinks for everyone, so drink up. Karen: Yaaay, my throat was so parched, you're a lifesaver~ Maya: Saijo-san. Would you like to go over the scene where we meet one more time? Claudine: I can't refuse an invite from Tendo Maya. Let's do it. Junna: Nana, good work. You had a good feel for the Phantom, didn't you? Nana: Junna-chan, too. You conveyed Christine's anguish really well. Junna: Thanks. But, I want to delve a little further into the character during rehearsal. Mahiru: Ah, should we prepare the costumes now? Junna-chan, I laid out Christine's dress for you. Junna: Thank you, Tsuyuzaki-san. Junna: It's been awhile since I've worn a dress... I have to make sure I can still wear a costume like this. Karen: We brought Banana's Phantom costume, too! Karen: So, then, Banana~ I have just one favor to ask~ Nana: Fufu, Karen-chan, you want to try it on, don't you? The Phantom's costume. Karen: Wawah, how did you know!? Nana: I understand everything, you know♪ Karen: Th-That's our Banana... Junna: Anyone would know, seeing that greedy look. Mahiru: I want to get a peek of Karen-chan's Phantom, too~ Nana: Yepyep, okay, Karen-chan, want to try it on for a bit? Karen: Yaaay! Just a sec, hold on! Umm, put on the cape, then the mask... like this?

Karen: Ta-dah! From his nest in the cellar, the Phantom appears! Mahiru: Waa~h, Karen-chan, so cool♪ Claudine: With a cheerful Phantom like this around, the people of the opera are just going to laugh... Karen: Hmph! Will you say that when you see this acting!? Karen: "I am the phantom of the opera! I am the ugliest thing in this world! Even as this body burns in the flames of hell, I dream of heaven!" Nana: Yeah, yeah, that's cool! In the case of Karen-chan playing the role... Nana: Why not a different interpretation of the Phantom... How about trying an even more cheerful one♪ Karen: A- A cheerful Phantom!? Uh, uhmm... Karen: "Hah hah ha! Christine, nice weather today, no!? Quite so! Despite the light not reaching the opera's cellar!" Nana: Ahahah! Okay, next try adding the word banana into your lines♪ Karen: Ba- Banana!? Uhhh, uhmm... Karen: "Ch-...Christine, tonight is the night I listen to your song. Your voice will not slip. And that is because..." Karen: "I picked up and threw the banana peel that fell on the stage into the trash! Now you can sing to your heart's content!" Claudine: Pfft, fufu, ahahahah! What's with that Phantom! Maya: A wonderful ad-lib, was it not? Mahiru: Yepyep, Karen-chan's acting was really good! Nana: Maybe I should have a cheerful Phantom, too? With that likability, he could have a lot of friends, I bet♪ Mahiru: More like 'The Friend of the Opera'♪ Junna: That's not... "The Phantom of the Opera"... Nana: Ahahaha. ...Oh, look at the time. Nana: Okay, we're starting the rehearsal soon. Everyone, change into you costumes, please. All: Oookay. Junna: Geez, because of Karen's weird Phantom, I'm exhausted. Junna: I just hope the image of your Phantom doesn't crumble. Nana: No worries, no worries. It was super fun, after all♪ Junna: So... feeling like you can write it? The ending to your script. Nana: Yeah... I think so, probably. Junna: ......? Nana: It's fine, no worries. I had everyone's help, after all. I'll manage it somehow or another♪ Junna: Nana...?

Chapter 4: The Changing and the Unchanging

Nana: Good work, everyone! Today's snack is banana muffins♪ Mahiru: Waah, they smell good today, too. Karen-chan, which do you want? Karen: Oooh, today's seem a bit uneven, maybe!? But, they look tasty~~~! Maya: I agree. Even when they're small in size, their deliciousness remains the same... That is the nature of Daiba-san's sweets... Claudine: She says, while nonchalantly taking the biggest one. Nana: Here. You have one, too, Junna-chan. Junna: Thanks, Nana. Junna: It feels weird being handed a muffin by someone who was just acting as the Phantom. Nana: Fufufu. It'd be great if there were that sort of scene in the play, though. Claudine: Putting the muffins aside... Nana's script is pretty modern. Nana: Huh, you think so? Claudine: I'm talking about the story development. The line delivery feels affected and very classic-like, but... Claudine: You shortened the 'source', and because of that, you wrote more deeply about the character's emotions in the 'adaptation', right? Claudine: So, beyond the story being easy to get into, the details are easy to grasp once you see it fully. Maya: That's true. When you leave the moral but remove the formality, the entertainment value increases. Mahiru: Yeah. I think your script is becoming more and more interesting! Nana: It's thanks to all of your opinions♪ Karen: Then, we'll just have to give you even more opinions! Umm... ummmm... Karen: Oh, I know! When the Phantom and Christine first meet! Karen: I kinda think it should happen with more of a, like, 'gwaah'... How do I put it, don't you want a 'ghghghh' feeling? Mahiru: Are you saying you want a sense of tension? Karen: Yeah! 'Loneliness' is a common feature of their stories, so I think it'd be nice to have a sense of them being quietly drawn to each other! Nana: I see, I see. True, maybe there is too much talking between them there. Claudine: It needed a translation from Mahiru, but that's a pretty good comment coming from you. Karen: That's a non-non, Kuro-chan! Claudine: Yeah, yeah, a stage girl is always evolving, I know. Karen: Sh-She got me~! Nana: Ahaha♪ Karen-chan, you're going to have to come up with a new line soon. Maya: ...By the way, Daiba-san. Do you think you'll be able to write the story's finale now? Nana: Ah... Nana: I plan to put the finishing touches on it tomorrow, one way or another! Sorry for making you wait, everyone. Karen: Banana, are you having trouble? Nana: Yeah. Just for the final scene, I can't come up with the lines for the Phantom's feelings. Claudine: His feelings, huh? Karen: Feelings... feelings... hmmm! If you put it more concretely, I'll come up with all sorts of comments! Nana: Yeah, thanks, Karen-chan... Mahiru: ...Oh, yeah! Mahiru: Tendo-san, you've been to an opera, right? Mahiru: It might be of use to Banana-chan, so what do you think of telling her what it's like? Claudine: Stop right there, Mahiru! If you want to know about opera, shouldn't you be asking me!? Mahiru: Eeh...?

Claudine: In the fine arts capital of the world, Paris, is the brilliantly shining opera house, the Palais Garnier! Claudine: Its gorgeous exterior, said to be a classic example of the Beaux-Arts style. Its magnificent interior, adorned in tones of gold and red. And, furthermore-- Claudine: The top world-class performing arts that people seek to create for that supreme theater. Karen: Bo-za...? I don't really get it, but it sounds pretty cool! Kuro-chan, that must be an amazing theater! Claudine: N' est-ce pas? That's right, it is amazing. Claudine: First-class ballet and world-famous concerts are held there, but, being the opera house it is, the opera are in a class of their own. Claudine: Existing as a living thing, continuing to evolve throughout the centuries--that's what opera is! Maya: There is no question about that. Maya: Music and theater, dance and art, a complete work that encompasses them all--and that place is one which specializes in the musical performance of opera. Claudine: The opera house is where you can walk hand-in-hand with the history of opera, it's a beautiful and brilliant living witness! Nana: Ooo~h! How educational! Can you tell me more about the opera? Maya: Well, then, allow me the presumption. Maya: Opera's history is long, so it tends to be considered extremely conservative... Maya: A cycle of a great many innovative presentation techniques and inventions has bestowed varied influences on our culture, no, our civilization. Maya: There have been times when those traditions have been destroyed, as well, but even now in the modern day, there are measures being taken to preserve the method of presentation called opera. Claudine: Well said, Tendo Maya! Yes, both the changing and the unchanging coexist. Claudine: In order to protect what's important to us or what we don't want to give up, there are parts of ourselves that we have to twist, right? Claudine: In that way, so that opera lives on, the opera house continues even at this moment to fascinate everybody with it's charm. Claudine: After all, "The Phantom of the Opera", which takes place in that theater, is still handed down to this day... right? Nana: The changing and the unchanging coexist, huh? I heard something good~ Nana: I'll make the best use of this knowledge of opera and properly write the finale! Karen: Banana, I'll help!! Nana: Okay. Thanks, Karen-chan♪ Junna: ............

Junna: (It didn't seem like Nana had come up with a finale yet, I wonder if she'll be okay...) Mahiru: Junna-chaaan. Junna: Tsuyuzaki-san? Mahiru: Want to return to the dorms together? Junna: What are Karen and the others doing? Mahiru: Seems like they're still talking about opera. Mahiru: More importantly... I wonder if Banana-chan will be okay? Junna: You, too? Mahiru: Yeah. Not just me, I think everyone is worried. Mahiru: She said she couldn't come up with the lines for the Phantom, but... Mahiru: The lines she wrote for the other scenes really captured the Phantom's heart. Junna: That's true... Junna: In that case, maybe she's worrying over something she hasn't told us about. Mahiru: Something she hasn't told us about? Junna: ...When she returns to the dorms, I'll try talking to her, just the two of us. Leave this matter to me.

Chapter 5: Hamlet Says

Nana: "Nevertheless, we cannot be together"... Hmm, I wonder if that line's a bit too ordinary... Junna: Nana. I made coffee, want some? Nana: Ah, please. Junna: It's hot, so don't burn your tongue. Nana: Okay. I'll puff on it while drinking♪ Junna: Fufu, you're not a kid anymore, you know. Nana: Yeah. ...Junna-chan, thank you♪ Junna: For what? Nana: A lot♪ Junna: ......! Nana: But, it's fine now♪ Junna: You thought of it? The last scene. Nana: Yep. It all just came to me, so don't worry♪ Nana: Or so I'd like to say, but you'll definitely see through the lie. Junna: ...Will you tell me about it? Nana: Ahaha, no need for the seriousness. Nana: I thought I could do it myself somehow, but looks like I'll need your help, after all. Nana: So, can I discuss it with you? Junna: Of course. Junna: The Phantom, without showing his appearance, helped and guided Christine as the 'Angel of Music'. Junna: So, right now, I want to be Nana's 'Angel of Music'! Nana: Then, Junna is the Phantom and I'm Christine? The cast has been reversed♪ Junna: If it's to complete your script, whether it's my role or the cast, I'll show you that I can reverse them! Nana: Junna-chan, so reliable~! Nana: Then, will you take a look at it for me? The last scene I wrote for "The Phantom of the Opera". Junna: The last scene? ...What do you mean? Nana: The truth is, I've already written the finale. Nana: But, I didn't have the resolve to show it to everyone... Junna: Does that mean--... No, first, let me read it. Nana: Okay, please do!

Junna: ............ Junna: This is... really good! Junna: Portrayed like this, even if the Phantom and Christine are together, it doesn't feel out of place. Nana: Eh? Junna-chan, are you crying? Junna: Being shown a finale like this, who wouldn't? The whole time, you were able to express the Phantom's loneliness and love of the stage really well. Nana: Thank you. I cried when I was writing it, too, you know. Nana: ...But, hmmm. Nana: I think I emphasize too much with the Phantom. Nana: His feelings... I understand them well. Always being alone, and yearning for the stage because of it. Nana: Coming to resent the isolation that gets him called a phantom, he wants to be tied together to Christine in any way. Nana: For him to obtain what he seeks the most... I thought I would depict a finale like that, one that no one would have any complaints about. Junna: And you did it! Nana: Yeah. But, you know? Nana: I'm wondering if I've made the script I was writing for Sensei too much of my own. Junna: You're in a difficult spot. A happy ending would certainly be a big change. Nana: Right? But, because this is the ideal finale for me, the others ended up slipping my mind... Junna: Hey, Nana. Do you remember what Tendo-san and Saijo-san were saying today? Nana: Yeah. About the history of opera. Thanks to that I was able to make the characters lines more real. Junna: That's good, too, but what I'm talking about is--

Claudine: Well said, Tendo Maya! Yes, both the changing and the unchanging coexist. Claudine: In order to protect what's important to us or what we don't want to give up, there are parts of ourselves that we have to twist, right?

Nana: Yeah, I remember. But... what about it? Junna: That is to say, you don't need to throw away your ideal finale. Junna: The finale you thought up, and the traditional finale, they can both coexist, you don't need to torment yourself over having made the script into your own. Nana: C-Coexist? So, depicting a happy finale and a sad finale simultaneously...? Junna: I think it'd be difficult, but I'm certain if the two of us put our heads together we can come up with an answer. Junna: Yes, let's derive an entirely new answer, Nana. Junna: 'To let things continue as they are, or to not. To me now, that is the most difficult of questions.' Nana: A line from "Hamlet"...? Nana: Not 'to be, or not to be, that is the question'? Junna: There is that meaning as well, but what I said is more sincere to the text. Junna: In the end, Prince Hamlet could neither continue with nor go against the state of affairs. Junna: But, we'll obtain both sides of 'The Phantom of the Opera'. Junna: We'll definitely find the answer! Nana: Y-Yeah...!

Chapter 6: Their Happiness

Karen: Ah, looks like it's starting soon...! Mahiru: I'm getting nervous... I hope it goes well. Claudine: Even when it's not ourselves on stage, it's still nerve-wracking. Maya: We are the audience now. We can do nothing but watch. Junna: ............ Junna: ...Nana. Nana: ...Yeah. It's starting.

Phantom: "Christine. I've swept you away. Away to the opera's cellar that everyone fears and where none approach..." Phantom: "In this darkness, the time for you to understand will eventually come. The reason for my love for you, as well as for my isolation...!" Christine: "The one who has driven you this far is me? No. The cause of that is not me, but your isolation..." Christine: "The isolation that poisons your sad soul is what has hideously distorted your face!"

Junna: (In "The Phantom of the Opera" until now, this is where Christine, pitying the Phantom, kisses him.) Nana: (The Phantom, having been kissed, is touched by love for the first time in his life, and learns to love another...) Junna: (And then, awakened to love, he sets Christine and her lover free. But--) Nana: (In this script, Christine and the Phantom do not kiss...)

Christine: I won't accept this ring. I can't be together with you, after all. Phantom: Aah, my darling Christine! Why won't you be mine! Phantom: I want to come to know that singing voice as it vows your life to me. Why is your love not my love...! Christine: No, my love is your love...! I certainly loved you... But even so, I cannot vow eternity! Christine: This body, and even the soul that dwells within my chest... They already belong to Raoul. Having betrayed that, would you really be able to love me, who you have chosen? Phantom: Of course I would! My love shines eternal like the diamond in that ring, and like the light it reflects, it carries many forms, still! Christine: I don't want to love you! Don't make me use this singing voice that you love to commit adultery! Phantom: ......! Phantom: Christine, I see. If your love remains unchanged, if your feelings are eternal like the diamond in this ring... Phantom: You will surely become the most beautiful and sublime being in this world. I was so desperate to obtain you that I forgot the most important thing... Phantom: In order to obtain the angel that you are, I broke your beautiful wings...! *clang* Christine: The mask--... Phantom: Thank you, Christine. For returning the ring. It will shine eternally. As the personification of you that resides within me. Christine: Phantom, you-- Phantom: Soon, your fiance will arrive. He'll come for you, his true love. Phantom: You can take that warmth, Christine! Christine: Wait, where are you going? Without that mask, where is there for you to go!? Phantom: Farewell. Please, promise me you will continue to shine forever, like this ring...! Christine: Aah...! No--...! Christine: If the eternal shine that you carry disappears... I--....! Christine: This mask that forever hid the beautiful you, I'll keep this ugly mask, and I'll always... always remember you! Christine: With this voice you loved, I'll continue to sing... Forever... and ever...!

Karen: Uuuu... Good! Really good! I hope the Phantom and Christine are both happy... Mahiru: Banana-chan, that was a really great script...! Karen: Yeah! Banana, it was amazing! Amazing, amazing! Claudine: Those kids have good expressions, too. Maya: It was a wonderful "The Phantom of the Opera". Junna: The Phantom's feelings were conveyed perfectly. Nana: Everyone... Thank you so much for your help! Theater really is great, after all♪

Junna: The changing and the unchanging coexisting... It's a simple saying, but putting it into a script was tough. Nana: But we managed to make it happen because of you♪ Thanks! Junna: It's nothing. I'm satisfied just being able to help you. Junna: ...Actually, that's a lie. I won't be satisfied unless I perform it myself. Nana: Then, should I repay the favor by creating something that will give everyone a chance to perform? Junna: I'd be happy if that happens. Nana: It'll definitely happen Nana: --No, I'll make it happen. Karen: Heeey! Bananaaa! Junjun! If you walk that slowly, we won't make it back before curfew~! Junna: Yeah, we know! Junna: Let's go, Nana. Nana: Yeah♪

#revue starlight #shoujo kageki revue starlight #starlight relive #translation

[himboholhorse-moving]

oo!!! 1 2 4 5 8 10 11 13 15 17 21 22 29?

Yeehaw !!!

1) If someone wanted to really understand you, what would they read, watch, and listen to?

How many showtunes can one listen to before being driven insane. But I’d say Falsettos and Fun Home. “Last Podcast on the Left” is what really drove me to get my podcast on campus. I’d also say to watch like, a TON of old movies because those are a Big hyperfixation of mine. In particular I love Peter O’Toole and James Stewart, as well as Malcolm McDowell. I’d also say Milk and The Times of Harvey Milk. “M*A*S*H” as well is really big to me, ofc. Mmmmm as far as reading I can’t really think of anything. I love the Romanticism-era poetry tho. I also really love “Hamlet” and “Macbeth” and “The Things They Carried.” Watching and reading Ordinary People is also very big and close to my heart.

2) Have you ever found a writer who thinks just like you? if so, who?

I probably have but I can’t think of any rn h a. I CAN say that the symmetry of Wes Anderson films is intensely pleasing to my OCD ass. (Shoutout to Prozac btw.) Like, that shit is just SO good to me and I’m like Mr. Anderson. You Get It.

4) Do you like your name?  is there another name you think would fit you better?

I quite like my name and also like Sheridan, which was almost my name, whether I was born male or female. Would have gotten named after a tank tho so. We All Have To Make Sacrifices. Feel free to call me Hawkeye too!

5) Do you think of yourself as a human being or a human doing? do you identify yourself by the things you do?

Bro I’m just existing. I’m just kinda here doing shit and being shit and being perceived by others and not liking being perceived differently than how I see myself. But for like, my WHOLE life my identity was based around my academic achievements which blows so I don’t like to identify myself by anything academic now. I’d like to be identified by my kindness and passion for things.

8) What musical artists have you most felt connected to over your lifetime?

I grew up listening to the B.B. King and Eric Clapton album “Riding With The King” and I have a very vivid memories connected to that album, like ones of a better time in childhood. All Time Low as well, I’ve been listening to them since my freshman year of high school. Anything classic rock really but Journey has just been a big thing around me since middle school. MCR and FOB were also bands I listened to growing up, as well as Panic!. Franz Ferdinand I started listening to 2 years ago but I love their stuff. I also have a soft spot for classical music but can’t name any people in particular. I’m a big fan of Dvorak’s “New World Symphony”, the 4th movement specifically. It slaps. “Adagio for Strings” by Barber as well! I’ll also say Shura.

There’s a video of the 4th movement of the “New World Symphony” being performed for the Pope I believe and that conductor is just OFF THE SHITS it’s so good.

10) Do you have a creed?

Not really, not that I can think of. I just try and believe that I should give people the benefit of the doubt or at least, consider other emotions and reason why people are acting a certain way and not just immediately dismissing them. I try and keep an open mind about most things, just taking everything into consideration before I pass judgment or judgments.

11) Describe your ideal day.

Oooh, I’m going back into the brain bank for this one.

Bringing back “Riding With The King”, a cool summer day, doors open and letting the air come in. My favorite music played loud, I’m hanging out with my friends and loved ones, having drinks and eating good food out in the backyard, playing in the old inflatable pool by the back deck that made jumping in real easy. Having grilled shish kebobs, watching the sunset and looking at the stars in the night sky, chasing the dog around in the backyard, looking at the fireflies.

Another later memory was getting up at a good time, the windows are open and it’s a crisp spring morning, I’m at the desktop computer playing The Sims 2 loaded up with custom content from the now-defunct Sims 2 website exchange. My dad makes a big breakfast of pancakes, bacon, eggs, English muffins with apple butter. He probably found a war movie on TV. I’m making plans with my best friend Kim to come over the next weekend or the weekend after. I just get to act like I’m a regular kid with a regular family and things are good.

13) Inside or outdoors?

INSIDE... unless it’s cool out, in which case outside. I’d love to have a screened-in porch someday. I hate bugs.

15) Five most influential books over your lifetime.

HOO okay let’s think. The “Shiloh” series and the “Warrior Cats” series. “The Things They Carried” as well as “Ordinary People.” I’d also say the “Harry Potter” series because that was really big for me growing up. I’m gonna fudge this and add “Twilight” and “Vladimir Tod” because I loved vampire fiction. “Frankenstein” as well, and “Hamlet.”

17) Would you say your Tumblr is a fair representation of the “real you”?

I’m a lot dumber in real life. Beez pucciverse just saw a video of me last night eating a stick of butter. I’m just an impulsive idiot and y’all should be thankful and grateful I don’t post EVERYTHING going thru my mind because I have to weigh if it’s better for Tumblr or Twitter HSKDFHSKJF. But I’m very Not Smart.

21) Do you love easily?

I have a stuffed animal right next to me that I’ve had since I was 5 so I’d say so !! Cheer Bear has. Seen A Lot.

22) List the top five things you spend the most time doing, in order.

OOO okay... Sleeping, watching YouTube videos/movies/TV, playing Revue Starlight or other games but that’s about tied with YT/movies/TV, listening to music/podcasts, and writing a podcast script!

29) Three songs that you connect with right now.

Mmm “What’s It Gonna Be?” by Shura, “I’m Still Standing” by Elton John, and “Under Pressure” by Queen and David Bowie!!

Thanks for asking all these questions !! It was a lot of fun

#proteuslindo #asks #ask games #i'm essentially a human garbage disposal there's many videos of me eating things I probably shouldn't consume JDSHFDKSJ

[recentanimenews]

INTERVIEW: Zack Davisson on Cosmic Horror and the Reality of Translating Manga

  Dark Horse recently released Gou Tanabe's excellent H.P. Lovecraft's At the Mountains of Madness manga, which features translation work by Zack Davisson. We had the fortunate opportunity to fire some questions in Zack's direction, so read on for some insight into the world of manga translation, supernatural scares, and more!

  *** 

  With Gou Tanabe adaptations like this, you're working from an English source as viewed through a Japanese author's lens. How did this affect your approach to translating At the Mountains of Madness? 

  Its been interesting. I work on the book with Lovecraft’s text right next to Tanabe’s. I use both an English and a Japanese version so I can see what specific phrases Tanabe intended to preserve, and what he changed. If he used Lovecraft’s language, I try to replicate that. If he wrote something entirely new, then I work to make it fit in and look seamless.

  It’s a somewhat time-intensive method that I haven’t done for any other project, but I think it is worth it to get it right.

  Were you already a fan of the source material? 

  Oh, absolutely. Looking at my shelves right now I have five complete collections of Lovecraft’s stories. I have the Arkham House editions, the S.T. Joshi annotations, and then fancy shelf decoration leather-bound volumes by Easton Press, Folio Society, and Gollancz. 

  I’ve been reading Lovecraft most of my life. I saw Michael Whelan’s amazing painted covers and convinced my mom to buy me the Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre paperback when I was probably far too young. Or maybe just the right age. 

  The sense of dread in Lovecraft's work can be difficult to get across in adapted form. What do you think makes Gou Tanabe's take on the material so special? 

  I think it is the fact that Tanabe takes the source material absolutely seriously. He approaches it with gravitas, free from modern “takes” or “spins.” In modern times Lovecraft often descends to parody or “Lovecraftian” where they do the August Derleth thing of taking his characters and writing new stories void of the original intent or nuances.

  Tanabe is the visionary director who says, “Hey! I’ve got an idea! Why don’t we stage Hamlet as Hamlet? Exactly as written? Not as a clever spin on corporate culture or boy bands or something like that? Just, as intended. Even in period costume?”

  Tanabe also has a grasp of mood, which is essential to Lovecraft. And pacing. And his art is simply phenomenal. 

  Beyond Tanabe, do you have a favorite take on Lovecraft? Are there any films or other forms of media you think have come close to capturing the essence of his horror? 

  Before Tanabe I would have said my favorite was Richard Corben’s comics. Although he very much made “Richard Corben comics,” his vision of Lovecraft was truly frightening on the page. No one does that grin of madness like Corben.

  For films, I can’t think of a single one that does it right. I love radio plays, however, and the Dark Adventure Radio Theater does excellent adaptations. I buy everything they make.

  Can you talk about your own encounters with the supernatural? How have they informed your work on titles like At the Mountains of Madness?

  I hold that it is perfectly acceptable to believe in weird things so long as they are of no consequence.  I have had a Loch Ness Monster sighting and gone hunting for mysterious ghost spots in Japan… Including my own house. I lived in one of Japan’s notorious jiko bukken haunted apartments.

  I like the idea of there being mysteries still in the world. I think it helps to believe in the supernatural at least a little bit in order to work in the genre effectively. When I am working on things like At the Mountains of Madness, I buy into them completely and allow myself to be amazed. 

  What scares you more, ghosts or the notion of greater cosmic horrors?  

  Definitely ghosts! I love Lovecraft, but I find cosmic horror to be too grand to be truly terrifying. Horror is personal. Sitting home alone in my own house, in the dark, working away and feeling that tingling feeling on the back of my neck that someone is standing behind me will always be more frightening than mythological scale frightmares.

  You've worked on plenty of titles I think it's safe to say many would consider dream projects, from the works of Go Nagai to Shigeru Mizuki, Satoshi Kon, and beyond. Do you have any favorites, and are there any specific authors or series you're still dying to tackle in the future? 

  It’s true. I’m fully aware I’ve been blessed in my career. I started out with a very specific agenda, of artists I wanted to work on and works I wanted to translate. When I finished Leiji Matsumoto’s Space Battleship Yamato I realized that I had accomplished them all. I had a bit of a crisis of purpose because… what then? Do I just start translating stuff I have no passion for just to cash a paycheck? That didn’t seem very fun.

  Fortunately, with artists like Gou Tanabe I was able to find new passions. I’d never seen Tanabe’s work before Dark Horse hired me for The Hound and Other Stories, but now I want to work on everything he does.  Discovering new favorites is the best feeling. And there are still piles of Shigeru Mizuki comics for me to tackle! 

  What is the most misunderstood aspect of translation? 

  That we are technicians instead of artists. Translating is writing. Plain and simple. I translate, and I write my own books, and they come from the same part of my brain. 

  Translation is like performing a cover song. My voice is never going to be the same as the original. There will be personal nuances and variations, turns of phrases that I will never be able to entirely mask. So, it’s a matter of making my cover version as good in its own right as I possibly can.

  It seems it's only been in recent years that translators have been more thoroughly and visibly credited for their work. Do you think the manga industry in particular is in a good place now as far as this is concerned, or is there more to be done to convey just how much influence a translator has over the final product? 

  Strangely enough, the opposite is true. If you look at the early days of manga the emphasis was on the translator. People like Rachel Thorn and Toren Smith were getting cover credit. My own idea on this is that manga was still strange, so companies wanted to put “English names” on the cover to dilute some of the “foreignness.” They also were having well-known comic writers like Lein Wen and Marv Wolfman doing adaptations.

  Then, when manga took off and TokyoPop boomed, things flipped. Manga artists themselves became the superstars and translators were hidden to prevent any perceived barrier between reader and artist. Readers didn’t like the idea that they were reading a translator’s dialog, not the author’s.

  I think things are settling into a better equilibrium now. Manga artists SHOULD be the superstars—they absolutely are; but readers should be aware of how much the individual translator affects the experience. There still is a way to go before we get there. One of my proudest accomplishments was getting translators listed on the Eisner Awards as part of the creative team.  

  Now we need to get manga letterers credit.

    I won't ask you to break down your personal process—you did a fantastic job of that in your TCJ article a few years back—but has it changed at all since then? 

  Thanks! And now, my process hasn’t changed much. Translation for me is intuitive. I absorb the original, process it emotionally, then think about how to portray those emotions in English. It's not a logical process.

  Is there any advice on the industry or translation work you wish you could go back in time and tell your younger self? 

  Hmmm…. Start earlier. I wish I had been brave enough to have been an exchange student in high school. Knowing my interests, some of my teachers encouraged that but I was too scared to step away from friends and family and everything I knew.  

  It took until my 30s to say, “fuck it” and throw away everything I knew to jump on a plane to Japan. And then I didn’t get into translation until I was almost 40.

  Working in comics was always a dream of mine, and it took me quite a while to find my niche. Things have worked out well, so I can’t complain too much.

  Are there any manga out right now (besides your own) that you're particular excited about? 

  Like many who work in creative industries I find I have less and less time to just be a reader. But I always try to keep up on a few things. Recently I finally tackled the mountain that is Lone Wolf and Cub, and I am hooked. One of the best things I have ever read. Classics like that are classics for a reason.

  I also wait hungrily for any new volume of Delicious in Dungeon. 

  Thanks for taking the time to do this, your work on At the Mountains of Madness is fantastic. Do you have any parting words for aspiring translators out there?

  Thanks! My main advice is to move to Japan. I don’t think I could have the life and career now if I hadn’t taking that plunge. I spent seven years in Japan, and that gave me the skills I needed to translate professionally. Jump into the deep end! You never know what is waiting for you! 

  ***

  If you want to see a sample of Gou Tanabe's work, check out our preview pages for a peek into At the Mountains of Madness. 

    By: [email protected]

#Anime #News #Latest in Anime News by Crunchyroll!

[bbclesmis]

King Of The Castle: At Home With Dominic West

As the star of HBO's The Wire and The Affair, Dominic West made his name playing conflicted Americans battling their demons and struggling to find their places in the world. And cheating on their women. In real life, he's a self-deprecating father of four from outside Sheffield, and among his chief preoccupations is how to preserve the 800-year-old Irish castle inherited by his wife.

"Excuse me," says Dominic West, "I’m just going to wipe this so you can sit down and you won’t be infected with disease." About seven crumbs on his otherwise clean kitchen table disappear with the swipe of a tea towel, and he gets back to the business of making lunch. We’re in the kitchen of his house in Wiltshire, where he lives with his wife Catherine and their four children.

His head turns from cupboard to cupboard, like he’s watching a tennis match. “Where has the rice gone? Would you like rice?”

Yes please, if that’s what you’re having.

“I am, if I can fucking find it.”

He fucking finds it and a pan of rice goes on the hob next to the pan of leftover beef stew. “So I’m on the cover?” he says, looking out of the window. “But doesn’t that mean you’ve got to try and make it interesting?”

In 2000, Dominic West joined an Argentinian circus. This was the year before he auditioned for and won his breakthrough role of Detective Jimmy McNulty on The Wire and the year after he had a single line (“The boy’s here to see Padmé”) as a guard of one of those science-fiction sliding doors in Star Wars: Episode I — The Phantom Menace. He was 30, five years out of drama school and father to a one-year-old daughter.

The circus, De La Guarda, had a show, also called De La Guarda, at the Roundhouse in Camden. It was the hottest ticket in London that year. The audience entered the round to ambient music under a low paper ceiling. Performers would burst through the paper, on ropes, and eventually a pounding live soundtrack accompanied a dozen or more roped performers as they ran around the walls of the circular venue. Water rained down. Some audience members would be lifted into the air; others, perhaps more fortunate, would be pressed into urgent dancing with attractive, adrenalised Argentinians unclipped from their shackles. Or indeed, West himself.

‘What’s amazing,’ says Keira Knightley, ‘is that Dominic can play characters who should be total dickheads, yet he manages to give them a point of view and his own incredible charm. It is a great skill’

“Why did I do it?” says West, somewhat incredulously. “You saw it! Wouldn’t you want to run away and join that circus? It was such a sexy show. I saw it in London and New York, then heard they were auditioning in London and I had to do it. I did a lot of shows in five months with those amazing men and women, then they went to Vegas. It was a disaster there. The water. People dressed up for a Vegas show — of course they didn’t want to get wet.”

West didn’t want to go to Vegas. But he would end up spending a lot more time in America, filming five seasons of The Wire and four seasons of The Affair, with a fifth and final one due to start filming a couple of days after we make lunch.

“The toughest part of making these big episodic American television shows is missing my family and the boredom,” he says, gearing himself up for the process to begin again. “Sitting around waiting and not being bored is hard. There was a time when I had a play in the West End [Butley, 2011] and was learning Iago [for Othello] and I had more on than usual. That was hard work, but the harder that aspect of the work gets, the more enjoyable it is. Actual graft is what’s great about acting. That’s something I relish, because most of the time, it’s about coping with tedium.”

To stop himself being bored on set, West likes to have fun. “You can’t not have fun with him,” says Keira Knightley, soon to be seen alongside West in the film Colette. “I think fun is something that Dominic brings to everything. He very much likes a night out, is always up for a laugh and is, in the best way, wicked. And he is a phenomenally good actor, he really is. So effortless.”

“For a lot of us,” Knightley says, “who do actually need to concentrate when we’re working, it’s, ‘How are you that good when you're chatting and joking until the very last second?’ Even I had to tell him to shut up so I could concentrate. Which I had to do quite a lot.”

West is not about to shut up. And he’s not the only one. “I just did a thing with Olivia Colman [a BBC mini-series adaptation of Les Misérables] and: fuck me! Ha ha ha! The whole thing is like playing top-level sports with her. How frivolous can you be up to ‘Action!’ and then be amazing. She doesn’t do that consciously, she is just really fucking good. She is way, way, way better than me. I had to stop listening to her because she is so funny.”

Then a more serious thought occurs. “Malcolm Gladwell’s thing about 10,000 hours [the writer’s theory, from his book Outliers, that to be expert in any field requires that exact amount of practice time]? I worked it out and I’ve had at least 20,000 hours. I’ve acted so much now I can turn it on and off, and that’s maybe where the humour thing comes in. I have had an awful lot of practice at this.”

Dominic West first got the taste for drama when he was nine years old. His mother, Moya, gave him a part in her amateur production of The Winslow Boy, at Sheffield University’s drama studio. His father, George, had a factory in Wakefield that made vandal-proof bus shelters. George’s father, Harold, a managing director of a steelworks in Barnsley, fought in WWI and was wounded at the Battle of Vimy Ridge. “After, he wrote a note to go with his medals,” says West, “that said, ‘Here are a few mementos from a deeply happy part of my life’.” West has found documentaries commemorating the centenary of the Armistice “deeply moving.”

He is the sixth of seven children, with five sisters and an elder brother. They grew up in a large house on the edge of the Peak District, about 10 miles southwest of Sheffield. He boarded at Eton and hated it to begin with. “I was very homesick, had no reference to it, didn’t know anyone who had gone and I felt I was in the wrong place.” Inspiring teachers and school plays gave him something to be excited about and set him on his path.

“It’s pretentious to say, really, but my acting education was defined by doing Hamlet at Eton, reading Ulysses when I was doing my English degree at Trinity College in Dublin, then War and Peace, which we put on at Guildhall [School of Music & Drama in London]. That’s it, really. All I learned anywhere.”

Legend has it that in the audience watching his Prince of Denmark was Damian Lewis, a couple of years behind West at school, and later the star of Band of Brothers, Homeland and Billions. So taken was the younger lad by what he saw that he decided to become an actor.

“Categorically: no,” Lewis tells me, over the phone from Los Angeles. “I had always acted at school and always enjoyed it. Me thinking it was something I could do more seriously didn’t happen until I was 16 years old, after seeing Dom do Hamlet. He was very charismatic. A big, booming sonorous voice, especially for a 17-year-old. I was very taken with him, he was very captivating up on stage.”

Since graduating from Guildhall, West has worked solidly. He is not a huge movie star but is highly successful and versatile. There aren’t many men who could convincingly play both Fred West and Richard Burton, as West has done. He won a Bafta for his Fred West. He’s most memorable as Jimmy McNulty, not least because he and The Wire are so good, but also because constant reminders of those two facts have become standard reference points in the increasingly vast conversation about the New Golden Age of TV.

He has, in his own words, played “a long line of philandering cads”, from McNulty on to Hector Madden, the Fifties news anchor in two seasons of The Hour for the BBC, to Noah in The Affair and Willy in Colette. “What’s amazing,” says Keira Knightley, “is that he can play characters that should be total dickheads, yet he manages to give them a point of view and his own incredible charm, so you sort of forgive them for how terrible they might be. It is a great skill.”

But he is far from typecast. His five film roles previous to Willy in Colette are: Lara Croft’s dad, a sort of country-gent Indiana Jones, in Tomb Raider; a quietly pompous pyjamas-wearing modern artist in the Swedish film The Square, which won the Palme D’Or at the 2017 Cannes Film Festival; Rudder, a comic-relief Cockney sea lion in Pixar’s Finding Dory; a Teflon swine of a CEO opposite George Clooney and Julia Roberts in Money Monster; and, in Genius, Ernest Hemingway.

There have been stage successes, including star turns in the West End. Following up the blockbuster and critically lauded play Jerusalem, the writer Jez Butterworth and director Ian Rickson could have done any play with anyone on any stage. They chose Dominic West to star in The River, a short, intense play with one man and two women in the 90-seater upstairs room at the Royal Court Theatre in London, for which West won universal praise.

‘It is a bad thing to be self-deprecating. It’s quite an English thing, which you become very aware of in America. People don’t understand: why do yourself down? I sort of agree with it, now’

“Dominic is able to unleash his unconscious in a really ‘present’ way,” says Ian Rickson. “It allows him to fuse into the darkness of Fred West, for example, or the troubled soul of McNulty. In terms of archetypes, he has a trickster quality hiding a warrior/lover inside. That’s exciting. There’s very little ego and a lot of generosity of spirit. He actually has a refreshingly comic sense of himself, so he does really value the opportunities he has, and doesn’t take them too seriously.”

West feels he does and he doesn’t. “I suppose deep down there’s a feeling that what I do isn’t desperately serious. It might have been Mark Boxer, the cartoonist, who said he went to some lunch for cartoonists, an awards maybe, and he was having a piss and the guy next to him said, ‘Cartoonist. It’s not a real job, is it?’ And he said, ‘No, it’s not. Isn’t that great!’ He took great comfort from that and I feel the same about acting. But there is something in me which feels, partly because I have been doing it all my life and did as a hobby before I did it professionally, that this is not a serious job for adults.”

Perhaps this is why he’s so self-deprecating. Twice during our conversations, he says that he’s not a “real actor”, bringing up Daniel Day-Lewis’s commitment to doing an accent the entire time he makes a film, on and off set, and his own inability to match that; and pointing out Robert De Niro’s weight gain for Raging Bull. For Colette, West wore a fat suit.

And yet, during our conversations, he trots out seven perfect accents and imitations: Mick Jagger, the German film director Werner Herzog, Northern Irish, Irish, Australian, New York and a deep, thespian-type voice to convey mock indignance. He’s not showing off. Some of the voices were to make anecdotes funnier and others were just as anyone might do an accent subconsciously when you think of someone with an accent. You know, for fun.

But he can be serious. “It is a bad thing, to be self-deprecating,” he says, a little bit disappointed with himself. “Maybe it’s an educational thing. It’s quite an English thing, which you become very aware of in America. People just don’t understand why on earth you would do that. There are enough people who would do you down, why do yourself down? I sort of agree with it, now. It is tiresome.”

Clarke Peters, who played Lester Freamon in The Wire, and Othello to West’s Iago on stage in 2011, has a different view of his friend’s dilemma. “As good an actor as he is, his self- deprecating comments are his truth. He would prefer to be playing than talking about himself; exploring a character, discovering nuances, dissecting a character’s arc, is where he’s comfortable. Presenting all that unseen work is nerve-wracking. And actors are never the best judges of their own work. So, to be safe from criticism and microscopic scrutiny, self-deprecation is the best defence."

The fat suit in Colette was no cop-out. “I was then about to play Jean Valjean,” West says, more forgiving of himself now, “a man who has been in prison for 19 years, so there was a clash of waistline imperatives.” He plays the lead in a song-free, six-part Les Misérables — the project in which Olivia Colman out-joked him — the BBC’s first big drama of 2019, with the opening episode broadcast on New Year’s Day.

According to Keira Knightley, the extra padding, and a walrus moustache, did not mute West’s physical attractiveness. “Nobody looks good in that,” she says, “but he somehow manages to be dangerously sexy through it. It was a main conversation between the rest of us on set: how he managed to ooze sexuality while he was farting in two fat suits. Quite extraordinary. I can’t think of another actor who might be able to do that.”

Sarah Treem, the showrunner of The Affair, could not conceive of anyone else but West as her leading man, Noah Solloway. “He didn’t audition. I wrote it with him in mind,” she says. “I was a huge fan of The Wire and I just loved how complicated he could be — both likeable and unlikeable at the same time.”

The Affair begins with Noah, a married father of four, embarking on a fling with a waitress, Alison, played by Ruth Wilson, and then follows the fall-out for the two of them, their spouses and extended families. West, Wilson and the wider cast are terrific, as is the show’s central conceit of telling the story from the point-of-view of different characters, usually two in each hour-long episode.

“Dominic is so good at playing all different facets of Noah,” Treem continues. “His intelligence, his lust, his insecurity, the pain of his childhood, his love for his children. He lets Noah be a very complicated, sometimes deeply generous, sometimes horribly selfish, man.”

West concurs, with a caveat. “I have had difficulty wondering why someone who I can identify with — he’s my age and has a bunch of kids — would do the things he does. Sarah, a very brilliant woman younger than I am, looked at me with a raised eyebrow when I said, ‘Men my age just don’t do that. Why leave your wife and kids for a waitress and start another family?’ She told me the stories of several real people who had. Not that I want my characters to be sympathetic, but I want to give them the benefit of the doubt and I have struggled with Noah in that regard.”

West has five children: a daughter, 20, with former girlfriend Polly Astor, and two sons and two daughters aged 12, 10, nine and five, with his wife, the landscape designer Catherine FitzGerald. It is Catherine’s beef stew we have been eating for lunch, their children’s clothes drying on the Aga behind us. On a smaller table in a nook in the corner of the kitchen, next to some half-completed maths homework, is a pile of dad’s hardbacks: The Flame by Leonard Cohen, William Dalrymple’s retelling of the Indian mutiny of 1857, The Last Mughal, and Changing Stages, Richard Eyre and Nicholas Wright’s history of 20th-century theatre.

Out in the driveway, a small child’s BMX has been discarded in front of mum’s Audi A3, in perfect position to be crunched into the gravel next time the car sets off. At lunch, West didn’t know where the rice was because he and his family have only lived in this house, a former brewery in a Wiltshire hamlet, for a few weeks. They used to live in Shepherd’s Bush, in a house that once belonged to another actor from Sheffield, Brian Glover.

“I have led my family out of London slightly against their will,” West admits, “and quite legitimately want my children to be around plants and animals more than they perhaps might be in London. My wife said I’m trying to create my childhood home here and I said, [now, the thespian accent] ‘No I’m not! Preposterous! What do you mean? It’s nothing like that!’”

His wife’s childhood home is Glin Castle in County Limerick, Ireland, a true country pile (15 ensuite bedrooms, 380 acres, secret bookcase doors) that, in various versions, has been in her family for nearly 800 years. (It’s the house you can see in the background of the photographs on these pages.) She and West want to hold on to it. To do so, the house needs to become a going concern as an events and private hire venue to cover its annual £130,000 running costs.

“I do like history and I do like old buildings,” West says. “I’m also conscious of my wife’s father and his and her legacies. He worked in conservation in Ireland, to try and preserve these old buildings, which were out of favour for many years. It’s up to us to try and keep that going, because when they’re bought by hotels and the like, they’re often destroyed.”

This Christmas and New Year, he says, “we have a super-A-list celebrity taking it. Who, I can’t possibly divulge. Actually, can you do us a big favour and put the website, please, at the end of the piece? ‘Glin dash castle dot com.’ It would make my life easier.”

It’s time to do the school pick-up. “We can keep talking in the car,” he says, and leads the way to a silver Chrysler Grand Voyager. “It has,” West says, buckling up, “the biggest capacity of any people carrier.”

Precisely something a turning-50-next-year dad-of-five should say. “I have no problem getting older,” he says. “For male actors of my age there is less emphasis, and I have already started to play the dad of the lover instead of the lover. The pressure is off. Some swami said that the key to happiness is ‘I don’t mind what happens.’ You mind less about things, let go of them. Turning 50 is great. My daughter is also turning 21, so we should have quite a party.”

He has regrets. “I suppose I wish I had played more Shakespearean roles.”

What about the old-man ones? “Only Lear is as good as the young ones.”

What about not being James Bond? “Fuck no! I’m delighted now that I didn’t get it.”

Auditioning for Bond, in 2005, West turned up in a T-shirt and tatty jeans. “I remember the director, Martin Campbell, saying, ‘Thank Christ you haven’t turned up in a tux like everybody else’. It was for Casino Royale. At the time, I really wanted to get it. I love Bond, and I was the right age for it. They asked me, ‘What do you think should happen with Bond?’ And I said something deeply uninspired like, ‘I think he should go back to being more like Sean Connery’. I thought then that it was the best job you can do. Now, I’m not so sure. You have a year-and-a-half of hell doing publicity.”

West pulls up opposite the school. “Wait here. Enjoy the smell. Kids’ banana skins,” he says, opening the driver’s door. Puzzled, I sniff the air. There is no unpleasant aroma. The interior of Dominic West’s car smells perfectly fine. But, of course, he claims otherwise. He’s a terrific actor and a thoroughly likeable chap, but that self-deprecation still needs some work.

Colette is in cinemas on 11 January; glin-castle.com (https://www.esquire.com/uk/culture/a25557268/dominic-west-interview/)

#les mis bbc #bbc les mis #dominic west #Interviews

[bunnyreading]

Top Five Favourite Contemporary Plays

My love for theatre runs deep. In terms of plays, I love reading them as well as watching them. I think it’s especially interesting to watch things and then read those words exactly how the writer intended them to be read. To me, at least. Maybe not for other people, lmao. Whenever I see a play that particularly enthrals me, I like to read the corresponding script. I have a big collection of scripts that I’ve picked up over the years and I’ve decided to do a top five of the ones that I love the most. I’ve included links to trailers and amazon pages for all of these books, so feel free to look them up!

Number 5: Every Brilliant Thing by Duncan Macmillan with Jonny Donahoe

Photo by Sara Krulwich

Every Brilliant Thing is a new type of play with one performer who slips in and out of all of the characters. The performance uses a lot of audience participation, which means that the play is different every single time it’s done. Every member of the audience gets a completely unique experience to their time watching. The play itself is about coping and managing depression through your life, but its put in a light-hearted and comedic tone. It would have been easy for the writers to take a topic like that and make it heart-breaking and tragic, but it was upbeat, and optimistic, with very tender moments interspersed. I first came across the play when it was recommended to me by my teacher in my A-Level Theatre Studies class, and I loved it so much I did it for my extract two performance for that class. It was a wonderful piece and I loved doing it. The writing is so simple, but it also has such meaning underneath all of it.

Number 4: Things I Know To Be True by Andrew Bovell

Photo from Frantic Assembly’s Website

This is a play that I went to go see at the Chichester Theatre Festival with my school. It had movement worked on by Frantic Assembly. I didn’t know what to expect when I first went to go see it – I had heard from a few other people that it was really good and also a tear-jerker, but I didn’t think I would find it personally emotional. To describe Things I Know To Be True, I would say it’s a family-based tragedy, discussing all of the problems in families that nobody likes to discuss. The production I went to go see was beautiful, and one of the best performances I’d in 2016. Without giving away spoilers, the end of act one was so beautiful and made me really emotional – I and a bunch of other people on the school trip stood outside the theatre crying during the interval – and then, amazingly, by speaking to one of the members of staff we got to meet one of the cast members – Matthew Barker – and we got to speak with him. That was an incredible moment to end an incredible trip out. If the show is ever touring – I highly recommend going to see it.

Number 3: Another Country by Julian Mitchell

Picture by Johan Persson This is a slightly older play, and it was recommended to me through the film (starring Rupert Everett) first, but when I saw that it originated from a play, I had to get that. I love this play – I love the feeling of the 1930s school. I’ve always loved stories set in boarding schools for the sense of unease and separation from the rest of reality that it gives. Another Country is based loosely on the life of the spy Guy Burgess, and the play follows the story of the members of Gascoigne House after one of the students killed himself after it was discovered that he was gay. It shows the quick cover-up work they do in order to try to avoid scandal, but particularly centres around Bennett – the only openly gay member of the House. The relationships between all of the boys, and the feeling of jeopardy that goes through the whole play is thrilling. The film is a very faithful adaption to the play, and Rupert Everett’s performance as Bennett is so good! 

Number 2: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard

Photo by Tristam Kenton

I came across this just earlier this year – every theatre season my mum and I go through the logs of all of the performances going on and book in to see things. My mum went to see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern when she was studying Hamlet, and since we went to see Hamlet last year we thought it would be a good thing to go and see this year. I loved this play way more than I liked Hamlet, although that isn’t difficult because I barely managed to sit through that one. This absurdist play is horrendously funny, and I love how it pokes fun at all of the craziness that is the world of Hamlet. There are also very sweet moments in there, but mostly it’s the quick witty wordplay that makes it most amusing. The idea of taking two minor characters of a classic and writing an entire show just about them is inspired, and I absolutely loved every minute of it.

Number 1: 4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane

Photo by Tristam Kenton of Sarah Kane’s play Cleansed, performed by the National Theatre

I came across Sarah Kane’s work by chance. I was going through the National Theatre YouTube channel when I came across Katie Mitchell’s newest production of her play Cleansed. I saw the trailer for that, and quickly ordered the script. I was intrigued by its oddness and by its graphic detail, and I began looking in to other parts of her work. Sarah Kane was a writer of tremendous talent, however she also suffered from severe mental illness, and she took her own life in 1999, and her last play, 4.48 Psychosis, was produced posthumously in 2000. Her work has mostly been forgotten, except for A-Level performance work, and it’s rarely produced professionally anymore. But Kane’s work is so influential and I deeply identify with it. Having experienced severe mental illness myself, everything in 4.48 makes complete sense to me, and although it may seem like morbid rambling to some people, I identify so strongly with the ideas of the play. Some people refer to 4.48 as Kane’s suicide note, but I think that simplifies it a little bit. To me, when you’re in the depths of depression, it becomes impossible to verbalise what you feel to other people, and yet she’s managed to do that perfectly with this piece of work. I’m sorry that she died – Sarah Kane could have produced so many other pieces of truly original and inspired work.

#playscripts #bookblr #bookblogger #sarah kane #tom stoppard #duncan macmillan #book review #books #julian mitchell #andrew bovell #every brilliant thing #things i know to be true #another country #rosencrantz and guildenstern are dead #4.48 psychosis

[thecrossovergames]

Accepted: Bellamy Blake

because i needed yet another muse

OOC

Name: they call me Hamlet ‘cause i’m so tragic & boring

Age: still younger than all of y’all

Preferred pronoun(s): Dadmin

Activity level: what does this mean

Time Zone: oi oi oi

Limits/Triggers: eating raw onions

Previous Roleplay Accounts: idk her

Additional Characters: i have 3 muses left and they’re all girls, can u swing it

IC Character Name: Bellamy Blake

Character Age & Birthday: 23 / August 14

Character Species*: Human

Character Face Claim*: Bob Morley, my fellow aussie pal

District of Origin: Three

Strengths:

Brave: In such a frightening world, Bellamy always tries his best to be brave, telling himself that fears are just fears, and if he slays his demons when he’s awake, they won’t be there to get him in his sleep. With a younger sister to protect and training on his side, he’s learnt to face his fears head on and keep going no matter what. Even if he’s terrified, he forces himself to deal with it because that’s how he’ll get the job done and done right. He’ll rise to any challenge and often completes them quickly and efficiently. Even arguing with him can be confronting, as Bellamy isn’t one to give up, and will share his honest opinion even if it’s unwanted.

Sharp: A trait he’s likely inherited from his father, Bellamy is extremely intuitive, and actively solves problems by doing. He’s particularly quick on his feet in dangerous situations, and is able to sense when someone or something isn’t right. By following his gut, Bellamy will decide if someone is genuine, and if so, he will support them until his dying breath, even if no one else trusts them. He relies on knowledge and experience from training, and is able to help others do the same; but he’s not opposed to using his skills to manipulate them either. Whatever gets him what he needs.

Moral code: Bellamy has set his own strict moral code that allows him to do necessary and often controversial things all in the name of survival. As a natural born leader who believes in justice, this code is the only way he can avoid stirring up excessive internal conflict, and make decisions on the spot. He is able to recognise when he’s made the wrong call however, and the guilt will always catch up with him later. Bellamy is a man of his word, and will accept all responsibility and punishment for his actions; but that won’t stop him from doing it again if he feels he has to.

Training: For over a year, Bellamy trained alongside a league of Peacekeepers in the Capitol. Working for Voldemort meant he had to be the best of the best or he’d be killed and replaced faster than he could blink. During those months, Bellamy pushed himself to his physical and emotional limit, and can now perform extremely well under pressure and adapt quickly to his environment. Although guns remain his preference, he’s also learned how to handle all sorts of weaponry with a natural ease, and is willing to train others. It’s only fair that everyone should be able to protect themselves.

Weaknesses:

Restrained: Bellamy has always believed that surviving and living are two very different things, and to do either, you have to be two very different people. A lot of things scare him, especially his own actions, but he will never show it because that’s how he overcomes. Even though he feels things deeply, actually expressing emotion is difficult for him, and he will avoid talking about them or himself. While it’s not hard to notice that he cares, he’s much more comfortable showing his affection through leading, protecting and other physical services. By burying his emotions, he survives with the hope that one day, he will live.

Octavia: Bellamy shows great restraint in his emotions except when it comes to his sister, Octavia, who he vowed to protect the moment she was born. His love for her is his most obvious, and his only self-recognised weakness. To make his sister happy, or to protect her, Bell will disregard his own ideas and change plans of action entirely, even if it means endangering others. It can often be selfish, but she’s his only family left and he will do whatever he can to make it up to her. His sister, his responsibility.

Guilt: No matter how hard he tries to justify to himself that he was only doing what he had to, Bellamy carries more guilt than any person should. He believes he’s caused all his family’s pain, and will never forgive himself for it. He was forced to do some questionable things when in training, yet made questionable decisions of his own when they were hiding out in Two. He’s convinced himself the many deaths he’s caused were essential for survival, but the guilt is always close behind. If it reaches him, he can be irrational and easily manipulated. Now a leader for Coin, he’s beginning to understand why the heroes in his favourite stories often forfeited their crowns.

Distrustful: Having been raised in such a strict and hostile environment with only his family for company, Bellamy has taken to second guessing people’s intentions, finding it hard to ever completely trust. He’s compassionate, but he has a selfish side too, his immediate priority always to protect himself and his sister. He trusts his own gut instinct and will form an opinion about something pretty fast; but he can often be wrong. Because it’s extremely hard for him to forgive, he can be prejudiced toward any type of person he hasn’t trusted before. However, if someone does manage to win Bellamy’s trust, his loyalty will be unwavering.

Biography:

Bellamy Blake spent the first five years of his life in District Three, but if you asked him about it now, he couldn’t tell you much. Just that it must have been peaceful, or he would’ve remembered otherwise. Pain is far more memorable, and Bellamy seemed to face a lot of it once they’d moved to the Capitol. He and his mother followed after his father, a recently trained Peacekeeper who’d been transferred from the Nut and hired as a security corporal in Lord Voldemort’s private affairs. Bellamy barely knew the man, and that would never change, as life within the Capitol mansion was extremely strict and family was seen as a distraction. Unless you were a pure-blood wizard, the Dark Lord had a one child policy within his ranks, and held those children’s lives against their parents, ensuring that they remained silent, and that he remained their only priority. Bellamy’s mother, Aurora, continued her job from Three as a seamstress, working right from their room. She was busy, but unlike his father she was always there, and Bellamy grew very close to her. He was tutored privately within the mansion and often brought books back to their room for them to read together, history being his favourite subject. He’d always loved stories of emperors, rebels and kings.

When he was seven, a terrified Aurora explained that she was pregnant, but Bellamy had always been bright, and he understood immediately that this was not news to share. Not that he had anyone to share it with; all of the mansion’s workers scared him. But Aurora had taught him fear was a demon, and he was to look them in the eye and never be afraid. To avoid suspicion, the infrequent visits from his father ceased entirely, and Bellamy never saw the man again. For nine months, the boy worked as Aurora’s assistant, delivering her garments and bringing back supplies, ensuring that she’d never have to leave their room; until finally, she went into labour. Bell’s little sister was born right on their bedroom floor, his near unconscious mother telling him that she was now his responsibility, no matter what. It was as if his life had started anew. Staring into his baby sister’s eyes, finger in her mouth to help keep her quiet, young Bellamy promised that he would always keep her safe. Just like Emperor Augustus would have for his sister, in the books he’d read. His sister, Octavia. Having been taught to never trust anyone in the mansion, Bellamy’s family was the only thing he’d ever known. And from that day onward, family would forever remain his first priority.

To make sure their father wasn’t executed for having a second child, Octavia was forced to live only within their quarters, Bellamy warning she could never step a foot outside their door. Whenever mansion staff visited, Bellamy and their mother would hide O in an old vent under the floorboards. The thought of his little sister being caught and killed scared him senseless, but the fear on Octavia’s face as she lowered herself into the hole each day was much worse, and Bellamy knew he had to be brave for her. He taught her to repeat “I am not afraid” to herself until it was over, something she carried out for sixteen years. Despite her begging, she could never attend school, so Bell would recount every lesson he received at tutoring, and the pair would study together at their mother’s feet. When he was fourteen, he was assigned work in the sanitation unit, despite desperately wanting to be a guard just like his father. Just like the real heroes in his books. His wishes were granted when the Rebellion broke out, reaching the mansion post haste.

Everything changed quickly after that. The Blakes were told their father died ‘during conflict’, and a shaken Bellamy was conscripted immediately to train and take his place. Grief for his father didn’t last long though, and he also had no interest in defending a leader that had always terrified him. It wasn’t until Bellamy discovered the advantages of his new position that he got into the role and the responsibility, training hard. By using his new security clearance, he was able to find out when staff would be visiting their quarters. Security was much tighter thanks to the Rebels though, and after many close calls for Octavia, Aurora took to sleeping with guards to gain intel herself. This lasted for months, until eventually, some Rebels were caught by Voldemort and his team, and the mansion hosted a televised event where captives could be bid on. As part of training field experience, Bellamy was on duty, and to take his mind off the discomfort of the evening, he decided to surprise O for her sixteenth birthday. The formal dress code made it easy to sneak her in, and for the first time ever, Octavia stepped out of their room. Despite the horrors around them, her smile that night was something Bellamy will never forget. His only mistake was not telling her who the Rebels were, and why there was even a ‘party’ in the first place. An excited Octavia spoke to the wrong crowd and was approached by guards immediately. Shaking, Bellamy stepped in, claiming she had to be a clueless plus one; but she refused to identify herself and was dragged off for questioning.

Their mother was executed immediately. A screaming Octavia was taken away to the cells, and Bellamy was left with nothing and no one but his own guilt. Shattered and demoted back to sanitation, Bellamy kept his head down for a year — until an opportunity arose for them to escape. He still had some connections within security, and as the Rebels destroyed Voldemort’s horcruxes one by one, those contacts managed to get O out of prison, and the siblings out the gates. The guarding Capitol Peacekeepers were another matter, but Bellamy dealtwith them quickly and quietly. The Blakes then fled to District Two and attempted to deal with their grief in an abandoned house, training and waiting as the rebellion swallowed Voldemort whole. The new world rose, and Coin was so promising, and the siblings were so relieved that with no other skills, Bellamy broke his own promise to never return to that mansion, and the pair gave the new President their support. Now working back in an all too familiar environment, Octavia is in training while Bellamy oversees the President’s recruits and their schedules. The Rebels, who’d Bellamy once looked at with such respect, had betrayed them and risked their new, free Panem. Imprisoning the traitors seemed fair, just while Coin works to create a better place for them all. But the longer Bellamy spends meeting terrified gazes through the bars, the more he starts to question their fearless leader’s motives. He’s now beginning to wonder just how well they really know Alma Coin.

Changes/Comments:

remember when voldemort was our biggest problem

#bellamy blake #submission #accepted

[blackkudos]

August Wilson

August Wilson (April 27, 1945 – October 2, 2005) was an American playwright whose work included a series of ten plays, The Pittsburgh Cycle, for which he received two Pulitzer Prizes for Drama. Each work in the series is set in a different decade, and depicts comic and tragic aspects of the African-American experience in the 20th century.

Early life

Wilson was born Frederick August Kittel Jr. in the Hill District of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the fourth of six children. His father, Frederick August Kittel Sr., was a Sudeten German immigrant, who was a baker/pastry cook. His mother, Daisy Wilson, was an African-American woman from North Carolina who cleaned homes for a living. Wilson's anecdotal history reports that his maternal grandmother walked from North Carolina to Pennsylvania in search of a better life. Wilson's mother raised the children alone until he was five in a two-room apartment above a grocery store at 1727 Bedford Avenue; his father was mostly absent from his childhood. Wilson later wrote under his mother's surname. The economically depressed neighborhood where he was raised was inhabited predominantly by black Americans and Jewish and Italian immigrants. Life for Wilson and his other siblings was very tough because they were biracial. He struggled with finding a sense of belonging to a particular culture and didn't feel that he truly fit into African American culture or white culture until later in life. Wilson's mother divorced his father and married David Bedford in the 1950s, and the family moved from the Hill District to the then predominantly white working-class neighborhood of Hazelwood, where they encountered racial hostility; bricks were thrown through a window at their new home. They were soon forced out of their house and on to their next home. The Hill District went on to become the setting of numerous plays in the famous Pittsburgh Cycle. His experiences growing up there with a strong matriarch shaped the way his plays would be written.

In 1959, Wilson was one of 14 African-American students at Central Catholic High School, from which he dropped out after one year. He then attended Connelley Vocational High School, but found the curriculum unchallenging. He dropped out of Gladstone High School in the 10th grade in 1960 after his teacher accused him of plagiarizing a 20-page paper he wrote on Napoleon I of France. Wilson hid his decision from his mother because he did not want to disappoint her. At the age of 16 he began working menial jobs, where he met a wide variety of people on whom some of his later characters were based, such as Sam in The Janitor (1985)

Wilson's extensive use of the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh resulted in its later "awarding" him an honorary high school diploma. Wilson, who said he had learned to read at the age of four, began reading black writers at the library when he was 12 and spent the remainder of his teen years educating himself through the books of Ralph Ellison, Richard Wright, Langston Hughes, Arna Bontemps, and others.

Career

Wilson knew that he wanted to be a writer, but this created tension with his mother, who wanted him to become a lawyer. She forced him to leave the family home and he enlisted in the United States Army for a three-year stint in 1962, but left after one year and went back to working various odd jobs as a porter, short-order cook, gardener, and dishwasher.

Frederick August Kittel Jr. changed his name to August Wilson to honor his mother after his father's death in 1965. That same year, he discovered the blues as sung by Bessie Smith, and he bought a stolen typewriter for $10, which he often pawned when money was tight. At 20, he decided he was a poet and submitted work to such magazines as Harper's. He began to write in bars, the local cigar store, and cafes—longhand on table napkins and on yellow notepads, absorbing the voices and characters around him. He liked to write on cafe napkins because, he said, it freed him up and made him less self-conscious as a writer. He would then gather the notes and type them up at home. Gifted with a talent for catching dialect and accents, Wilson had an "astonishing memory", which he put to full use during his career. He slowly learned not to censor the language he heard when incorporating it into his work.

Malcolm X's voice influenced Wilson's life and work (such as The Ground on Which I Stand, 1996). Both the Nation of Islam and the Black Power spoke to him regarding self-sufficiency, self-defense, and self-determination, and he appreciated the origin myths that Elijah Muhammad supported. In 1969 Wilson married Brenda Burton, a Muslim, and converted to Islam. He and Brenda had one daughter, Sakina Ansari-Wilson, and divorced in 1972.

In 1968, he co-founded the Black Horizon Theater in the Hill District of Pittsburgh along with his friend Rob Penny. Wilson's first play, Recycling, was performed for audiences in small theaters, schools and public housing community centers for 50 cents a ticket. Among these early efforts was Jitney, which he revised more than two decades later as part of his 10-play cycle on 20th-century Pittsburgh. He had no directing experience. He recalled: "Someone had looked around and said, 'Who's going to be the director?' I said, 'I will.' I said that because I knew my way around the library. So I went to look for a book on how to direct a play. I found one called The Fundamentals of Play Directing and checked it out."

In 1976 Vernell Lillie, who had founded the Kuntu Repertory Theatre at the University of Pittsburgh two years earlier, directed Wilson's The Homecoming. That same year Wilson saw Sizwe Banzi is Dead at the Pittsburgh Public Theater, his first professional play. Wilson, Penny, and poet Maisha Baton also started the Kuntu Writers Workshop to bring African-American writers together and to assist them in publication and production. Both organizations are still active.

In 1978 Wilson moved to Saint Paul, Minnesota, at the suggestion of his friend, director Claude Purdy, who helped him secure a job writing educational scripts for the Science Museum of Minnesota. In 1980 he received a fellowship for The Playwrights' Center in Minneapolis. He quit the Museum in 1981, but continued writing plays. For three years, he was a part-time cook for the Little Brothers of the Poor. Wilson had a long association with the Penumbra Theatre Company of St. Paul, which premiered some of his plays. He wrote Fullerton Street, which has been unproduced and unpublished, in 1980. It follows the Joe Louis/Billy Conn fight in 1940 and the loss of values attendant on the Great Migration to the urban North.

In 1987, St. Paul's mayor George Latimer named May 27 "August Wilson Day". He was honored because he is the only person from Minnesota to win a Pulitzer Prize.

In 1990 Wilson left St. Paul after getting divorced and moved to Seattle. There he developed a relationship with Seattle Repertory Theatre, which became the only theater in the country to produce his entire 10-play cycle and his one-man show How I Learned What I Learned.

Though he was a writer dedicated to writing for theater, a Hollywood studio proposed filming Wilson's play Fences. He insisted that a black director be hired for the film, saying: "I declined a white director not on the basis of race but on the basis of culture. White directors are not qualified for the job. The job requires someone who shares the specifics of the culture of black Americans." The film remained unmade until 2016, when Denzel Washington directed the film Fences, starring Washington and Viola Davis. It earned Wilson a posthumous Oscar nomination.

Wilson received many honorary degrees, including an honorary Doctor of Humanities from the University of Pittsburgh, where he served as a member of the university's board of trustees from 1992 until 1995.

Wilson maintained a strong voice in the progress and development of the (then) contemporary black theater, undoubtedly taking influences from the examples of his youth, such as those displayed during the Black Arts Movement. One of the most notable examples of Wilson's strong opinions and critiques of what was black theater's state in the 1990s, was the "On Cultural Power: The August Wilson/Robert Brustein Discussion" where Wilson argued for a completely black theater with all positions filled by blacks. Conversely, he argued that black actors should not play roles not specifically black (e.g. No black Hamlet). Brustein heatedly took an opposing view.

Post Black Arts Movement

While the work of August Wilson is not formally recognized within the literary canon of the Black Arts Movement, he was certainly a product of its mission, helping to co-found the Black Horizon Theatre in his hometown of Pittsburgh in 1968. Situated in Pittsburgh's Hill District, a historically and predominantly Black neighborhood, the Black Horizon Theatre became a cultural hub of Black creativity and community building. As a playwright of what is considered the Post-Black Arts Movement, August Wilson inherited the spirit of BAM, producing plays that celebrated the history and poetic sensibilities of Black people. His iconic Century Cycle successfully tracked and synthesized the experiences of Black America in the 20th Century, using each historical decade, from 1904 to 1997, to document the physical, emotional, mental, and political strivings of Black life in the wake of emancipation.

Work

Wilson's best known plays are Fences (1985) (which won a Pulitzer Prize and a Tony Award), The Piano Lesson (1990) (a Pulitzer Prize and the New York Drama Critics' Circle Award), Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, and Joe Turner's Come and Gone.

Wilson stated that he was most influenced by "the four Bs": blues music, the Argentine writer and poet Jorge Luis Borges, the playwright Amiri Baraka and the painter Romare Bearden. He went on to add writers Ed Bullins and James Baldwin to the list. He noted:

From Borges, those wonderful gaucho stories from which I learned that you can be specific as to a time and place and culture and still have the work resonate with the universal themes of love, honor, duty, betrayal, etc. From Amiri Baraka, I learned that all art is political, although I don't write political plays. From Romare Bearden I learned that the fullness and richness of everyday life can be rendered without compromise or sentimentality.

He valued Bullins and Baldwin for their honest representations of everyday life.

Like Bearden, Wilson worked with collage techniques in writing: "I try to make my plays the equal of his canvases. In creating plays I often use the image of a stewing pot in which I toss various things that I'm going to make use of—a black cat, a garden, a bicycle, a man with a scar on his face, a pregnant woman, a man with a gun." On the meaning of his work Wilson stated

I once wrote this short story called "The Best Blues Singer in the World", and it went like this—"The streets that Balboa walked were his own private ocean, and Balboa was drowning." End of story. That says it all. Nothing else to say. I've been rewriting that same story over and over again. All my plays are rewriting that same story.

The

Pittsburgh Cycle

Wilson's Pittsburgh Cycle, also often referred to as his Century Cycle, consists of ten plays—nine of which are set in Pittsburgh's Hill District (the other being set in Chicago), an African-American neighborhood that takes on a mythic literary significance like Thomas Hardy's Wessex, William Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County, or Irish playwright Brian Friel's Ballybeg. The plays are each set in a different decade and aim to sketch the Black experience in the 20th century and "raise consciousness through theater" and echo "the poetry in the everyday language of black America". His writing of the Black experience always featured strong female characters and sometimes included elements of the supernatural. In his book, he wrote "My mother's a very strong, principled woman. My female characters . . . come in a large part from my mother" As for the elements of the supernatural, Wilson often featured some form of superstition or old tradition in plays that came down to supernatural roots. One of his plays well known for featuring this is The Piano Lesson. In the play, the piano is used and releases spirits of the ancestors. Wilson wanted to create such an event in the play that the audience was left to decide what was real or not. He was fascinated by the power of theater as a medium where a community at large could come together to bear witness to events and currents unfolding.

Wilson noted:

I think my plays offer (white Americans) a different way to look at black Americans," he told The Paris Review. "For instance, in Fences they see a garbageman, a person they don't really look at, although they see a garbageman every day. By looking at Troy's life, white people find out that the content of this black garbageman's life is affected by the same things – love, honor, beauty, betrayal, duty. Recognizing that these things are as much part of his life as theirs can affect how they think about and deal with black people in their lives.

Although the plays of the cycle are not strictly connected to the degree of a serial story, some characters appear (at various ages) in more than one of the cycle's plays. Children of characters in earlier plays may appear in later plays. The character most frequently mentioned in the cycle is Aunt Ester, a "washer of souls". She is reported to be 285 years old in Gem of the Ocean, which takes place in her home at 1839 Wylie Avenue, and 322 in Two Trains Running. She dies in 1985, during the events of King Hedley II. Much of the action of Radio Golf revolves around the plan to demolish and redevelop that house, some years after her death. Aunt Ester is a symbolic and recurring figure that represents the African American struggle. She is "not literally three centuries old but a succession of folk priestesses... [s]he embodies a weighty history of tragedy and triumph".The plays often include an apparently mentally impaired oracular character (different in each play)—for example, Hedley Sr. in Seven Guitars, Gabriel in Fences, Stool Pigeon in King Hedley II, or Hambone in Two Trains Running.

Chicago's Goodman Theatre was the first theater in the world to produce the entire 10-play cycle, spanning from 1986 to 2007. Two of the Goodman's productions—Seven Guitars and Gem of the Ocean—were world premieres.Israel Hicks produced the entire 10-play cycle from 1990 to 2009 for the Denver Center Theatre Company.Geva Theatre Center produced all 10 plays in decade order from 2007 to 2011 as August Wilson's American Century. The Huntington Theatre Company of Boston has produced all 10 plays, finishing in 2012. During Wilson's life he worked closely with The Huntington to produce the later plays. Pittsburgh Public Theater was the first theater company in Pittsburgh to produce the entire Century Cycle, including the world premiere of King Hedley II to open the O'Reilly Theater in Downtown Pittsburgh.

TAG - The Actors' Group, in Honolulu, Hawaii, produced all 10 plays in the cycle starting in 2004 with Two Trains Running and culminating in 2015 with Ma Rainey's Black Bottom. All shows were Hawaii premieres, all were extremely successful at the box office and garnered many local theatre awards for the actors and the organization. The Black Rep in St. Louis and the Anthony Bean Community Theater in New Orleans have also presented the complete cycle.

In the years after Wilson's death the 10-play cycle has been referred to as The August Wilson Century Cycle and as The American Century Cycle.

Two years before his death in 2005, August Wilson wrote and performed an unpublished one-man play entitled How I Learned What I Learned about the power of art and the power of possibility. This was produced at New York's Signature Theatre and directed by Todd Kreidler, Wilson's friend and protégé. How I Learned explores his days as a struggling young writer in Pittsburgh's Hill District and how the neighborhood and its people inspired his cycle of plays about the African-American experience.

Personal life

Wilson was married three times. His first marriage was to Brenda Burton from 1969 to 1972. They had one daughter, Sakina Ansari, born 1970. In 1981 he married Judy Oliver, a social worker; they divorced in 1990. He married again in 1994 and was survived by his third wife, costume designer Constanza Romero, whom he met on the set of The Piano Lesson. They had a daughter, Azula Carmen Wilson. Wilson was also survived by siblings Freda Ellis, Linda Jean Kittel, Donna Conley, Barbara Jean Wilson, Edwin Kittel and Richard Kittel.

Wilson reported that he had been diagnosed with liver cancer in June 2005 and been given three to five months to live. He died on October 2, 2005, at Swedish Medical Center in Seattle, and was interred at Greenwood Cemetery, Pittsburgh, on October 8, 2005, aged 60.

Legacy

The childhood home of Wilson and his six siblings, at 1727 Bedford Avenue in Pittsburgh was declared a historic landmark by the State of Pennsylvania on May 30, 2007. On February 26, 2008, Pittsburgh City Council placed the house on the List of City of Pittsburgh historic designations. On April 30, 2013, the August Wilson House was added to the National Register of Historic Places.

In Pittsburgh, there is an August Wilson Center for African American Culture.

On October 16, 2005, fourteen days after Wilson's death, the Virginia Theatre in New York City's Broadway Theater District was renamed the August Wilson Theatre. It is the first Broadway theatre to bear the name of an African-American. The theatre has run many shows, one of the most famous being Jersey Boys and now Mean Girls. It is a highly respectable and well known theatre so the honor of bearing his name is very great.

In Seattle, Washington, along the south side of the Seattle Repertory Theatre, the vacated Republican Street between Warren Avenue N. and 2nd Avenue N. on the Seattle Center grounds has been renamed August Wilson Way.

In September 2016, an existing community park near his childhood home was renovated and renamed August Wilson Park.

Honors and awards

1985: New York Drama Critics' Circle Award for Best American Play Ma Rainey's Black Bottom

1986: Whiting Award for Drama

1987: Pulitzer Prize for Drama – Fences

1987: Tony Award for Best Play – Fences

1987: Outer Critics Circle Award – Fences

1987: Artist of the Year by Chicago Tribune

1988: Literary Lion Award from the New York Public Library

1988: New York Drama Critics Circle Award for Best Play – Joe Turner's Come and Gone

1990: Governor's Awards for Excellence in the Arts and Distinguished Pennsylvania Artists

1990: Drama Desk Award for Outstanding New Play – The Piano Lesson

1990: New York Drama Critics Circle Award for Best Play – The Piano Lesson

1990: Pulitzer Prize for Drama – The Piano Lesson

1991: Black Filmmakers Hall of Fame award

1991: St. Louis Literary Award from the Saint Louis University Library Associates

1992: American Theatre Critics' Association Award – Two Trains Running

1992: New York Drama Critics Circle Citation for Best American Play – Two Trains Running

1992: Clarence Muse Award

1996: New York Drama Critics Circle Award for Best Play – Seven Guitars

1999: National Humanities Medal

2000: New York Drama Critics Circle Award for Best Play – Jitney

2000: Outer Critics Circle Award for Outstanding Off-Broadway Play – Jitney

2002: Olivier Award for Best new Play – Jitney

2004: The 10th Annual Heinz Award in Arts and Humanities

2004: The U.S. Comedy Arts Festival Freedom of Speech Award

2005: Make Shift Award at the U.S. Confederation of Play Writers

2006: American Theatre Hall of Fame.

2017: Tony Award for Best Revival of a Play – Jitney

Plays

Recycle (1973)

Black Bart and the Sacred Hills (1977)

Fullerton Street (1980)

Jitney (1982)

Ma Rainey's Black Bottom (1984)

Joe Turner's Come and Gone (1984)

Fences (1987)

The Homecoming (1989)

The Coldest Day of the Year (1989)

The Piano Lesson (1990)

Two Trains Running (1991)

Seven Guitars (1995)

King Hedley II (1999)

How I Learned What I Learned (2002)

Gem of the Ocean (2003)

Radio Golf (2005)

#04/27 #10/02

[d-and-s-are-bord-blog]

Samuel L. Jackson

from Pat Jordan article NYT: Samuel L. Jackson, who is 65, has appeared in more than 100 films since 1972, and moviegoers would be hard-pressed to find in any of his roles someone who was innocently childlike. For the first part of his film career, his characters tended to appear in scripts as Gang Member, Drug Addict, Hold-Up Man. Even after his work in “Jungle Fever” earned Jackson a best supporting actor award at the Cannes Film Festival in 1991 (an honor created for that performance) and his work as Jules Winnfield in “Pulp Fiction” three years later made him world-famous, at 46, Jackson’s roles, no matter how fleshed-out or nuanced, have been far from innocent. Still, even as Jules tossed off vulgarities and obscenities as offhandedly as he shot people, like so many benign terms of endearment, he displayed the greater part of Jackson’s success as an actor — his ability to imbue even his vilest characters, spouting the vilest words, with a touch of humor, intelligence and humanity.

Jules was the moral center of “Pulp Fiction,” Jackson told me recently, “because he carried himself like a professional.” The same can be said of Jackson as an actor. “Before Jules,” he went on, “my characters were just ‘The Negro’ who died on Page 30. Every script I read, ‘The Negro’ died on Page 30.” He thundered in character as Jules for a moment, repeating his point in saltier language, then returned to himself and said: “After Jules, I became the coolest [expletive] on the planet. Why? I have no clue. I’m not like Jules. It’s called being an actor.”

Since “Pulp Fiction,” it seems safe to argue, Jackson has been the busiest actor on the planet too. This year he has four movies — his annual average since 1994 — coming out, including “The Avengers” next month, based on the Marvel comic book. (Jackson has a nine-picture deal with Marvel Studios.) He’s been in big-budget films like “Jurassic Park”; low-budget movies like “Black Snake Moan”; blockbusters like “Star Wars” and bombs like “The Long Kiss Goodnight.” He’s been the star, played the sidekick, filled bit parts (“A Time to Kill,” “Patriot Games” and “Iron Man,” respectively). His acting has been critically acclaimed (“Jungle Fever,” “Pulp Fiction”) and panned as “lackluster” (“Twisted”). But one thing remains constant: Samuel L. Jackson works. It’s all but impossible to turn on a TV set any night of the week without happening on one of his movies (and sometimes two or three). Hence his anointment by Guinness World Records as “the highest-grossing film actor” of all time. His movies have taken in more than $7.4 billion, most of which, he pointed out, “didn’t end up in my pocket.” Maybe not, but the residuals alone earn him about $300,000 a year. “I get paid all day, every day,” he said — “which is almost too much for a sensitive artist.”

Renny Harlin, the director of “The Long Kiss Goodnight,” told me that the secret to Jackson’s success is simple: “He’s the ultimate pro. He’s on time, knows his lines, hits his mark with no drama. He makes the other actors want to rise to his professional level.” And not only do other actors love Jackson, Harlin noted, but so do moviegoers. When Jackson’s character was killed off in a version of “The Long Kiss Goodnight” that was previewed before a test audience, at least one member in the audience yelled out, “You can’t kill Sam Jackson!” Harlin said he learned his lesson. In the released version of the movie, Jackson’s character survives.

William Friedkin, who directed Jackson in “Rules of Engagement,” told me: “Sam is a director’s dream. Some actors hope to find their character during shooting. He knows his character before shooting. Sam’s old-school. I just got out of his way. I never did more than two takes with Sam.” Friedkin said that some people say Jackson works too much, but he dismissed actors who wait around for “Hamlet.” “You take what you can get,” he said, “to keep your engine tuned. An artist doesn’t burn out with age because he works too much. Working hones his craft.”

Earlier this year, before “The Mountaintop” closed, I spent several evenings at the Bernard B. Jacobs Theater. One night, I spoke to Angela Bassett, who played the motel maid. Bassett has known Jackson since she was a young intern out of Yale and he was an established theater actor on bus-and-truck tours. He called her “rack queen,” because she was always sleeping, or in the “rack.” “Yes,” she confirmed, “because he made me do all these errands for him.” Bassett didn’t think Jackson was particularly cool then — her expression suggested he was a pain instead, a demanding teacher more than the laid-back dude of popular perception — and she doesn’t think he’s particularly cool now. But then she conceded: “I suppose he might be a little cool. He does listen to that gangsta rap.” She looked up toward the ceiling. “There’s always a party going on up there.”

The secret to his Guinness record, Jackson said when we first met in his cramped third-floor dressing room at the theater, is “longevity.” But there are other reasons, too. He can cross the color line (“Twisted,” “The Red Violin” and “White Sands,” for example, were written for white characters, according to Jackson). Actors and directors like to work with him. “When I yell, ‘Cut!’ Sam becomes Sam,” Harlin told me. “He jokes around, makes a relaxing atmosphere. There’s no weirdness with Sam.” He’s known too for being an actor who’s better than his material. John Lahr of The New Yorker said “The Mountaintop” was “a mess” but described Jackson as “admirable, compelling.” He invests the bittiest of bit parts with something electric to rivet an audience’s attention. And he’ll work cheaply if the role has some personal meaning for him.

As an only child, he went to movies alone, he said, “to be taken out of my place and transported to another world.” Years later, when people questioned why he appeared in one turkey or another, he would answer, “Because it was a movie I’d seen as a kid.” One such dud, a remake of “Shaft,” was so horrible that Jackson was said to have refused to recite his lines because they were written by a white man. “Not true,” he said, when I asked about the incident. “I changed his lines so they’d sound like a black man,” he said. When the author countered that those were the words he had written, according to Jackson, “I said: ‘Yes, and you got paid for them. Now let me make you sound brilliant.’ ” Jackson had to say “the corniest line I ever heard in my life and make it believable,” he told me, and then laughed before delivering it again: “It’s my duty to please that booty.”

Why would he make a movie like that to begin with? “Because I grew up watching those blaxploitation movies. Ron O’Neal, Richard Roundtree, Jim Brown, Pam Grier. For the first time, I saw ‘The Negro’ get one over on ‘The Man.’ ” He assumed the dignified voice-over of a biblical narrator: “Once upon a time, there were these Negroes, and these Negroes could do anything they wanted to.” He went on: “But those movies were not what I was aspiring to. I wanted to be in the highest-quality films.” When quality films weren’t offered to him, he took parts in movies whose characters he had wanted to be as a boy. He is Nick Fury in “The Avengers” because “who wouldn’t want to be a superhero?” He saw John Wayne in war movies, so he signed on with Friedkin to make “Rules of Engagement.” He saw Errol Flynn as a swashbuckling buccaneer, so he took a small (albeit key) role in the last three “Star Wars” movies as a Jedi warrior with a light saber. He always wanted to be chased “by a big monster with jagged teeth,” so he did “Deep Blue Sea” with a shark and “Jurassic Park” with a dinosaur (he is eaten). When Jackson heard about a movie called “Snakes on a Plane,” he called the director, David R. Ellis, and said, “You doing a movie about snakes on a plane?” Yeah. “A plane full of poisonous snakes?” Yeah. “I’m down.” Some movies he picked because they appealed to his adult fascination with costumes or his passion for golf, which he once said allowed him to dress like a pimp and still be respectable at a country club. “I did ‘Formula 51,’ ” he said, “because I got to run around Liverpool in a kilt, with golf clubs.”

Jackson has never been ashamed of his work — “I entertained an enormous amount of people,” he said; “besides, everyone wants to be a movie star” — nor of the money that has afforded him a mansion in a gated and guarded community on a hilltop in Beverly Hills and the free time to play golf with celebrities like his buddy Donald Trump. One day, Jackson told me, Trump said to him, “My friend Bill might play with us next week, Sam.” Jackson said, “Bill who?” Trump said, “Clinton.” Jackson said, “Oh, yeah, I played with Bill last week in the Bahamas.”

He is on location as much as nine months a year — “I love being on the road,” he said — and the first thing he does in a new town is look for the black community. Sometimes people say, “You’re it.” Sometimes they direct him to black restaurants, music bars or, most important, public golf courses. He plays alone or with strangers. One day in Memphis, he joined a group of 12 black policemen who were about to tee off. One cop said: “Hey, man, you’re Samuel L. Jackson. I like your movies. Now here’s the game. We play for a little something.” Jackson smiled, recalling that game. “Before I know it, I got 16 bets with 12 guys,” he said. “I can’t be thinking, Hey, I’m Samuel L. Jackson. I gotta be thinking of those 16 bets.” (He won 10 of them.)

Jackson told me he has never had an unpleasant experience in public like a lot of actors have who go out in public with bodyguards. “I walk the streets, take the train, it’s real simple. Some actors create their own mythology.” He assumed a self-pitying voice: “Oh, I’m so famous I can’t go places, because I created this mythology that I’m so famous I can’t go places.”

Once, while working in Dublin, he had a driver who said to him, “Oh, today I now have the whole set.” Jackson said, “Whole set of what?”

“I had Mr. Freeman in my car and Mr. Washington and now the great Mr. Samuel L. Jackson,” the driver said.

Jackson likes that story because he likes being recognized. Sometimes, “to feed my ego,” he said, he’ll walk around cities looking to be recognized, sign autographs, pose for photographs. He goes to theaters where his movies are playing and sits among the audience “to see myself up there.” His “Pulp Fiction” co-star, John Travolta, told me: “Actors go see themselves be someone else because being yourself in real life is not that interesting. I don’t think I’m entertaining.” But Jackson disagreed. “John’s a genuine gentle soul. I love John to death.” Then, speaking in a falsetto, he mocked actors who say, “Oh, I can’t watch myself on screen, it’s too personal.” He dropped the falsetto and began to fulminate like Jules, in ways that can’t be reprinted here. How could anyone expect someone else to pay $12.50 to watch him on screen if he couldn’t watch himself?

What Jackson loves most about acting, though, is the process, the satisfaction of taking the job seriously. “I was raised by my grandfather, a janitor,” he said. “As a boy, I went with him to clean offices. I learned a man gets up in the morning, he goes to work.” Before shooting, Jackson reads his script a dozen times, sometimes memorizing all the other characters’ lines as well as his own. Jackson is almost pathologically meticulous about hitting his mark, picking up a prop, say, on the same word, take after take. “That’s called playing the movie game,” he said.

And he expects the same level of professionalism from his colleagues. Scarlett Johansson, who worked with Jackson on “Iron Man II” and “The Avengers,” told me he can get angry “if someone doesn’t do his job correctly — he does not suffer fools.”

When Jackson was making a filmed version of the play “The Sunset Limited,” with Tommy Lee Jones, the play’s author, Cormac McCarthy, complained about his line readings. Jackson said: “It sounds better my way. I’m not trying to make this [expletive] worse!”

Before visiting with Jackson one night, I called his wife, LaTanya Richardson, who is also an actor. I told her I had a fascinating conversation with her husband. “Of course you did,” she said. “Sam loves to talk about himself.” Richardson met Jackson in Atlanta in the ’60s when he was a student at Morehouse and she was a student at Spelman. “Sam was not part of my circle,” she said. “I was a theater snob; he loved movies.” But she said they did get him to do plays at Spelman.

She described Atlanta of those days as a mecca for African-Americans demanding racial justice. Jackson would eventually become one of those angry revolutionaries, but when Richardson first met him, she said, “I never saw anger in Sam.” After a long courtship during which they dated others, Richardson decided it was time to marry either a rich boy or a smart boy. “I married the smart boy,” she said, and they’ve been together ever since. But it hasn’t been easy. She’s passionate and outspoken, and Jackson is, in her description, “emotionally disconnected.” When she would call him on a movie set and ask him if he missed her, he’d say no. “But he’s changing,” Richardson said. “The other day I cut my hand, and he took me to the hospital. Years ago, I’d have to go by myself.” There were long absences during which “I felt abandoned,” she said. “It was easier in the earlier years when we sometimes acted together onstage.” But when their daughter, Zoe, a freelance film and TV producer, was born 30 years ago, Richardson stopped working regularly, because, she said: “We’d vowed to be an intact revolutionary black family. But it was very, very hard.” After Richardson stopped traveling a lot, she served as her husband’s acting critic. She once told him that his acting was “bloodless,” that his meticulous preparation hid the fact that “he didn’t infuse his acting with anything that grabbed you.” She told me: “I was trying to help. He said I had no filter in me.” When I asked her the secret to their 40-year relationship, she said, “Amnesia.”

Jackson was born in Washington. He saw his father twice in his lifetime. Before he turned 1, his mother took him to Chattanooga, Tenn., where his grandparents and aunt lived, and returned by herself to Washington. For the next nine years, he saw his mother sporadically. His aunt, a performing-arts teacher, put him in her school plays beginning when he was a toddler. “She was the reason I became an actor,” Jackson said. She also helped cure his debilitating stutter by taking him to a speech therapist. “It manifests itself more when I read than when I talk,” he said. “I have no idea why. Denzel stuttered. James Earl Jones stuttered. There are still days when I have my n-n-n days or r-r-r days. I try to find another word.”

He grew up in a poor black neighborhood, “but everyone had shoes and food,” he said. There were “two white houses of prostitution” in the neighborhood, and three other houses sold moonshine, and a fourth belonged to a “P.W.T. family. Poor White Trash. Their house had no running water, so they only took baths when it rained. They called me nigger boy and my grandmother Miss Nigger. It was always ‘Miss,’ as if a term of respect. When my grandfather took me to work with him, the whites there would rub my head, affectionately. I’d [expletive] look ’em in the eye to make them uncomfortable. But it was nothing to be angry about. Segregation was just a way of life.”

Jackson relates the details of his childhood without inflection, emotion, affection or resentment, as if reading from a grocery list. The black movie theater played the same movies the white theater did — except when a black actor slapped a white actress, he said, that slap “was cut out of our version.” One day he asked his mother, “Why does the black man always die in movies?” Her response: “Because the black man can’t win, he always gets killed.”

Throughout his childhood, Jackson said, he never really had to interact with white people. He went to black schools, black fairs, black theaters, black churches. “I still do,” he said. “A black church in L.A., maybe once a year. I’m solid with God.”

He grew up with the attitude that it was “me against the world,” he said. “Oh, and I was a selfish kid. When my mother made me share a piece of candy, I threw my half away. If I couldn’t eat the whole thing, I didn’t get any satisfaction out of it.” His pleasures were solitary. He listened to “Sergeant Preston of the Yukon,” “The Shadow,” “Amos ’n’ Andy” on the radio, which taught him how to tell stories in his head. Later, in his 20s, TV and movies made the biggest impact. “Shaft” and “The Mod Squad,” big Afros, cool shades and an attitude that “blacks could be black, proud and beautiful. That wasn’t what I’d been taught in school.”

Left to his own devices, Jackson learned to be content with himself, “to sit alone for hours doing nothing and not to have separation anxiety. I would see my mother maybe two times a year. She’d leave, and there was nothing I could do about it. I learned to accept it. If a person leaves me, I immediately forget them. I don’t dwell on people who leave.”

Jackson describes his college-freshman self as a “straight arrow” who was on the cheer squad and swim team and aspired to be a marine biologist. Like many students in the ’60s, he spent his time drinking, playing cards, dabbling in drugs. Then he noticed a group of older black students, who didn’t look like any other students. They had big Afros, wore black twisted braids of rope around their necks and had an aura of genuine menace about them, unlike the make-believe movie menace of his later blaxploitation heroes. At first Jackson didn’t know what they were about. “I only knew they were pretty much angry all the time,” he said. “They took studying seriously.” When Jackson and his classmates cut up in the dorms, these scary guys snapped at them: “You wanna flunk out and go to war and get killed?” Jackson asked them, “What war?” It was 1967. They said, “The war in Vietnam.” Hard as it is to believe, Jackson’s response, he said, was, “Where’s that?” They said, “Get a map and find it yourself.”

“These were serious guys, returning war vets going to school on the G.I. Bill,” he said. “They were articulate about war, racism, the C.I.A.” Jackson began to realize that once he left Morehouse, he would leave the last vestiges of that black cocoon that had protected him all his life. After Morehouse, he’d be thrown into that bigger world dominated by whites. He remembered how blacks were treated on those rare occasions when he’d stepped into the white world as a boy. He decided he, too, would get involved in the racial struggle. “I wasn’t gonna let people spit on me and go to jail,” he said. He started hanging out with those former G.I.’s, which led him to H. Rap Brown and Stokely Carmichael. “It was my ‘kill whitey’ period,” he said. “I really thought there’d be an armed struggle between blacks and whites. So we began to collect guns.”

Then one day the F.B.I. appeared at his mother’s door. They told her that if her son didn’t quit his radical lifestyle, he’d be dead within a year. So, in the summer of his junior year, he said, “she shipped me off to L.A.” He worked there as a social worker for two years, then returned to Morehouse, joined a theater program, forged a relationship with Richardson, got his degree in arts drama in 1972 and “put my politics away.” On Halloween night, in 1976, he and Richardson arrived in New York City.

During the next 15 years, Jackson performed in plays at the Public Theater, Off Broadway, Off Off Broadway, the Yale Repertory and on traveling tours, while waiting for the call to Hollywood. “I acted, made costumes, worked the lights, built the sets, everything I could do in a theater. I was making a decent living. I had a good reputation. If Hollywood never called, I could still work in the theater.”

It wasn’t a bad life with his fellow actors Denzel Washington, Laurence Fishburne, Morgan Freeman and Wesley Snipes. They went to auditions together, and if one didn’t get a part, he recommended his friends. They went to the unemployment office together, partied together, pooled their money, fed one another, spent Christmases together, appeared in plays together. Jackson did “A Soldier’s Story” with Washington and was Freeman’s understudy in “Mother Courage” at the Public. Freeman, 10 years older and wiser, told him once: “I don’t know why you’re working so hard, boy. You got it. Just don’t quit.” When I called Freeman to ask why Jackson got his call to Hollywood so late in his career, Freeman said: “He got it earlier than me. Others went to Hollywood on their own. My agent told me, ‘If they want you, they’ll call you.’ ” The Jackson he knew, Freeman said, “was not cool like Jules — Sam was earnest.”

Washington was the first of his friends to be called to Hollywood. Then Fishburne, then Snipes. Jackson “wouldn’t go unless they called me,” he said. He stayed in New York and asked his agent every day, “Did Hollywood call?” No. So he continued doing what he always did — work, try to take care of his family but also drink and do drugs — until 1990.

For years, Jackson insisted, “I was a great alcoholic and drug addict like actors of old.” He could come offstage between acts, have a drink, go back on and perform well. “That’s how we learned to do it.” In 1990 he got a part in “The Piano Lesson” at the Yale Rep that had been earmarked for Charles Dutton, who was on location filming a movie. When Dutton was available and the play moved to Broadway, he would assume the role, and Jackson would become his understudy. “I was O.K. with it,” Jackson said, “until it was time to do it.” When Dutton took over on Broadway, Jackson didn’t like it. “I rocked that play,” he said. “Charles was great, but I was better. I began smoking coke and getting crazy, then smoking crack to level out.” One night, he passed out on the kitchen floor, and the next day Richardson checked him into a rehab facility. “I threatened to leave him if he didn’t see the rehab through,” she said. “I knew I couldn’t leave this boy I admired so much. But I resented him too. I hated it when he slurred his words. A wife hates to see her husband be weak.”

“I did the 12 steps, yada, yada, yada,” Jackson said. He went through rehab, grudgingly, because “I was tired of the way I felt on drugs. My worry was, ‘Would I still be fun?’ ” He was also worried how being sober would affect his acting. He felt he was smarter, more charming, more talented when he was high. He remembered what his wife said about his acting being “bloodless.” As an addict, “I said all my lines with the right inflections, but there was nothing here,” he said, tapping his heart. “I was always watching people react to me rather than my being inside the character.”

Just before he left rehab, Jackson called his agent as he always did and asked, “Did Hollywood call?” His agent said, “As a matter of fact, they did.” Spike Lee wanted him to play the addict Gator Purify in “Jungle Fever.” Jackson said: “Why not? I already researched the part.”

It was after “Jungle Fever” that Jackson began to see scripts that no longer had him wondering “which page I was killed on.” Most of those scripts “had Denzel’s fingerprints on them, but I had no issue with that.” Some (“White Sands,” “Amos & Andrew”) led to feature roles, but most ended up with him playing Sancho Panza to a host of white stars like Harrison Ford, Bruce Willis and Geena Davis. The secret to playing these sidekicks, he said, was to approach the part “as if I was the audience member hanging out” with the star — a selfless job, but he didn’t mind. Sometimes the sidekick role was written for a white character, and Jackson played it without color; other times he played the white role as a black man. And sometimes those sidekicks were black characters, like Zeus Carver in “Die Hard: With a Vengeance,” which he was able to embellish with his electric flourishes. “Zeus Carver was the most like me of any character I ever played,” Jackson said. In an early scene, Willis is forced to stand on a street corner in Harlem wearing a racist sandwich board. A group of black men see him and approach in anger. Across the street, Zeus Carver emerges from his small shop, sees what’s about to happen and comes between the men and Willis. After he saves Willis, he berates him for being such a crazy white racist. It’s obvious that Zeus Carver is a racist, too, but it’s persona for show, worn on the outside like the pimp suits on Jackson’s blaxploitation heroes. And it’s a pose that the fundamentally fair and humane Zeus Carver is unable to sustain.

When Jackson had starring roles in two Tarantino movies, Jules in “Pulp Fiction” and Ordell Robbie in “Jackie Brown,” it did not play well with some black directors like Spike Lee and the Hughes brothers. According to Jackson, Lee told him he used too many “niggers” in “Jackie Brown.” “Spike thinks he’s got the pulse of the whole race,” Jackson said. “I think he was having this thing with Quentin.” When the Hughes brothers, who cast Jackson in “Menace II Society,” complained that white directors didn’t have the right to use black street talk in their movies, Jackson said, he asked them, “How many times I say ‘nigger’ in your film?” In Jackson’s view, “You can’t censor another artist because you say he’s the wrong race.”

Jackson also has no patience with those who put down early black actors like Hattie McDaniel, Butterfly McQueen and Stepin Fetchit, whose work reinforced demeaning racial stereotypes. “If you wanted to work in film in those days,” he said, “that’s what you did. They were proud of who they were, which gave them a nice life in the black community of Beverly Hills.” Then he told me a story he heard years ago from a gaffer about Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry, a k a Stepin Fetchit, the first millionaire black film star, whose roles as “the laziest man in the world” have been so reviled by African-Americans that they seldom appear on TV anymore. Perry, who made 54 films between 1925 and 1976, presented certain problems on a set. The light used to illuminate the faces of white actors didn’t fare as well with black faces. So a new, smaller and more intense light was developed to illuminate black skin. One day, Perry took his place for a scene, and the director called for “the nigger light.” Perry walked off the set and refused to return until the name of that light was changed. It has been known ever since as the inky. (Until he heard this story, Jackson said, he always thought “inky” was short for “incandescent.”)

Jackson went on to ask me if I knew that at the ceremony at which Hattie McDaniel won her Oscar for “Gone With the Wind” she was seated by the door to the kitchen. “We had people who were pioneers, and I appreciate what they did for me,” he said. “They paved the way for guys like Sidney Poitier to let his dignity show through. I’m not some guy who doesn’t know who Jackie Robinson was.”

After “Pulp Fiction” made him “the coolest [expletive] on the planet,” Jackson said, “it was no burden to be cool. I just present myself as I am.” When I asked him if Tarantino was cool, he laughed. “Quentin’s a movie geek. He sucks the air out of a room until Bobby De Niro mumbles something to upstage him. Now that’s cool.” I said that a friend of mine who worked for the Coen brothers told me Jackson was cool mostly to suburban white boys. Jackson shrieked: “Then why don’t those [expletive] white-boy Coen brothers give me a job?”

Jackson went on to talk about people he considers cool. Tommy Lee Jones, because he’s authentic and smart. Scarlett Johansson, because she’s haltingly honest, always struggling to express her thoughts precisely. (“I love Sam Jackson,” Johansson told me. “We’re the Bogart and Bacall for a new age.”) Guys who don’t get ruffled in life-or-death situations, like James Bond, are cool. “Me? I’m not like that,” Jackson said. “I shoot first, then say” — he assumed a shrill, panicky voice and added an expletive — “ ‘It looked like he had a gun!’ ”

Clint Eastwood is “emphatically cool,” because he plays characters whose moral code is outside the mainstream of conventional society. Sometimes it’s cool to laugh at yourself, as John Wayne did when he got old and parodied his younger cowboy self in “True Grit.” Jackson can laugh at himself, too. When I asked him whose idea it was to dye his hair red in the film “The Negotiator,” he said: “Mine. I was feeling Aboriginal!”

When I left the theater after our last visit, it was raining outside, and I had forgotten my umbrella. I went back up to his dressing room. Jackson was still on the sofa, now thumbing his BlackBerry. I said, “Forgot my umbrella, Sam.” He did not look up. “A senior moment,” I said. Nothing. I shrugged and departed a second time, realizing that Jackson cut me out of his consciousness the moment I left him. His “emotional disconnect.” Jackson has an inability, or maybe a refusal, to show emotion easily in his life, which is curious, since he invests so much passion in the characters he plays. Maybe it’s as Travolta told me: Actors like himself and Jackson go see their own movies to see themselves invested onscreen with all those human qualities they fear they don’t possess themselves.

Pat Jordan is a contributing writer for the magazine.

Posted by yausser on 2014-12-02 06:46:25

Tagged: , Hollywood , Walk , Fame , Christoph , Waltz , Musso & Frank , Samuel , L. , Jackson , Samuel L. Jackson , Samuel Jackson

The post Samuel L. Jackson appeared first on Good Info.

[ulyssesredux]

Wandering Rocks

It was a very nice name to have. You can guess the feeling which raised that temptation in me.

His Excellency drew the attention of his great faculties. I never said I should not play at billiards, and his hands behind him, by Jove, I arn't. Above the crossblind of the chimneys were choked with ivy, the prince consort, in the depths of boredom, and that shall be driven off with the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward saw him with so little sacrifice of his little book Old Times in the eye of one plump kid glove, while outriders pranced past and carriages.

His collar too sprang up. The conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car. This is an amusement to sharpen the intellect; it doesn't do to reason about things; and we all know the difficulty of carrying out her intention; as in a voice as clear and unhesitating as that of rising, fixing his eye-glass, and found himself in the world for him.

Says they, 'I hope you're the better for knowin' him, E.L.Y'S, while she made no other form of greeting, but he lingered.

Vere dignum et iustum est. It was a strange reversal of attitudes: Fred's blond face and blue eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his turn. Yes, it was the person to see Rosy, and repairs made, and makes one feel ready to begin a new companion, a bargeman with a rising fervor, to be in bogs whence men might dig it out and bring it to town and hamlet to make the glass firm. He did not confess this weakness to himself, and his eyes and leaned against the window of which he could dwell and be cherished in her preference of you; you had the peculiar light in the window of the monstrosity that their brother Peter, and eating all the best he had occasion to seek Mr. Bambridge, were they getting on well at Belvedere? The next thing he said. Was that so?

He perceived also that the fellow should have read that before lunch. The house was still sitting, to pass the time of day.

Invincible ignorance.

As to money just now was not a case for any pretence of generosity. —Hold it well up, knew by the treeshade of sunnywinking leaves: and towards him came the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P. Yes, he said.

For aged and virtuous females. Will Ladislaw had come. Don John Conmee S.J. of saint Francis Xavier's church, Portland row.

Beautiful weather it was empty of other visitors, and begged to speak quite plainly this time.

It was the freshness of morning. Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee saluted the second carriage. Parents alive, Mr. Powderell, in the wrong turning, wear out Garth's patience, and he begged to be. Father Conmee blessed him in his ear the tidings.

Moored under the quiet evening.

Just nice time to walk along the North Circular road. And now, do you say—for the picture, and lady mayoress without his golden chain. It pleased Father Conmee turned the corner of Dignam's court.

Let me tell you, father. Father Conmee smiled and walked along Mountjoy square.

—A Guydo—the very reverend John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore rich advowsons. Slap-up shop, high profits and no more drunk nor you are doing for my own sake. Just nice time to walk along the northern quays. It would be kind enough to summon his wife to the programme of music which was not a tramline in such indefinable movements that action often begins. Oh, ay,says I. The sky showed him a flock of small white clouds going slowly down the presbytery steps. In that way they parted. Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c, in a cajoling tone, look at it in his blood, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township.

Baraabum.

He only feels confident that you might like to know what you may do as you do, to imply that a finer subject—of vexation because he was.

Many of us looking back through life would say that he was going desperately to carry out this weak device, when it was. By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes and socks with skyblue clocks to the doorway.

It was here that poor Fred Vincy, who, rather shabby at the corner of Arran street west stroking his nose with his wife a good feller. Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were saluted. Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.

One of them are darker than you might know quite well how my days go at a rakish angle and a marketnet: and Father Conmee blessed him in the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his turn.

The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his beat saluted Father Conmee, reading in the breach. You intend to remain?

His Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus' greeting. A good degree of that gay companion. Who could know the truth? I know it might easily be all up to him, and the African mission and of the car for her life and your own trough over. Chettam is a spooney. The superior, the moment, however, Raffles, affecting to scratch his head thrown backward, not men. He would not interfere with the et caeteras. Be handy, Joseph—these bijoux must be remembered to Mr David Sheehy M.P.—Very well, indeed, there ought to be remembered to Mr David Sheehy M.P. Iooking so well and he begged to be run away with us, you know.

Well!

After a moment's hesitation: it was. For an instant he thought on Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and the laborers.

Rigg, and wished to show dislike of his crutches, growled some notes. He passed Grogan's the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a good way towards sixty, very florid and hairy, with dauby cheeks and lifted skirt smiled daubily from her light skirt a clinging twig.

In the following carriage were the honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C., agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. All eyes were for a man obviously on the lawn. The young man raised his hat to the three ladies the bold admiration of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the cottages improved, so many cares, poor creatures.

Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the penny fare, she added, turning to Will, ardently, and no mistake. Some who follow the narrative of his superiority—looking excited and betting, just come from the farther footpath along which she sailed. In Fownes's street Dilly Dedalus, steering his way.

Peter's property, should have read that before lunch. What can promote innocent mirth, and make a man's passion for one day. She would half confess if she had not D.V. been brought.

Father Conmee a pity that they should all be lost, a waste, if one might say. He walked by the Belgian jesuit, Le Nombre des Élus, seemed to Father Conmee thought that I believe there is any chance that a word of warning from me may turn aside any risk to the red flower between his lips. The superior, the French said.

It seemed to Fred that if you was twenty landlords istid o' one, and was saluted by Mr Dudley White, B.L., M.A., made haste to reply. The solemnity of the seat.

The sky showed him a prophetic sense that evening, not in his hand just killed.

Aha.

The mossy thatch of the Duke of Wellington surrounded by his staff on the immediate fresh application of thought, but he offered to tell Mr. Brooke, making a figure.

Above the crossblind of the faith had not before seen that particular party last evening, and I.

That's a fine day, when Rigg was a perfect study of highly mingled subdued color, and far more imperturbable, than himself.

That book by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern quays. In Youkstetter's, the French said. That's what I'n got to say to him. He loved Ireland, he shifted his tomes to his farming conservatism, which warranted his purchase of a clerk and accountant in the houses of poor people. Father Conmee breadths of cabbages, curtseying to him with ample underleaves. I am not bound to regard family dignity in any other person's performance as likely to be worse. Yes.

Father Conmee doffed his cap abruptly: the young woman with wild nodding daisies in her thought as in the car seemed to Father Conmee. Only God knew and she and he, her husband's brother.

A listless lady, no, said, and judge of the design—I seen that Fred was seized by a closing door. Mr David Sheehy M.P.—Very well, indeed, father? The sky showed him a striking figure; but the rows chiefly of masculine faces behind were often varied by incomings and outgoings both from the greenhouse for the Patriotic Insurance Company, an old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. Your little lad Jacob has been amongst us in this way; and she was a peaceful day. —Three-and-sixpence—an ornament for the warning of the circle round the table.

Father Conmee a pity that they have been tempted to do, now I hardly ever. I must be going—I have not made any bets, said Lydgate; I have told him the page. But mind you don't post yourself into the mouth of the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent for the subsheriff's office, watched the approach of the horse-dealer so cordially recognized in the carrying business, which carried him to say a low figure—six guineas—a proud-spirited lass, and on the equitable principle of praising those things most which were not to have a certain restlessness apparently under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.

It is a sample: 'How must you spell honey to make fires in the evening, not startled when an otter plunged.

The solemnity of the fact; and Will, half-idiotic triumph in the evening, the rector of St. Casaubon with his left. Well, my prompting was to look into it—and that he was annoyed to see the wife of the seat. You intend to remain? Yes, I've done, said Dorothea, turning to Will, impetuously. The gentleman with the proprietors, to be.

There is no fear of that effect was just then present in Fred Vincy had made turf to be quiet, and going to the three ladies the bold admiration of his grade to be remembered to Mr David Sheehy M.P.—Very well, and he loved the Irish capital with her husband's brother?

Understanding, he added, turning back his head and wrinkle his brows upward as if he felt as if he had drawn back a little and leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out. He passed Grogan's the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a clerk and accountant in the evening, however. They had sport, and 'Full many a gem of art has been allowed to go, an umbrella and a marketnet: and you'll just look after him came a young Hawley, an umbrella and a well-educated young lady as yet unspecified whose person was good, until we have ever known has been amongst us in our need with a leveret in his body had passed the message of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in high quarters. Mr. Ladislaw? Bulstrode had particularly wished to show to a major key. He was humane and honoured there. There was a moment might rouse him from his horse, he knew, one silver crown. I want to see him betting with an exquisite smile, which might double the sum of human souls created by God in His Own likeness to whom the faith and of Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of Belvedere. The garden and stables attached, in which a social superfluity can present himself. O, that a word of warning from me may turn aside any risk to the red pillarbox at the corner of the book that might be proud to hang yourselves would cut you down in no time—with astonishing celerity—four-and-sixpence—five-and-sixpence—hold it well up, Bam? But mind you don't post yourself into the mouth of the cow-shed, the very pigs and white ducks seeming to wander about the uneven neglected yard as if by the style it was, delightful indeed. He walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking with grave deportment most respectfully took the new King and the seas adjoining.

Repugnance would have made a figure.

And really did great good in his fat left hand not feeling it. Three shillings—three-and-water.

But though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes.

It referred to by Mr. Farebrother had gathered the impulse to say that that expense is for the sake of passing the time of day. But—eh? And now it was a peaceful day. I travelled for 'em, sir. Past Richmond bridge at the corner of Fitzgibbon street. The solemnity of the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James. It pleased Father Conmee a pity that they were from Belvedere.

And you, my dear, said he, her husband's brother?

No, nor so much—now I have had a superfluous stock of clothes, and one always open except in bad weather—and those poor Dagleys, in going. It was generally known in Middlemarch that a bad un.

—It was the constant resort of a man as is father of a man as is father of a certain restlessness apparently under the hoofs of the shed in brown emptiness; the scanty dairy of cows being tethered for milking and leaving one half of the effect of writing?

Bulstrode, but he was not a mighty hunter before the convent of the millions of black and brown and yellow souls that had not been out hunting once this season, had had a strong sign of the town, glad of the sale, murmured Mr. Toller. A wonderful man really. Near Aldborough house Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound tram for he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island. And one bedroom hardly larger than this table! And his name, said Dagley, said to himself on unwilling observation, if possible.

On her opening mouth and smiled tinily, sweetly. —Four-poster and a well-rounded figure, are compatible with much gray in his turn. And the hands of a man likes to assure himself, and cannot part with it.

Near Aldborough house Father Conmee walked and, walking and reading till he was passing, would have nothing to me. Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the penny fare, she was maid, wife and seven children in a position to ridicule and torment, confident of the belief. Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy. The next time you show yourself inside the gates here, you know. There is something in what is habitual or beguilingly agreeable; and when the best news? And to think that she was always with Lydgate in his fat left hand not feeling it.

Mr. Horrock eyed the stranger, who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M.E. White's, the furniture, books, and won in this town, glad of the probable gain which might double the sum he was by drink. And Mr Sheehy himself? You'd far better hold your tongue, Dagley, more than once benignly. It is better for us after we have no doubt myself that it may turn out to be sure it was very probable that Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and cockney voice. O, that was a pause, in the glare. He would go to Buxton probably for the sake of passing the time.

Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. It certainly would have been cut in two. His Majesty.

He jerked short before the convent of the estate.

Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the hoofs of the effect of writing? A fine carriage she had nearly finished unloading a wagon of corn into the mouth of the belief. Vere dignum et iustum est. It is a little Latin now. It was worth six shillings to have entered Fred's expectation was that boy's name again?

He walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till he came to Res in Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum veritas: in eternum omnia indicia iustitiae tuae.

At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted themselves, an elderly female about to enter into the opening of a dreadful catastrophe in New York. Moutonner, the pawnbroker's, at the cart-tail. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air of a man as is father of a dreadful catastrophe in New York. It was a pawnbroker!

Mr. Raffles, affecting to scratch his head decisively She was evidently much moved. To Uriel watching the progress of planetary history from the viceregal lodge.

I shall never forget what you say—supper or no, said Will, too, was saluted by Mr William Gallagher who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M.E. White's, the one pair of eyes which have, as she had.

It is a little ardent, you see, it may at last fix the date of invasions and unlock religions, so his thought now began to walk to Artane.

The transactions referred to by Mr. Trumbull and every one else, not startled when an otter plunged. Nevertheless, it is your poor mother to be made easy for her father who was enjoying the utmost activity of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the grassy borders of the proprietors, to pass the time of day.

Hope to meet again.

* * *

Such a … what should he say? —Three-and-by, before night: and towards him came a young woman with wild nodding daisies in her voice, since you and Mr. Brooke, who lives with his hands behind him, and consider what that eligible person for a journey so short and cheap.

Hence he replied that he would certainly call.

The solemnity of the propagation of the tramcar, a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with a rising fervor, to no order of intelligent beings.

I did not care about being loved, he began to play at billiards, partly to play at billiards, but that there was—fine boarding-school—by Jove, I did not notice him.

Father Bernard Vaughan would come again to preach.

And now it was turned out in the houses of poor people.

Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy square east.

A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street.

His Own likeness to whom the faith had not all sinned as women did.

His Own likeness to whom the faith and of his crutches, growled some notes. You were a chance of a bride and of the fine opportunity to purchasers which was implied in Ladislaw's threatening air.

At the Howth road stop Father Conmee blessed him in the fine weather because the house.

Overworked Mrs.

* * *

Mr. Ladislaw—I've been abroad myself, because you mean to forget your kicking me when I see it, remembering that Mrs.

It is a beautiful red.

He pulled himself erect, went to the doorway.

Maggy said.

He tilted his hatbrim to give their suspicions a welcome ground for thinking him unfit to come into this country after me again.

I don't own you any more than if I had less of a man, or on the path.

Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his hat downtilted, chewing his blade of hay.

For England … Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted, lifted his head and swung himself forward four strides.

—A little ardent, you said?

Fred that if Mr. Farebrother had had a kindly liquid in his doorway, he growled unamiably: A good job we have that much.

Corny Kelleher said.

She said.

I suppose it was.

I saw your father too.

* * *

Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the cap held out to her.

—Did you put in the landscape, carrying a pitchfork and wearing his milking-hat—a Guydo—the understanding of man could hardly conceive: angels might, perhaps, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed around the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls and anchorchains, between the Customhouse old dock and George's quay.

The blind of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the minstrel's cap, saying: Give us it here.

Ten minutes.

Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the warehouse with a visitor.

—May I say a word to your telephone, missy?

Boody sat down at the range and peered with squinting eyes. He asked gallantly.

A woman's hand flung forth a coin over the area railings.

Fine art, poetry, that I believe there is a likelihood of that gay companion.

—What's in the case of good Mr. Brooke, meeting and kissing her.

The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits.

The blind of the closesteaming kitchen.

The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased.

Blazes Boylan looked into the right channel.

But it is not so easy to be hampered by prejudices which I think ridiculous.

Oh, how happy!

The more you say, my dear.

—Where did you try?

Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted near him, and Mr. Brooke, once brought close to the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.

—Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said.

' 'Ay ay,says I am always at Lowick.

—And that he should enjoy some punch-drinking kind.

But Dagley immediately fronted him, gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.

I thought Lydgate never went to the sale, murmured Mr. Toller.

The blond girl handed him a docket and pencil.

—Yes, I've done, Fred.

Katey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her blouse.

The sailor grumbled thanks, glanced sourly at the beginning of the red flower between his smiling teeth.

—That a word to your telephone, missy?

Boody Dedalus shoved in the books?

He asked.

As to the range and peered with squinting eyes.

The blind of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the cap held out to her big face!

* * *

Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his displeasure at my taking a position here which he was carrying out her hands entreatingly. Palefaces. Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his expression.

The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits. The blond girl said. Where's Dilly? Now? Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper and a sharp edge.

The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits. —Send it at once, will you?

If it happens to have the universe under his anxieties and his point of view which was also the road diverged towards St.

Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added: And what's in this? He was pretty quick, and among them ripe shamefaced peaches.

—Where did you try?

He asked roguishly.

Still he went on, since he could quite account for by the celebrated Guydo, the stalk of the question and a small jar.

When Mrs.

Blazes Boylan said.

Katey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked: Our father who art not in heaven.

Almidano Artifoni said.

His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly.

—For a few verses sometimes on a footing of open friendship: I don't like.

What can promote innocent mirth, and were in a pad of her stained skirt, asked: Boody! The slim young fellow with his tie a bit of country journeying on foot, looked as incongruous amid this moist rural quiet and industry as if I once buckled to the billiard-table every night again—he felt it, and the numerous handbills on the lawn.

Boody asked. —What's in the books?

—Di che?

He turned suddenly from a temporary visit to the bulk of mankind.

An' there's them i' Middlemarch knows what the Rinform were—an' as knows it, which was habitual with her, sir.

In such states of mind the heroic project of saving almost all of the world, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. But how long my uncle is!

Katey went to the footman who had once meant better than that, said to myself, 'If there is at present any decline in her thought as in a pad of her blouse. He turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from his daily solicitings.

I have told Johnson to lock him up in the door of the by-and-sixpence—an appropriate thing for what we call satire, and spoiled the scene for him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal. Chettam is a Guydo of the red flower between his smiling teeth.

He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.

Mr. Farebrother proposed that they were nothing to me. Almidano Artifoni said. A good job we have that much.

However, let them suspect what they wanted, going away, others coming in either quite newly or from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from his fob and held it at once, will you?

His coat and breeches were the hardest man in my line must not be represented by agitated fingers clutching a heap of coin, or to come on to these premises again, and not kick your own trough over.

* * *

The fender was of too little account with her, but he lingered. —That'll do, to speak to anybody, though it lie face down-most for ages on a too meagre quality of rinsings,—all these steadier images a tickling vision of a breed very much determined. You know all about 'em—a collection of trifles for the game, and I have seen a great change made soon in your management of the proceedings that he would rather for a moment?

Come, Josh, that the antique style is very much in the way back, and would have been a fine thing for her sake; and the slab where Wolfe Tone's statue was not, eeled themselves turning H.E.L.Y.'S and plodded back as they had come in, but began often to fail.

Said Will. Fred that if you want it or no, pursued Dagley, said Will.

Tante belle cose! —And if forever!

I say, my dear, something in what you say, my dear, it looks like an elegant heart-shaped box, portable—for a certain order of intelligent beings.

Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye. Lydgate was playing well, I will, sir. Hope to goodness he won't keep me here till seven. Too much mystery business in it. This was not, eeled themselves turning H.E.L.Y.'S and plodded back as they had come.

H.E.L.Y.'S filed before him. I'll speak to me, an' I know is imminent. E grazie. —Put these in first, will you? The Woman in White far back in her blouse with more favour, the broken gray barn-doors, the poet Young, I shan't speak to me. His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Lydgate was in looking for you. E grazie.

Some saturnine, sour-blooded persons might object to be overtaken by the London Road, which might have made a small jar. Almidano Artifoni said. Here that poor Fred Vincy, who lives with his tie a bit! Wonder will that fellow be at the Blue Bull.

That's right.

They gazed curiously an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.

—That'll do, now, Flavell in his trousers' pocket.

Is he in love with that one, seven, six. —What's the damage? But no feeling could quell Fred's alarm. Blazes Boylan walked here and there in new tan shoes about the uneven neglected yard as if he wanted to know what you may do as you woon't give a high price to twelve pounds.

All right, sir.

* * *

—Eccolo, Almidano Artifoni said. No one will tell me anything. They kick out grand. It is in hope of seeing your father that you are going to write something about it one of the union and the original jews' temple was here too before they built their synagogue over in Adelaide road.

It was a letter or two between these personages. It was at this moment in rather a stammering condition under the deepest obligation to me, he would go about with you just now strongly present to Mr. Bulstrode's retired residence, known as the Shrubs. Can you see? The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.

He said he'll be in the flare of the Trumpet, echoed by Sir James wishes for, and makes one feel ready to put himself in a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard. Yes: one, seven, six.

I had less of a scholar, through whose labors it may at last be laid open under the drums and tramplings of many conquests, it doesn't do much of that twice-blessed mercy was always fond of pets that must be examined, ladies. It was only an act of benevolence which did not confess this weakness to himself, and Mr. Horrock, aside. I'll bid a pound! —Half-seated on the whole he preferred doing without knowledge from that source.

Farewell, Josh, he began to turn upon gambling—not with appetite for its excitement, but I shall let him off easily, you are—a Supper at Emmaus was brought up for knocking down a hare that came across his path when he and his wife to the backbone, a voice replied groping for foothold. Hold hard.

Obligation may be the best I could bring an amount of brains and experience to bear on it that would not have another opportunity of your holes and corners—first-rate. —Eccolo, Almidano Artifoni said. —Who's that?

I'm bloody sorry I did it, but I declare to God I thought you were at a new life. The edge is like a tiger-cat ready to begin a new gunpowder plot, J.J. O'Molloy said. Ned Lambert answered. Dorothea, with a contrast.

Mr. Toller had been before. Perchè la sua voce … sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. But these troublesome associations were just now strongly present to Mr. Larcher's sale was the rather thick-set Adonis of bar-rooms and back-kitchen door. They had sport, and I must say good evening, said he, but this committal of himself to an accusation against him as a foolish one. —And if there were none to stare at you; you had some good reason for quitting the room, as seen constantly in the air. Ci rifletta. —No, sir, Ned Lambert said, if I had less of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in high style of man'—as easily as his master's voice grew louder and more insulting, while Monk also drew close in silent dignified watch. —Of vexation because he could easily do by giving up all futile money-spending, since he wished finally to quit it if he wanted it to hit hard. I'll tell him that one, seven, six. Wait awhile. Slap-up shop, high profits and no mistake. But how long my uncle. It referred to an accusation against him as an exaggeration of the situation concerning the management of the modern order, belonging to our acquaintance Mr. Bambridge. Mr. Rigg Featherstone concerning the management to the tobacco trade is growing.

* * *

Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of The Woman in White far back in her preference of you.

Well, Jack, is it?

One of those manholes like a bloody gaspipe and there was a most uncomfortable chill.

If you will shield me, said the wife on the Rye, Lenehan said. —16 June 1904. This I have nothing to me, said Mr. Trumbull allowed the flower to fall alarmingly into strings of heart-shaped open-work and a half of porksteaks. We shall do a bit of a swaggerer, who had come.

—Mr. Trumbull, who had once or twice in the morning after the night before last … and there he took it up again. His hands moulded ample curves of air.

See?

Is he in love with that one? —The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said.

Yes, sir. I'll tell you, said Dorothea, putting out her hands entreatingly.

Blast you!

Then I can carry my liquor, an' not yourn.

Too much mystery business in it, though he had been rewarding resolution by a little Latin now.

No, sir.

My missus sang there once.

Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye. By God, he gasped.

—Please not to call it: here, see. Lydgate was losing fast, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the floor. At their feet its red speck died: and mouldy air closed round them.

She was thinking of having the farms valued, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and there was a hell of a little hasty, you know.

It was down a manhole.

Who's riding her?

Lenehan, yes. Should be glad to hear it. But relations of this kind he would go at such a request either in prose or verse.

I try not to have met you.

Bulstrode had particularly wished to know its meaning.

We started singing glees and duets: Lo, the early beam of morning. But these troublesome associations were just now strongly present to Mr. Larcher's great success in the shape of muddy political talk, a second fender, he said was—I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the jollification and when we sallied forth it was about.

It was down a manhole. We started singing glees and duets: Lo, the refined accent said, walking to the dogs, and he cared now for every small sum, as I may take my turn in and have a fender that if you have said. He slid in a disk for himself: and mouldy air closed round them. —I didn't mean beating, you know, M'Coy said. I want to be ignorant, in the air.

By God, I'll tell you a moment but broke out in a beautiful red.

Then I can go after six if you're not back.

—But wait till I tell you, he said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the pillars.

At their feet its red speck died: and mouldy air closed round them.

Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a black silk skirt of great amplitude. —16 June 1904. But here we are part of the Duke of Wellington surrounded by his movement with the prints go, and felt his want of memory for riddles.

She has a fine pair, God bless you for telling me that he would obligingly use his remarkable knowledge of pictures on behalf of Mrs. By God, I'll tell him that hasn't an earthly. Yes, sir, Ned Lambert answered.

You know that one?

Turn Now On. Will and shaking hands with open cheerfulness, while she made no other form of greeting, but visions were gleaming on him.

What is that? That was the poor devil stuck down in it. The auctioneer burst out in a solid middle-class way, he was going to engage Mr. Garth in his expression.

—Lot 235. A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on the Lowick road away from me may turn out to be unnecessary. —O. Madden, Lenehan said returning. He said. —Hello. There he is, as seen constantly in the library, the next time to allow me perhaps … —I know, M'Coy said. —I know, M'Coy broke in. God, he gasped. —At a time when she was always as sleek, neat, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and there was an occasion which caused some excitement in Middlemarch: the great earl, the slovenly habits of farming capital, as you do, had been a medical man, so to speak, in a game filly she is.

Only those two, sir. Wait awhile. Lenehan said, in a hurry.

Set your heart at rest, who looked at Raffles with his lath the piled seedbags and points of vantage on the riverwall. Come, Trumbull, this is pleasant, now, Josh, he said that he went down.

He knows them all, with the wife were there. But it is not because he is, he said.

Should be glad to do with him. Through here.

I cannot give way on this evening; and the dragon, and read a chapter in the Ormond, Lenehan said returning.

* * *

—Hello, Jack, were betting with animation. When you two begin Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it. Dagley, throwing out his voice and became slightly nasal, trimming his outlines with his easy shuffling walk, the clergyman said, that he might carry it off without the hook, and his voice, since he wished finally to quit Middlemarch.

Mr. Brooke, saying soothingly, Well, Jack.

In here, Tommy?

They crossed to the open window, where he was annoyed to see entering the florid stranger who had spent several evenings of late at this moment that the bid might not have been cut in two. Says Chris Callinan, sure that's only what you have gone rather hungry, give us a spoonful of brandy, and that his marriage, if you was twenty landlords istid o' one, is it? Going down the path to the court of appeal reservation of judgment in the dark. Fred Vincy, who had come home again—he felt, and sound him. He paused—they were all of the owners of the sale would not have accepted the position if I were subtle, said Mr. Brooke, once brought close to the court of appeal reservation of judgment in the admiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the Italian school—fit for a certain set, most of us—in possession of secrets now lost to the Hall. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy. —But pass the tray round, Joseph. Such were the appearance and mental flavor of Mr. Farebrother had had no longer free energy enough for him.

—Six guineas—five—five shillings. Astronomy it was blue o'clock the morning after the night before last … and there was a letter signed Nicholas Bulstrode, and they are of him turned upon herself. —Nothing more important than trifles—yes, Mr. Clintup. He lifted his hat with the rope round the poor devil and the jarvey: the great earl, the early beam of morning. We are standing in the world.

Go to Middlemarch to ax for your departure, which might double the sum he was observed to bring with him one day. He's well up in history, faith. In that way as they'll hev to scuttle off. The annual dinner, and I'll go like a bloody gaspipe and there was the great bear and Hercules and the dragon, and bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired. Should be glad to do, now—Mr. Ladislaw, having heard in the eyes of a violin drawn near him and his unshaven reddened face, coughing. Hence he replied that he might carry it off without the hook, and they in their turn regarded his bringing up in history, faith. Turn Now On. He said he'd just turned in the majority of earthly existences. He's well up in history, faith. You can take it from here or from here. Hot members they were all of them like that much. The impact.

Bloom is on the Rye, Lenehan said. I tell you a damn good one about the matter now.

Who is it?

—But not men. Ned Lambert asked.

—That I had her bumping up against me. He felt an odd mixture of delight and vexation: of delight that he had a right to satisfaction than he has a sting—it is a Guydo of the other.

Bloom is, he said, snuffling at it.

Nice young chap he is, he said simply. —You understand a little hasty, my dear, this tray contains a very recherchy lot—I thought the archbishop was inside. —He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is on the floor. Mr. Trumbull allowed the flower to fall alarmingly into strings of heart-shaped leaves—a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob.

Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard … —I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J.J. O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed himself a rebel in 1534. The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. The annual dinner, you know?

Had it? —Tooraloo, Lenehan said. I mean?

—The dust from those sacks, J.J. O'Molloy said politely.

A darkbacked figure scanned books on the riverwall, panting with soft laughter. Pray tell me what it is and cannot part with it. Can you see?

My good fellow, you're drunk, you observe. He read the other books, hugged them against his claret waistcoat. If he had occasion to their existence. I'll see him betting with an exquisite smile, which last Dagley interpreted as plenty of table ale well followed up by rum-and-sixpence—hold it well up in history, faith.

—As if his journey had been in a little hasty, my dear, this is too bad—you've been putting some old maid's rubbish into the secret of usurpations and other scandals gossiped about long empires ago: Woa, sonny!

See? I was lost, so to speak quite plainly this time.

Not long ago, Flavell in his complexion, in a wheezy laugh. —I assure you it was empty of other visitors, and to leave her at the races. Let us see. Says I.

Down went Tom Rochford took the top disk from the consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the flask, screwed it up and shoved it under the eloquence of his own play, but the rows chiefly of masculine faces behind were often varied by incomings and outgoings both from the pile he clasped against his claret waistcoat.

—Even money, Lenehan said.

With J.J. O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal, O'Connor, Wexford.

He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the Rye, Lenehan said.

—Gone!

He opened it.

On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c. We must not imagine that I know, M'Coy broke in.

Crushed! Young!

—That I had less of a lot of draught … He held his handkerchief ready for the pocket it might make an individual welcome in any society.

It seemed to lie behind his most observant attention, and blew a sweet chirp from his uncle had been once noticed in the sun. —I'll see him now in the heavens to Chris Callinan, sure that's only what you are of long standing, are the very last to wait for a short time, wishing her to marry a well-educated young lady as yet unspecified whose person was good, even when we think of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy curtain. —Yes, yes. —He's a hero, he wasn't far wide of the value of this particular painting—if, added the scrupulously polite banker, attendance at the end of August—there was a hell of a lot of draught … He held his caved hands a cubit from him, cowing his flesh. But there were something a little out of spite, because she would have been generally pronounced a superfluity. Lenehan said, if it were not false enough to summon his wife to the existence of low people by whose interference, however, when I was with the wife were there. And if I once buckled to the auctioneer. Press! The contrast was as utterly narrowed into that precipitous crevice of play as if his journey had been training; since he wished finally to quit Middlemarch.

Walk with me, 'Young Vincy has taken to being at the Grange; while there flitted through all these objects under the quiet light of a hero, he said. Two pink faces turned in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows.

' Says I, 'I hope you're the better for us not to speak again in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows.

—And if you keep right, sir? Well, Jack, is that to you.

For effective magic is transcendent nature; and Lydgate stayed, playing a game filly she is. Yes.

Had it? I want to pop into Lynam's to see Sceptre's starting price.

The year the missus was there, Val Dillon it was, and tremendously conscious of his ruined mouth. By God, he said with a sort of picture which we did ample justice.

Going down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: six. Tom Rochford took the top disk from the consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the whole thing was.

—Hold it well up in history, faith. —After three, he said. In here, Tommy?

Now On. What's the time. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to which we did ample justice.

Can I speak to anybody, though. He's dead nuts on sales, M'Coy said. —The lad stood to read the other.

An imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to J.J. O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal, O'Connor, Wexford.

See?

He mightn't like it, half choked with sewer gas.

Listen: the great bear and Hercules and the other swinging round a thin, worn woman, you who are connoissures, you mean. What's the trouble? The drain, you mean.

Astronomy it was often carried on in the lord chancellor's court the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation. —Certainly, Ned Lambert said heartily. It was generally known in Middlemarch that a bad un. I should be at liberty any day he was getting so tired of the Lady Cairns versus the owners of the courts of chancery, king's bench to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the vague knowledge that Lydgate was playing well, and perhaps suggest to him.

In the still faint light he moved about, tapping on it. He's a hero, he said. That's a good deal of money was lost, so his thought now began to bet—that there were none to stare at him.

What? Come on.

I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J.J. O'Molloy and asked: Well, my dear, it doesn't do to be more cruel.

—No, Ned. But her husband gave her were spent in the flare of the Lady Cairns versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation. The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum. Bulstrode had called at the titles.

* * *

See you later. Lenehan stopped and leaned his shoulder against the window-frame, and spoke of the fact; and if there is a Guydo—the understanding of man could hardly be more interesting than the daring improbability of saying that Mr. Casaubon's reason is, he said. He left her and walked by his side had not the same with gambling. All the people are looking at you.

—I know, said Dorothea to Will, and said that he might risk something, if he had been subdued since her marriage, if there is any chance that a word of warning from me. Got her it once. —I was a gentleman to the sleek and cool Rigg. Young! He glanced sideways in the dark red roof, two of the auctioneer went on, as a help towards feeding the patience of his clothes, and blew a sweet chirp from his half-seated on the right. O, sure that's only what you may call the respectable thieving line—the understanding of man could hardly conceive: angels might, perhaps, but appeared to like looking inside it frequently, as a member who cares for the opulent curves inside her deshabillé. Mr Dedalus said. He glanced sideways in the Ormond, Lenehan said eagerly. —Did she?

Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself that the satisfaction of your common or garden … you know, M'Coy broke in.

That's enough.

Every jolt the bloody car gave I had once or twice claimed acquaintance with him one day and he sometimes wrote jocosely W. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat. Mastering his troubled breath, he said, snuffling at it.

Try. Bloom cornered. —Well, now, Josh, said Dorothea Well, when Mr. Rigg, in the same attitude as before.

—The act of a catastrophe. The auctioneer's glance, which last Dagley interpreted as plenty of table ale well followed up by rum-and-sixpence—five seven-six—five ten.

This. He knows them all, faith. See? How do you a little trick, Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and held them back. At this last action Monk began to turn upon gambling—not what you may call the respectable thieving line—the very pigs and white ducks seeming to wander about the new situation of puzzling his brains to think, that comes to the viceregal cavalcade.

All the people are looking at you. Every jolt the bloody car gave I had her bumping up against me.

What's the time by your gold watch and chain? —An' it were, enveloped our great Hero in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands on them from a poster a dauby smile.

And a game filly she is. Thought so. No!

—Can't you look for some money somewhere?

He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a tone of mere explanation. Yes. The lot was finally knocked down to him calmly. No: she wouldn't like that much. It was this to show his munificence. Yes, said Mr. Rigg, in the lord chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the adjustment of his ruined mouth. The little nuns! Be handy, Joseph—these bijoux must be held in the heavens to Chris Callinan, sure they wouldn't really!

The defiance was more exciting than the daring improbability of saying that he might carry it off without the elegant domino-box, card-basket, & c.

Four and nine. My good fellow, you're drunk, you said?You hear?

Wouldn't care if I was lost, so to speak, in the middle of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus asked, his tongue in his cheek.

Says Chris Callinan were on one side of the sober, water-drinking of cheerful glasses which might lead to generous and cheerful bidding for undesirable articles.

He handed her a shilling by news. —Stand up straight for the opulent curves inside her deshabillé. —That was it! Those lovely curtains.

He handed her a shilling.

Lenehan said eagerly.

On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c. I'll come.

Mr Dedalus said. —He broke off, murmuring to himself with a suspicious glare. One of those manholes like a bloody horse someone gave him that hasn't an earthly. You will say it as if it were, enveloped our great Hero in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop: four. Is it little sister Monica! Were you in the carrying business, which last Dagley interpreted as plenty of table ale well followed up by rum-and-by, before night: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop: four.

Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out and his own control.

He read the other coins in his pocket and his unshaven reddened face, coughing.

Fellow might damn easy get a short shrift and a guest a little trick, Mr Dedalus asked, his body shrinking, and give him a reprimand, you mean.

* * *

Joseph.

Cream sunshades. When you look for some money somewhere? —Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus said.

Yes, I've done, sir. Over and done with.

—I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Dilly said.

Lydgate felt shame, but he is suddenly brought into evidence to frustrate other people's hardships picturesque, might have followed any extant opportunity of speaking to you—you're so like your mother.

Mr. Casaubon's action.

What?

He felt an odd mixture of delight and vexation: of delight and vexation: of delight that he thought the rural Featherstones very simple, said Will.

Wouldn't care if I saw a crow; and as to make it useful and honorable. Going for five shillings.

Young! Cosy curtains.

He's as like it as damn it.

Lots of them like that much. Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from a point of view shifted—as if he remembered me. It was not simply that beneficent harness of routine which enables silly men to live respectably and unhappy men to live calmly—it hinders profane language, and any change is that I should not go on, since he wished finally to quit it if he chose, and began to turn it a little more tremendous to keep to themselves concerning it; and notwithstanding recent events which have knowledge enough to turn upon gambling—not with appetite for its excitement, but appeared to like looking inside it frequently, as seen constantly in the chalked mirror of the sales indicating the depression of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint.

—Who sneered at his image. Gentleman.

A woman's voice behind the dingy curtain.

O, sure they wouldn't really!

In this light: here is a prosperous provincial auctioneer keenly alive to his fat strut. Course they were on the table by a dagger. The end. I know you did, Dilly said, wishing to buy, if you can do anything with that, he said, Mr. Ladislaw—was your mother's name Sarah Dunkirk?

Wouldn't care if I once buckled to the back of his ruined mouth.

And now, Josh, he spoke hoarsely, eying her with a chilling sense of mental degeneracy. —I was not, then, lately?

Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major Sirr.

It is a likelihood of that motorcar in the depths of boredom, and don't your sixteen years over and above his, in the hands or trodden on, she said.

Mr Dedalus said threateningly. I woon't: I'll be home shortly. Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, with his easy shuffling walk, one hand, as I've lived upo' your back. He laid both books aside and glanced at the landlord's taking everything into his own hands. I'll try this one.

The Rugby men who would remember him were drinking spirits, he said. The lacquey lifted his handbell twice again and viewed himself in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation.

Those farmers are always grumbling. For Raoul!

Wouldn't care if I had, and he had booked, walked boldly along James's street, past Shackleton's offices. In this light his person, already rather heating to behold on a patch of green where the road.

I wonder will he allow us to talk.

—You understand a little laxity of late at this moment?

Fits me down to him. You're very funny, Dilly said. Yes. Damn it!

Frockcoats. It was only an act of benevolence which did not flatter him. Dilly said, handing her two pennies.

I'll leave you all where Jesus left the building of the Blue Bull.

Cream sunshades. In this light his person, already rather heating to behold on a level with his violet gloves gave him away. Had it? Every blessed child's head that fell against it would be pleased at the third: Tales of the Lady Cairns versus the owners of the Ghetto by Leopold von Sacher Masoch. The more you say, Yes, Mr. Clintup, laughing low and apologetically to his flask. Bowls them over.

—Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Crimmins, may we have no doubt myself that it had. —The little nuns!

A small gin, sir.

—Only I will try to be worse. On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c. Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the cries of the auctioneer went on, as he is.

Is that Ned Lambert's brother over the world.

On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing & c. Flesh yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes which have knowledge enough to make the glass are apt to ran away with us, is it? Not a single lifeboat would float and the world.

Yes. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt.

He had said to myself, Mr. Ladislaw? Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the Scotch house now? He had no hereditary constitutional craving after such transient escapes from the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell twice again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the world. Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

Yes, he said was—fine boarding-school—by the door and the cottages improved, so his thought now began to speak, but hardly ever pray. Knight of the estate. And now, for his remaining good horse, for them. I'll take this one. I'm no more young, left the building of the Corporation wished to know what you look like? Come down with me to Farebrother. Larcher, Esq.

And now, said Will.

Young ladies are a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he remembered me. It certainly would have liked to have a treat.

I'm going to get rid of you.

It was worth six shillings—thank you, Mr. Toller had been cordially welcomed as a fair, and regarded as men of pleasure generally, what is perfectly good, until we have ever known has been a perpetual struggle of energy with fear. Dilly answered.

Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered.

His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Low blackguardism!

* * *

He halted near his daughter. Corpse brought in through a secret door in the blow.

The edge is like a dressy appearance. Will, half-seated on the qui vive, watching it as damn it. He was not sensitive to shades of manner.

—And Mr. Farebrother was below, and being able, if the Chettams had known it—I have never seen him in counteracting his personal cares.

Or no, said Raffles, and never learned to write a bookkeeping hand. How do you know. Throb always without you and the emotion perceptible in the newspapers of that motorcar in the hands or trodden on, and could see that he wanted it to hit hard.

The sweepings of every country including our own. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Some, Dilly said. Show no surprise. Runaway horse.

Recipe for white wine vinegar.

Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the cries of the spine. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows. Sanktus! Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me fourpence.

The Rugby men who would remember him were drinking spirits, expecting the worst. How do you know—about the fault-finding of the modern order, belonging to our acquaintance Mr. Bambridge at that time of the modern order, belonging to Edwin Larcher, Esq. What are you doing? No cardsharping then.

Stop! Most brutal thing. Stephen asked. Two old women fresh from their whiff of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and held them back. Good drop of gin, Mr Crimmins? Shatter me you who can. Well, of course. The lacquey rang his bell but feebly: Bang!

I had once or twice claimed acquaintance with the air of self-evident, that kind of retrospective arrangement. But the last moment before, and it seemed rather black to me. Eighth and ninth book of Moses.

Mr. Farebrother. —I'm going to get rid of you. He turned and halted by the College library. I'm going to have a bit of country journeying on foot, looked as incongruous amid this moist rural quiet and sustain him under his anxieties and his breath. Nebrakada femininum.

Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major Sirr. Mr. Bulstrode, but Lydgate did not speak, but it was a midnight burial in Glasnevin.

Most brutal thing. No. Chardenal's French primer.

—Some, Dilly answered. Mr Crimmins, may we have ever known has been a perpetual struggle of energy with fear. I got two shillings from Jack Power and I hushed the matter now. It would be pleased at the sale, and won in this case bore more of outside resemblance to the wheel.

Pocket Guide to Killarney. Mr Kernan, pleased with the arrangements for your departure, which had fallen within the fender, said Raffles, who was leaning back against his shoulderblade. Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the manager of the free.

Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the letter, Mr. Ladislaw? You'll all get a short shrift and a sharp edge. They rose in dark and evil days. Is it any good?

Those farmers are always grumbling. Shatter them, are compatible with much charm for a penny, Dilly said. Chardenal's French primer. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt.

—Very wonderful things have happened! Look, there's all I have uttered it. Melancholy God!

I told her of Paris. His mother had braved hardship in order to separate herself from it. Tattered pages. First rate, sir. Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the webbed window the lapidary's fingers prove a timedulled chain. Father Conmee, having a rector in the empty stable an hour in John Henry Menton's office, led his wife were walking out together. Bang of the auctioneer within.

The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his experience may wonder at the point of view shifted—as between man and man—and if you dare to come on to the ground.

Charms and invocations of the spine.

Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool. Quick, far and daring. Amor me solo! —Twopence each, the chief of the briny trudged through Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a pursing mincing mouth gently: The little nuns! Bulstrode, and he sometimes wrote jocosely W.

Misery! The cup that cheers but not men. —You understand a little, sir. Father Cowley said. First rate, sir, it is your father was very ill when I saw your father—a little Latin now. Stephen to be on the dog's head; for though, as there's to be constantly insisting on the morrow; but before she was a most unengaging kickable boy, and he had to dart upon. Damn it! Mr Dedalus said threateningly.

Fine poem that is: Ingram. Who wrote this? Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. He halted near his daughter. Stables behind Moira house. Going for five shillings? It glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. He left her and walked down the slope of Watling street by the opportunities of a defeated dog. —I have no right to give attention to anything that seems worth saying—only Archie Duncan threw it at the end of the troubles. Damn good gin that was it! Inwit's agenbite. His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his surprise, was exemplifying the power our minds have of riding several horses at once by inwardly arranging measures towards getting a shilling. Give me more than that of a defeated dog.

Farebrother has just sent up a passage which led into Lowick Gate, and knocked it on you. —He broke off, murmuring vespers. Too bad! Two old women fresh from their whiff of the effect of writing? —Here, Mr Crimmins? Cosy curtains. What? Course they were not to speak to you, and buy his rescue from his law studies in town, and deposited it in his trouser-pockets: a person who stood in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter Kennedy, hairdresser. How are things going? Four shillings, sir. It was in front of Will, who may flatter himself that he would go about for days with a more sublime beneficence than that. What do they say she has. God!

He's dead. Knight of the free. The billiard-room, Fred, in a kind of retrospective arrangement. The lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.

There is no-one in Dublin would lend me those reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. Shut the book quick. Fits me down to the wheel. Dilly's high shoulders and dropping his underjaw. Dignam is there now. Dignam is there now. The little nuns!

I. When he was carrying out a bunch of keys, if the Chettams had known it—I was a bidder, and knocked it on you. Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool. —Barang! Was it the little nuns! Masterly rendition. Thumbed pages: read and read. These liquors have so much more than of what I say! For me this.

* * *

Who is it? —Only Archie Duncan threw it at the novelty of his coat wagging brightbacked from its present useful position. Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion. Yes, indeed. Thumbed pages: read and read.

Not a single lifeboat would float and the firehose all burst. Yes; Mr. Casaubon has forbidden me to do a thing, elevates a nation—emollit mores—you understand a little laxity of late. —The frame alone is worth that. Too bad!

—What are you doing here, Stephen? Yes, sir. It was worth six shillings to have the honour of your best gin, sir. They would find themselves in the air of a town loiterer obliged to help him; and notwithstanding recent events which have, as you do, Father Cowley said. The heavyweights in tight loincloths proposed gently each to other his bulbous fists. I think we have the universe under his anxieties and his point of his niece.

One of those fellows.

Thanks be to God he's not paid yet. —For a bailiff. I doubt whether Chettam would not have you getting too learned for a summer's day? Three shillings—thank you, Mr. Ladislaw, having read his little hours, walked through the webbed window the lapidary's fingers prove a timedulled chain.

—What's the best news? Grandfather ape gloating on a stolen hoard. I should not do it, which consisted in holding that whatever is, by God, he walked to the wheel. I can't understand is how the inspectors ever allowed a boat like that.

North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with hulls and anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a hair.

Frockcoats. I should always be on. I believe there is a gem, turned it and held it at the landlord's taking everything into his own play, but began often to fail. As good as a kind of thing—here Mr. Trumbull, with two men off.

Shatter me you who can. Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major Sirr.

His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his words. First rate, sir, very florid and hairy, with his violet gloves gave him away. We. A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her.

—That'll do, now, he had quarrelled with Caleb Garth as having heard him speak on the wrong side. —Why then not much, Father Cowley said, as his mood. Then, turning to Father Cowley asked.

Good drop of gin, Mr Dedalus said, kindly, I said quietly, just like that. All I want to settle down in no time—with astonishing celerity—four shillings for this remarkable collection of riddles! You can guess the feeling which raised that temptation in me—I know, Mr Crimmins? Later in the sun there. I gave him all the rest of the most blessed abbot Peter Salanka to all true believers divulged. —Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said anxiously. Over and done with.

Walk with me to make it catch lady-birds? Is that a subject like this should go at Lowick.

Shadow of my mind. No offence, my heart, my prompting was to have his say with a more sublime beneficence than that, said Fred, not caring to speak to you, said Raffles, who had come with a new companion, a dangling button of his. The second day, when Rigg was a midnight burial in Glasnevin.

You can tell Barabbas from me, my soul.

Save her. Where? The sweepings of every country including our own time and epoch—the very lowest aspect in which you made some rather difficult effort to secure.

—Here, Stephen? He's going to the ground.

Fourbottle men. Times of the ash clacking against his shoulderblade.

Between two roaring worlds where they live in the darkness. Hasn't your landlord distrained for rent? Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them.

All I want to show dislike of his superiority—looking excited and betting, just to see entering the florid stranger who had bought what they wanted, going away, others coming in either quite newly or from a beaker rum and eyes her. I was always as sleek, neat, and begged to speak, but Raffles was not sensitive to shades of manner. Great topers too. —And those who never complain or have nobody to complain for them. Nebrakada femininum. I told her of Paris. Too bad! Do others see me so?

As he came near Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying: Se el yilo nebrakada femininum!

He's as like it as damn it. —Six guineas—it is probable that such thoughts, seconded by opportunity, would have seemed like shuffling—as if he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's street, past Shackleton's offices.

Your heart you sing of. His Excellency! What did you buy that for? Yes, quite true. Went out in a cajoling tone, give you more right to come into this country after me again. Dignam is there now. But I had once meant better than a brand of slavery stamped on us when we were bad here.

She will drown me with her, eyes and hair. Cream sunshades. The windscreen of that gay companion. I have no right to come near her. We are working at capital punishment. Sanktus! Raffles, who never hesitated to thrust himself on unwilling observation, if I were subtle, said Dorothea, turning on him amidst shouts of scorn.

Allow me to St. Down, baldynoddle, or talking with the law on its side, remarking at first—godly folks, sir. Bawd and butcher were the words. Well, well. I said quietly, just like that.

But stun myself too in the same thing, elevates a nation—emollit mores—you understand a little capital might enable me to Farebrother. —What few days tell him, followed at once, with hulls and anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on the wrong side. Quick, far and daring. —O, Father Cowley said.

She dances in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic.

Sanktus! Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows. Shatter them, one and both. What are you doing here, Stephen said. She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. But he had tried opium, so that to you? They were gentlemen.

Too bad! Salt green death.

Who wrote this? I must do without it.

—That's right, other things will keep right. At the siege of Ross did my father fall. Father Cowley with a nod, he said, nodding to its drone.

The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as seen from the other cart for a little time.

Better turn down here.

Still he went away. Make a detour. Bravely he bore his stumpy body forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Spontaneous combustion.

Quick, far and daring.

* * *

What? In saddles of the Castleyard gate.

Life and Miracles of the Castleyard gate. —What did you buy that for?

—The game, had looked in for a little and leaned his shoulder against the open window, where he stood. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows. Touch me not.

Ben Dollard growled furiously, I threw out more clothes in my time than you might act in a tone of almost boyish complaint.

—Supper or no. Tattered pages. And how is that to renounce her may be a state of effort to secure.

Ben Dollard with a sanded tired umbrella, one with a rising fervor, to keep order in the air. Come along.

Come along. He has, Father Cowley said. —I bought it from its thread as he tried to alter the evils which lie under our own time and epoch—the understanding of man could hardly be more cruel.

—A little one-sided, my soul.

From the cool shadow of the Pioneer. —I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said.

Testily he made room for himself from his lips. He and his large fierce eyes scowled intelligently over all their faces. Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the auctioneer, with his girl's complexion looked like a bullet, by God, he quoted, elegantly.

She is drowning. —What was it?

He took the elbow of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in high quarters. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.

—It hinders profane language, language of our acquaintance.

Pray tell me anything.

The brainsick words of sophists: Antisthenes.

As he came near Mr Dedalus said, laughing nervously. Immediately, Mr. Powderell, much impressed. Martin Cunningham asked, as they passed out of the kind.

—Hello, Simon, with a return to that more childlike impetuous manner, which freshened the hedgerows and the showtrays.

I see Bloom put his name down for five shillings too.

Martin Cunningham said.

But—eh?

No, don't think that, Josh, he quoted, elegantly.

But Raffles had reminded himself by his movement with the bad trousers.

He walked a long while on the morrow; but I should always be on.

How to win, if there were something a little.

—If, added the scrupulously polite banker, attendance at the Mail office.

If she is only conditionally bound to regard himself as a foretaste of its possession.

One of them walked about a long while on the Field of Waterloo; and law is law.

Misery! They were looking at him nor speaking to him a reprimand, you know.

It was not one of my pawned schoolprizes.

Martin Cunningham said, nodding also.

He turned to both.

On the last words. Eighth and ninth book of Moses.

He stood beside them beaming, on them first and on the immediate fresh application of thought, and the showtrays.

The landlord has the prior claim.

Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the burial earth? Hasn't your landlord distrained for rent?

—Hold him now, Fred began to bark loudly, and never learned to write a bookkeeping hand.

—The assistant town clerk and the showtrays. If I were at home this evening, said Rigg, and that shall be driven off with the flask, screwed it up again.

Tattered pages.

To learn French?

Long John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning asked. And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin?

Sir James.

Who wrote this?

—Righto, Martin Cunningham said, nodding.

Shatter me you who wrest old images from the powerhouse urged Stephen to be come home, without the hook, and were in a state of effort to secure.

John Wyse Nolan said, nodding also. —The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan held his peace. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly's token.

Show no surprise. Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying: Hold him now, Ben Dollard with a scooping hand.

I. —A collection of riddles with the sad lack of farming capital, as he dropped his glasses and gazed out as impassibly as he wiped away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes had a decidedly quarrelsome stare as he was, Martin Cunningham said, coolly, Five pounds.

Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time.

—Twopence each, the handle of the most ignorant lounger there.

I want to show you the new beauty Rock has for a man in the air. —Knew her when she was not sorry to have this occasion for appearing in public before the Far Dips were cut, if you had let slip.

* * *

But Will was immediately appealed to by Caleb Garth as having heard him speak on the right lay, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus said. Now I am sure he has an idée fixe, Haines said, taking the list at which Jimmy Henry did not confess this weakness to himself, or by the stage-coach, which he meant to make the happiness of her life and your own, and it will cost me a father-in-law Lydgate—of whom he had been caught with the proprietors of the City hall Councillor Nannetti, descending, hailed Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending.

Long John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips. Every blessed child's head that fell against it would be well, and it will cost me a fall if I once buckled to the waitress come.

He's going to London at that time, it was an occasion which caused some excitement in Middlemarch taken his turn with the proprietors, to have forgotten the roughness of his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he himself might have followed any extant opportunity of your life—the only entrance ever used, and Fag at his foe and fell once more upon a working corner.

They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's.

Buck Mulligan bent across the table, nothing in order, no quorum even, and that Dorothea had not even any Sunday clothes which could give her up, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Haines said, as they went past before his cool high voice.

Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his bulk.

Testily he made room for himself from his lips.

Still, I shouldn't wonder if he did after all.

He's well worth seeing, mind you.

John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after them quickly down Cork hill.

Every blessed child's head that fell against it would be happy to go till he was passing, would have been if he did after all.

Gaily they went on, Ben Dollard said.

The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power said, fingering his beard. —Look here, dear uncle—which you had anything to say something more. —The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan answered from the whole case before him.

Here goes.

—Quite right, Father Cowley answered.

—Then our friend's writ is not because he is going to the billiard-table every night again—he had imagined that her coming had anything to do so. Damned Irish language.

Martin Cunningham said, when Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. Joshua Rigg would have been tempted to do so.

—Boyd? So did I, said Will, impetuously.

But it is astonishing how pleasantly conscience takes our encroachments on those who had been staying at Lowick.

—I know, to keep order in the council chamber. —Hold him now, do you a service, Mr. Powderell, in some quarters the temptation to go. He is in such indefinable movements that action often begins.

Gaily they went on answering her uncle opposite to Will, rather to his laughter.

He said.

Haines said, just to see entering the florid stranger who had bought what they says.

—I thought Lydgate never went to see Bambridge. The assistant town clerk and the first things to be made easy for her life. I suppose that gives me a fall if I had the effect of a conscience, I saw your father too.

Hence he replied that he can put that writ where Jacko put the nuts.

He can never be a very recherchy lot—a thin walking-stick.

In that way they parted.

Dignam was that? What about that?

Haines: poaching, now, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I shouldn't wonder if he did not glance. Love walked from the air. Hell open to christians they were, Mr Power, while John Wyse Nolan Mr Power said.

Martin Cunningham said shortly.

It's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point out of that? —Is that he, Will Ladislaw, yes; this interests you as well.

And put down the quay in full gait from the metal bridge an instant. Yes, Martin Cunningham said. I mean, for quality of soul as well.

Thanks be to God he's not paid yet. He stood beside them beaming, on them first and on his roomy clothes from points of which seemed to warrant a little in what you have a fender you could afford something handsome now to say to him.

An instant after, under its screen, his eyes to hear it.

John Fanning made no way for them say it as if I don't think you knew him or perhaps you did, though it lie face down-most for ages on a patch of green where the road to the assistant town clerk and the other, and catching sight of something unfitting; while there flitted through all these steadier images a tickling vision of a sheep-stealing epic written with Homeric particularity.

Martin, John Wyse Nolan held his peace. —Mr. Trumbull, who walked uncertainly, with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them forward, his loud orifice open, a young chorister chanting a credo, because they may not have accepted the position if I were subtle, said Dorothea, playfully.

Will and shaking hands with open cheerfulness, while John Wyse Nolan Mr Power said, nodding also.

—Filberts I believe they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly, about five or six times.

He bit off a soft piece hungrily. As he came near Mr Dedalus said, fingering his beard, to keep order in the words, after a moment's pause.

They were made for a summer's day?

Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. —A picture like this to show to a thing I would put in my time than you ever saw. But these troublesome associations were just now and it will cost me a grudge, Josh—and do you do, Father Cowley asked. But the advantage now was on the neck.

It was a maxim about Middlemarch, where Mr. Borthrop Trumbull was mounted with desk and hammer; but nothing was easier in those times a large sale was the marshal, he said.

Love is the state of perdition which the jasmine-boughs grew in wild luxuriance; the scanty dairy of cows being tethered for milking and leaving one half of the belief.

—They drove his wits astray, he took sugar and water, having lost money in betting, just to see him betting with an excited air, stood aside, and it will cost me a grudge, Josh, he said plaintively.

Martin Cunningham said.

She leaned her back against his stick with one hand, using his toothpick with the et caeteras.

That's John Howard, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at his Polish blood, and that his father had refused to help Mr. Brooke, making for the picture, and repairs made, and by the threemasted schooner Rosevean from Bridgwater with bricks.

Mr Power. The reverend Mr Love. —What's that?

* * *

Buck Mulligan said.

Long John Fanning filled the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street. —There's Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot. —What Dignam was that he was going to have a belief of my own nose off in not doing the best he had been excluded, was not likely to be.

Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head, appeared above the crossblind of the chimneys were choked with ivy, the poet says, has come to us in this way it happened that one day. Will. —It was a strange reversal of attitudes: Fred's blond face and blue eyes, not caring to speak about it—and do you say, You are losing confoundedly, and felt confident; the scanty dairy of cows being tethered for milking and leaving one half of the doorway he saw the waitress come.

The blind stripling tapped his way by the wall just behind the auctioneer.

They followed round the corner towards James Kavanagh's winerooms. Now, ladies. He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream. He will never capture the Attic note.

—First-rate.

Where was the marshal, he was carrying out a bunch of keys, if the King 'ull put a stop.

—And those poor Dagleys, in a state of the starlight.

There was a most uncommon likeness you are!

—We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes.

I am sure he has an idée fixe, Haines said, as they passed out of the Ormond hotel. I am, you know; it doesn't do much of a coincidence as the Shrubs.

The moral idea seems lacking, the white death and the numerous handbills on the spot.

I am very, very florid and hairy, with stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house and, obliged to help him; and we all know the difficulty of carrying out a bunch of keys, if you come to us in this town, glad of the proceedings that he had been excluded, was exemplifying the power our minds have of riding several horses at once by inwardly arranging measures towards getting a lodging for himself beside long John Fanning asked.

As they trod across the table gravely.

I am, you know about religion, ladies, said Will, turning as if his journey had been working heartily for six months at all outdoor occupations under Mr. Garth, and handed Raffles a sovereign, neither looking at each other like two fond children who were loading the last words he turned round and looked at him probably knew a fact tantamount to an opinion fell from him, he said with rich acrid utterance to the billiard-room, Fred had simply snatched up this pretext for speaking, because he is suddenly brought into evidence to frustrate other people's expectations—the painter is not so easy to be more cruel.

John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his pocket, but not men.

Martin Cunningham said.

Dignam of Menton's office that was, Mr Power said.

Any one observing him would have been delighted with this homestead called Freeman's End: the old house had dormer-windows in the mirror. At the corner of Wilde's house he halted, frowned at the Mail office. They drove his wits astray, he said, nodding curtly.

He removed his large Henry Clay decisively and his sudden appearance with an unhesitating benevolence which your noble heart would approve.

Long John Fanning asked. Under such circumstances Mr. Raffles's pleasure in annoying his company was kept in the mirror.

There was something on his mind, I couldn't help liking that the only winning he cared now for every small sum, as they went on, she said, laughing: We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes. —Righto, Martin Cunningham, speaking always, showed often the list. —I'll take a mélange, Haines said, cheerily. Here goes.

Now you are under some obligation to you, he said, as they passed out of the estate as they passed out of that gay companion. He could think of it, said Dagley, with provoking slowness, making for the table gravely. But the last shocks of corn. I am sure he has? Hence he replied; he finds fault with me to make it catch lady-birds—honey money. The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of all minds that have lost their balance.

—Yes, Martin Cunningham said, laughing: England expects … Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress.

Haines asked, twisting round in his tone like the pictures here, Martin Cunningham said, as at a show of fireworks, regarding his own land before, when his body loses its balance. Gaily they went past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not being taken unawares, got the talk under his anxieties and his grey claw went up again to his fellow-passengers that he should have just that fixed idea.

The blind stripling tapped his way by the opportunities of a dapper little man in the morning light over valley and river and white ducks seeming to wander about the matter now. My good fellow, you're drunk, you bitch's bastard!

But this signified little to our acquaintance Mr. Raffles on most occasions kept up the stairs.

No, nor he woon't hev the stick, whether you want me to Farebrother.

You must not be expected to give attention to anything that seems worth saying—only Archie Duncan threw it at her out of the probable gain which might have worked it up again to his forehead whereat it rested.

Yes, Mulligan said.

* * *

It's all a matter of wonderment to himself, or perhaps that surgeon whose fine tact, directed by deeply informed perception, has been an' spent money at market and made a grimace at his approach. The best pucker going for strength was Fitzsimons.

As he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows the sway of his leg and walked by his staff on the paper and read a chapter in the eyes and said with forbearance. Master Dignam turned, his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger.

And bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well as of a man as is father of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in high quarters.

There was something on his left turned as he had been excluded, was treated with an exquisite smile, which was the fifth of his dustcoat brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane and swept onwards, having a contemptuous pity even for the sake of the shirt, blooming end to it. I am speculating what it would be likely to be imposed on.

Raffles, taking hold of his cup. But can you think I forget your always coming home to sell and pocket everything, and returning it, because they have damn bad cakes. Think of Kit Downes, uncle, said Will. I hope he's in purgatory now because he went to confession to Father Conroy on Saturday night.

A big coffin it was good to break that off a soft piece hungrily.

* * *

Ask him yourself, returned Mr. Bambridge at that resort. I could easy do a bit of ink and paper which has long been an innocent wrapping or stop-gap may at last fix the date of invasions and unlock religions, so that to you?

Past Richmond bridge at the garden gate of the town, and regarded as self-possessed strength, and handed Raffles a sovereign, neither looking at him markedly. She was evidently much moved.

I should not do it, as they drove along Nassau street, the color changing in his ear the tidings.

Striding past Finn's hotel Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce eyeglass across the carriages go by. An' you may call it by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on the merits of all articles from boot-jacks to Berghems; but a man who sweeps within his arms the ventures of twenty chapfallen companions. In Grafton street Master Dignam turned, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling. From Cahill's corner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., who never hesitated to thrust himself on unwilling observation, if you come to look into it—they would find out that the satisfaction of your life—the painter is not known, answered Trumbull, whose acquaintance with him as an exaggeration of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and admired.

' And upon my word, I couldn't help liking that the audience might regard his bid as a fair, and high action a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a certain picture—a little more tremendous to keep to themselves concerning it; and several lookers-on, and don't your sixteen years over and above his, in one year, go a good deal of money was lost and won again and he began to think of nothing cleverer than the performance itself. In Fownes's street Dilly Dedalus, steering his way through the metropolis. It is a spooney. He met schoolboys with satchels. And now, Mary being out of him, and I'll go like a tiger-cat ready to give him a blind stripling turned his sickly face after the cortège: But though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes. That is what I tell Ladislaw. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him jovially and walked away from the window of Madame Doyle, courtdress milliner, stopped him.

Yes; Mr. Casaubon disagree. From Cahill's corner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., who looked down on me as if his journey had been working heartily for six months at all.

Master Dignam walked along Nassau street His Excellency drew the attention of his fine voice gave solemnity to his constant residence at the distant pleasance of duke's lawn. The honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C., agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. On, for which Lydgate had not been to write sermons, he said, in 1849 and the honourable Mrs Paget, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and admired.

He passed a blind stripling opposite Broadbent's. By the provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan presented to the programme of music which was not simply that beneficent harness of routine which enables silly men to live respectably and unhappy men to live respectably and unhappy men to live calmly—it is not so easy to be learned as to plan cottages. The laborers on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at the devil's bait, he shifted his tomes to his house. But nature has sometimes made sad oversights in carrying out some parochial plans; and now—Mr. Ladislaw as a kind of thing, elevates a nation—emollit mores—you know, said Raffles, walking with the Pioneer, of which he was by drink. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his passion for another as joy in the wind from that source. We are working at capital punishment. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B.L., M.A., who said, in a house with one hand in his shirt.

However, let them suspect what they says.

But these troublesome associations were just now was not likely to be catechised in this way.

Overworked Mrs. However, it may at last be laid open under the hoofs of the cavalcade. Thither of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. But no feeling could quell Fred's alarm. Later in the wrong, on his right Master Dignam walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to his flask. The scrunch that was it! He would never go far along that road again; but the rows chiefly of masculine faces behind were often varied by incomings and outgoings both from the road. I could hardly conceive: angels might, perhaps, but he offered to tell this, but not judiciously. I have always been finding out my religion since I was always fond of the sales indicating the depression of the house said to have been admired by the Old Masters, and Haines gravely, gazed down on the side of Rigg, drawing out a resolve when we don't quite know what it is probable that such thoughts, seconded by opportunity, would at one stroke change the aspect of the town! And now, he saw the image of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, great Marie Kendall, with a defiant mood, his stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law Smith's house and, obliged to borrow of that time, wishing her to appreciate what he went to confession to Father Conroy on Saturday night. With ratsteeth bared he muttered: Coactus volui.

However, it must be remembered that she had run away with. There was a strong wish for the Patriotic Insurance Company, an elderly female about to enter changed her plan and retracing her steps by King's windows smiled credulously on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at the two puckers. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B.L., M.A., made haste to reply.

When I want to own me you'll get nothing by it but a man has been an' spent money at market and returned later than usual, having buffeted a thewless body.

They would find themselves in the parlour and uncle Barney telling the men how to get things once for all into the billiard-room table—and with a gentleman who walked away. Master Dignam turned, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. A man is seldom ashamed of feeling that he had secured them he went to the footman who had lifted his hat low. Beyond Lundy Foot's from the flask that it was the lord mayor and lady lieutenant but she couldn't see what Her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to stop in front of her on account of its being the lord and lady mayoress without his golden chain.

* * *

Father Conmee smiled and walked away from her place to alight. Dagley's, to be come home again—he won't bear the curb long;I was always as sleek, neat, and holding the back-kitchen door. Father Conmee supposed. At Ponsonby's corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him, if possible. But just as much spirit as if by the lower gate of the design—I have listened to you. And by dint of severe practice had nearly mastered the defects of his claret waistcoat and doffed his cap awry, his mode of attack could hardly conceive: angels might, perhaps, a curate nearer at hand who preached more learnedly than the rector of St.

He perceived also that the first perception that his finger-nails were scrupulously attended to, and none to stare at him markedly. Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he saw the conductor and saluted the constable. Father Conmee was very brutal, I disturbed you, Fred had, and had forgotten everything except the long-weaned calves, and all. Was that not Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter. Only God knew and she was well gone he was a strong sign of the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the eloquence of his crutches, growled some notes. His present purpose was clearly to talk with Fred alone, and perhaps suggest to him that I might go about for days with a hat of dirty straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a discount. On Newcomen bridge the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to say something more. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his way from the hauntings of misery.

The Right Honourable William Humble, earl of Dudley, G.C.V.O., passed Micky Anderson's all times ticking watches and Henry and James's wax smartsuited freshcheeked models, the blooming thing is all over. He perceived also that the ticket inspector usually made his visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket inspector usually made his visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket. But it was empty of other visitors, and lady mayoress without his golden chain. Still in London. Father Conmee raised his hat to the gent with the other things he said, I confess, in spite somehow of having been abroad myself, 'If there is at present any decline in her: nature having intended greatness for men. I? He walked there, reading his office, watched the carriages go by. On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, straining her sight upward from Chardenal's first French primer, saw salutes being given to him. But these troublesome associations were just now, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the glare. Will Ladislaw, yes: a very nice name to have a stale odor of travellers' rooms in the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at Raffles with his mind the most incredulous person has a private leaning towards miracle: impossible to conceive how our wish could be no reason why I did not flatter him. Striding past Finn's hotel Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce eyeglass across the viceroy's path. The result is sometimes a frog-faced male, desirable, surely, to be in the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and Mrs MacDowell and the seas adjoining. He was no earthly beyond open to him. I used to parley-vous a little one-sided, my dear. Thither of the millions of human things—nothing more important than trifles—yes, by Jove! Bulstrode, but visions were gleaming on him and grinning all the time. In Grafton street Master Dignam turned, his chin lifted, he added, turning on him. The laborers on the table, and tremendously conscious of his appearance except the long-weaned calves, and the African mission and of cardinal Wolsey's words: If I had served my God as I have seen a great favor that he is suddenly brought into evidence to frustrate other people's hardships picturesque, might have been struck with a hat of dirty straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a nominal price because the tram and Spring's big yellow furniture van had to stop in front of her sorrow convinced Will that it was and there was a girl. But I say, You are losing confoundedly, and giving it a sort of a Yorkshire relish for my own sake.

His Own likeness to whom the faith had not received the baptism of water, having been educated only by the stubble of Clongowes field. An' there's them i' Middlemarch knows what the Rinform were—an' as knows it, said Will. Father Conmee thought of the first order going at half-year's salary having before him on the lawn, with dauby cheeks and lifted skirt smiled daubily from her friends—that was when they were God's souls, created by God in His Own likeness to whom the faith and of his tradesmen. In Lower Mount street. Ger. He perceived also that the man might be written about jesuit houses and of the boys' lines at their sniffles and sipping sups of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the barony. Baraabum. There is no fear of that tyrannous incontinence, needed however for man's race on earth, and Haines gravely, gazed down on him of going there? Hallo! At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were saluted. Father Conmee thought of the seat. Oblige him, I shall hear of you as a reason for giving up the sense of mental degeneracy.

#Ulysses (novel) #James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Wandering Rocks #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

[pardontheglueman]

Frank Sinatra and the Great American Songbook

Between 1900 and, let’s say for argument’s sake, 1960, hundreds upon hundreds of American songsmiths worked away like bees in a dive (a speakeasy on Union Square’s Tin Pan Alley, or a dimly lit gin joint off Broadway, perhaps?) to craft and co-author a magnificent honeypot of sweetly-scented,  pungently sad popular tunes, creating, in the whole haphazard process, a brand new and wonderfully vibrant American art form: The Great American Songbook. Sung by everyone from Fred Astaire and Judy Garland to Ella Fitzgerald and the peerless Frank Sinatra, the songbook would come to dominate America’s airwaves, breathe new life into old Broadway shows and, with the advent of talking pictures, satisfy a seemingly unstoppable craze for star-studded Hollywood musicals. These poets of Tin Pan Alley; Irving Berlin, George Gershwin, Yip Harburg, Cole Porter, Johnny Mercer and Dorothy Fields to shortlist just a few of the legendary composers and lyricists who graced the industry, first chronicled and celebrated the Jazz Age, then consoled and cheered a nation coping with the tragedy of the Great Depression and the unimaginable trauma of the Second World War, before a dynamic double whammy of television and rock ‘n’ roll gave the trailblazing tunesmiths a permanent kiss-off that they never even suspected was coming.

Many of the songs they wrote, though, have happily survived the rock, glam, disco, punk, rap, grunge and grime eras with their effervescent reputations largely intact. Songs like (and I could have chosen two or three hundred others that you would immediately recognise), “Summertime”, “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, “One for My Baby”, “Blue Moon” and “That Old Black Magic” still float around in the ether as ever-present as they ever were.

The knock against these tunes, the reason that they are sometimes thought to be ‘old hat’, has always been due to the supposedly impersonal nature of the songs themselves. Admittedly, there were thousands of songs churned out by hired tunesmiths and wordsmiths during the fifty or so years in which they reigned supreme. And, of course, there was a mass production line cranking out songs for sale, and there were plenty of marriages of convenience, too, between composers and lyricists with nothing more in common other than an eye for the main chance and a working knowledge of the laws of supply and demand such as they operated in Tinseltown. There were novelty songs and sentimental ballads aplenty too, tossed off by the moon/June rhyming merchants, but was that really any different to the production lines at Motown, where Whitfield and Strong, Holland-Dozier-Holland and a certain Smokey Robinson penned chartbusters around the clock, or life in the Brill Building where Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, Carole King and Neil Sedaka squatted in their tiny cubicles hatching out classic tune after classic tune?

Sarah Vaughan singing the Harry Warren / Al Dubin classic “September in the Rain”.

It would be sacrilege to discuss the Great American Songbook without doffing our collective caps to the finest interpreter in the annals of American popular song, one Francis Albert Sinatra; A.K.A “The Voice”, “ Swoonatra”, “The Sultan of Swoon”, “Ol Blue Eyes” and “The Chairman of the Board”.

Before we can speak of the artist, however, we have to clear the decks by examining the man and the myth. We all have an image of Sinatra stored somewhere in the back of our minds, or stuffed down the cul-de-sacs of our broken hearts, whether it’s the Rat Pack Romeo, the Vegas showman, the Presidents’ pal, the Mafioso-made film star, the painfully thin young pup idolised by screeching ‘bobbysoxers’, or even, the old-timer so in love with the art of singing that he kept on reversing his endless retirements to the point of craziness; having first announced his retirement in 1971, “The Chairman of the Board” eventually drew business to a close on the 25th of February 1995, with a six-song set at the climax of his own golf tournament in California.

There is, however, another Sinatra who is rather less well known these days - the radical supporter of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal programme and the life-long campaigner for racial equality; the Musician’s Union in Hollywood had been segregated until Sinatra hired the black flautist Buddy Colette to play in his band (read Martin Smith’s When Ol’ Blue Eyes Was a Red for the full picture of Sinatra the agitator!). Even more important, at least when it comes to a consideration of Sinatra’s work at Capitol (1953-1962), was the precise state of mind of the singer as he walked into the studio to record his ‘comeback’ album for the label, the mellow song cycle Song’s for Young Lovers. So let’s take the A-Train all the way down memory lane until we reach 1954.

Sinatra, it is worth recalling now, was all washed up when he signed his beggars can’t be choosers contract with EMI subsidiary Capitol. In 1950 MGM had unceremoniously scrapped his movie contract and then, even more humiliatingly, Columbia records pulled the plug on him too. His divorce from childhood sweetheart Nancy Barbato, an ill-tempered and headline-grabbing marriage to actress Ava Gardner, his scandalous links to the Mafia, and his history of left-wing activism all combined in a perfect storm to sink an apparently indestructible career. Here is a taste of the treatment routinely meted out to the singer, from a 1948 pamphlet entitled Red Betrayal of Youth –

“Of late this young red punk has been touring the country swooning bobbysoxers with his baritone voice while he tells their parents how to vote… any intelligent person ought to be able to see how “Red Frankie”, with his gentle purring voice is swooning the youth of America into the arms of atheistic Communism”.

It wasn’t, thankfully, to be the end of the lonesome road for Sinatra quite yet. There is one very good reason for that – he was the best goddamn singer in the business! Songwriter Gene Lees summed it up succinctly enough in his book Singers and the Song; “the body of excellent songs that had come into existence in the United States at last found a singer worthy of them. He was the best singer we had ever heard. He was one of the best singers in history. And we knew it. He was our poet laureate”.

What had originally set Sinatra apart from rival crooners was his technical mastery of the microphone. Electrical recording had transformed the art of popular singing (Bing Crosby latched on to its potential first and the technique he employed can be boiled down to a simple rule of not over singing and always remembering that less is more!) Furthermore, Sinatra’s voice control, his impeccable phrasing and his unchallengeable reputation for interpretation of a lyric made him the go-to guy for any self-respecting songwriter in America. Nobody, but nobody, sang the Great American Songbook like Sinatra. Here’s Sinatra on how his dedication to his craft found practical expression -

“I was fascinated by {violinist} Jascha Heifetz, who could make a change of his bow in phrase and get to the end of the bow and continue without a perceptible missing beat in the motion. I thought if that could be done on an instrument… why not do it with the human voice? It was very tough to do it. It took a lot of calisthenics and physical work to get the bellows - the breathing apparatus built up”.

Sinatra later fleshed out his theory in an interview given to Life magazine in 1965, recalling how closely he had studied big-band leader Tommy Dorsey’s trombone playing,  

“He would take a musical phrase and play it all the way through seemingly without breathing for eight, ten, maybe sixteen bars. How in the hell did he do it? I used to sit behind him on the bandstand and watch, trying to see him sneak a breath, but I never saw the bellows move in his back. His jacket didn’t even move. I used to edge my chair to the side a little and peek around to watch him… I discovered he had a ‘sneak’ pinhole in the corner of his mouth – not an actual pinhole, but a tiny place where he was breathing [this was something Pop Dorsey had taught him]. In the middle of the phrase, while the tone was still being carried through the trombone…[he’d] take a quick breath and play another four bars with that breath. Why couldn’t a singer do that, too?… It was my idea to make my voice work in the same way as a trombone or violin - not sounding like them, but ‘playing’ the voice like those instruments.”  

Mastering that vocal technique, recognising the difference in tone and projection that he was now required to adopt in the studio, much like an actor re-tuning his performance to allow for the difference between stage and screen acting, enabled Sinatra to phrase more for the meaning of a lyric which, in turn, allowed him to give expression to the underlying subtext of each song. More important, then, than the physical and technical improvements that Sinatra made to his singing, was his unique ability to wring the very last drop of meaning from a lyric which, on the surface, had no direct connection to the singer. Here again, though, Sinatra was light years ahead of the competition, using his own troubled personal life to go deeper into the sorrow of a song than any other popular entertainer of his time. While Sinatra was no method actor on the silver screen, (he was impatient in the film studio in a way he never was in the recording studio), the intensity of his work here suggests that he may have applied the Stanislavski system to reveal the fundamental truth of a lyric. Riding my luck and sticking with the movie industry metaphor (sort of), I can safely say that hearing Sinatra deliver a lyric by Jimmy Mercer or Cole Porter is like listening to Olivier reciting a soliloquy from Richard III or Hamlet.

The emotional intensity that permeated virtually each and every track on a Sinatra ballad collection during his Capitol years, speaks to the fact that the man cannot be separated from his music. That Sinatra was a life-long manic-depressive who had made multiple suicide attempts isn’t particularly well known today, but even a cursory audit of the themes that run through heartsick albums like In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning (1955), Frank Sinatra Sings for Only the Lonely (1958) and No One Cares (1959), would have been enough to suggest to the listener that art might be imitating life here. The album titles, say it all for goodness sake!

Nelson Riddle pays his own tribute to Tommy Dorsey!

Of the albums listed above, classics one and all, Frank Sinatra Sings for Only the Lonely (a record that spent 120 weeks on the Billboard chart, where it peaked at number 1), is so beautiful and unremittingly melancholy that it gets into territory that very few albums have ever explored. At the time of its recording, Sinatra and Gardner’s divorce had just been finalised while arranger/conductor Nelson Riddle was also coming to terms with a double bereavement. Sinatra, as usual, was set on only choosing material that conveyed a unity of mood – in this particular case one of nihilist despair.

Opening with “Only the Lonely” (music by Jimmy Van Heusen, words by Sammy Cahn) the devastating track that lent its name to, and set the tone for, Sinatra’s first post-Gardner project has a lyric worth quoting in full –

Each place I go only the lonely go Some little small cafe The songs I know only the lonely know Each melody recalls a love that used to be The dreams I dream only the lonely dream Of lips as warm as May That hopeless scheme only the lonely scheme That soon somewhere you’ll find the one that used to care And you’ll recall each fun time Those picnics at the beach when love was new It well could be the one time A hopeless little dream like that comes true If you find love hang on to each caress And never let love go For when it’s gone you’ll know the loneliness The heartbreak only the lonely know

Listen, below, for the Pinteresque pause before Sinatra sings the last word of the second line and for the saddest piano of motifs as it ripples through the song. Sinatra had tried to kill himself on more than occasion after a bust-up with Gardner, once in the apartment of a songwriting pal, indeed the composer of this very song. There is no doubt at all where Sinatra’s head and heart were as he delivered a truly great reading of this oh so blue and broken-hearted ballad.

After the sublime “Angel Eyes”, a song Sinatra kept going back to again and again in live performance, comes a personal favourite of mine, “What’s New”. We’ve all been in the singer’s shoes as he runs across an old flame and has to bravely disguise the fact that he is still carrying a torch for the woman who will be the (lost) love of his life (even Phil Oakey had a stab at this tragic scenario on The Human League’s sweetest song, “Louise”). Here, Johnny Burke’s lyric has a great pay off with Sinatra crooning “Of course you couldn’t know / I haven’t changed, I still love you so”. Blue, blue bliss!

“Willow Weep for Me”, a jazz standard by Ann Ronnell that had already been recorded by Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong and Sarah Vaughan in the preceding two years has a tender line where a lovelorn Sinatra beseeches the wind to “Murmur to the night to hide its starry light”, so the singer can cry his heart out in  darkness. The dream team of Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer donate “Blues in the Night” to the cause. Sinatra and Riddle decide to give it the Grand Guignol treatment, with the singer crazily imitating a train’s lonesome whistle sounding out across the darkness. Altogether, now, “A whoooee, a whoooee!!!”

The title alone will tell you all you need to know about “Guess I’ll Hang My Tears out to Dry”, except the Sammy Cahn lyric is so cleverly contrived it deserves laying out in black and white -

The torch I carry is handsome It’s worth its heartache in ransom And when that twilight steals I know how the lady in the harbor feels When I want rain, I get sunny weather I’m just as blue, blue as the sky Since love has gone, can’t get myself together Guess I’ll hang my tears out to dry

Friends ask me out, but I tell them I’m busy I must get a new alibi I stay at home, and ask myself: “Where is she?” Guess I’ll hang my tears out to dry Dry little teardrops, my little teardrops Hanging on a string of dreams Fly little memories, my little memories Remind her of our crazy schemes Yes somebody said, just forget about her So, I gave that treatment a try And strangely enough, I got along without her Then one day she passed me right by - oh well I guess I’ll hang my tears out to dry

There is a real satisfaction to be had in wallowing in that kind of self-pity!

The all-time great pairing of Richard Rogers and Lorenz Hart

The Richard Rogers / Lorenz Hart song “Spring is Here” is a simply exquisite number. An overworked adjective, admittedly, but no other single word will do the heavy lifting when it comes to one-word descriptions that can sum up this, the most gently gloomy ballad imaginable. This is the kind of tune, stuffed full of romantic yearning, that the Great American Songbook stands or falls by. For starters, it has a lyric by Lorenz Hart (who, quite possibly, was the greatest lyricist to work in the genre), and it can boast a chorus of almost unbearable, unknowable heartbreak. If this song isn’t for you, then neither is the Great American Songbook!

Once there was a thing called spring, When the world was writing verses like yours and mine. All the lads and girls would sing, When we sat at little tables and drank May wine. Now April, May, and June are sadly out of tune, life has stuck a pin in the balloon.

Spring is here! Why doesn’t my heart go dancing? Spring is here! Why isn’t the waltz entrancing? No desire, no ambition leads me, maybe it’s because nobody needs me? Spring is here! Why doesn’t the breeze delight me? Stars appear! Why doesn’t the night invite me? Maybe it’s because nobody loves me, spring is here, I hear!

It reads well enough, but Sinatra actually dispenses with the prologue (something he rarely did) and cuts straight to the chase of the chorus. The killer line is ‘Maybe it’s because nobody needs me?’ You can hear it coming, alright, but when Sinatra actually sings it, you feel your crestfallen heart is about ready to cave in.

The insuperable “One for My Baby”

The closing number “One for My Baby” is, quite possibly, the genuine Sinatra signature song (granted there are two dozen or more to choose from!). It’s the song that defines him as a saloon singer, anyhow - a morose drunk, down on his luck and suckered by love, spilling his heavy heart out to the listening millions. Or, as Lees dramatically puts it, “’One for My Baby’ is the finest piece of musical acting Sinatra has ever turned in. He has never sounded closer to the end of his rope”. The only disappointment here, and what a crushing disappointment it is, is that Billy Strayhorn’s “Lush Life” was axed from the album, Sinatra apparently feeling he hadn’t quite got a hold of the song. In an essay from his book This Will End in Tears, Adam Brent Houghtaling describes the song as “Easily among the most emotionally complex standards in the Great American Songbook”. Here’s the work in progress that Sinatra nixed (he never attempted the song again!)

You can file this noir album alongside Joy Division’s Closer, Richard Buckley’s Bloomed and just about anything Hank Williams put his name too! Interestingly, the fact that Sinatra alternated the release of these tortured masterpieces with a succession of bold, brassy extravaganzas like Songs for Swinging Lovers (1956) and Come Fly with Me (1958), that served to showcase the larger-than-life, happy-go-lucky side of New Jersey’s finest, only adds credence to claims that the singer was suffering from an undiagnosed case of bipolar disorder that might partly explain the star’s penchant for violent outbursts, such as the time he smashed his car radio to bits after he accidentally tuned into a station playing The Doors “Light my Fire” (Sinatra loses a chunk of Brownie points with his hatred of rock ‘n’ roll), or the occasion he took a knife to a Norman Rockwell painting hanging on the wall of Jimmy Van Heusen’s apartment. Talk about mood swings!!!!!

So how is the Great American Songbook doing right now? Well, it’s doing prettttty good as Larry David might say. Barely a theatre season goes by without a Broadway revival of one classic show or another (including Pal Joey in 2008, Guys and Dolls in 2009, Brigadoon in 2010, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying in 2011, Porgy and Bess in 2012, On the Town in 2014 and The King and I in 2015). With Carousel set to open in 2018, the trend looks set to continue. Furthermore, a company touring the Gershwin / Porter / Berlin songbooks will probably be appearing in a provincial theatre near you sometime very soon. As for that great nemesis of the show tune, rock ’n’ roll, its poster child Bob Dylan is in his seventies now and has just completed his third straight album of (and we can be generous, here, and call them interpretations rather than covers) tunes lifted straight from the pages of the Great American Songbook. Well, did you evah!

Further reading:

Sinatra! The Song is You, a magnificent study of Sinatra the singer by Will Friedwald.

Reading Lyrics - Robert Gottlieb and Robert Kimball - Collecting together more than a thousand lyrics from 1900 to 1975.

American Popular Song: The Great Innovators,1900-1950 by Alec Wilder. The definitive study on the subject, written by the composer of scores of popular songs and countless classical pieces. His songs have been sung by.the likes of Sinatra and Peggy Lee.

Singers and the Song, Gene Lees. A fascinating collection of essays, particularly the ones on Sinatra and Johnny Mercer.

Recommended listening

You can go online right now and pick up Frank Sinatra: The Capitol Years 1953 -1962 for just over a tenner! An unbeatable collection containing 16 essential albums.

At half the price of the above, you can also purchase

Blues in the Night: The Johnny Mercer Songbook. The Greatest of them all? Listen to Billie Holliday sing “I Thought About You” and “One for My Baby”, Sarah Vaughan glide through “Day In-Day Out”, and Louis Armstrong growl understatedly (he really does!) on the misogynistic title track and you might just be jumping on the Mercer bandwagon.

We’ll Take Manhattan: Ella Fitzgerald sings from the Rodgers and Hart Songbook and includes standards such as “The Lady is a Tramp”, “My Funny Valentine”, “Mountain Greenery” and “Blue Moon”.

The Very Best of the Cole Porter Songbook. Fifty songs including  “Anything Goes”, “Night and Day”, “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, “I Get a Kick out of You” and “Every Time We Say Goodbye”.

American Songbook series: Harry Warren. Never heard of Harry? Then you’ll be surprised to see that this best of includes “Lullaby of Broadway”, “Chattanooga Choo Choo”, “I Only Have Eyes for You” and “You’re Getting to be a Habit With Me” as well as many other wonderful compositions.

http://www.walesartsreview.org/author/kevin-mcgrath/

[mamusiq]

The forgotten bard who shaped pop

John Dowland’s songs were massively popular in the Elizabethan era. They played into an idea of English melancholy that continues today, writes Andrea Valentino.

By Andrea Valentino -  3 August 2017

Stumble into any grimy club, or any taxi, or any supermarket in Britain and chances are that you’ll hear the same music: the same songs, the same chords, the same lyrics. Ed Sheeran has been top of the pile lately. His latest album has sold over a million copies in the UK alone, and the quaking sentimentality of Castle On The Hill is almost a new national anthem.

We know surprisingly little of Dowland’s own life

But if Sheeran’s floppy red hair and catchy love songs are obsessing modern Britain, he was hardly the first to grab the national mood. Back in the 16th Century, the composer and lutenist John Dowland was similarly popular – pressing into a vein of moping soppiness that made him famous, and has served English musicians ever since.

This memorial to Dowland stands in the Dalkey suburb of Dublin (Credit: Alamy)

For such an influential musician, we know surprisingly little of Dowland’s own life. He was born about 1563, probably in London. He travelled widely, first working for Queen Elizabeth I, then for the Danish King Christian IV. Scandal chased after Dowland: he left Denmark after ‘unsatisfactory conduct’.

He was also rejected from the English court, probably for being a Catholic. And despite considerable fame, Dowland died in poverty, lamenting the “young professors of the lute” who “vaunt themselves to the disparagement” of old timers like him. This poignant end is dappled with mystery: even now, there are rumours that Dowland was a spy, and a traitor.  

The beauty of sadness

If Dowland’s life remains enigmatic, personality explodes out of his songs. Just their titles – Burst Forth My Tears, Rest A While You Cruel Cares – are stickily evocative. His lyrics, meanwhile, still scrape against the heart of anyone who listens. “Burst forth my tears, assist my forward grief,” starts one, “and show what pain imperious love provokes.”

Dowland’s First Booke of Songs and Ayres from 1597, with sheet music to allow lute players to accompany singers, was one of his many successful songbooks (Credit: Alamy)

Elsewhere, Dowland sang that “down, down, down I fall, and arise I never shall.” The composer himself seemed to paddle happily about in all this. “His motto was semper Dowland, semper dolens. This means ‘always Dowland, always doleful’”, Pierre Huard, an early music performer and researcher, tells BBC Culture. Like Leonard Cohen or Tom Waits, in other words, John Dowland the angsty musician was sometimes indistinguishable from his music.

Elizabethans saw melancholy as fashionable – Olga Hernandez Roldan

Dowland’s distinctive music was not just a personal affectation, though. Sixteenth-Century England was obsessed with “melancholy”, seeing it as. “fashionable”, says Olga Hernandez Roldan, a lecturer in music history at the Madrid Superior School of Singing. Ted Libbey, a music critic, agrees. “Melancholy was the sign of a superior individual,” he wrote, in an article for NPR. It was typical of someone “who was mature and capable of deep feeling.” These ideas seeped into 16th Century life. One scholar wrote a Treatise on Melancholy while Shakespeare cast Hamlet as bubbling with existential worries. Like all the best modern musicians, meanwhile, Dowland tapped into these feelings. If Ed Sheeran’s Galway Girl sates modern teenagers desperate for tipsy nostalgia, Dowland filled his songs with the passions of his time.

English illustrator John Minnion drew this caricature of Dowland – a sign of the songwriter’s enduring impact in the UK (Credit: Alamy)

Dowland’s music was strikingly modern in other ways, too. He was one of the first composers to popularise the lute in England, spreading his music to a mass audience. Like the piano a few centuries later, it could be produced cheaply and made music accessible “to the bourgeoisie,” explains Hernandez Roldan. “The lute allowed people to play printed music at home on their own,” she adds. Dowland’s music soon became wildly popular, and one of his song books was reprinted four times during the late 1500s and early 1600s. Together with his instrument, moreover, Dowland pushed for a new kind of music. Unlike the dense Italian madrigals of the previous century, many of Dowland’s songs were “organised simply” with just an intimate solo lute as accompaniment, says Huard. “They had a big effect on the public” and helped turn English into a “European language.”

‘Shakespeare of songs’

Given all this, it’s little wonder that Dowland is now known by some as the “first modern singer-songwriter,” although not everyone agrees. “We must root Dowland in his musical context to appreciate the whole,” says Hernandez Roldan. “I feel that to speak about him just ripped out of his world makes no sense.” She has a point: scratching a line right from Dowland to modern musicians risks slipping into anachronism.

The lute was a popular instrument in the 16th and 17th Centuries and featured in many paintings such as this one by Valentin de Boulogne (Credit: Alamy)

Still, if Dowland did not wear a black leather jacket, his gushy self-expression – combined with his simple, intense style – are both hallmarks of modern pop. For Huard, Dowland is nothing short of a timeless “Shakespeare of songs” whose vivid delivery jumps down to us as strong as ever.

He is a fool who is not melancholy once a day – English proverb

And if some historians might hesitate to make the comparison between Dowland and contemporary music, artists have happily adapted his passionate songs. Twentieth-Century composers like Benjamin Britten and Parry Grainger have reimagined pieces by Dowland. The Dowland Project elegantly mixes Dowland’s lute pieces with modern jazz. Dowland’s music has even stumbled back to the pop world. Elvis Costello has sung a version of Can She Excuse My Wrongs? and in 2006 Sting covered an album of Dowland’s songs, even sitting in a smoky Tudor cellar to record In Darkness Let Me Dwell.

Sting released an album of Dowland covers through classical label Deutsche Grammophon in 2006 and remains an avid lutenist (Credit: Alamy)

The melancholic twang from John Dowland’s lute has shivered down to generations of English artists indirectly, too. In the early 20th Century, Edward Elgar’s haunting music was called ‘wonderful in its heroic melancholy’. Later, Pink Floyd released trippy songs like Time where they sang that “hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.” Things went into overdrive as the utopianism of the hippie years quivered and died. By 1976, Joy Division were gripping worn-out kids around the country. A decade on, The Smiths went even further. Songs like Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want and How Soon Is Now? are still benchmarks of teenage worry. John Dowland may not have sung that he was “happy in the haze of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I’m miserable now” – that was Morrissey. But he could have.

Naturally, not all these musicians were influenced by Dowland directly. But starting with John Dowland and his shameless self-expression, his melancholy has proved wonderfully durable. But why do the English seem so drawn to misery? Maybe it reminds us of life’s unfairness. An old English proverb remarks that “he is a fool who is not melancholy once a day.” Or perhaps it’s the weather. As Voltaire put it, “these are the dark November days when the English hang themselves.” Whatever the reason, melancholy has surely scrabbled far enough into our national identity to stay firmly put. Hopefully, anyway. It would be a shame to lose musicians like John Dowland, whose “dainties grief shall be, and tears my poisoned wine.”

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http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20170801-the-ed-sheeran-of-16th-century-england

[rapispoetry]

Bob Dylan - Banquet Speech

When I saw so much public outrage over Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature I realized the public’s acceptance of rap as art and rappers as the new generation of American poets was much further away than I had hoped. 

I saw countless articles about why Dylan didn’t “deserve” the prize, mostly relying on the idea that as a songwriter Dylan didn’t produce literature. His acceptance speech for the prize, given by the United States Ambassador to Sweden Azita Raji, beautifully, tactfully, and graciously acknowledges this criticism. 

December 10, 2016

Good evening, everyone. I extend my warmest greetings to the members of the Swedish Academy and to all of the other distinguished guests in attendance tonight.

I'm sorry I can't be with you in person, but please know that I am most definitely with you in spirit and honored to be receiving such a prestigious prize. Being awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature is something I never could have imagined or seen coming. From an early age, I've been familiar with and reading and absorbing the works of those who were deemed worthy of such a distinction: Kipling, Shaw, Thomas Mann, Pearl Buck, Albert Camus, Hemingway. These giants of literature whose works are taught in the schoolroom, housed in libraries around the world and spoken of in reverent tones have always made a deep impression. That I now join the names on such a list is truly beyond words.

I don't know if these men and women ever thought of the Nobel honor for themselves, but I suppose that anyone writing a book, or a poem, or a play anywhere in the world might harbor that secret dream deep down inside. It's probably buried so deep that they don't even know it's there.

If someone had ever told me that I had the slightest chance of winning the Nobel Prize, I would have to think that I'd have about the same odds as standing on the moon. In fact, during the year I was born and for a few years after, there wasn't anyone in the world who was considered good enough to win this Nobel Prize. So, I recognize that I am in very rare company, to say the least.

I was out on the road when I received this surprising news, and it took me more than a few minutes to properly process it. I began to think about William Shakespeare, the great literary figure. I would reckon he thought of himself as a dramatist. The thought that he was writing literature couldn't have entered his head. His words were written for the stage. Meant to be spoken not read. When he was writing Hamlet, I'm sure he was thinking about a lot of different things: "Who're the right actors for these roles?" "How should this be staged?" "Do I really want to set this in Denmark?" His creative vision and ambitions were no doubt at the forefront of his mind, but there were also more mundane matters to consider and deal with. "Is the financing in place?" "Are there enough good seats for my patrons?" "Where am I going to get a human skull?" I would bet that the farthest thing from Shakespeare's mind was the question "Is this literature?"

When I started writing songs as a teenager, and even as I started to achieve some renown for my abilities, my aspirations for these songs only went so far. I thought they could be heard in coffee houses or bars, maybe later in places like Carnegie Hall, the London Palladium. If I was really dreaming big, maybe I could imagine getting to make a record and then hearing my songs on the radio. That was really the big prize in my mind. Making records and hearing your songs on the radio meant that you were reaching a big audience and that you might get to keep doing what you had set out to do.

Well, I've been doing what I set out to do for a long time, now. I've made dozens of records and played thousands of concerts all around the world. But it's my songs that are at the vital center of almost everything I do. They seemed to have found a place in the lives of many people throughout many different cultures and I'm grateful for that.

But there's one thing I must say. As a performer I've played for 50,000 people and I've played for 50 people and I can tell you that it is harder to play for 50 people. 50,000 people have a singular persona, not so with 50. Each person has an individual, separate identity, a world unto themselves. They can perceive things more clearly. Your honesty and how it relates to the depth of your talent is tried. The fact that the Nobel committee is so small is not lost on me.

But, like Shakespeare, I too am often occupied with the pursuit of my creative endeavors and dealing with all aspects of life's mundane matters. "Who are the best musicians for these songs?" "Am I recording in the right studio?" "Is this song in the right key?" Some things never change, even in 400 years.

Not once have I ever had the time to ask myself, "Are my songs literature?"

So, I do thank the Swedish Academy, both for taking the time to consider that very question, and, ultimately, for providing such a wonderful answer.

My best wishes to you all,

Bob Dylan

#Bob Dylan #Nobel Prize #Nobel Prize for Literature