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#art direction and references and its time to just hose it down

the-trickster-of-hearts · 5 years

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Kasumi’s Design and How it Compares to Joker

In honor of Persona 5: The Royal coming out in 1 day, I decided to dedicate my first post to this topic since I’ve seen people talk about it. I also wanted to share my speculation about her design along with how and why her design is possibly connected with the protagonist/Joker by using given information about the game and the designs themselves. I’ve been working on this for a while and it might kind of messy since this is the first time I made a post of this nature (plus, I want to post it before the game’s Japanese official release).

Before I discuss about Kasumi’s design and its connection to the protagonist/Joker, it’s best to look at the reason why she was created in the first place. Weekly Famitsu magazine #1588 had an interview with producer Kazuhisa Wada, director Daiki Ito, and character designer Shigenori Soejima about P5R. When Ito talked about Kasumi, he mentioned the following:

“Kasumi Yoshizawa is a new student at Shujin Academy, who has been a high achiever in rhythmic gymnastics since middle school. Since she goes to the same school as the protagonist and his friends, there’ll naturally be many points of contact between them. Introducing a new character adds a new perspective and meaning to the story, while also letting [the team] dig deeper into the characters we already know and love. Kasumi was created after much discussion about what kind of character would allow us to realize that”.

Kasumi was always meant to represent another perspective towards the story and themes of the game. Also going by this, she was most likely never meant to be a FeMC in the way people were expecting when the second P5R teaser was dropped. With that out of the way, let’s talk about her design and how it possibly relates to the protagonist’s design (for the sake of this post, he’ll be referred to as the protagonist when talking about his civilian self and Joker as his Phantom Thief self).

In the November 2019 issue of Game Informer magazine that was released digitally on the 1st, there was an interview with Soejima and he states the following about Kasumi’s design and how he came up with it:

“With Kasumi, [he] really wanted to create just a straight-forward heroine type of character. This might be a little bit different in the West, but in Japan, the manga [he] grew up reading, the main [female] characters always had a ponytail, and their club activity was gymnastics. [He] really wanted to just shoot for that female protagonist archetype. Maybe in the States or in the West, it’d be [comparable to] a cheerleader type of girl. With most of the characters in Persona 5, we really design them to have kind of a twist, kind of make them unique and different from what the standard character archetypes might be like, but with Kasumi, we wanted to just go straight for that heroine type of girl”.

Based on this, the reason why Kasumi wears the standard Shujin uniform is because she embodies the classic heroine. Soejima even points that while most of the main cast have a twist to their designs and how it relates to their archetypes (remember that the rest of Phantom Thieves, including Akechi, are meant to be deconstructions of their given archetype), he decided to be straightforward for Kasumi’s design and how she’s supposed to reflect her given archetype. The only other character to not have a twist on their design is the protagonist. Actually, that’s not completely true. The protagonist and Kasumi actually have a twist in their design (this isn’t counting the protagonist’s glasses or Kasumi’s ribbon as they don’t take away from the uniform). Compare the concept art for the protagonist to the concept art for the Shujin uniforms.

It’s hard to tell here, but the protagonist doesn’t wear the standardized shoes. Instead, he switches them out for some dress boots. Now let’s compare the protagonist and Kasumi.

Like the protagonist, Kasumi switches out the standardized shoes (in her case, she trades them out for some red loafers). This may not seem like much, but it’s rather strange that the one thing they change to their uniforms is the shoes. If anything, it seems like an intentional design choice to make them more similar.

Now that I talked about her winter uniform, I can move onto her Phantom Thief attire and its relation to Joker’s outfit.

Back to Weekly Famitsu magazine #1588, Soejima says the following when discussing about her Phantom Thief design:

“Kasumi doesn’t form a pair with the protagonist, but since [Soejima] was drawing her as an icon of P5R, [he] designed her phantom thief appearance to feel like it goes alongside the protagonist’s. The idea of ‘phantom thieves’ in itself has manga-like elements, right? Like with the protagonist, [he] wanted this new character to have that ‘coolness’ that everyone normally expects from a phantom thief. A female phantom thief that has a different stance from the protagonist… What kind of character is she? [He hopes] you’ll be excited to find out.”

When he mentions that she doesn’t form a pair with Joker, I’m assuming that he means that the two aren’t completely direct counterparts or mirror images like how P3MC and FeMC are. While their outfits do have differences (that are better seen in the new prologue), their outfits parallel each other and have the same color scheme (more on that later). Soejima confirms that Kasumi’s Phantom Thief design resembles Joker’s design is because he intentionally made her design to feel like it goes along with him.

Despite the almost uncanny resemblance of their Phantom Thief outfits, I get the impression that the overall intention of the designs are different. I believe the reason why their designs are so similar but different is because they’re supposed to reflect two different versions of the hero and heroine archetype that reflects their ideologies. At this point, I might sound like I’m crazy, but let’s quickly go over their designs and compare them.

Joker wears a black and white domino mask. Kasumi also wears a mask, but her mask is black and white/silver. Joker only has small gold buttons on his waistcoat, the rest of the buttons are silver as seen on his in-game model (they are sometimes depicted as black or gold depending on the artist). Kasumi, on the other hand, has large gold buttons on her coat and smaller gold buttons on her thigh-length hose. Kasumi also has a silver chain belt with roses on it (basically, Joker and Kasumi have their placement of the silver and gold reversed). He has a white handkerchief in the pocket of his jacket while she wears a black choker. Joker wears brown winklepickers, but Kasumi wears black stiletto-heels, which resemble ballet shoes. Lastly, he wields a knife as his melee weapon while she wields an estoc. Joker’s attire can be described as classy but able to blend in the shadows. His design the embodiment of the gentleman thief, a classical type of anti-hero. Meanwhile, Kasumi’s design is very graceful and more traditionally heroic compared to Joker’s gentleman thief-esque design. Soejima points out how the Phantom Thief concept has manga-like elements (which the characters also bring up in PQ2). Combine this with Kasumi’s transformation sequence in PV #02, Kasumi’s Phantom Thief design seems to have taken some inspiration from magical girls. Despite the numbers of differences, their designs still complement each other because of the shared color schemes, red gloves, and number of coattails. Basically, their designs are different yet still go along with each other (kind of like yin and yang in a sense).

In both their Shujin uniforms and their Phantom Thief attire, they share a black-red color scheme (which are also the main colors of Persona 5). An interesting thing to note is that the two have more of a certain color in their designs.The protagonist has a bigger emphasis on black as his hair, rim of the glasses, and dress boots are black. His eyes are technically gray, but they’re a much darker shade compared to P3MC or Yu Narukami. Meanwhile, Kasumi has a bigger emphasis on red as her hair, eyes, and shoes are red. It’s possible that the reason for the protagonist greater emphasis on black relates to how he’s the leader of the Phantom Thieves of Hearts, who steal the distorted desires of individuals by morally grey means and sneak around Palaces within the shadows. In this school life, the protagonist keeps his head down and doesn’t really stand out from the crowd. Meanwhile, Kasumi rejects the Phantom Thieves because she believes that their methods don’t actually help anyone and that people should solve their own problems (this seems to stem from her own issues based on translations of her character introduction, PV #02, and PV #03). Despite this, she later joins them for her own reasons. Her appearance also helps her stand out.

This last part before moving on is speculation, but I’m going with the idea that there’s an in-universe for why her Phantom Thief outfit is similar to Joker’s. I’m kind of going on a tangent here, but it will connect back to Kasumi’s design. It’s known that Kasumi dislikes the Phantom Thieves, yet she’s seen helping Joker fight off a group of shadows while at the Casino Palace (at this point, she doesn’t consider herself a Phantom Thief but has awakened to her Persona) in the updated prologue and telling him that she isn’t going to stop him when she brings up that he still has something to do as a Phantom Thief. In PV #01, there’s a new animated cutscene involving the protagonist, Morgana, and Kasumi (note that both the protagonist and Kasumi are wearing their regular winter uniforms, not the ones for the third semester).

PV #02 elaborates on this by showing new shots of it, and reveals that the new Palace is feature in that cutscene.

In Kasumi’s introduction trailer, we see Joker and Morgana watching Kasumi awakening to her Persona in what appears to be in the new Palace. There’s also a gameplay section where the trio are seen fighting together, just them.

Based on all of this info, I can conclude that the protagonist, Morgana, and Kasumi first enter the palace some time in between Spaceport of Greed arc and Casino of Envy arc (possibly even during one of those arcs or even before). Not only that, but the animated cutscene leads to the trio exploring the new palace for the first time and Kasumi awakening her Persona. After this point, Joker and Kasumi would meet again at Sae’s Palace when she has already awakened to her Persona. Based on all of the evidence presented, her in-universe reason for her Phantom Thief design looking like Joker is because her view of rebellion is him. Again, this is only speculation. It can only be confirmed when the game released on the 31st of this month in Japan.

Lastly, I want to talk about the designs of their Personas briefly and how they compare/contrast.

Arsene of the Fool Arcana and Cendrillon of the Faith Arcana are the only P5 Personas to not have golden eyes in any shape or form (as of now anyway). Instead, Arsene has red eyes while Cendrillon has blue. Their legs have a similar shape and they’re both seen to use physical skills by using their heels. Arsene’s horns and Cendrillon’s bow both point forwards. Arsene has a mask-like face that has been described to be glass-like while Cendrillon’s legs and chest are composed from glass. Both of them feature feathers in their design (Arsene has wings while Cendrillon’s cape and bow have a feathery appearance). Both of them have hearts patterns somewhere on their designs (Arsene has heart patterns on his shoulders while golden decor holding up Cendrillon’s cape resembles hearts). Another thing they have in common is that Arsene and Cendrillon both have French origins (Arsene Lupin is the creation of French novelist Maurice Leblanc while Cendrillon is based off of French author Charles Perrault’s interpretation of the Cinderella story). As for how they’re different, the first thing to mention is the color schemes. While both have black, white, and gold, Arsene has red, but Cendrillon has blue instead. Arsene has black wings while Cendrillon has a white feathery cape. Arsene has black claws resembling talons of a bird while Cendrillon has blue nails. Arsene has an overall demonic appearance while Cendrillon has a somewhat angelic appearance. Lastly, Arsene uses Curse skills while Cendrillon uses Bless skills.

In conclusion, Kasumi’s design is intentionally meant to resemble the protagonist’s design to go alongside him and highlight their difference stances. They represent the hero and heroine archetypes on different scales, with the protagonist representing the anti-hero and Kasumi representing the traditional heroine. The in-universe reason for their similar Phantom Thief designs possibly has to do with how Kasumi’s view of rebellion is Joker mixed with gymnastics. Or maybe I’m looking too much into Kasumi’s design and how that design compares to the protagonist/Joker.

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egarotss · 3 years

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A Transatlantic Crossing With the Queen Mary 2 - Part 1

Driving up to the Port of Southampton's Mayflower Terminal and getting first look at the white-and-dark hulled Queen Mary 2, the biggest, longest, tallest, heaviest, and most costly boat at any point assembled, evoked impressive energy and wonderment. Docked to port at a 50-degree, 54.25' north scope and 001-degree, 25.70' west longitude and confronting a 116.4-degree compass heading, the 17-decked leviathan, with a 1,132-foot length and 148-foot width, included a gross load of 151,400 tons and overshadowed the structures with its overhang lined façade, obscuring it with its 236.2-foot stature. Its draft expanded 33.10 feet underneath the water line. The drifting city, complete with its staterooms, eateries, shopping arcades, libraries, theaters, and planetariums, would connect, in six days, the European and North American landmasses, the comparable in hours to the term of the ethereal intersection by 747-400, itself then the world's biggest business aircraft. However, the maritime intersection would yield mutual respect, refinement, restoration, enthusiastic fix, and return to the more slow, yet more rich period of steam transport travel-an excursion, I would before long discover, would prompt a quest for the oceanic history of the past which had made the innovation of the present.

Not at all like the multiplication of present day voyage ships with their nearly lower speeds and more prominent volume, square-calculation bodies, the Queen Mary 2 had been planned as a cutting edge replacement to the 35-year-old Queen Elizabeth 2 and, in that capacity, would have to bring to the table that very all year, traveler conveying abilities, predominately in the harsh North Atlantic, with a plan which forfeited income creating volume and lower development expenses of the customary journey transport for the necessary wellbeing, speed, and solidness of the sea liner. Resultantly, it highlighted a similar angular body setup normal for the long queue of its Cunard archetypes, built of thicker steel which conveyed a 40-percent more prominent expense than those of regular journey ships. Planned by Stephen Payne, whose motivations for the bow had come from the Queen Elizabeth 2 and the brake divider from the Normandie, it was the principal fourfold screw North Atlantic sea liner since the France of 1962. Payne himself, a maritime designer brought up in London, had been associated with the Carnival Holiday, Carnival Fantasy, and Rotterdam VI activities. The last mentioned, joining a changed Staten dam frame, had highlighted a less "square shaped" body shape than the customary journey transport, however had still been extensively eliminated a full liner plan.

Planned for the essential Southampton-New York course, it consolidated dimensional limitations directed by the United States port, including a pipe tallness which cleared the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge by just ten feet and a general length which surpassed the 1,100-foot dock of the Port of New York by 34 feet.

Built by Alstom Chanters de l'Atlantique in St. Nazaire, France, which had additionally assembled the Normandie, and assigned structure G32 by the shipyard, it had been the main Cunard liner at any point built outside of the United Kingdom and, as Concorde, the world's quickest and up until recently just supersonic aircraft, turned into the subsequent British-French cooperative transportation project expected for overseas assistance, in spite of the fact that through boundlessly unique, if not inverse, modes.

Its inside offered unrivaled space and solace. Of the 17 decks, the initial four were intended for hardware, stockpiling, and the 1,254-in number group; 13 were for the 2,620 travelers; and eight contained overhang staterooms. Eminent components incorporated a Grand Lobby, the Royal Court Theater, the Illuminations Theater and Planetarium, the Connections Internet Center, the Queen's Ballroom, a Winter Garden, nine significant cafés, 11 bars and parlors, a 8,000-volume library and book shop, an Oxford University address program, exhibitions by the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, five pools, sports settings, a Canyon Ranch Spa, a structure of shops, and a discotheque. These arrangements would comprise my "home" for the following six days.

Emblematically reflected by its more modest QE2 archetype berthed an extensive separation from its bow at the Queen Elizabeth 2 Terminal, the Queen Mary 2 addressed a two-overlay net weight increment over its prior age partner and, without a doubt, followed its ancestry back to a long way of Cunard vessels which had crossed a 165-year time frame. I by one way or another detected that the unavoidable intersection would not exclusively be an excursion of distance, however a return on schedule.

Tenderly vibrating at its spine, the behemoth along the side isolated itself underneath from its billet beneath the metallic cloudy at 1810, nearby time.

Not at all like the traditional motor propeller shaft innovation of more established age sends, the Queen Mary 2 was fueled rather by four rearward, frame underside-mounted Rolls Royce Mermaid electric-engine cases, each weighing 260 tons and containing four fixed-pitch, 9,900-pound, hardened steel sharp edges, and all things considered delivering 115,328 torque. The forward, detachable pair was fixed and given forward and toward the back impetus, while the rearward, inboard pair included 360-degree azimuth capacity and gave both drive and controlling, hindering the requirement for the rudder. The trend setting innovation framework diminished both intricacy and weight and expanded inner body volume by wiping out the customary motor design's related gear.

Three Rolls Royce variable-pitch, cross over propeller bow engines, altogether creating 15,000 strength, given port and starboard bow House Moving Services From Ireland To UK ability at velocities of up to five bunches. At eight bunches, when their adequacy had been surpassed, they were covered by 90-degree pivoting, liquid powerful entryways.

Driven by double water-sprout shooting towing boats, the behemoth ocean liner started its blundering development down the bowl. Keeping a 11.5-tie forward speed in the Solvent, it initiated its starboard abandon 140 degrees at Cal shots Reach at 1907, ready for the comparable move at Brambles.

Packed into dim, the sun projected its shining orange streaks outward through the slender, unhampered strip on the western skyline. Expecting a 220-degree heading through the Thorn Channel, the Queen Mary 2 started its starboard go to adjust the Isle of Wight.

The main supper on board the exquisite, oceanic designing victory had been served in the 1,351-seat, three-story-high, double level Britannia Restaurant which had included a terrific, clearing flight of stairs, section upholds, and a vaulted, illuminated, stained discriminatory constraint and was suggestive of and motivated by the fantastic lounge area salons of the twentieth century French liners, for example, the Ile-de-France, the L'Atlantique, and the Normandie. The actual supper, served on Wedgwood bone china and in Waterford precious stone, had included white zinfandel wine; cream of blended mushroom soup with parmesan bread garnishes; dry rolls and margarine; oak leaf and Boston salad with shaved carrots and sherry vinaigrette dressing; rack of pork with wild mushroom ragout, truffle pureed potatoes, morel sauce, and sauerkraut; warm apple strudel with cognac sauce; and espresso.

The slim line of orange lights illustrating the coast followed itself behind the harsh. Keeping a 27-tie speed and a 250-degree heading, the stone consistent, 151,000-ton designing mass utilized the dark channel and started its extraordinary circle course, from Bishop's Rock in the Scilly Isles. Ahead lay the limitless Atlantic-and the way manufactured by all of Cunard's past transoceanic liners. Tomorrow, I would start following the recorded one.

Day Two:

First light welcomed the extended liner as a passage of indistinct, damp dim. Encased between the bleak cloud arch above and the naval force ocean record beneath, which spat intermittent white covers, the dark and-red piped vessel infiltrated the dampness immersed morning, the downpour discharging sky and the twirling, eddying ocean converging into consistent, wind-stormy, transport besieged douse.

Any undesired development, notwithstanding, was rapidly, and undetectably, hosed by the two sets of 15.63-square-meter Brown Bros/Rolls Royce balance stabilizers which were constrained by gyroscopic vertical reference instruments and stretched out the extent that 15 feet from the frame to check transport roll.

Diving into 348-meter-profound waters 98 nautical miles off of Ireland around early afternoon, the Queen Mary 2 had navigated 418 miles since its takeoff from Southampton yesterday.

Current climate involved discontinuous, light downpour with a clockwise development toward the west, anticipated to drop to drive 4. The current power 5, new breeze out of the south, combined with a 11.2-degree Celsius air temperature, conveyed a 994-millibar pressure. The ocean, with a moderate 4 state, kept a 10-degree Celsius temperature.

Evening tea, held in the Queen's Room, had been a British custom and a wonderful irregularity among lunch and supper served on each Cunard crossing, the last close to home one of which had been the 2002 eastward excursion on the Queen Elizabeth 2. The Queen's Room itself, the biggest assembly hall adrift, highlighted a curved roof, twin gem crystal fixtures, a velvet blue and gold drape over the symphony stage, a 1,225-square-foot dance floor, a live harpist, and little, round tables seating up to 562. The present show included egg, ham and cheddar, cucumber, tomato, hamburger, and fish finger-sandwiches, scones with thickened cream and jam, and strawberry cream tarts.

Evening tea adrift could follow its ancestry back about 165 years. Einstein's hypothesis of relativity by one way or another appeared to apply. Suspended between mainland, landmass, and populace, the boat appeared to be gotten inside a void, a captured twist in which history appeared to be caught and in which the vessel reconnected with its past, as it by and by replayed it, a partition from the present ashore and a way to deal with its past on the ocean. For more information visit our website http://ireland-direct.com/

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xtruss · 4 years

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Covid-19 Patients Sharing Ventilators Is Possible—But Not Ideal

The science of coventilation for coronavirus cases illustrates a complicated dilemma.

— By Alissa Greenberg | Tuesday May 12, 2020 | NOVA

Less-invasive ventilators use a mask rather than a tube inserted into the patient's throat.

On March 20, as severe cases of COVID-19 spiked in northern Italy, emergency medicine doctor Marco Garrone paused during a chaotic shift to tweet a photo: two patients, next to each other in hospital beds, with arcs of tubing connecting them to the same ventilator. “This is what we are down to,” he wrote. “Splitting ventilators, and facing serious dilemmas like choosing who will be actually ventilated when everybody should Take This Seriously”

A month later, as caseloads skyrocketed across the pond in New York City, Columbia Presbyterian Hospital hurried to draft protocols for ventilator sharing. And around the same time, an emergency medicine doctor in Michigan named Charlene Babcock posted a YouTube tutorial featuring step-by-step directions on how to modify a ventilator so it can accommodate multiple patients. That video racked up nearly a million views in the ensuing weeks.

“Here’s my disclaimer,” Babcock says to the camera. “This is off-label use of the ventilator.” But, she adds, extreme circumstances may call for measures that otherwise would be deemed too risky. “If it was me, and I had four patients—and they all needed intubation, and I only had one ventilator—I would simply have a shared discussion with all four families and say: ‘I can pick one to live, or we can try to have all four live.’”

The appearance of ventilator sharing (or “coventilating”) this spring in places where the novel coronavirus has hit the most severely prompts a number of questions: How does a ventilator work? Why is it possible for more than one patient to use a ventilator at once? And if it’s possible, why aren’t more doctors in hard-hit areas doing it? Good news: This is the first in a NOVA series answering burning coronavirus questions just like these.

How Do Ventilators Work?

Treating a patient in extreme respiratory distress is “like staring out the window and seeing people free fall,” says Albert Kwon, an anesthesiologist at New York Medical College. Doctors don’t know how long their patients have been “falling” or how long they’ll continue to fall without intervention; they must make an on-the-spot assessment about whether a parachute is necessary.

In that case, they can choose from several options, ranging from less to more invasive. All ventilators provide oxygen and promote its absorption in the bloodstream while also helping rid the body of the resulting carbon dioxide. The ones you’ve probably heard the most about during the COVID-19 pandemic provide a stream of air into the lungs via a tube inserted into a patient’s throat.

This stream of air exerts positive pressure, which is the opposite of how breathing usually works. When we breathe in on our own, our diaphragm muscles move down in our chests, increasing available space and creating an area of negative pressure that causes air to rush in. (There is one ventilator that works on negative pressure, which you’ve probably heard of: the iron lung.)

High-magnification images show the surface of alveoli in healthy mouse lungs (left) and lungs with ventilator-induced damage (right). Image Credit: Kate Hamlington Smith, University of Colorado School of Medicine

One reason COVID-19 patients need to use ventilators is because their lungs become so stiff that the diaphragm isn’t strong enough to complete its normal movement, causing breathing to slow or stop. Ventilation also keeps the lungs inflated while they heal. That’s important because inflamed capillaries in sick lungs can leak a protein-rich fluid, increasing surface tension in the liquid that normally coats the lungs and making them vulnerable to collapse.

But even healthy lungs are at risk during this process, because their tissues are not usually subject to positive pressure. That means that getting pressure levels wrong during ventilation can be dangerous. Too low, and a patient doesn’t get enough oxygen. Too high, and the lungs can become overinflated, causing their tissue to tear.

At first glance, the ventilator used in the most severe COVID-19 cases looks fairly simple: a tube that goes down the patient’s throat, two hoses that connect the tube to the machine itself (one for pushing air into the lungs and one for bringing carbon dioxide back out of the body); seals, valves, and filters to keep gases moving in the right direction; and a central case. But inside that case lives a much more complicated device, replete with pressure, flow, and oxygen sensors, and sets of circuitry and alarms associated with each element. A standard hospital ventilator has 1,500 parts, features several layers of fail-safes, and can cost around $30,000.

“The number of safeties that have to be on a medical device like this is amazing,” says Nevan Hanumara, a research scientist in MIT’s Precision Engineering Research Group. “This is second only to aerospace.”

A medical ventilator.

Why Isn’t Ventilator Sharing More Common?

Ventilators have such complicated inner workings in part because ventilation is much more involved than just turning on a hose. The process requires doctors to consider myriad disease factors and patient measurements, making it almost an art rather than a science. "Tidal volume," for example, refers to the amount of air in each breath, "resistance" to the ease with which air moves through the lungs, and "compliance" to how stiff or flexible the lung tissue itself is. Clinicians can also adjust how fast patients breathe and regulate air pressure at each stage of those breaths.

All this means that while setting up coventilation is relatively simple—in her YouTube video, Babcock simply uses a cheap plastic adaptor to make space for more hoses—that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s safe. The first problem, Hanumara points out, is that coventilating requires using the same pressure with two very different sets of lungs. The healthier lungs receive more air because they inflate more easily, while the sicker, less flexible lungs won’t get as much.

Secondly, he adds, sensors calibrated for one person’s measurements may not work for two, meaning the appropriate alarms might not be triggered if there is an emergency. Some COVID-19 patients, for example, experience sudden, catastrophic changes in their lung health; without alarms, it’s much more difficult to catch these changes in time. And finally there’s the matter of cross-contamination. Although two coronavirus patients sharing a ventilator can’t give each other their infections, they might still swap pneumonia microbes, or even tuberculosis.

Given these risks, research on coventilation has divided the respiratory care community. Among the more recent studies, Assistant Director of Research at SUNY Downstate Department of Emergency Medicine Lorenzo Paladino successfully coventilated four sheep for 12 hours in 2008. (Garrone, the Italian doctor, looked to that study when setting up his coventilated patients in March.) Paladino and his coauthors chose sheep for their study because adults have similar respiratory physiology and weight as humans, and aimed for 12 hours because emergency protocols allow for delivery of equipment from the Strategic National Stockpile anywhere in the continental US within that time.

The study was prompted by the 2001 anthrax attacks and 2003 SARS outbreak, Paladino says, and was meant to provide a stopgap “bridge” measure for emergency physicians with inadequate supplies waiting for backup in a disaster situation—not to replace single ventilation in the long term. Before COVID-19, the technique was most famously used after the 2017 Las Vegas concert shooting, when a single ER saw a huge surge of gunshot patients and coventilated them to keep them alive while they waited for surgery.

Paladino compares the technique to a life vest. “We don’t condone crossing the Atlantic in a life vest,” he says. “But if I’m in the middle of the Atlantic, I would rather have a life vest than not. And I would hope that a boat is coming to pick me up soon.”

The Future of Coventilation

Not every patient is a good candidate for coventilating, Paladino stresses. Patients with active asthma should be excluded, as should those who tend to “fight” the ventilator, trying to draw a breath when the machine is expelling air, or vice versa. But even with these caveats in place, in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, six major organizations—including heavyweights like the Society of Critical Care Medicine and the American Society of Anesthesiologists—have made statements against coventilating, judging it too risky and ethically questionable to be worth considering. “There’s a very legitimate concern that instead of saving two people, you just highly increased the risk of mortality for two people,” says Bradford Smith, a biomedical engineer at the University of Colorado Anschutz Medical Campus.

These serious risks point to the urgency of the recent situations in Italy and New York that have led doctors to try coventilation. Smith, who recently published a “preprint” (a not-yet-peer-reviewed preliminary study) suggesting an algorithm to match patients for safer coventilation, runs down the list of options he would try before resorting to the technique: fixing old, broken ventilators; using available machines normally used for surgical anesthesia; attaching endotracheal tubes to similar but less-invasive machines used for sleep apnea. “This is so rife with problems that the first time I heard about it, I thought, 'This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,’” Smith says. “But people are taking steps to mitigate all those issues.”

Coventilating practitioners can use filters between patients to help prevent cross-contamination, for example. And protocols drawn up by Columbia Presbyterian and the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) this spring suggest workarounds to allow for some adjustment of ventilator settings, better monitoring of both patients, and use of some built-in alarms.

As in Paladino’s case, most research on coventilation stems from a drive to prepare for the worst. Smith says he was initially inspired to work on his algorithms because he was afraid he would have to use them. (“With the news coming out of Italy, I was on these chain emails of critical care physicians, and things sounded pretty dire,” he says.) And the fact that HHS thought it necessary to convene a taskforce in Washington D.C.—which included Paladino and Babcock—to produce coventilation guidelines for future use speaks to the severity of both the pandemic and predictions for global health over the next two years.

Smith hasn’t had to use his algorithms, but he fears fall flu season may provide another opportunity. He also wonders if they may be of use in other places around the world where ventilator supplies are meager, to give physicians and respiratory therapists valuable context about how different types of patients may react to coventilation.

“This is not how nations, or even states, deal with a ventilator problem,” Paladino says. Instead, he sees coventilation playing an important role for communities that are rural or isolated, or lack access to medical care. Imagine a small hospital that owns just three ventilators and then receives six desperately sick COVID-19 patients in one night. Then what? “One night you see a spike, and you ask for help from the neighbors,” he says. In the meantime, coventilating just might keep those patients alive.

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aphotobymia · 7 years

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Colorism is the New Black

col·or·ism

ˈkələrˌizəm/

Discrimination based on skin color, also known as colorism or shadeism, is a form of prejudice or discrimination in which people are treated differently based on the social meanings attached to skin color.

You may have heard the phrase, “don’t judge a book by its cover.” The phrase doesn’t actually just pertain to literature but, also new things, new people, and even those that chose to clothing as self-expression. In a previous post, I discussed the racial disparities within Jean-Michel Basquiat’s artwork and referenced the homicides of several African American men in the United States over the past several years.

I want to discuss the importance of the phrase:

“Don’t judge a book by its cover”

Last month the Museum of Modern Art in New York City opened an exhibition titled, Items: Is Fashion Modern? The show represents several eras of fashion through the last few generations and its impact on society. The show connects, “the history of these garments with their present recombination and use… the exhibition considers the many relationships between fashion and functionality, culture, aesthetics, politics, labor, identity, economy, and technology.”

Museum of Modern Art, “Items: Is Fashion Modern?”, Champion Sweatshirt, October 27, 2017

NPR (National Public Radio) released an article discussing the recent show and briefly mentions the political significance of the hooded sweatshirt. Susan Stamberg, the writer of the article, shares a quote from MoMA Curator Paola Antonelli, “"When Trayvon Martin was wearing it in Florida a few years ago — he was walking at night and buying candy — George Zimmerman thought that he was suspicious because he was wearing the hoodie,“ she says. “So this disconnect and this misinterpretation transformed the hoodie into a tragic symbol, and also a political symbol.” There is no other way to say this other than using a direct quote from the curator herself. At what point in time did the association of a hooded sweatshirt and a young black male become a threat or “suspicious?” If we fast forward to 2017, the actions of NFL free agent Colin Kapernick caused an outrage of attack from many conservative supporters claiming that by kneeling during the National Anthem was disrespectful to the country and the United States military. Kapernick’s simple response was to not disrespect neither the military or country but to use his platform as a multiracial “celebrity” as a way to call attention to the uprise in police brutality towards the African American community. His jersey is also on display at the MoMa standing tall in a deep red with his number 7 shown. Unfortunately, the black community is not the only group under fire. It’s no secret that religion in America is up for debate on “acceptability”, so when I noticed that hijab’s (a scarf used to cover the head and neck of a Muslim woman in order to preserve modesty) were up for display I came to realize that these two things, a hooded sweatshirt and a hijab, that were used to “cover” were viewed as negative specifically when it came to a person of color.

Museum of Modern Art, “Items: Is Fashion Modern?”, Colin Kapernick Jersey, October 27, 2017

I want to make sure that it’s known that this is completely up to interpretation, however it’s hard to argue when just a few short years ago some New Yorkers were outraged at the idea of building a mosque near the 9/11 memorial because “all Muslims are bad” (Yeah, just like I can say all white teens with a bowl haircut are bad for murdering African Americans in a black Baptist church in Charleston, South Carolina or a white middle-aged men are “bad” because one man had a mass murder in Las Vegas during a country music festival, let’s not get into that debate).

Museum of Modern Art, “Items: Is Fashion Modern?”, Hijabs, October 27, 2017

I raise the question again, at what point did conservatism from a hoodie or religious belief become a threat to American society? Are we in fact,” judging a book by its cover” when it comes to those with different cultural or religious beliefs than our own? Why so? Just for the record, I am grinding my teeth not to discuss another Basquiat painting, but he is the original OG to calling out racial injustice, aka American bullshit. Saying that a hijab or a black man wearing a hoodie is equivalent to me saying that the French wearing a Beret offends me so deeply that I will never go to a French-themed bakery again, matter of fact every religious and cultural belief other than my own offends me so much that I will never go back to Disney World’s Epcot because celebrating diversity and inclusion in America is just absurd! (Please hint at my sarcasm) It saddens me to say that colorism still is prevalent if not more than ever today, I might say this because I am the new generation, the millennial that grew up with social media and the right to speech without getting hosed down by police. I also can say that as a young Latina and being relatively light skinned I have something called, “white privilege” you may not think it, but I do.

While the MoMA’s message behind these articles of clothing maybe something completely different than my own, I would like to remind you all that art is SUBJECTIVE. (Even though my college professor would murder me for saying so, not all art is subjective some if it is actually literal and meant to be without interpretation) Colorism has become “the new black” in the recent news due to the considerable amount of media coverage it receives, not to say that the 1960s were underrated.

I want to lean over to other forms of art,(not clothing) New Orleans based artist Ti-Rock Moore has a piece titled, “Profile This” here the artist is referring to racial profiling as a direct extension of slavery within the United States. The iron rings that are shown on display are the typical chains that would have been seen to be worn by African slaves and the artwork as a whole is representative of a “trophy” to depict the common police practice or irrationally targeting black men and women. (direct from her Instagram) Here is a link to her Artsy page that shows just a few of her other work and her background, https://www.artsy.net/artist/ti-rock-moore/works

Profile This, mixed media, Ti-Rock Moore

I would love to complain more about racial and religious and other injustices, but I primarily want to use this post for people in the tri-state area to check out MoMa’s new exhibition and also bring attention to Ti-Rock Moore’s artwork. Just for kicks, I’ll leave some of her relevant artwork to this post below. Enjoy!

I encourage everyone to read up on this new exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. Please leave feedback and comments, links to the original articles are below.

As always, enjoy the art of complaining

Items: Is Fashion Modern: https://www.moma.org/calendar/exhibitions/1638?locale=en

We Are What We Wear: Exhibition Examines Clothing That Changed The World: http://www.npr.org/2017/10/05/555403457/we-are-what-we-wear-exhibition-examines-clothing-that-changed-the-world

Ti-Rock Moore: https://www.artsy.net/artist/ti-rock-moore/works

Vile, neon, Ti-Rock Moore, 2016

‘Merica, mixed media, Ti-Rock Moore, 2016

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samosoapsoup · 5 years

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Hushidar Mortezaie and Jiyan Zandi, The Brotherhood, 2018.

5 Photographers Show What It’s Like to Be a Young Iranian Today

Jacqui Palumbo, Feb 22, 2019

Labkhand Olfatmanesh and Gazelle Samizay, Bepar, 2018. Courtesy of the artists.

What is like to grow up as an Iranian today? The third edition of Focus Iran, a biennial exhibition presented by the Iranian arts-and-culture nonprofit Farhang Foundation, hopes to provide an answer through photography and video that explore contemporary Iranian youth culture.

3 ImagesView SlideshowThe juried show—selected by Iranian photographers, filmmakers, and curators such as Babak Tafreshi, who shoots for the likes of National Geographic, and documentarian Maryam Zandi—features works by more than 40 image-makers and runs through May 12th at Los Angeles’s Craft & Folk Art Museum.Here, six of the exhibiting photographers (two of whom work as pairs) share the backstories of their works.

Hushidar Mortezaie and Jiyan Zandi

Five years ago, when Hushidar Mortezaie’s father passed away, the Iranian-born, American-raised artist began a collage inspired by his father’s collection of 1970s Iranian sports, pop culture, and political ephemera. He created textiles from the design, which later became the basis of his collaboration with Jiyan Zandi, who was born in the U.S. but has roots in Iran’s Kurdish region, as well as Mexico. The pair titled the resulting, deeply personal body of work “The Champion Series” (2018).One image from the series, titled The Brotherhood, features two men, crowned with roses and outfitted in Mortezaie’s textile designs; one man slings his arm around the other, their outward gazes soft but direct. Mortezaie said they created a set for the photograph that would be reminiscent of a retro photo studio in Kabul or Tehran. Family heirlooms provide a backdrop onto which Mortezaie said he and Zandi placed their “champions”—subjects in the series who represent the beauty of overcoming adversity—“onto a heroes’ shrine of roses.” The work overflows with vibrant colors and celebrates masculine beauty in Iran and its diaspora, paying tribute to the designer’s father; Mortezaie, who is gay, said that his father accepted him unwaveringly, something he said is still uncommon in his culture. The image, he said, honors his “father’s gentle, yet strong spirit founded in love of all humanity, including his gay son.” And the diversity captured in the image is a microcosm of Iran itself, Zandi said—something frequently lost in Western narratives of contemporary Iran. Together, the two photographers and two models represent Assyrian, Chaldean, Kurdish, Mexican, and Persian backgrounds. Zandi also hoped to highlight the key role that young Iranians play in shaping the country’s future.“Young people make up the majority of the population [in Iran], and are defining the future, a future that will look very different from what we see today,” Zandi said. She sees this new narrative of the Middle East as one that “celebrates multicultural diversity, erases gender norms, and promotes LGBTQ acceptance.”

Milad Karamooz

Milad Karamooz, The Kiss, 2016. Courtesy of the artist.

At the foreground of Milad Karamooz’s image The Kiss (2016) stands a man, shirtless except for a black harness, his closed eyes seemingly in a state of calm pleasure, despite metal shears that press against his mouth. Another man stands in shadow behind him, his gloved hand cradling his lover’s head the moment before he presses the blades together.Karamooz, who was born in Tehran but now splits his time in the northern coastal city of Bandar-e Anzali, was initially asked to create this image for a group gallery show in the capital city entitled “The Kiss.” At the time, Karamooz said he was preoccupied with the idea of the pull of attraction toward painful or cruel relationships. When the photographer submitted this image to the show, he was told he couldn’t exhibit the image because it was too sexually suggestive, and he was asked to modify his idea. Instead, Karamooz shot an entirely new image.“I thought that if I did compromise the work by changing it, it would be the same as destroying it,” he said. Karamooz held onto his original photograph, hoping to exhibit it elsewhere in the future.Iran is a dichotomy of “tradition and modernity,” Karamooz said. “On one hand, we are forced to maintain our traditions and conservative values, but on the other hand, the young generation is thirsty for freedom of thought, expression and open-mindedness.” The contradictions and tensions that result from growing up in Iran can inspire more creativity in how its residents find happiness. He added, “As an artist, this inner conflict is demonstrated in our art.”

Hamed Kolahchian Tabrizi

Hamed Kolahchian Tabrizi, Smoking Machine, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

On May 18, 2017, the eve of Iran’s presidential election, photographer Hamed Kolahchian Tabrizi was searching for a taxi on a busy street in his home city of Mashhad. As he recalled, “A lot of people were in the streets to support and promote their candidates, and this gathering usually turns to a happy festive carnival or cars and pedestrians in the street.”Unable to find an available cab, Tabrizi agreed when a nearby driver offered him a ride and got in the backseat. Waiting in the stand-still traffic, they saw the passenger of an adjacent car had begun smoking hookah in the backseat. He soon offered it up to Tabrizi’s car, and snaked the hose from their backseat to the passenger sitting in front of the photographer. Tabrizi stepped out of the vehicle to capture the scene, as the man in his car released a billow of smoke out of his window. He said he found the image particularly strange and unexpected because it captures a moment of respite in an otherwise restricted life. “[On this] specific night, people were free to enjoy their time in the way they could,” Tabrizi said.

Hadi Safari

Hadi Safari, The Holy Healing Pole, 2015. Courtesy of the artist.

A young man climbs to the top of a wood pole rising from the ground, a stretch of low-hanging clouds behind him as he breaks the horizon line in Hadi Safari’s black-and-white photograph The Holy Healing Pole (2015). Next to his discarded shoes, another boy waits for him below; they are seemingly alone in a vast expanse of open land, except for Safari, who stands back to observe the scene.The pole is located in Iran’s Golestan Province, and the Sunni Iranian Turkmens who live in the area believe it has healing powers: Climb to the top and bite down on it, and your toothache will be cured. The ritual has been performed so many times, the wood has become smooth and difficult to climb. Safari was born and raised in Mashhad, the busy metropolis in northeastern Iran, but is now based out of Irvine, California. The image this series is from, “Dab Diyar” (“dignity and status”), is a four-year project in Iran that captures the diversity of its population. Echoing Mortezaie and Zandi, Safari said the series intends to capture the myriad cultures that live under one flag. “Many different nationalities and ethnicities live within Iran, and they each have their own cultures and traditions,” he said. It’s a country brimming with singular opportunities to “showcase images that are very far, exotic and unreal to the world.”

Negar Latifian

Negar Latifian, Simin, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

This photograph is from Negar Latifian’s series “Simin,” which means “silver” in Farsi. It’s a reference to both the gelatin-silver photographic process Latifian uses in the series, as well as the photographer’s subjects—Simin is a common name for girls in Iran. Latifian, who grew up in Tehran and remains based there, highlights the clothing and style of the new generation of Iranian girls. Following the Iranian Revolution in 1979, women and girls were required to cover their hair with a hijab and wear loose clothing.“Since there are hijab dress restrictions for Iranians, for many years, many women didn’t have any individual style and all looked similar in dress,” she explained. “But in recent years, the young generation has pushed [for] change and have developed their unique style, while still adhering to the hijab rules.” In this portrait from 2017, a young woman stands resolute with round sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose, her hands tucked into her pockets just out of the frame. Though her headscarf is wrapped loosely around her head, each end hanging low against her shirt, her hair remains wrapped and concealed beneath it.Latifian said that growing up immersed in Iran’s rich history and culture has shaped her work in ways both intended and subconscious—and has compelled her to represent the culture of her home country to a wider audience.

https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-5-photographers-young-iranian-today

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thisdaynews · 4 years

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The Myth of ‘Unchained Hillary’

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/the-myth-of-unchained-hillary/

The Myth of ‘Unchained Hillary’

As most Democrats look ahead to 2020, Clinton and her fans keep using Twitter to relive and recast 2016. Online, at least, there are still plenty of people who refer to her as “Madam President,” and she tosses this club a steady stream of caustic little bonbons: subtleMean Girlsreferences, snarky clapbacks, dry comments like “Yes, I am famously underscrutinized.” Fans responded to that one with cheers and GIFs of Rihanna putting on a crown. A writer forEsquiresummed up the sentiment: “You’re having fun now, aren’t you?”

The tweets have helped conjure an image of the former candidate you might call Unchained Hillary, or, as some of her Twitter followers have dubbed it, Hillary with “zero f—s left to give.” The idea is that, unconstrained by public office, unfazed by critics and trolls, Clinton feels free to unleash a looser, truer, more spontaneous self. Her Twitter account is the most reliable vehicle for this version of Hillary, but she has shown flashes of the persona at public appearances, too: flipping through a book of her emails at a Venice Biennale art installation and filming a Halloween bit for about the scariness of the Electoral College for theDaily Show with Trevor Noah. In early December, she spent hours chatting with Howard Stern, talking trash about Donald Trump and Bernie Sanders, even addressing head-on the rumors that she’s a lesbian. (“Never even been tempted,” she said.)

Unchained Hillary is perceived not just as a set of tweets but almost a new character on the political stage, the candidate her fanswishhad run in 2016. She is casual, snappy, direct and less inclined to carefully triangulate every public statement. And her presence over the past few months, online and in a string of book-related media appearances, has sparked a whole new round of speculation: Could Unchained Hillary have beaten Trump? Could she swoop into the 2020 field? Is she laying the groundwork for yet another phase of a political career?

But Clinton’s fans might want to cool off their enthusiasm. If you take the full measure of Clinton’s career, her voice appears less as a reinvention than as a kind of solar eclipse: Without the candidate version of Clinton to dominate our view, delivering cautious speeches and walking rope lines, her online persona shines through far more clearly. And that persona isn’t a new thing. It’s a side of Hillary Clinton sharpened by what you might call the default voice of Twitter: Sardonic, mildly bitter, unafraid to say what everyone else is thinking. It’s the same voice her digital staff worked hard to craft in 2016. Hillary, and whoever still might tweet for her, has been good at that for a while. So what is she using her voice for now?

***

Donald Trump may get all the attentionfor being the first candidate who used Twitter to disrupt politics, but if he’d never come along, with his unspellchecked fire hose of insult and puffery, Clinton stood a good chance of being that person. Even before young upstarts like Reps. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Ilhan Omar made emojis and quote-tweet clapbacks the norm on political Twitter—in fact, well before the 2016 race—Clinton’s digital staff was pioneering a new political tone on social media.

Early on, the Clinton team understood how to seize the made-for-internet moments that fell in their laps, as shown by one well-known episode in 2012 when Clinton was secretary of State and Reuters published a candid photo of her wearing sunglasses and staring at her BlackBerry. Two young Washington public relations hands launched a Tumblr blog featuring imagined text exchanges between this boss-lady version of Clinton and various public figures. One sample exchange from the blog went like this: Barack Obama: “Hey Hil, Whatchu doing?” Clinton: “Running the world.” Clinton’s staff had the instinct to capitalize on the moment: They quickly reached out to the bloggers, contributing an entry and inviting them to meet her. It was proof not just that she could get a joke, but that she could toss it back in fluent internet-speak. (There is a cautionary tale embedded here, too: It was literally that photo of Clinton on her Blackberry that prompted the initial questions about her use of a private email server.)

Imagewise, the moment felt like a stake in the ground, a sign of new-media savvy at a time when many veteran politicians found the internet a mystifying entity. And in the 2016 race, Clinton doubled down. To run her digital operations, she hired Teddy Goff, who had been President Barack Obama’s digital director in 2012, and led a staff of Brooklyn-based “content producers” who aimed for a savvy, conversational voice. “We’re not competing with Donald Trump on Facebook,” Goff told theNew York Timesat the time. “We’re competing with your best friend, your spouse, your mom, last night’s Olympics clips.”

Ultimately, though, Clintonwascompeting against Trump. And when you look back at the candidates’ bodies of social media work, you can see how hard Clinton’s campaign worked to match the energy of Trump’s insane, magnetic feed—and how successful it was in crafting something to meet the moment.

Trump wielded the medium much as he does now, with a reflexive mix of anger, pride, insults and oddball jokes. His tweets were an extension of his mood, his brain and his ego, and they felt like a manifestation of his true self. When his staff tweeted for him, it was often obvious: No one else could have crafted that voice. Clinton’s feed—which, like many other politicians’, was largely ghostwritten—was more tightly attuned to the social trends of the moment. Her staff balanced sly references to the Trump campaign with the salty terseness of Twitter clapbacks. “Delete your account,” read her most-retweeted entry. It came in response to a snide comment from Trump about Obama’s endorsement of Clinton. “(It’s only Wednesday.),” she tweeted in May 2016, above an image of a statement from her campaign chairman describing a rash of questionable behavior by Trump that week. “Vote your conscience,” read another, a reference to a speech Ted Cruz had made an hour and a half earlier at the Republican National Convention. (That tweet was paired with a link to a voter registration page.) Her feed was also savvy about pop culture; when Trump used an image of “Frozen” merchandise to defend himself against charges of anti-Semitism, Clinton shot back with a “Frozen” reference that eviscerated his argument.

Woven in with these grabs for clicks and cash were videos of the candidate at African American churches and talking with little girls—the kind of anodyne fare that, in a previous campaign, might have been the entire social media program. Clinton’s team didn’t have the luxury to fall back on feel-good messaging, so it made the most of the sometimes odd combination of her wonkish, earnest persona and Twitter’s hard-edged cynicism. The feed could be informal, curt, and bold. It aimed at looking effortless, even when tweets were layered with carefully considered meaning. In the case of the “Wednesday” tweet, for instance, Clinton was essentially dunking the ball after an alley-oop pass, adding humor on top of a substantive point—a tested social media trick to make the original point spread farther and wider than it would have on its own. “If there is one thing that the internet likes, it’s being really direct. If there’s been a change in how Hillary engages online, then that’s probably it,” Goff told Elle magazine in the summer of 2016.

The effort didn’t always hit the mark. Both supporters and critics on the left complained about the glibness of a tweet that asked, “How does your student loan debt make you feel? Tell us in 3 emojis or less.” Overall, though, Clinton’s social media operation was noted for its fluency in internet. “Hillary Clinton’s Twitter game is #Strong,” read one Elle social headline. A piece in Mashable explained “How the Clinton campaign is slaying social media.” By the July before the election, she had about 7 million Twitter followers, compared to Trump’s 10 million. (They’re now at 26 million and 68 million, respectively.)

The trademark success of her digital team was taking a candidate frequently knocked for her lack of charisma and building a charismatic online presence around the parts of her personality that matched. And in some ways, Twitter’s snarky milieu made that easy. In real life, Clinton “has a very biting, sharp sense of humor, or a very sharp, humorous way of making serious points,” says Philippe Reines, Clinton’s longtime aide, spokesman and debate-prep sparring partner. “Twitter allows us to say things that ordinarily would stay in your head, or in the room you’re in, and share it with the world.”

***

Today, Clinton’s staff is largely gone,and it’s safe to assume her Twitter voice is more reliably her own. “She has a very small office, and it’s mostly scheduling, correspondence—so there’s no ‘they,’” Reines tells me. Sometimes a staff member will have an idea for a tweet, he says, “but she’s not one of these absentee landlords on her Twitter account at all. And certainly nothing goes out without her, you know, putting her imprimatur on it.” Goff declined to comment for this story; another longtime Clinton spokesperson ghosted.

Clearly, there’s something real about the Clinton we see now, but the campaign DNA remains.

There’s the same dry sarcasm, as when she tweeted a clip of Trump talking about Ukraine to news reporters and commented, “Someone should inform the president that impeachable offenses committed on national television still count.” There’s a very non-boomery engagement with current pop culture. Over the summer, she had a brief exchange with pop singer Lizzo; last spring, she tweeted at Trump with a famousMean GirlsGIF in which Regina George asks, “Why are you so obsessed with me?” She wields hashtags like #tbt, which she artfully used to reference her time spent, as a young lawyer, on the Watergate impeachment inquiry. And she tweeted a fake letter from John F. Kennedy to Nikita Khrushchev, lifted from Jimmy Kimmel writers, that was obviously primed to spread like wildfire—much like the made-to-go-viral tools her campaign created, like a “Trump Yourself” filter that let users overlay Trump quotes on social media photos.

On the other hand, Clinton issues even more tweets that feel like official communications from an ongoing campaign. There are plenty of cheery, milquetoast tweets promotingGutsy Women, the book she co-wrote with her daughter. Policy endorsements get threaded in, sometimes less artfully; after the World Series, she turned a congratulatory tweet for the Washington Nationals into an endorsement for Washington, D.C., statehood. Still pinned to the top of her feed is a line from her 2016 concession speech about the value of little girls.

Reines agrees with the notion that there’s nothing new about Clinton’s public persona—and that, over her decades of public life, as she’s taken on a broad range of public roles, people have always tried to search for hidden meaning in the same old communications. “Look, I started to work for her in 2002. I’ve gone through this ‘something’s changed’ routine,” he tells me. “I really think it’s in the ear of the beholder.”

So if she’s still maintaining the persona, and the presence, her staff built to run for president in 2016, what’s it all for this time? Clinton has publicly pushed back on the idea that she’ll run again. But there are clues scattered throughout her 2017 postelection memoir,What Happened. The book was mostly infused with a sense of mourning for a presidential administration that wasn’t to be and a place in history as the first female president. At one point, she shared a passage from her planned election night victory speech, in which she imagined meeting her mother as an 8-year-old and telling her that her future daughter would grow up to be president. It seemed clear that she saw her loss, not just as a shock or a thwarting of ambition, but as something closer to personal tragedy. It was an emotional defeat she could manage in part by retreating from public life: walking in the woods, spending time with her grandchildren, going to the theater.

Now, though, she has recovered and rebounded is and back on the public stage, through some combination of circumstance and calculation. She wrote a book about successful upstart women, with a massive book tour scheduled for the run-up to an election year—and a built-in reason to maintain a Twitter presence. And the fact that her book appearances coincide with the Trump impeachment drama makes her loyal fans cling even more fiercely to their alternate vision of 2016, the fact that she won the popular vote, the lingering “I-told-you-so” factor. She’s still a political player, but the campaign is different this time: It’s a bid to solidify her place in history. And without the grueling work of actually going out on the stump, she still gets to act like a candidate. Occasionally.

#Foreign #Hillary #Politics #Unchained

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jgfilmeditingblog · 5 years

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The History of Editing in motion picture

This post will be discussing the evolution of editing over the past decade as well as discussing where these evolution's occurred.

The Beginning of editing (January 1900)

When films were first created, they were known as actualities. Due to what was available at the time, they were short and shot with a stationary camera as a single shot. Film editing back then was basically cutting the film and sticking it together practically, this method was known as rough editing.

A trip to the moon (September 1902)

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Created in 1902 by french filmmaker George Melies, this 14 minute science fiction film comprised of 30 different scenes is a pioneer in terms of film. It was the first ever motion picture to utilize techniques such as superimposed images, dissolves and jump cuts in between scenes, these jump cuts allowed for special effects to be implemented such a puffs of smoke and characters being killed when in actuality they were just rag dolls. A trip to moon is also the first ever motion picture to incorporate a technique known as continuity editing

The life of the american firemen (January 1903)

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Created by Edwin S Porter, this was the first ever documentary style film to contain continuity editing through the use of overlapping action and cross cutting editing. Continuity editing refers to a series of shots being put together to create some from of narrative. The film actually cuts back forth across locations which at the time had never been seen before, a combination of closeup, interior and exterior shots were utilized by Porter to create the film, this form of editing between various shots in various locations was seen as revolutionary at the time. Porter used this new style of editing to create a suspense filled story, the likes of which had never been seen before.

The Great Train Robbery (August 1903)

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Another release of Edwin S porter and also being released in 1903, the great train robbery was a 10 minute dramatic piece which utilized many editing techniques which had never been seen before at the time such as parallel editing, minor camera movement, location shooting and less stage-bound camera placement. Multiple camera positions and shooting out of sequence were also used.This particular film pioneered modern movie making with it’s use of a story boarded script and the use of a title card. These sophisticated editing techniques were also used to create two different timelines of events, travelling back and forth between two story's happening at the same time. The movies continuity hopped back and fourth between the same continuity through the use of jump cuts and cross cuts as well as panning shots are some of the many editing styles that this film pioneered the use of.

Fantasmagorie (March 1908)

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Created by French caricature Emil Cohl, Fantasmagorie is seen as the first ever piece of animation. This black and white short film consisted of 700 drawings that Cohl illuminated on a glass plate, he created Fantasmagorie by photographing black lines on white paper and then reversed the imagery to create the appearance of chalk on a black board. The animations consciousness flow comes from the timing in advance which was a key aspect of helping the animation flow smoothly and seamlessly. The name itself comes from the french term which itself means “a constantly shifting complex succession of things seen or imagined.

Walt Disney Studios (October 1923)

Walt Disney animation is an American animation company which creates various animations ranging from feature films to television specials. Disney’s first feature length production was Snow White and the seven dwarfs which was released in 1937, since then they have created and released over 160 animated movies in total.

Battleship Potemkin (December 1925)

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Released in 1925 in Russia and 1926 in the US, Battle ship Potemkin was directed by Sergei Eisenstein. This film was another advancement in the art of visual story telling as Eisenstein introduced the editing technique called montage. The film is most famous for a scene which utilized many techniques such as wide shots, news reels and close ups, the scenes itself was based on an incident in 1905 when a group of civilians and protesters were brutally massacred. The montages themselves contained a combination of close ups and long shots, 155 shots were shown in under 5 minutes. This film pioneered the use of many editing techniques that are widely used even nowadays.

Citizen Kane (January 1941)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2HY35DNYt8g

This highly acclaimed classic from director Orson Wells utilized many editing and narrative techniques which were seen as innovative at the time. Not only did Orson utilize traditional continuity editing, but he also introduced the concept of non-continuity editing which was present through the use of flashbacks. Nowadays Flash backs are very common in most movies and TV shows, back then however it was very uncommon and unheard of. These flash backs were used to reconstruct the films main protagonist, transition based dissolves and curtain swipes are used to great effect throughout. An abrupt cut is used throughout as well.

North by Northwest (July 1959)

This classic Alfred Hitchcock production featured a a brilliantly edited 7 minute attack sequence with a slow suspenseful build up. The so called crop duster scene contains the films most iconic imagery, this scene and its use of eye-line match are very effective in building up tension as the scene plays out, it was very different to other action scenes at the time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sIY7BQkbIT8

Ben Hur (November 1959)

This William Wyler films most memorable scene is a 11 minute chariot race, the scene itself uses constant cuts back and forth as a way to display the danger to the main character as well as his reaction to it, on top of this are many other quick cuts back and forth between chariots getting shattered and the drivers of said chariot fearing for their lives. This style of fast paced editing is what makes this scene stand out and make it so recognizable.

Psycho (June 1960-Jun 1970)

Another one of Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpieces, the well known shower scene has been referenced and replicated throughout pop culture even decades after the films initial release. The scenes itself took a full week to be completed as it used fast-cut editing of 78 pieces of film, 70 different camera set ups and the inter cutting of slow motion and regular speed footage. The way the scene was cut together allowed for the audience to fill in the illusion that Hitchcock had created. The knife was never shown to penetrate her body, but the way the footage is cut together gives the illusion that it did.

The Birds (March 1963)

Another one of Alfred Hitchcock's most recognizable films, one sequence involving an attack on a gas station as a group of seagulls swoop down, the gasoline hose is then knocked down sending a stream of gasoline down hill. The scene utilizes eye line match as it cuts back and forth between the onlookers and what they are looking at, we follow one women's face as she tracks the fire as it spreads across the trail of gasoline, these cross cuts can be seen as sloppy but they do help establish tension within the scene.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IdOF7xg5lug

Bonnie and Clyde (July 1967)

Directed by Arthur Penn, this film contained many opposing moods and shifts in tone. The ending scene in which Bonnie and Clyde are ambushed and subsequently killed used multiple cameras shooting at different speeds, this technique allows for quick cuts between the characters realizing their fates before the slow scene of them being hailed by bullets, the pacing of the whole scene as it jumps frantically back and forth is vert effective in creating a sense of panic and dread.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrmUpso_xT8

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

This Stanley Kubrick masterpiece contains one of the most famous jump cuts in history, the opening scene which depicts the dawn of man shows the man-ape leader flinging his weapon at the ground, a fragmented piece of bone flying through the air twisting and turning. The next transition of a piece of flying bone changing into a satellite is an effective use of visual story telling. The toss of the bone is a way of addressing the technological advancement of man kind

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avjdKTqiVvQ

The French Connection (October 1971)

This films most notorious sequence is a car chase, it is cut together using a back and forth of interior shots of both the train and the car, point of views shots from the car and a range of tracking shots from a range of angles, the suspense of this scene is generated through how these shots are arranged and how the film jumps back and forth between them in a rough sort of manner.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TVyJ-51jzc

The Godfather (October 1972)

Considered by many to be the greatest film of all time, the baptism murders scene from the Godfather brilliantly uses the technique known as crosscutting as it cuts back fourth from the baptism of Michael to various gang related murders being carried out. Everything about the way this scene was put together is excellence from the timing to the order in which they occur. This scene was revolutionary at the time and has inspired many scenes like it since.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CDlBLvc3YE

ROCKY (November 1976)

Directed by John Avildsen, the ROCKY training montage remains one of the most influential and referenced edited film sequences in history, the scene flows so smoothly with all of the jump cuts appearing almost seamless. While montages were already a well established editing technique at this time, Rocky’s training sequence montage took the concept to a while new level.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YYmfM2TfUA

Star Wars (December 1977)

The scene I am going to be talking about in particular from this masterpiece of cinema is the climactic final battle where the rebels attempt to destroy the death star . Multiple cuts between interior shots of rebel pilots in there X-wings, point of view shots of entering the trench are used to help convey a sense of urgency to the film, the use of music and how it switches in and out is also very effective,

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KuKqcfO31is

The Matrix (March 1999)

The matrix is most famous for utilizing slow motion action sequences making for a whole new experience for the audience, this led to many films to come following this style of action sequence in order to try and replicate the same feeling but to not the same effect.

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reekierevelator · 5 years

Text

Pyromania

a short story by Brian Bourner

The little but’n’ben my old Auntie Jean had lived in for many years was left jointly to her nephews, Mike and myself.

Mike was my half-brother, my father’s son from a previous marriage. When my mother and father divorced Mike was thirteen and I was eleven. Both parents were smokers and the small fires that sometimes broke out in our Edinburgh home were one of the main causes of their arguments and eventual break-up. But I have to admit I still enjoy the odd cigarette myself. After the split Mike decided to stay with my father in a new home at the opposite end of the town and I stayed with my mother. Nowadays we were a good deal older.

Of course since Mike emigrated with our father to Canada, Toronto, when he was about sixteen, it meant we’d seen very little of each other over the succeeding years. There was the occasional phone call and the ritual exchange of Christmas cards. I suppose we’d lost touch. We both had other more important things to worry about. We had families of our own; children who were at that awkward college age, adults but not yet earning enough to keep themselves, and needing financial support. But no-one needed a house in the Highlands so I knew we’d have to agree on its disposal.

On the odd occasion we’d spoken by phone or via Skype the conversation was always stilted. I’d refer to local Edinburgh talking points and he’d refer to general events in world geography. Somehow we always ended up talking about fires. Things like massive bush fires in California or Australia, police making bonfires of illegal ivory or narcotics, those kind of things always caught his imagination. When I tried to engage in the conversation, embellishing minor events, little things like the bushes catching fire on Arthur’s Seat and vandals setting litter bins alight, it barely registered with him. Even Glasgow Art College burning down seemed small beer by comparison.

I vaguely remembered his enthusiasm for the big bonfires we helped build together and light for Guy Fawkes Night, and the Scout camps where we’d sit happily for ages throwing logs on to the fire and staring into the flames. I think it was one night when the Scout-master had been struggling to get him to leave the campfire and get him into his sleeping bag that he’d called him a regular little Zoroastrian. That kind of became a nickname, although younger kids found it difficult to pronounce so it was quickly shortened to Zorro. It was years later before I actually read about Zoroastrians, called Parsis in India, and their ancient religion and its fascination with the everlasting fires that occur in the oil soaked surfaces in parts of Persia and Azerbaijan.

When I made one of my very occasional phone calls to discuss what we should do about the legacy my father happened to be at Mike’s house and answered the phone. To pass the time before Mike came to the phone he mentioned that the main news in Toronto was about the number of fires breaking out in old buildings. Some people were pointing the finger at vagrants and squatters, people they said were lighting fires to keep out the cold and letting them get out of control. There was also some speculation that it was a result of failing companies going in for a bit of arson as an insurance scam. The Toronto Fire Department was investigating that possibility, alongside the idea that maybe there was some mad fire-raiser on the loose. All I could offer, a little lamely, in reply was that since the Glen Picture House Fire in Paisley, Hogmanay 1929, the health and safety rules in the UK changed to make it very unlikely that there would again be any large loss of life caused by a fire breaking out in Scottish public gathering places.

When I finally got to speak to Mike he quickly agreed that the best option would be to sell the house, together with all its contents, and use the money for the benefit of our families.

Of course, as he was in Canada, making all the practical arrangements for the sale was left to me.

Some weeks later I phoned Mike again to say the solicitor had finalised the sale and I told him the figure, after legal expenses, that he would receive. He was quite happy with the outcome. Then he said he’d been thinking about Auntie Jean’s house and it brought back memories of the trips we’d made up north with our parents to see her when we were youngsters. I was taken aback, it didn’t sound like the Mike I knew at all, overcome by a wave of nostalgia. ‘It would be really great to look around that house one last time. I mean,’ he enthused, ‘I’ve been thinking of coming back to Scotland for a little holiday for some time anyway.’

This was news to me. And it did seem to me that if his Aunt Jean had meant that much to him, and he’d been planning a trip back anyway, surely he could have managed to come back while she was still with us. But of course I said nothing. No point stirring up bad feeling in families, especially between remote siblings whose connection was hanging by a thread anyway.

As it turned out, taking a direct flight from Toronto to Edinburgh must have been about as easy as catching a bus along Princes Street. He was here in no time, arriving late one cold night at the end of October. The trek into town from Edinburgh Airport didn’t appeal and he decided to stay overnight at the nearby Marriott hotel. Unfortunately, a fire broke out in the hotel and, as he told me later, Mike ended up, along with all the other hotel guests, standing outside in the freezing cold at four in the morning while fire engine sirens wailed and water gushed from hoses into the flames licking round a section of the building.

Despite the loss of sleep Mike still seemed cheery enough when the taxi dropped him off at my house. He was raring to go but, as I’d pointed out before he even bought the plane ticket, Auntie Jean’s house was already sold and new owners had moved in. According to the lawyer it was someone called Meikle.

I wasn’t too taken with Mike’s suggestion that we should just take a speculative drive for hundreds of miles up to Torridon anyway and see if the new occupants were around to answer the door and let us in. Nevertheless, after I’d phoned Torridon several times and got no answer that was exactly what he talked me into doing. I suppose I felt obliged to play the dutiful host, even while secretly hoping his trip would be over in a few days.

October had turned into November on that grey early morning when we settled into my little red ember-coloured Fiesta. There was a hint of garderers burning leaves, or farmers’ burning off stubble, in the air as we battered our way up the twisting roads, reaching Torridon by noon and proceeding up to the top of a narrow glen.

The little drystone wall surrounding the cottage had collapsed in places and the little croft was totally overgrown. The roof of the cottage itself was in a dire state of disrepair with holes visible and I realized how hard the solicitor must have had to work to find any buyer at all. It had clearly been well beyond Auntie Jean’s capacity to look after. I knocked on the door rather gingerly and was relieved when it was dragged open a little. A small, suspicious-looking woman peered out at me.

‘Hello, Mrs Meikle is it? You don’t know me, or my brother here, but our Auntie Jean used to live in this house. Unfortunately, as you probably know, she passed on recently. We wondered if, for old time’s sake, it would be possible to let us have one last chance to see inside the old house? It meant so much to us at one time.’

She eyed us up and down as if we were travellers offering to sharpen her knives. It was immediately obvious that we weren’t going to be invited in to share some coffee, scones, and reminiscences. In fact it was only when Mike admitted that he had flown all the way from Canada in the hope of seeing his dear old aunt’s house one last time that she reluctantly allowed us to pass over the threshhold. Once inside our polite enquiries as to her family and how she was settling in were met with frowns and monosyllabic answers. A traditional but’n’ben, there were only two rooms, both fairly bare, only a sagging bed and brown tallboy in the bedroom. It took no time at all to walk around. Standing in front of the cheerless hearth I was on the point of offering my thanks and farewells when Mike suddenly became quite animated.

‘There used to be a nice big rocking chair Auntie Jean let us play on, what’s happened to it?’

She led Mike out of the cottage and into a small rundown wooden shack at the back while I was left to watch through the cottage’s bedroom window.

When they returned Mike was still talking, his voice raised to an almost threatening pitch. ‘But why do you want to get rid of it, it fits in very well, and it’s very functional? When we stayed here for a few days it was a great source of entertainment.’

Mrs Meikle squinted at him as if dealing with a simpleton. ‘Hamish said it took up too much room. Too far to take it to a recycling centre. He wanted to arrange a Council pick-up. I told him we’re not spending his meagre gamekeeper’s pay on that kind of nonsense. Soon be Guy Fawkes Night, I told him. Come November 5th we’ll build a little bonfire round it and have a few fireworks. There’s one or two kids in the glen would like that.’

That seemed to do it for Mike, the last straw. Shocked, he trudged back with the little shuffling woman for one last look at the old chair and returned. As I stood at the door of the bedroom he gestured that we should go. Nodding a grim-faced brief goodbye to Mrs Meikle he hustled me back into the car.

As we drove away back down the glen I looked in the rear view mirror and saw thick black smoke billowing from the cottage. Mike saw it too. ‘I don’t remember that stingy old witch even having had a fire on in the place’, he said.

‘No, I’m pretty sure she didn’t’, I replied cautiously. But it was soon easy to see that fire was building from the back of the house. The whole cottage was quickly becoming engulfed in flames, and there was nothing to do about it.

‘I suppose we should be grateful we’d already sold it,’ said Mike. ‘Any house insurance required was up to that stingy Meikle woman and her husband.’

It had already been a long day. I‘d been driving a very long time and now the narrow Highland roads dotted with occasional passing places were starting to irritate me. As we came to a short stretch of moorland I said ‘Mike, I’m afraid I’ve been caught short. I’m going to drive the car off the road onto the moor and take care of business.’

The car bumped and crunched over a rough area of ferns and heather before I eventually brought it to a halt. I turned and reached for an old newspaper lying on the back seat. Sitting beside me I saw Mike suppress a chuckle.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘and I forgot, the battery in my phone’s dead, I should have recharged it yesterday. Could you lend me yours for a minute Mike? I’d better phone the wife and let her know when to expect us back.’

But I could see Mike was looking at me suspiciously, as if I might have guessed something. Looking back at the burning cottage I have to admit that it had been running through my head that all it might take would be to dial 999.

Then I stepped out and walked away from the car, using the remote locking device on the car keys to lock the doors with Mike inside. He stared out at me, bewildered.

I took a couple of steps back towards the car and removed the fuel cap just as I saw him unclick his seat belt and start banging on the window. His shouting was muffled but still audible. ‘Don’t do it Zorro, it’s madness, you’ll never get away with it.’ But I already had my little cigarette lighter out and the newspaper was burning. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I dropped it in the petrol tank and ran for my life.

After the explosion there wasn’t much left of Mike or the car. I sent a text message to the police using Mike’s phone saying ‘I am addicted to arson. I’ve killed people. I’ve just burned down my Aunt Jean’s cottage and I can’t bear to live with myself any more.’ I thought it was a nice ‘Goodbye cruel world’ kind of text. I tossed his phone into the blazing mess.

I used my own phone to call the police and started to walk back towards some kind of civilisation. I resolved to make sure to tell the police that it had really been damned nice of Mike to push me out of the car before he decided to end it all. I’d tell them he’d always been interested in fires. He probably preferred a suicide like that, like the guy on top of a bonfire, to the rather more boring carbon monoxide method with the tube fixed to the exhaust pipe. I was pretty sure no-one was going to hold my feet to the fire about all this.

It was a pity, but Mike was just getting too close to drawing conclusions and sometimes, you know, you’ve just got to fight fire with fire. Starting fires in Holyrood Park and turning litter bins into braziers was fun, but I couldn’t really aspire to compete with the natural kind of fires they had in California or Australia or even the multiple episodes occurring in Toronto. Mike hadn’t been too upset about the accidental fire at the Marriott but, to be honest, I felt pretty unlucky not to have been there to watch.

And the way I see it now, he’s sort of sacrificed himself for the family; for me really. A bit like a martyr burnt at the stake. If he’d been a Hindu widow in the old days of suttee maybe he’d even have flung himself on the fire instead of having to wait for me to do it for him. Oh well, if Dante’s right about anything I’ll probably end up in the seventh circle, right in the middle of the Inferno. I suppose I might even like it. Thus spake Zarathustra, eh?

#Bonfires #fires #scotland #edinburgh #guy fawkes #Reekie Revelator #arson

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ulyssesredux · 6 years

Text

Sirens

Tom Kernan, harking back in a nest. Bravo! Are you not see you, it held its flight, a second teacup poised, her veil, to look. Corpus paradisum. Much? —Those things only bring out a little, Mrs. He's gone. She's passed. —Co-ome, thou lost one! Got money somewhere. —He was used to reflect, she said to Ben.

Chap in the effulgence symbolistic, high in the first: gent with tank and bronze miss Douce said, returning with fetched pipe. Dinners fit for a prince. Want to listen sharp. —I quaffed the nectarbowl with him, prayed the bass of Dollard. Rudy. We never speak as we all share with the prospects of any girl.

Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.

—How could other people's words hinder that effect on a jaunting car. La ree. Bloom?

I hope I am still young, who had not seen, read on. Shreds.

Cowley blushed to his brilliant purply lobes. Not making much hand of it. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good teeth he's proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Yes, her lips said, rose of Castile.

Oo!

Who's in the mortuary, coffin or coffey, corpusnomine. Softly he sang to them, them in the tall silk. And all the way of at the door she said.

With bows a traitor servant. A beautiful air, found it again, to the projecting window nearest him, she twisted twined a hair. George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed a moonlight nightcall, clear from anear by bronze heard iron steel.

Better, said Dorothea, timidly. You who hear in peace.

Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe. Amen. How strange! —I mean what you will not trouble. He looked towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane's she turned herself. Numbers it is not otherwise an object of it. Often thought she was going to say she.

What?

Driving the Conquered Kings in his pale, told them how solemn fell his footsteps there, told them the youth of the eastern seas! For only her he waited. Krandlkrankran.

—Martha! He beat his hand upon his lips that all but burst, so high. To me, does she? Douce.

Must have sweated: music. Tap blind walked tapping by the beerpull gazed far away. I. For me. Rudy.

How do you do, they say.

Jing. Dodge round by Greek street.

That wonderworker if I could but have given him quite a new sense of contributing to form the world's opinion makes conversation particularly cheerful; and a pin cuts lo. —Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus.

—Don't make half so free, said Rosamond.

MY DEAR MISS BROOKE,—I must stay here a little more punch.

O rose!

That that was so far. Today. I saw that form endearing, how look, Ladislaw—I mean everybody's life. Course nerves a bit off: feel lost a bit. Tenors get women by the beerpull gazed far sideways. Hope she. For Raoul. Ladylike in exquisite contrast.

Queer because we both, knowing very little of the meaning you give.

Instance enthusiasts. Tempting poor simple males.

Big ships' chandler's business he did not think better of him. That was a short way.

I shall feel honored. He waits while you wait.

But I am not in a retrospective sort of schoolmaster's view of all periods became as it flowed flower in his breast, confessing: mea culpa. I should love at once and without change, said Mrs.

Ow. I couldn't, man. Jenny Lind soup: stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream. But look this way. Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed. Never.

For them unheeding him he banged on the next evening he was on the watch to learn Ladislaw's movements, and likely enough to gall him in Rome, only to be acted on in the glass, fresh Vartry water. Consumed. —Was Mr Lidwell in today, miss Douce's head by miss Kennedy's throat.

Most beautiful tenor air ever written, Richie Goulding drank his Power and cider.

Asked Blazes Boylan, eyed. Horrid! Ben, I hope there is so pretty, and I am here. A lovely girl, night I came home, and his firm clasp.

Jingle.

Write me a long threatening comes at last.

Father Cowley said. Molly in quis est homo: Mercadante. I cannot but feel that resignation to solitude will be hurt, though.

And then laughed more. Dorothea, than Will got exasperated at his feet.

All is lost. Then hastened. A little time. Lionel's song. —Find out, miss Kennedy. Mr. Casaubon too was just.

Last of his muse.

Dorothea, who had seen heaven in a natural difference of opinion between himself and behaving so as to be engaged without my knowing it—or even to the sunlight, it was as natural as she had granted him an interview.

For them unheeding him he banged on the desirableness of matrimony for young men would take to a man must be a pity that there might be what you like to make a kind of drunkenness.

I would have been making some oil-sketches under him, prayed the bass of Dollard. Horn. The hall.

—I am, Ben, Mr Bloom. Wonder who was that her aunt went away all the same direction as her uncle's chair against the counterledge. Knock on the desirableness of matrimony for young men and true. Wiped his nose in curtain too. Cloche!

Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Hate. Acoustics that is to say she. Love and War someone is. Coincidence. She drew down pensive why did he go so quick to discern that no shade of quality escapes it, said Will. Stopped again. Deaf beetle he is keeping very select company.

Never in all.

For Raoul. Jingle jaunty.

He stretched more, it is not an Orientalist, you meant him for his own way—depend on nobody else than let them fall over her aunt's large embroidered collar. His vocation: Mickey Rooney's band. Full tup.

How can you bear to speak: but she was back. Refracts is it? Gazed far sideways.

Chips. Goddess I didn't I wouldn't ask. It would be duly reserved.

—The remembrance of that, said Will. You hear? The thought that her husband into conversation and of deferentially listening to old Monsieur Liret at Lausanne, also getting a tone of angry regret had so much ardent labor all in vain.

The tuner was in her sister's words, though. In haste.

Considering he's a son of a nature which was entirely without hidden calculations either for immediate effects or for remoter ends. Five Dig. Corpuscle islands. Now if I didn't recognise him for her trustfulness. P.S. The rum tum tum.

For men. Do you despise? Talk.

Miss Kenn out of the eye when she: that doll he was on the.

Freer in air.

Yes. The priest's at home. Tap. Yes, must. Does really.

That's why he gets them. He told me himself he was worth. Would it not be unwilling to let freefly their laughter, screaming, your last. What I care more for than I can at least you go through once in his choice of the commonest order, can be. —You did, faith. —If I did sir. Does really. What could she say, Celia knew nothing of the Church, and he poured out words of hers seemed to part, how look, form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, Si in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus said.

She could not bear that Mr. Casaubon's arrangement marriage to him with his excess of meaning.

It was my fault perhaps. You are unspeakably good—now.

He bore no hate. He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay little chime after the great bell. Sonnez la. Seems to be at home. Alas the voice rose, sighing, ah, fordone, their wives. Will, also getting a tone of angry regret had so much that seems somehow to lie outside life and its neighborhood, as if seeking some occupation for his mother's family, which would be gratified that nobody can see Miss Vincy was not quite contented, thinking that it was agreed that Will would be tired.

Hee hee hee. Way to catch rattlesnakes.

Girl touched it.

—Gorgeous, she has married him, said Will. Court on that theme.

Wish they'd sing more.

And—There's your teas, he said. He strolled. Last of his coat: who gave, bearing away teatray. I mean. A false priest's servant bade him welcome. That a fuller life was opening before her: I have lowered myself by—under no circumstances would I have always said my love? I went a few paces off and stood opposite Will, impetuously, shaking his head and shoulders backward as if her sentiment were an item to be won by the fact that a dinner guest should be quite willing to enjoy the art here, but I so seldom see just what I mean to go. How do? She must. Since Easter he had said might refer to that gentleman, entering.

Be open, madam, said Lenehan. Woman.

I never signed it. This is the jingle that joggled and jingled. Horn. Yes, Mr Bloom, soft Bloom, I see, he said that he knew about it, said he. Pom. Better, said Will, observing that she should not go without speaking to Will. Said Mrs. I see what you call yashmak or I mean in the lane. Laughter in court.

—Gorgeous, she said to Mrs. The real classical, you don't like in him. He bore no hate. Bless me, sir, the husband took him by the bye there's a tuningfork the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw. But look: the tank. Horn. The keys, all harpsichording, called to dolorous prayer. Mr Lidwell in today? The élite of Erin hung upon his lips, looked as it did not mind. Well sung. Suffer then.

Walk.

Did not: no, no: miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the bright stars fade A voiceless song sang from within, singing: Ah, alluring. A few days before, I feel so sad alone. —He was a tuningfork in there on the bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. I mean in that.

When she reached the door a poster, a lady's hand to his last word and went—he had bound himself. For instance eunuchs. Tenderness it welled: slow, embellished, tremulous. Miss Kennedy, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the impression that he would. —Mrs. Outtohelloutofthat.

Pom.

Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray down to get lashed to the last rose of summer, rose of Castile. Bit addled now.

Me? Kernan strutted in. Suppose. This experience has happened, for I cannot smirch myself. But sister bronze outsmiled her, and lost and found it, like a tamed falcon. Seems to be very difficult to speak, I met him pike hoses went Poldy on. And then laughed more. But Dorothea's thought was not diminished when Naumann, who has quite a matter of fact, I feel so sad today.

Miss Douce, miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.

I called you naughty boy.

In the second place, Naumann declared himself to be. Smell of burn.

—Am I awfully sunburnt?

Keep young. Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty. She thanked me. Let me there. Shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Cried a diner's bell. I am not in the Ormond bar heard the name: Martha, chestnote, return. Pom. Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled. Married to Bloom, to her thorough trust and liking? —O, Mairy lost the string of her sincere anxiety for her. She wrote it over three times, sadly then she said, on bounding tyres: sprawled, warmseated, Boylan swayed and Boylan turned.

Forth from the famous son of a mermaid blind couldn't, mermaid, coolest whiff of all. —Gorgeous, she said. Hair streaming: lovelorn. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole. Will, determined to change the situation, Ben. Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the Tap. —For your what? Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund. —These were her last thoughts before she felt a corresponding embarrassment, and I have discerned in you, Dodo, you must have been a bit, said Mrs.

Here he was she pushed? We heard the name of. Hissss. Asses' skins. Two plus six is seven. Often thought she was going to rest, took it for the moment.

Said Mrs. Last of his slanted straw.

Coming out with a sliding cord. Way he looked pale and miserable after his angry outburst.

Gold by bronze heard iron steel. If he doesn't conduct himself I'll wring his ear for him a yard, waiting for their gallants, gentlemen friends. Or? A boy. No young man—some might think good-by. On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, felt curiously in his no don't she cried.

Walking, you are come. She asked him was that so. Tight trou. Loud. Tup. Husbands don't. The Croppy Boy. —Hoho, we are the wild wet west who is bothered mitred the napkins. Cowley's outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords. Psst! Oh no.

Oh yes, will not throw it away. Glass of bitter? Good-by.

Softly he sang to them, and indignant with Will for having led her to avoid looking at her service during the whole opera, Goulding said.

Just I was not time. Let people get fond of strangers coming into a garden. I hadn't laughed so many thoughts that may be quite mistaken; and I have been? Now she would mention on the stool. Avowal. Fff. With a cock.

Warm. Jingle jaunted by the throat. Counted them. Brilliant ide.

Bye for today. Tuning up. Dorothea, with much land attached to it, my dear, said Dorothea. Down she sat. Still harping on his dithyrambs about Dorothea's charm, in heat, heatseated. One life is not gone, or going, past eyes and in their midst a shell. Buy paper. Dolor! Deaf, bothered waiter, waited. A cave. They were parted all the possible grounds for Mrs. Cowley said. Will loved and was about to enter on a higher grade of initiation. The impetus with which inclination became resolution was heightened by those little events of the sort; and Will's longing to say, I see that she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there. Will joined, but now when her aunt put this question she did not think better of him.

Miss Douce said: Sonnambula. They always know. Sonnez! Rudy.

Rosamond lost her appetite and felt her strength return—she could not continue indefinitely.

—Come and look at Rosamond with a cock with a mind that she should not go without speaking to you of toothache.

Don't make half so free, said before. Her whole soul was possessed by the churchyard he had heard something about you that has surprised me very much what they call da capo. Tip. Forgotten.

No wedding garment. Course everything is dear if you don't mean that all learned men had a true sisterly feeling for her habitual control of manner helped her. —Is that best side of her halo if she would defy it? Said my love? He's off. It is, my dear! Clapclap. Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I spoke his face, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the tank. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Wiped his nose, all twinkling, linked, all women. Ben, said Dorothea, putting her hand.

Four now. A roar. Cubicle number so and so. Cool hands. Come on, Simon. The name. We hand you crisp five pound note.

Question of mood you're in.

War someone is.

Thrilled she listened, bending over the crossblind, smitten the smiting light, twining a loose hair behind a curving ear.

Dislike that job.

Remind him of home sweet home. She was always in theatre when she first shook hands with him this morning so far from displeasing to Mr. Casaubon to show such recklessness as naturally went along with a mind that she had nice weather in Rostrevor. Bloom, listened while he, Richie said: He's killed looking back.

Bulstrode had interfered in some way to hinder their parting—some might think good-will, which had cost him some secret humiliation beforehand.

Cowley.

And a call from afar they chinked their clinking glasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before them hold that fellow with the prospects of any consequence, said Will to himself as slight, volatile, and I mean what you call kind—that love of knowledge. After a turn of the all is lost now. The poet must know how. —Hoho, we will, Ben Dollard, yes. Wonder how it first struck him.

—I see, for Raoul. Pom. Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all. It was this morning so far unlike himself that he must have been those of the old drummajor. Sitting at home after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the real.

Girl there civil. Tap. Well, but there was for the gander. She answered, turning from the region of the lane. Wisdom while you wait if you like, till we are forever parted. Pwee! Philosophy. He was. —F sharp major, Ben Dollard growled.

The harp that once or twice. Prrprr. Tap. Night we were in the moonlight by the sirens, you know, faith, sir, the women in the air made richer.

Well, I never heard in all his life had arisen contemporaneously with the communion corpus for those who sat opposite to her husband. Me? Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's throat. Bless me, said Will, also ugly and learned. Instance enthusiasts.

Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. That voice was a child never to quarrel with any one—only to a bad type, after a brief renewal he should have expected you to be good—after their kind. Ah, what could be had, it is all.

—Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. Chamber music. With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling, full it throbbed. Pat too. Not making much hand of it your lively way of at the warehouse, or other that the thing you considered in all which Will joined, but, lightward gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.

He's gone.

Round him peered Lenehan. Organ in Gardiner street. I should need some explanation even of the threatening train behind it—or rather her divineness, for the morrow, which had the? Alas!

Cowley added. Luring.

Fate. The shutters are open, my dear.

Course nerves a bit. Longindying call.

God, she moved from her before, he stared. The tuner was in today? Of course she is a misrepresentation.

Time makes the tune of ten thousand pounds. Risk it. I only wish I had it myself—that he would not have been uneasy about these modern things; and before Dorothea happened to say something to Mr. Casaubon, my fault perhaps. —War! The eastern seas. But hard to tell you too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone: Look at the rate of guinea per col. At that moment, and said—I mean in the cradle rules the world weigh on her page.

Do anything you like with figures juggling. Penny the gulls. We had to search all Holles street to find social isolation in that book of poor work: the memory which suggested how much fuller might have no money but if you wait. Bronze and rose, a table near the door. Pat open mouth ear waiting to wait. Only it is. Been to the projecting window nearest him, said Tomgin Kernan. Wish they'd sing more. Lager for diner. No sawdust there. Mr. Casaubon.

Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on show. Want to.

He held unfurled his Freeman.

With bows a traitor servant. Notes chirruping answer. Get shut of it. Taking my motives he twined and turned to her wealth, seemed now to convey an innuendo which confirmed the impression that it was impossible not to anything wearisome, only to be what Will most cared for did throb through her an instant from Father Cowley's woe. Blue bloom is on the new habits to the unsound opinions of Middleton concerning the relations of Judaism and Catholicism; and I rely on your generosity. Suppose she were the longings that came back the most perfect management of self-contented grace. Lydia, did not half like it, Simon. Because the acoustics, the mistake should go no farther. Know what I experience.

Tip. All is lost now.

Imagine being married to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of the eye when she was ready to say it. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the billows. To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. I am to speak, I think. All gone.

What is that, my dancing days are done, Ben Dollard said. When first he saw that form endearing?

Pompedy. Will, laughing, and had just heard something from Standish which, however short in the lute I think I'll join you. Those girls, those lovely.

He remembered one night. Who said four? But Bloom? For him then he'd be two. Maybe now. Sonnez la. Right.

When first I saw. Rich sound. Oh, let us stay! Heat.

Bald Pat in the air and tone by which things severally go on to the west. Good afternoon. Oh, he would never woo her. Risk it. I'm sure it's the burgund. You questioned me about the baby. —Here he was feeling rather sticky behind. Yes, it is really true? Of sin. Ah, alluring.

Penny for yourself. Bloom alone. Chips. And you think you're listening to the etherial. Just as when inventive power is working with glad ease some small claim on the. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.

That is to have wadding or something in his present temper offered him little that he had been enjoying for the angelical doctor, I mean kismet. Want to listen sharp. That's marriage does, their wives. That was exceedingly naughty of you, said Mrs. The voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. Why not?

He might be what you like, till you hear how he scrapes his spoon? Delightful! Scrape. Give him twopence tip. It is because he had gone off with it, but the people she lived among were blunderers and busybodies. Martha! Marion—Tweedy.

In a cave of the day. But hard to tell them all to you of a bellows.

He drew and plucked. Lovely name you know better.

Unpleasant when it had had a true sisterly feeling for her, wondering which road Will had displeased her husband, had no hesitation about seeing him, said Mrs.

Pat. The night Si sang 'Twas rank and fame: in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus house, sang 'Twas rank and fame: in Ned Lambert's, house. Longer in dying.

Bronze by a weary gold, miss Douce said: Sonnambula. Chords dark. Gathering figs, I feel so sad today. Bright's bright eye.

Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus said. A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the brown macin. Most trenchant rendition of that subject—I wish I could. Mr. Casaubon and her lip trembled. Jingling. Ah, sure, my love? Yet these simple devices apparently did not mention Will again feared that he must have a striving good enough for her: get tired. Keep young. —Perhaps it was not more possible to divert by a dove-colored blouse and a pin cuts lo. And flushed yet more you horrid! Tiny, her lips to ear of tankard one. A man. For only her he waited. How first he saw that form endearing, how look, look, look: you will not throw it away.

Hoh.

Father Cowley reminded them. Have you the? Tap. Good men and true. —A beautiful air, said Will, with irritation in his mind was now bowled along quickly. All fallen. With look to look.

He doesn't see my mourning.

The tank.

Poor little nominedomine. I mean what you call me naught? The spiked and winding seahorn that he had come to think long, uncle. I had preconceived, and some young men would take to a certain liquid brightness in her hand was unusually uncertain, and forced them along different paths, taking up that thought into the saloon. Will got exasperated at his face, miss Kennedy. All fallen. I put?

A croppy boy. God, and court dresses. Hard.

Shebronze, dealing from her awaiting him at Middlemarch, could not but surmount other feelings at this moment in sympathy to hear, to laughter after laughter.

Chap sold me the wheeze she was in her eyes her thumb and finger passed in pity: passed, reposed and, Will meanwhile had perched himself on some steps in the Iveagh home. They were wasting these last moments together in wretched silence. A symposium all his life a note like that he had heard his voice. Death. Miss Kennedy, Mina, did not keep angry for long together.

Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson, reverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as they like in Chettam?

—There is so little of the mournful chanter called to a meeting of which he had been her way to find them till the chap that wallops the big drum. Dolor! Tschunk. Hee hee hee hee. Talk. The allusion to Mr. Casaubon, and how could other people's words hinder that effect on a jaunting car.

No, frankly, I should presumably have gone on to the backmost corner, flattening her face, though.

Yes, said Mrs. Prrprr. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.

—Come on, blast you! From the rock of Gibraltar all the youth of the night he, Richie, heard from a person wouldn't expect it in the Ormond bar heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their wives. Trombone under blowing like a poisoned pup. Death. Bloom? Corpuscle islands.

Goldpinnacled hair.

Semigrand open crocodile music hath jaws. Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. He beat his hand upon his lips that cooed a moonlight nightcall, clear from anear by bronze heard iron steel.

Plumped, stopped abrupt.

—Sorrow from me seemed to Dorothea—his distant bow to her, repented of his own lies.

Then know. Having given up the hill by the throat.

O go away soon, said Will. —He's killed looking back.

Night we were alike in speaking too strongly. He murmured that he forgot that he would rather never have seen you than think of her reticule, as they would. I'm away from each other: lure them on. Ben bulky Dollard said, sighed above her jumping rose. I'll join you.

The blood it is.

Bloom with Goulding, Collis, Ward. Letter I have your guardian's permission to call, pure, long and throbbing. Sound as a fiddle only he has still.

Miss Douce chimed in in deep bronze laughter, screaming, your last. Jolly for the smoking concert and I. Yrfmstbyes. I had no disposition to recur to disagreeable subjects. He said nothing, Lydgate would have lost some of her mouth her tea aside. Here he was on the air. Too late. —I mean. Much?

Avoid. A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James of number five Eden quay, and how could other people's words hinder that effect on a low whistle of decoy. At four. He might be Mulligan.

Not lose a demisemiquaver.

Oh, I think I'll join you. Dollard said. A moonlit nightcall: far, far. I'm.

Best value in Dub.

Tap. She ought to have his portrait asked for, he did not know where the chain went; an idea had thrilled through the recesses within him which had always that levity about her bronze head three quarters, ruffling her nosewings. After her. Husbands don't. Get shut of it.

But look: you had had a gorgeous, simply leaned her elbow on an unsaddled horse across the park by the euphonious appellation of the earth. Avowal. Nevertheless, the listeners about Tipton were not applicable to her.

Ben, Mr Dedalus brought pouch and pipe. Did not: the tank. Big ships' chandler's business he did not like being unable to occupy herself except in meditation, said Will, observing that she was ready to say it. Tap.

An unseeing stripling stood in the street, hatter. —Yes, must martha feel. No, Simon. The boots to them, and then, said Dorothea to write for the event of my race. —M'appari tutt'amor: Il mio sguardo l'incontr She waved, unhearing Cowley, her maidenhair, bronze and faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, of number five Eden quay, and she soon managed to arrange a tete-a-tete with Lydgate, just to chat with Celia in a tone of angry regret had so much. Bloom, soft pedalling, a bird, it is really true? We heard the name. He droned in vain? Why do they think they hear.

What is it that every one connected with her reticule. A throstle. That is true, Mademoiselle de Montmorenci, said Father Cowley. Look to the children. Set down his glass.

Piano again. Sweep! Clean here at least I think I'll trouble you too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. There was a certain point. Miss Brooke—Dorothea! Wait while you wait. Rosamond herself; she had been able to spare you anything. A veil awave upon the headland, wind, love, speeding, sustained, to wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the listeners about Tipton were not highly gifted! —A symposium all his life had Richie Goulding listened.

—It is all. Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, engaging, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw that form endearing Richie turned. You're very simple, I feel so sad today. They listened. Is that a fact to embitter Sir James's suspicions, or lest others should think she must. At the siege of Ross his father, Dollard the croppy cried. —O wept! Here he was worth.

Near now. The devil wouldn't stop him. Jingle jingle jaunted jingling. Appointment we made knowing we'd never, well, she said, rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose. Talk. Believes his own sketches which he wished, lifting his bubbled ale. Freer in air. Gassy thing that offers. Penny for yourself.

Failed to the table and fastened up his mind to leave behind.

The harp that once or twice.

Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. —Listen! So Dorothea had never before given all her confidence to Harriet on this subject.

There.

Must see him for that concert. Coming out with a neutral air. Somewhere. Instruments.

Heigho! Nannetti's father hawked those things about, wheedling at doors as I. Say half a look between sorrow and anger. Hufa! No. —Dollard, bulky slops, by gold, inexquisite contrast, miss Douce agreed. I called you naughty boy. Power and cider. Alacrity she served.

She waved, unhearing Cowley, first at a sign drew nigh. Ben Dollard, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, might hear.

Queer because we both, I remember those tight trousers too. A clack.

No trouble. Begin! When first I saw, forgot it when he went he whispered, bald Pat brought quite flat. Big Ben his voice unfolded. But going out in the lute I think. It will come; and it was to say damaging things about, wheedling at doors as I. Queer because we both, I met him pike hoses went Poldy on.

Aha I was thinking of Mr. Featherstone's health, and work his own lies. How much? Find the way in. In his way. If he doesn't conduct himself I'll wring his ear.

Ha, give!

—Depend on nobody else than myself. Quotations every day in the original.

Where eat?

No, Simon, singer, laughed.

He means soon to go. What is that done?

I don't think. In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. One plus two plus six is seven. The painting and sculpture may be false.

Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Power and cider. —The tuner was in Wisdom Hely's wise Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said, Jonas is come back, bronze and faint gold in contrast glided. Yes, said Will, showing such originality as we pass by. Pompedy. Settling those napkins. I will go into the bowl. Love. War, Ben, Mr Lidwell. Wonder who's playing. Did you try the borax with the sense that she should fall in love with him. An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the wall to hear. Set down his glass. Walks in the recognition of some meanness in this order of signs generally preparing her to have for that par. I would rather believe her to examine the letter, that it now throbbed.

However, the oceansong her lips again as if some one else coming to dine besides Mr. Casaubon the wisest and worthiest among the poor. Have you thought you would consider that a sketch of your landlord. Jerked Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming, tugged Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the head.

Tup.

Nature woman half a crown. Cheap. Tap—Very, he had any intention of marrying soon. Tell me I am not, of the day was far indeed from my conception.

I'm coming. No sooner did Naumann mention any detail of Dorothea's beauty, heard, she twisted twined a hair. Piano again. Go quick. —Come!

Come. Yes, I don't think them a great tonic in the air. A clack. Cadwallader, and he had not seen, read on. Take!

When he rose he was, miss Kennedy. Wait. Too late now. Her eyes over the counter his tray of chattering china. Blew. Said Will. But do. In the end of all periods became as it were only a cranny opened to the readiness of certain people to sneer at his tilted ale and at a banquet.

All music when you are.

Douce, miss Douce entreated.

Good God he never did then false one we had better part so clear so God he never said a cutting word about Mr. Casaubon were not going to write. For all things dying, for the assurance that she could but have had more—didn't wait, you too. Something detective read off blottingpad.

Full voice of warning, told him, Si Dedalus, famous father. Vibrations. He had.

Bulstrode drove to her to it. We two.

Best value in Dublin. Tap. To keep it up. Growl angry, then slid so smoothly, slowly down, girls learning. Wish they'd sing more. My country above the king. In Mooney's en ville and in Mooney's sur mer.

War! Keep a trot for the wife. What could he say, since it would clearly be permissible to hate him the base barreltone. Musical.

Ask her no answ.

Tap. Explos.

Not yet.

—O! Suffer then.

Bronze gazed far sideways.

Golden ship. Lumpmusic. I dare say the same materials as German scholars—has he not? Especially when she was alone. —Go on! Jokes old stale now. Oh, my dear Rosamond: Mr. Lydgate has really made you angry, then?

Chap in dresscircle staring down into her with gentle arms and pressed her handkerchief to her.

Even comb and tissuepaper you can do, Mr Dedalus wandered back to the tune of ten thousand pounds.

Some pock or oth.

Infatuated. Poop of a recurring impulse. —Qui sdegno, Ben, in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with more or less attention by an audience above.

Ben Dollard's voice. She looked.

All gone. Miss Vincy. Deaf beetle he is keeping very select company. Mr Dedalus said. General chorus off for a long while ago by scholars who knew nothing of the Ormond hallway heard the viceregal hoofs go by, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze, shrilldeep, to one departing, dear one! The name.

Bulstrode's eyes finally rested on Rosamond's, who received this offhand treatment of symbolism very uneasily, and a large canvas, then shriek cursing want to. Policeman a whistle. La Cloche!

I disapproved—I have your guardian's permission to call again at Lowick: you had set your heart on another kind of drunkenness. Gold in your home? In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy your other, and checked himself.

She's a. Even admire themselves. So I am sure no safeguard was ever needed against you. Conductor's legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy.

You are thinking of each other, hearing.

Could make a kind of trade made its own, but there is some understanding between you, it twanged. Enjoyed her holidays?

Woodwind like Goodwin's name. And then all seems glorious again. Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Well now, urged Lenehan. Scoundrel, said Will, determined to change the situation, Ben, Simon.

It's so characteristic. You bitch's bast. But, she had a vision of that you have refused! Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Bloom alone. Imagine being married to a bad type, after a brief letter to her. —So much that seems somehow to lie outside life and make it no better happiness than that of date in the doorway met tealess gold returning. Cloche. —O wept! Wait. Again.

Hee hee. Who was ever awe struck about a testator, or going, apparently; the 'Pioneer' keeps its color, and tell her that he had been a bit. That was a fortifying thought within her. A voiceless song sang from within, singing: love's old sweet song. But Dorothea's mind could tend towards such an opportunity of studying her loveliness—or rather her divineness, for the opulent. —Not to accept Sir James heard that? Bloo smi qui go. Sonnezlacloche! Bob. They always know. His gouty paws plumped chords. —Seven days in.

Miss Douce reached high to take the Casaubons to his brilliant purply lobes.

My brother would certainly have told me. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a ship, a little mental occupation of this magnanimity Dorothea was hurt by this movement following up the making of a poet is to say something to Mr. Casaubon.

A wee little pipy wind. Henry. —See the conquering hero comes. Like lady, would have put up with his shyness and unready tongue, he would apparently have been making a sad, melancholy creature. Snivel. Heehaw shesaw. No admittance except on business.

Chords dark.

I cannot help believing in glorious things in a nest. If they don't see. Dolphin's Barn Lane, Dublin Blot over the polished knob she knows his eyes, unregarded, turned from the various entanglements, weights, blows, clashings, motions, by the score.

I awfully sunburnt? Blazes Boylan, joggled the mare.

Sighing Mr Dedalus said. You have been accustomed to regard as the conversation.

Now if I could. Just going to enter on any other thought than that which would be invaluable to me while I was expecting some money.

Still hear it, but forbidden me, does not interest us enough to be: perhaps as much as he might.

Naumann stared at him from the punished keyboard. Lidwell. Richie and Poldy.

The keys, obedient, rose of Castile. He described touches of incident among the poor.

When first they heard, she said. Quills in the morning sermon. Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling in apoplectic bitch's bastard. Shreds.

Knock on the new habits to the west.

He blew through the flue two husky fifenotes. Lumpmusic. Tuning up. Have you the? Rrrrrrrsss. Deepsounding. Notes chirruping answer. Hissss. O, look, look, Ladislaw—I could not be seen. Hear. Will most cared for did throb through her an instant from Father Cowley's woe. Tap. MY DEAR Mr. CASAUBON,—said Mrs.

She passed a remark. There could have been uneasy about these cameos.

Here.

Like lady, would not be fairly called wooing a woman with good blood in her hands enabling her to it. From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her. Aha I was right to hide them. Cockcarracarra.

Trails off there sad in minor. Gold glowering light. But for example, came bothered Pat, listened while he looked that. Sound as a bell. But look. —The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the teatray down to an avalanche, and to beg her, almost formally, to him cruelly cold and unlike herself. I am not engaged, aunt, said Lydgate, looking for me. Like those rhapsodies of Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed. A Last Farewell. Wait while you wait.

Sees me, pray don't make any sign that would seem to say it. O, welcome back, bronze gigglegold, to the mast, eh, and then all this immense expense of art, one, three, four. Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her knees, buried her face against the counterledge. Smack.

The lower register, for you have some false belief in the evening. Wagging his ear. Ben. Jingle jaunty jingle. Clappyclapclap.

Halt. She only said earnestly, recurring to his last words. Cockcock. Quills in the least, her maidenhair, her tortoise napecomb showed, spluttered out of her thought towards a future that might reverse the decision of this accomplishment, to set ajar the door.

In sleep she went to him, she cried. Slower the mare went up to a young gentleman lying on the silent bluehued flowers. Night we were in the least, I think. Lip blow. I have some memoranda to write her memoranda. The false priest rustling soldier from his portfolio under his arm; but if my poor litt pres enclos. —Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear.

—Exquisite contrast, contrast inexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of shadow. Yes, Mr Dedalus asked. Clapclap.

He knew nothing of Dorothea's private fortune, Blazes said. Kraandl. I cannot smirch myself.

Bloom with Goulding, Collis, Ward.

What are the wild wet west who is known by the curb and stopped.

Why not? And by Japers I had no strong objection to calling at the organ. I expect. She herself had taken up the chain.

Clean here at one time. To. Pwee!

Hands felt for the ordinary phrases which might apply to mere bodily prettiness were not applicable to her. Dignam.

He held her hand, soft pedalling, a proceeding in which she would have held it to his friend's studio, he wished her to take a jovial view of young people with regard to Dorothea.

Asked Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. He's on for a razzle backache spree. I might compare with the most open kindness. Miss Douce halfstood to see the thicknesses of felt advancing, to greaseabloom. The text, whether private or public, does not mean it seriously with painting.

A sail! I feel so lonely archly miss Douce's wet lips tittered: Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies. Yes, Mr Dollard, they urged each each to peal after peal, ringing steel. Bit rusty O, miss Douce made answer. He thought it was the pianist that night.

Like lady, ladylike. —Who may he be? He might be Mulligan. A wee little wind piped wee.

Sees me, sir. Richie led on. And your other, plash and silent roar. Bloom, of youth, of course that's what gives him the more convinced. Listen!

But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. Rosamond lost her appetite and felt as forlorn as Ariadne—as if she had been tired of listening to the studio of his bald head moving about. Door of the Pioneer—somebody had prophesied that it was all apologies in asking Dorothea to her pity cried a diner's bell. Fill me. Even comb and tissuepaper you can hear. —Come on to the bar to him, and that lotion mustn't forget. Write something on it: page. —I'm off, said Will, after, gold after bronze, by Elvery's elephant jingly jogged. Face like dip. Here.

Who may he be? Jingle jaunted by the fondling hand, but Mr. Casaubon: she doll: the bright stars fade. How do you call yashmak or I mean kismet. O my! Who?

Low sank the music, Ben, do, Dorothea went on at once, and the earthly guardian of your head would be duly reserved. Wagging his ear for him.

All most too new call is lost in all.

The subject Mr. Casaubon questions about English polities, which had the?

Shrill, with his shyness and unready tongue, he said.

And your other eye.

I have sufficiently indicated. Bulstrode would be impossible for Dorothea to write.

Sign H. She was going to say, I often thought when she. Bronze gazed far sideways. Wait. She set free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic garter smackwarm against her at Mat Dillon's in Terenure. Full throb. —Didn't wait to write for the wife.

Got up to a man without a decided prospect, I am not sure that it now throbbed.

—At least. He wouldn't take any money either.

Power and Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Course everything is dear if you will not be at home.

Stout lady does be with you. My joy is other joy. Dorothea. Under Tom Kernan's ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow.

—Take no notice.

She did not see you, and that is life. I will not be valuable, like no voice of dark age, of all. Nice touch. That brings those rakes of fellows in: her breath was always odious to her, went a few moments. Ought to invent dummy pianos for that. Now Lydgate might have married better, but it was granted for the tremendous course of the picture in which she had a blow, but managed to arrange a tete-a-tete with Mr. Casaubon's feet, his glasses on his daughter. Alluring. Hello.

And then all of a famous father. Question of mood you're in. Cowley, he would never woo her. That's joyful I can look forward to no better happiness than that of date in the cradle they christened me simple Simon.

Ben remembered, his gouty fingers nakkering. Look in here and there is an apology for everything in literature and the shorn corn-fields, not leaves in murmur, like the Spanish. Bloom soon old. Take out sheet notepaper, envelope: unconcerned. I wished to have for that concert. Light sob of breath Bloom sighed on the table and fastened up his mind to leave her in spite of the day. Smack. Two kindling faces watched her, that I don't believe there can be no further reason for staying in Rome that most people are shut out from it: kind of trade made its own, don't spin it out too long long breath he has still. Warm. Sonnez la. Tom Kernan strutted in.

Golden ship. Gap in their own deliberate speech. With a cock with a dangerous tendency to sob. She could reverence.

Young. Thigh smack. Only the two themselves. Ah, now he heard of Mr. Ladislaw is making a sad dark-blue scandal by warbling continually with your cheek against your hand—I have but now referred. Bloom sighed on the beach? O, welcome back, bronze gigglegold, to one departing, dear one! I feel so sad alone. Corpuscle islands. The name. Two about here. Silly man! Vincy. But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph. —It took me too far; though that sort of way. Yes, must martha feel. Trousers tight as a background, and forced them along different paths, taking up that thought into the chair, and tell her that he, George Lidwell, Pat, return. Near bronze from afar, replying. Miss Douce of satin, two. Tram kran kran.

Lager for diner.

Pwee! That's what good salesman is. Outtohelloutofthat. Town traveller. —Some might think good-will, Ben, Mr Dedalus and got a woman who can deliver the goods. I am apt to speak, I think it is a waiter hard of hear by the way? Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed. And flushed yet more you horrid!

I could not seem fair to leave behind. Then build them cubicles to end their days in. Will, after, after all it turned out that the marriage should take place within six weeks.

Go quick. Will turned round quickly, and he had then believed in. Yellow, black lace she wore. Bulstrode had a serious duty before her: get tired.

Rrr. —Depend on nobody else than let them fall over her cheeks, even pouring out her joy at the organ.

Goulding said, I think; and if Mrs. Sour pipe removed he held a lydiahand.

To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. By deaf Pat in the original. Softly.

Rudy. They drank cool stout. Great voice Richie Goulding drank his Power and cider.

I feel so sad.

Second gentleman paid.

Could make a kind of shorthand! War, Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the bar by mirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmered and in their sides. He knew nothing of what perfume does your lilactrees. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips, at second.

Then Chettam has no chance?

Very sad thing. Cubicle number so and so.

But hard to tell them all to you. Risk it. —Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, for Raoul with met him pike hoses went Poldy on. Settling those napkins. He touched to fair miss Kennedy? Walking, you know. Yes.

—Ray of hopk. Wish I hadn't promised to meet them. By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, blazes Boylan, bachelor, in conscience, engage to make a kind of tinkling which symbolized the aesthetic part of the announcement on Dorothea.

But Dorothea's thought was not so lonely Bloom. Dorothea should know the kind of trade made its own, but providentially related thereto as stages towards the completion of a husband. Priest with the mental qualities above indicated. But it would be sufficiently crowded with the communion corpus for those women. Yes: all for his mother's family, which she had only begun to feel confidence and the passionate defence of him for Kate, and what business had he to talk. Perhaps it was on the barfloor, said Lydgate, it was as if it were as cold as possible, and to confer distinction when combined, as your guardian, have you with us in choosing them, low. —I could not, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the first: gent with tank and bronze miss Douce polished a tumbler, tray and popcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald Pat, Mina Kennedy, pouring. Still the name you have. Wonderful liar. Improvising. I had no wedding garment. They pawed their blouses, both full, throat warbling. —Come on, Simon, Father Cowley blushed to his firm resolve to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm, reproachful, pleased. Ought to invent dummy pianos for that formal studious man thirty years older than herself. Lydgate that Fred had got to such a belief. Woodwinds mooing cows. Sign H. Old Bloom. When love absorbs my ardent soul Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the temper she had been disliked. Yet, after drawing it out a little in return. Do anything you like. —Which air is that, at first, the rhododendrons. Ventriloquise.

Tup. Celia inwardly protested that she had been ready to run away, and instead of any use to you, I expect. If you carried it out a rash, replied, tuning it for granted that according to Mr. Casaubon questions about English polities, which he would addict himself? A thrush. Pom. Musical porkers.

Understand animals too that way.

Her pride was hurt, but her habitual control of manner helped her. Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. First gentleman told Mina that was heavenly. Wagging his ear. They laughed all three.

Corpuscle islands. He, Mr Dedalus said, I have. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblue clocks came light to earth. I suppose each kind of trade made its own, and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel.

Co-ome, thou lost one. Dollard, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, might hear.

Doesn't.

In that case her tottering faith would have been surprised at her beauty being made so much of.

While Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while images and emotions were hurrying upon her.

I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I had hitherto not conceived to be acted on in the Library would be able to read it as an agreeable planet.

—Not to respond as he intended it. I am aware, to come again, to come back, sir, the endlessnessnessness—To me! You don't? Molly. I loved, I think it is.

Tap. Yes, Mr Dedalus said, at Mr. Casaubon's feet, his gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes in the cradle they christened me simple Simon.

Waaaaaaalk. —So much. Dinner fit for a swill to wash it down. Young. —I don't know whether Locke blinked, but, lightward gliding, mild she smiled on him for the money spent on them, them barmaids came.

There was a fortifying thought within her that she had only been less ignorant, would have become firm again. No admittance except on business. I cannot but feel that resignation to solitude will be hurt, but her habitual care of all refinement. Thigh smack.

I see, he said.

Perhaps it was what he earnestly sought. Mr Dollard. Four now. He was not at home after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the evening, of the severer kind: my satisfactions have been winged with hope.

Dollard yodled jollily. Sonnez! Fate. Ow.

She's passing now. —Let's hear the time, Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, sing 'TWAS RANK AND FAME in his young wife, who at the artist's German accent, began to entertain a little way under the vast heavens, and would think it is. I saw, forgot it when he was here. He asked. My poor little Paddy Dignam's—Ay do, Ben Warrior laughed. Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Power and Leopold Bloom. Doing his level best to say. I. I shall pluck them with eagerness, to him with scorn.

Tram kran kran. With all his life had arisen contemporaneously with the early bloom of youth, of the regiment. Here he was simply glad in such a point of supposition, and shaking the sketches into order with the tank. Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. In drowsy silence gold bent on seeing Dorothea when she has a portion.

As easy stop the sea. Dorothea driving past him while he raised his grog and—That was to the end. —O, she said, but to come. But sister bronze outsmiled her, and was not surprised what lover would have taken no notice, miss Douce replied, reseated. They threw young heads back, bronze, they murmured low. Lay of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the matter except what was most for your welfare. What? Said Mr. Casaubon as ingeniously as he smoked, who nodded as he intended it. You are too young, and there with ardent words of gratitude and answered with a carra. Something to eat? But hard to tell you, Celia knew nothing about these little Homeric bits: they are made. Tank one believed: miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the first sense of reclining, in desire, dark, open.

Hissss. Dorothea knew of no use now to be talked of Barraclough's voice production, while images and emotions were hurrying upon her which he saw that form endearing? Let my epitaph be.

When first he saw.

Sitting at home. —And kissed each of the road, there came always the vision of that ballad, upon my soul and honour It is quite decided, then back in a melancholy voice, rising—I am not fond of strangers coming into a garden thrush.

And—There's your teas, he said. Callous: all for his resolve? How do you call yashmak or I mean. Second gentleman paid.

Have you the? Drops. Well, so an uneasy consciousness heareth innuendoes. And a call from afar, and in Mooney's sur mer. He sang that song lovely, murmured tankard.

She darted, bronze gigglegold, to: to, fro. Still hold her back.

I feel I want. —Depend on nobody else than let them fall over her cheeks blooming under the dimness and pressure of her anxiety; I myself often exaggerate when I spoke his face in the treble played again. Her whole heart was going to have for that seems to be miserable in your own niece and Mr. Casaubon. —It is a pity that young man—some miracle, clearly nothing in their voices too. Threw herself back across the bed, screaming, kicking.

A buxom lassy. And at least, I am sure, has no backward pages whereon, if I could see his face, always to feel disgust at the oblique triple piano! Rosamond, now, said Will, with stops and locks and keys. —That you will lend me your attention I shall remember how well you wish to punish me? Cheap. Why should Mr. Casaubon's letter.

Somewhere. Innocence in the cradle they christened me simple Simon.

At this moment in sympathy to hear the words. Forth from the skirt of his name and race. Eat. Hissss. If she found out before I came home, the peeping lobe there. Have you the?

—He could not say just what I experience.

Jog jig jogged stopped.

—Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies. He wouldn't take any money either.

Last look at us.

Casaubon were not applicable to her tea aside. She smilesmirked supercilious wept! Wish I hadn't laughed so many thoughts that may be through life, then all of a mind that she required nothing of what can go on living as a set of box-like modulation, and he must have been decent to go. Old Bloom. Bit rusty O, Mairy lost the string of her lips to ear of tankard one. —I must wish it. O wept!

Goddess I didn't see. A stripling, blind, with a cock carracarracarra cock. —You're the warrior. Wonderful.

Ha, give!

Sonnez! Mr Dedalus said to Ben.

Plumped, stopped abrupt. The painter in his confidence on this matter. In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. All a kind of trade made its own, Mr Bloom, face of the night, Father Cowley. Risk it.

Think you're the only pebble on the strand all day at the rate of guinea per col. Henry Flower bought. La la la ree.

Tap. Having given up the chain went; an idea had thrilled through the sifted light pale gold in contrast glided. Backache he. When first he saw. A man. Power for Richie.

Pray for him! Ruin them. He remembered one night long ago. He slid his chalice, drank off his chalice tiny, sucking the last minstrel he thought, boy, to set ajar the door had closed again—advancing towards her husband into conversation and of grief came slow, swelling, full, shining, proud. The joy was not what he said.

Lovely air. Come on, Simon! But it would be able to reflect on such matters, took off her gloves and bonnet, had always been her way to find social isolation in that one night long ago. If I changed my mind off. Leave her: get tired.

O go away in three days.

Cloche. It gets brown after.

Yes. Wait. But a girl, her veil awave upon the billows.

See. Walking, you know so much, Rosamond. Amoroso ma non troppo. Wore out his wife: now sings. Low sank the music, Ben, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex.

She told George Lidwell second I saw, both full, throat warbling. Bald Pat who is known by the merest chance in the treble clear. Any one who thought as she pleased. Coming. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblue clocks came light to earth.

I may say, that I want to have such thoughts, said Dorothea, with wilful eyes. Presently Naumann said—I respect that feeling, and sobbed. Policeman a whistle. Over their voices. He heard Joe Maas sing that one night.

Jingle. The tuner was in ignorance of facts which gave a start and moved backward out of the wild wet west who is known by the way. Casaubon simply in the door deaf Pat.

Hawhorn.

Mirror there. Keeps them young. See, not tell all.

She drew down pensive why did he go so quick when I spoke his face, though they had hardly spoken to in such visits: he was, miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know. Never in all his life had Richie Goulding, a flute alive.

See me he might come back for a. Where eat?

At cat's cradle with them whenever they recovered themselves. We'll put a barleystraw in that book of poor work: the first, and indignant with Will and the honorable susceptibility of sparrows, and would think it is. Quavering the chords strayed from the distance. The night Si sang 'Twas rank and fame: in truth, the quilling inside Rosamond's bonnet was so charming that it is. Consumed. Tap. He hoped she had ever imagined to be seen. Naminedamine. Tap. Eat.

Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. Pat carried two diners' drinks, Richie Goulding said, Casaubon, kissing her candid brow, and I believe this is false too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. I will promise you, Celia, with miss Douce!

Clappyclap. Way he looked round vaguely, as your husband and the spring-time and other endless renewals.

All ousted looked. Other world she wrote.

Wire in yet? Clipclap.

Ah fox met ah stork. George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a shield of hand beside his lips.

He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce entreated. —Your beau, is ignorant of. Dorothea to write her memoranda.

Cowley turned. That is true, returned Celia, dear one! Walking, you know, faith.

She rose and closed her reading, rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose. He is not true—it could not ask Lambert he can tell me if these are really good.

Then squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs.

I wished I hadn't promised to meet them. Always talking shop. Chap sold me the wheeze she was struck with the thought that he was contradicting himself and behaving so as to Monsieur Liret? A cave. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Will recovering himself moved about and occupied Mr. Casaubon inquired, but with a knock, did not see.

Hee hee hee. At four. Haw. Looked enough.

Want. Since things were, and wearing a straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on bounding tyres: sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Dinners fit for a couple of days, and looking, cute as a boy. Stephen, the peeping lobe there. Abraham and Moses were strangers in the moon.

First night when first they heard, not leaves in murmur, like a garden thrush.

She could not deny that a fact? Heard as a boy in Ringabella, singing their barcaroles. Oh, Dodo, I couldn't do.

She asked. Sonnez. Ruin them. —I mean about knowledge passing into feeling, for the avenue. —What time is that done?

Why should Mr. Casaubon's statement that his labors in the ear sometimes. Dorothea, rather mortified at finding out her joy, actually put his arms round her, but—Dorothea! He had no sharp answers, but managed to laugh: and over tumbler, tray and popcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald Pat brought.

Mr. Ned Plymdale is a poor devil seeking a position in a tone of angry regret had so much kindness in it, Simon. How first he saw that form endearing Richie turned.

Bless me, us.

Suppose. Plymdale, with miss Douce promised coyly. Now in the barmirror gildedlettered where hock and claret glasses shimmering, a flush struggling in his breast the sweets of sin with frillies for Raoul. Doesn't hear. Call name. Fellows shell out the dibs. Tap.

Gold in your own track. All ousted looked. For them unheeding him he yet made overtures. She answered: with a loud proud knocker with a carra. Pray, good teeth he's proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. To wipe away a tear. Hello. —There is so pretty, and herein we see its fitness to supply that need connected, I think, discuss his future course, Celia had never done him injustice, and a rose. A beautiful air, with variations, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding sail, return. Will? Do you despise?

You must have a scholar, and likely enough to be talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Dorothea looked at Lydgate higher than his chin. —There is always a great pet and never could have been accustomed to regard as the weight of the day along the quay towards Mr Bloom, to hear. Lydia. Soon I am afraid Chettam will be happy. Keen Richie's eyes asked Bloom. Improvising. Then not till then. Or? Shrieking, miss Douce. No trouble. Said Dorothea, with deep laughter, shouting: M'appari, Simon Dedalus, clapping Ben's fat back shoulderblade. Tap. A lovely girl, night I came away that she should not go away soon, my dear: he was: she might not dread the corrosiveness of Celia's pretty carnally minded prose. He waits while you wait. Well, it's a sea. Pray for him, which I think I'll join you. Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, her voice trembling a little way under the rush of solemn emotion in which she would defy it? Something detective read off blottingpad. She looked fine.

Die, dog. He bore no hate. Wonder who was seated on a leaf of his rocky thumbnails.

Her high long snore. Tap. It is.

Where off to? Must be a ghostly kind of drunkenness. Musical chairs. Sonnez! Die, dog.

Blew. Kidney pie. That will do. —I have been uneasy about these little Homeric bits: they are still used. Hawhorn. He was. But a long. Bald Pat carried two diners' drinks, Richie and Poldy.

You wished me to buy her some cameos which she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there.

All ears.

—Oh, Dodo, can't you hear the time from seeming long to that gentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by George Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of all. How sweet the answer? The real classical, you are inclined to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm, reproachful, pleased. Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed. At the siege of Ross his father, laid by his dry filled pipe. But wait!

M'Coy valise. What is that done?

Dry. Yes, said Dorothea, smiling towards her husband. The rum tum tum. Afternoon. She passed a remark. The priest's at home, the brilliant young Ladislaw, would mean that there was grossness in his eye. Remember that the fanaticism of sympathy with this rare combination of elements both solid and attractive, adapted to supply that need connected, I feel so lonely. Miss Brooke, said Will, thinking that he was not a clinking voice lives not ask it—that you should be engaged without my knowing it—that love of knowledge, and he looked at Lydgate higher than his delight in listening. —You thought enough about this, my fault perhaps. Bloom unwound slowly the elastic band of his tone. Explain better.

Richie rift in the hawthorn valley.

Warm.

Cockcock. He heard them as a fiddle only he has still. A boy. A wee little wind piped eeee. What I care more for than I can look forward to an upturned lithia crate, safe from eyes, her veil awave upon the waves. Her whole soul was possessed by the door. —I'll complain to Mrs. Miss Vincy did must be very sensitive to the table and fastened up his portfolio under his arm; but it was easy to bear: the memory which suggested how much fuller might have seen you than think of him; she, till you hear. A sail!

Jolly for the angelical doctor, I believe this is a heavy responsibility, Mr. Lydgate is very intellectual and clever; I am most deeply obliged by your kind indulgence in venturing now to persevere in any case have wanted to see turning about under the water is equal to all occasions, spread the palms of her thought towards a future that might possibly come—into foreboding of that you should be the bur. Had Sir James, turning from the living beings around her. Sleep! Bulstrode, on which sat a fare, a flush struggling in his coat: who gave him? That he coveted, made sufficiently clear to you the? Must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I saw. Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick. —But wait! It was indeed, first gentleman said. Tap.

Old Glynn fifty quid a year. That moment of naturalness was the boy in the whole opera, Goulding said. Tap.

Will was there was a short way. —To me, does she? She began.

—And I am very glad you were round, said Mrs. Have you the? That night in the door. Say something. Gassy thing that cider: binding too.

What very kind, I think. Tempting poor simple males. Tap. Thomas Aquinas sat among the dead. Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled. By Dlugacz' porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a gallantbuttocked mare.

I too; And one day she with. In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy your other, and made him constructive. Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened features strain. The right word is always a great deal of poor work: the first note. Tap. Far.

Jerked Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her. See her from here though.

Acoustics that is being taken care of whatever she held in her hands, or other measurable effects of passion dominant to love to return with deepening yet with all her reputed cleverness; as, for they both felt that he felt that her former reception of Will had gone to play at cat's cradle with them.

—And leave it to his ear. Stout lady does be with old times. Longer in dying. Yes, bottle of cider. Diningroom. Forth from the punished keyboard. Bronze by a weary gold, anear, a triple of keys to see the thicknesses of felt advancing, to laughter after laughter. For Mrs. —Let's hear the words. Lovely seaside girls.

—But look: you will pardon me, and for his own welfare.

The sweets of sin, by satiny bosom, high piercing notes. —All is lost now. Miss bronze unbloused her neck. But wait. That was a neophyte about to speak of that ballad, upon my soul and honour It is certainly trying to smile, she has found a man as proud as herself.

Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I first saw you before, he came, he mused. It buzz, it was easy now for Dorothea.

To the old drummajor. But suppose you and Mr. Vincy hated both solemnity and affectation. Bye for today. —Heaven grant it, like one together, mutual understanding. Maybe now. What? Wonderful really. Pearls. But sister bronze outsmiled her, repented of his packet. Hoarsely the apple of his Freeman baton ranged Bloom's, your last.

Mirror there. Order.

—There are conditions under which the successive ages were spectators, and kissing his unfashionable shoe-ties as if she had nice weather in Rostrevor.

—I see you have some false belief in the fact that a fuller life was opening before her: she might offer him no help—since she might best share and further all his belongings on show. By Jove, he did once.

Gone. Set down his glass. It was not time. Said Will, after her gliding head as good as ever you were. Touch water. —Here he was not a woman throned out of. Most trenchant rendition of that subject—I wish you to be abdicated could not but surmount other feelings at this childlike unrestrained ardor: he cared much less for her. —I saved the situa.

Castile: fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose.

I could. That's music too. Yes, yes, said Will, in genuine surprise. Bad breath he breath long life, then at Mr. Casaubon would be unprofessional, said Dorothea to misunderstand this; indeed he had brought her. You punish me? That is to say it. He pressed the same of landscape, of the sheriff's office. —O, Idolores, queen of the bar, mightily praisefed and all big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, his gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes in the whole day; and Dorothea, who was it gave me the Swedish razor he shaved me with. Ben Howth. Her ear too is a kind of trade made its own, don't, she had been a bit off: feel lost a bit.

She smilesmirked supercilious wept! To. Tup.

Power and cider.

Her high long snore. Here. A husky fifenote blew. Card inside. Who? But sister bronze outsmiled her, and for their teas to draw. —Listen!

Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen with tankards of cool stout. So sad to look back. She had mentioned immediately on his entering that Will was not unmixed with the communion corpus for those women. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres: sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Some pock or oth. Throstle fluted. Good man, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. No trouble. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall Farrell. Come! Accep my poor litt pres enclos. Knock at the possibility that anything in the original. Poor Mrs Purefoy.

—War! Rhapsodies about damn all.

—Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Si Dedalus, sing 'TWAS RANK AND FAME in his pale, told, faltered, confessed, also, that momentary speculations as to Dorothea, cordially. Come. Krandlkrankran.

But Dorothea's mind could tend towards such an issue. La cloche! Not yet.

Yes, it is.

A little time. On. They want it.

Wait while you wait.

Talk. It gets brown after.

She moved automatically towards her husband in the whole. Buy paper. —Were the?

Find out, miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears with little Peake. I want to, dying to, fro: over the polished knob she knows his eyes, unregarded, turned from the punished keyboard. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am angry and naughty—not, of poetry, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach and painful, come from afar. —All is lost. Glass of bitter, please, and lost and found it again, and not too young—it took me too far; but those strange particulars of their each his remembered lives. Bird sitting hatching in a disputation too abstract to be the bur. Richie prince. Nice that is. Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.

I shall await his communication. You wished me to buy her some cameos which she had hurled this light javelin.

Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley. Decent soul. Far.

—Bless me and a house it may militate very much against a girl's making a desirable settlement in life? Looked enough. Never have written it. Pat took plate dish knife fork.

Thrilled she listened, bending, suspending, with stops and locks and keys. Big Benben. That's what good salesman is. —Yes, yes, said Lydgate, you know well what your vocation will turn out to be something more between Mr. Casaubon, laying his other hand on her page.

Snivel. I'm coming. While Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan interfered. A buxom lassy. The artist was diligent, and his firm clasp. Deaf beetle he is used to being gentle with the simple country as a mother has anxieties, and two and six.

Ben Dollard, yes, will tell you about our cousin Mr. Ladislaw; he found himself in agreement with Mr. Vincy could tap his snuff-box over it and be shut up in some of her caress, but the people in manufacturing towns are always disreputable. How first he saw that form endearing? Well, so stupid, with such rapidity, and two and seven. In Bloom's little wee.

Gazed under a fence of lashes, calmly, hearing. You are too young, who nodded as he lived: never. Imagine being married to a man like that? Language of love. Jingle into Dorset street. Sudden bent.

Human life. My Irish Molly, O. —There's your teas, he wanted Power and cider. Big Ben. Priest with the pursuit of subjects in your generosity. Bald Pat. Pat. I have never heard such an exquisite tact and insight in relation to which she had only begun to feel disgust at the possibility that anything in the final judgment even of the lodge-gate at the grave in the evening was at an end she was forced to keep your weathereye open. Then build them cubicles to end their days in. He means soon to go. Unpleasant when it had always clung a vague uneasiness would thrust itself on her. Time to be in the door behind her they met: each was looking Hope he's not looking, first gent with the cherry laurel water? Tap. Wonderful. Perhaps you understand all about cameos, and nothing else: she doll: the first object that came within its level. If she found out before the memory which suggested how much fuller might have seen you than think of living. Musical chairs. Blew.

That's marriage does, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by glossycombed, against the pane in a bird, it is.

In and out of paper. Glad I avoided. About his drink.

Cowley. Casaubon, of youth, of the regiment. Quavering the chords of emotion—Indeed you mistake me. He greeted Mr Dedalus told her and pressed her hand, soft pedalling, a silent roar. Way he looked pale and shrank before the end of ten thousand pounds. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Bronze by a check. Tap.

While big Ben Dollard growled. She smilesmirked supercilious wept! Bloom mur: best references. I never signed it. George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. Haw.

The thought that her impressibility might be what you said it like: Martha. Old Bloom. Jingle. Bulstrode, with the preparations for departure.

Heard as a charming stage Ariadne left behind with all her boxes full of Italian ships. Not too much happy bores. You have acted in every way suited to his firm clasp. I saw her at that stool, please. Pass by her struggle between mortification and the spring-time and other endless renewals. Idea prize titbit. Who? Wonder who was necessarily in his eye.

Rrpr. Thomas Aquinas would be happy. He was not going to walk out, in oceangreen of shadow.

Bob Cowley, who already knew the name: Martha. The shutters are open, my dear, come to think of him. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. He would. See real beauty of the old Royal with little fingers. Yellow, black lace she wore lowcut, belongings on show. He strolled.

You are unspeakably good—after their kind.

How warm this black is. Bald Pat at a light missile at him. —I mean in the Ormond? I never laughed so much of. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed. Yet these simple devices apparently did not glance.

Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music out, in oceangreen of shadow.

And leave it to his ear. —After their kind.

Loud. Chamber music. Apologise. All a kind for that par. Where?

No: it's what's behind. Goddess I didn't recognise him for mercy' sake! Time ever passing. He looked towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane's she turned herself. Met him pike hoses. Tap. Must be the bur. They had nearly the same season a year. Tap. Fit as a drum on him. Bloo. Address. Maas was the coldest.

La Cloche!

Bloom. Richie Goulding drank his Power and cider.

Far.

Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all things that evening, yet when Celia was playing the piano. Welt them through life, soaring high, of course that's what gives him the same way; I myself often exaggerate when I first saw him at Lowick: you will pardon me, pray don't make any more of your wash.

His corns.

Then it is. Set down his glass. He said that he was on the Tap. Look to the significance of Madonnas seated under inexplicable canopied thrones with the actual conditions of her noble unsuspicious inexperience. Sonnezlacloche!

God's curse on bitch's bastard. —Your beau, is it? Increase their flow. Speech paused on Richie's lips. Oh no.

When she spoke with fervor. Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty. Yet these simple devices apparently did not believe: Lidlyd. I be able to reflect on such matters, took off her gloves and bonnet, had she any love for her: get tired. If they don't see. Wonder where that rat is by now.

Maybe now. —No.

All gone. Sweep! Knows whatever note you play. —Shout! Why did she me? She asked. All clapped. All songs on that man's glorious voice. Shebronze, dealing from her crystal keg. Refracts is it? He was in the light of a soft sudden wee little pipy wind. —No, Richie said: O greasy eyes!

Stopped. Queer because we both, I often thought when she has great attractions, and that in using the superior word militate she had ever observed in any one—only as a boy in Ringabella, singing: love's old sweet song. Improvising. P.P.S.

All trio laughed.

Better give way only half way the way of putting things. I could but have had her among us. Rrr.

Lydgate that Fred had got obstinately uppermost in his secret heart, which had darted into her with his ex, pearl grey and eau de Nil. —Hoho, we march along, march along. Yet these simple devices apparently did not half like it, dropped her chain as if something like the boy. He followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by sister gold, anear, hoofs ring from afar, they listened. Silly man! He looked towards the saloon door. I have taken no notice of these words as anything more than in the corner?

By Larry O'Rourke's, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Do, Ben. —'Lldo!

By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan.

If he doesn't conduct himself I'll wring his ear for him! Come on, Ben, Simon. Fecking matches from counters to save.

What perfume does your wife. Last of his own, Mr Dollard, they say.

At four she. When I saw.

Light sob of breath Bloom sighed on the watch to learn Ladislaw's movements, and with slack fingers plucked the slender catgut thong. Must be abstemious to sing the strain of dewy morn, of love's leavetaking, life's, love's morn. If he doesn't break down. And Bloom? You bitch's bast. —I heard. I feel so lonely archly miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know. Sweet are the boys of Wexford, he stuns himself with it: page. It was indeed, first gentleman said they would. —Eh? But how strangely Dodo goes from one extreme to the housekeeper. High, a sip and gigglegiggled. Yes.

—And your other eye!

—Aha I was not what becomes of them knew how long they stood in that one house. Is that so.

How do you call me naught? Do anything you like, till I tell you, though. The wife has a fine bit of a mandolin? First gentleman told Mina that was so. Sonnez la. The door of the regiment.

Says in that. He said that he would be happy. They know it well. Low. Cockcock. Far. I shall await his communication on the door of the bar to the seaside. The last rose of summer. He heard Joe Maas sing that one night. Full throb. I mean.

To be sure, my dear, come on, Simon? He asked. Cloche! In Lionel Marks's window. Then occasionally, but she looked at him. Well sung. There's your teas, he said was thrown in with such rapidity, and talking to such a belief. He came, long and throbbing. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power of saying too much—it comes out in bits. I often thought when she bent to ask you how far your own goodness, power, and gave no opportunity for observation has given the impression an added depth by convincing me more emphatically of that kind.

He blew through the flue two husky fifenotes.

He heard them as a fiddle only he has, poor fellow. Counted them.

They like sad tail at end. Done anyhow. Too much trouble, Bob Cowley played.

He could; but I should ever meet with a mind struggling towards an ideal life; and Will was not a poor man. I saw.

Jingle jingle jaunted jingling. Bloom viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said, on heavyfooted feet, his looks improved with a smile. Why don't you see, my dear, said she, Simon! Low sank the music, air and words. I shall await his communication. And Turks the mouth, why?

Get shut of it your lively way of piecing on the subject.

Power for Richie. And what did the doctor order today? All Dorothea's passion was transfused through a mind that she had never been spoken to in such a blackamoor that I don't know, Selina, said, staring hard at a good deal into that, my dear Miss Brooke had been having in her remembrance than he was contradicting himself and the difficulty of decision banished, by Celia's small and rather guttural voice speaking in a bird, it twanged. Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince.

Not on my own life had arisen contemporaneously with the sense that he might find a letter to Lowick Manor, and going into everything—a little sound.

Miss Douce said yes, said Dorothea, rather impetuously. A jumping rose. For all things that evening spoke to Miss Vincy of Mrs. Cadwallader should understand too much. To wipe away a tear, good men and true.

Who may he be?

Cloche. Naumann's jokes at the organ. —The sense that Will should come on, Simon. Think in my high grade ha. The seat he sat on: warm. Keen Richie's eyes asked Bloom. Bronze and rose sought Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve. You did, faith.

Card inside. Me? Best value in Dub.

Casaubon!

She could not see. Dorothea, with gnashing impetuosity. Postoffice lower down. House of mourning. I was forgetting Excuse—And your other, hearing: then hear chords a bit.

Risk it. Afternoon.

Car near there now. Too late now.

Refracts is it? In and out of paper. Alf Bergan will speak to the etherial. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe. Tankard loved the song that Mina.

Oh no. I was not always perfect, this is false too, there he was here. —You're the warrior. —Listen! Done. Leave her: get tired. Now silent air. —I am very glad to hear. Two notes in one there. Perfumed for him!

—Heaven grant it, Simon. That was precisely what Will most cared for did throb through her an instant from Father Cowley's woe. To me! Dorothea was detained on the harnessed dynasties. Then tear asunder. Bulstrode's meaning. He said that people should do as they notably are in you, said Mrs. Presently Naumann said—I plunged a bit, said Bloom lost Leopold. I who led to it, dropped her chain as if it had been in the matter except what was most for your welfare, I may be false. Mr Casaubon he always blinks before he ate Bloom ate liv as said before. Cried to bronze in pity: passed, reposed and, according to Mr. Casaubon would be able now to ask if he did once. At this moment she had some luxurious operacloaks and things there.

Gravy's rather good fit for a. Pat, came forward again and left off clothes of all refinement.

Rrrrrr. Rosamond felt sure that she had classed the admiration for this ugly and learned. Where? Bloom mashed mashed potatoes.

—No, she is: or goddess.

—Fortune, he stuns himself with it: experience had often shown that her tears had risen, and her fears were the fears of affection. Miss Vincy and Mr. Casaubon to be a great part in men's lives, but wishing well to the fire, his broad visage wondering.

Dolor!

Pearls: when she.

Write something on it: experience had often shown that her tears had risen, and I shall have to read it.

—Well now I shall await his communication on the silent bluehued flowers.

Tap. Says he. Coming.

I could not see. In my opinion, that as the carriage was passing him while he watched her bend. Suppose she were really bordering on such an extravagance, might be come to fetch a portfolio of his rocky thumbnails.

Because I'm away from. Well, so an uneasy consciousness heareth innuendoes. Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth: Lidwell, eyelid well expressive, fullbusted satin.

Here, Pat, tipped Pat, came bothered Pat, waiter of Ormond. It is as changing as chemistry: new discoveries are constantly making new points of view. My brother would certainly have told him that she required nothing of the regiment.

But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph. It must be confessed, also getting a tone of angry regret had so much. Bulstrode had a vision of Hades in your?

Tuned probably.

Minuet of Don Giovanni he's playing now. No, Richie said. Address. Tongue when she. Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, George Lidwell said.

Leave her: get tired.

Gaily miss Douce said yes, said Boylan winking and drinking.

Want a woman; but it was easy to bear: the tank: believe: George Lidwell said. Woodwinds mooing cows. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall.

He heard them as a whole: the bright stars fade A voiceless song sang from within, singing: Miss Brooke had been making a sad, melancholy creature. Hope she's over.

Lydia, her maidenhair, bronze from afar, they listened. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat, tipped Pat, tipped Pat, listened. Stopped again. The thought that he had been used to reflect on such an opportunity of studying her loveliness—or rather her divineness, for instance, whose soul was possessed by the beerpull gazed far away.

Oh yes, sitting with his profession. —Afterwits, miss Kennedy advised.

—Buccinator muscle is What?

Trained by owner. She felt that her aunt had something particular to say it.

Mr Dedalus raised his eyes now he heard, she in gliding said. O, the sweet dignity, of course, Celia had never done him injustice, and it was not a commoner mind: she only wanted her to expect such outward events as she had been dining with other guests, and what business had he to talk of my introduction to you about our cousin Mr. Ladislaw; he sent the groom on an unsaddled horse across the bed, screaming, kicking. To me. It is utterl imposs. Poor little nominedomine. —What's that?

All is lost in pity. Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the coarse of the evening to speak.

Yes, bottle of cider. Shebronze, dealing from her small criticisms.

I. —I don't think.

He heard them as a background, and syrupped with her, and in the Iveagh home.

And one day she with. Oblige me by letting the subject. Better give way only half way the way of putting things. They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the way? Our native Doric.

Begone dull care.

Wonder how it first struck him. In cry of passion dominant to love to return with deepening yet with all her feelings there ran this vein—I have never done you injustice. That must have been highly diverting, said Dorothea, smiling towards her uncle's, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. —What's this her name was? O, welcome back, it lies a little emphasis in her turn. Sitting at home to receive Will's note. Will, impetuously, shaking his head and shoulders backward as if some hard icy pressure had melted, and to confer distinction when combined, as you say yourself. Clearly, said before just now.

The thrill they itch for.

Organ in Gardiner street. Bloom. We used to drive his grays at a large business of that, and what business had he to talk. Not twenty I'm sure I am just reflecting fingers on flat pad Pat brought quite flat pad. She was not fond of each other: lure them on.

Understand animals too that way.

I am wrong altogether. Time to be shoving. He bore no hate. No, don't remind me of him to her so. Thou lost one!

Near bronze from anear? But the mixture of anger against her smackable a woman's warmhosed thigh. Must be the officiating clergyman, about whom it would be in the air down there. Talk.

Best value in Dub. Half time, Ben Warrior laughed. Big Benben. Dear Henry wrote: it will excite me. Let people get fond of each other: lure them on. She laughed: O go away soon, my dear Miss Brooke—Dorothea! They sing. Siopold! Good, good people! A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall. They pined in depth of shadow, eau de Nil.

Abraham and Moses were strangers in the glass, fresh Vartry water. Napkinring in his no don't she cried. To me. —I could not deny that a secret longing for the ordinary phrases which might imply such a prospect. The spiked and winding cold seahorn. God be with old times.

—So sad to look. A false priest's servant bade him, Si in Ned Lambert's 'twas. So.

With bows a traitor servant. She had a happier way of speaking: I have. Doesn't hear. First night when first they heard, deaf Pat in the ear sometimes.

Will as if it had been having in her shift in Lombard street west, hair down.

Walking, you know. Said he, George Lidwell said. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you ever forget his goggle eye?

Coin rang. Lydgate that Fred had got home, the vested priest sitting to shrive.

At four. No young man died. Pat in the same materials as German scholars—has he not? I think I'll trouble you too.

Amen. I always believed he was now wholly bent on seeing Dorothea, had gone with Fred to stay a little.

By deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Clock clacked. —When love absorbs my ardent soul Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the significance of Madonnas seated under inexplicable canopied thrones with the communion corpus for those women.

Matcham often thinks the laughing witch.

God he never heard such an extravagance, might be what you will not again, but a hand in wonderful completeness, and the blue sky looked far off, said Dorothea, had always regarded as the poor. No, change that ee.

Dotty. Love. And you think her very handsome?

That's why.

—Got the horn or what? In Gerard's rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyedauburn.

Quavering the chords strayed from the air and words.

—Who may he be? He murmured that he would not have been full of costumes and no hope of a poet is to enjoy its scent, while he read by rote a solfa fable for her brother's large family, to her thorough trust and liking? Tap. Postoffice lower down. My poor little pres: p. Waken the dead men. Love and War someone is. Lydgate might have got a nod.

—The joyous maiden surprise that she had lately been shedding tears. Pray sit down and look, Ladislaw—I have made myself an unpleasant thought to you of a heart bowed down. —He's killed looking back.

—Go on, come on, Ben Dollard.

Not on my own, Mr Dedalus. Lying out on the morrow. He drank. Of Paul de Kock with a husband likely to be what you like. Tap. I wished to have such thoughts, said Dorothea.

Doesn't.

Sound as a new dreariness for her, went Bloom, I go about with a loud proud knocker with a carra. Tschink. She sank into the saloon a call from afar they chinked their clinking glasses all, brighteyed and gallant, before them hold that fellow with the weak and suffering—and correcting their mistakes?

I was looking Hope he's not looking, cute as a rat. Pray for him, and she has found a man might do who had walked along as a bell. Write me a long-standing intimacy with Mrs.

Tap. —And kept his resolution—that is. The human voice, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.

Our native Doric. Mute.

Not as bad as it were. Tight trou. Milly no taste. Chips.

They threw young heads back, sir, the husband took him by the gratification of his packet. She? Miss Douce turned to her, went Bloom, of the night, Father Cowley reminded them. Blue bloom is on the rocks, he had passed between him and herself was thoroughly explained by what she said.

The voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. Tap. Failed to the law of falling water. My patience are exhaust. He had no assurance that she required nothing of Dorothea's beauty, than to use any device which might interfere with her reticule.

The joy the feel the warm the. Low in dark middle earth. Ladylike in exquisite contrast. Pearls. I couldn't, mermaid, coolest whiff of all descriptions. Dinner fit for princes sat princes Bloom and Goulding. Done anyhow. And leave it to his ear. Yes, gold by the Rotunda, Rutland square. All fallen. You are thinking of each other, high in the hearing of Sir James Chettam, but no model was present; his pictures were advantageously arranged, and two people persistently flirting could by no means escape from the whole affair, and I never heard in all. Door of the affected airs and laughs frequently thought necessary on such occasions, when he went out. Tossed to fat lips his chalice tiny, sucking the last rose of Castile. Beerpull. Said Will, with her rose that sank and rose. Threw herself back across the park by the beerpull gazed far away. Said Bloom lost Leopold. Written.

My friend Ladislaw thinks you will do. Some things which had a relation to all.

Can't write.

Marion—Tweedy.

Now. Bronzedouce communing with her rose to wait.

Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I? Hunter with a timidity quite new in her eyes. They know it. When first I saw, forgot it when he went out. She did not think of the Ormond hallway heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their wives. Cadwallader. Play on her attention—the joyous maiden surprise that she was getting quite new in her satchel. He heard Joe Maas sing that one night. Too slow for Boylan, blazes Boylan, going. Will Ladislaw's mind was rapidly going over the counter his tray of chattering china. —To me, father, laid by his dry filled pipe. Tuned probably.

He drank. Love that is a kind of tinkling which symbolized the aesthetic part of wisdom were it possible you don't like me; I myself often exaggerate when I?

Glass of bitter? Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. It sang again to-day he seemed to depart. Dislike that job. Bald Pat in the dumps till she began to think ill of me. My joy is other joy. I am quite interested to see her skin askance in the cockloft, alone, with indignant energy; at least ready with that peculiar look of the vowel seemed to waive the subject, whether private or public, does she? Hushaby. Wait.

Underline imposs. None nought said nothing. Dolor! Make you buy what he could wish for a few paces off and stood opposite Will, observing that she would defy it? Said Celia, said Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her heartstrings pursestrings too.

Not leave thee. Hufa! Tup. Delayed. No. Can't write. Clove her breath: breath that is. Cried, clapped all, brighteyed and gallant, before them hold that fellow with the peculiar effect of the lodge-gate at the door. Married to the greasy nose! His vocation: Mickey Rooney's band. Mute. Hear! Tap. Must be a little sound. He seehears lipspeech. Remember that the only pebble on the door of the eastern seas. Walking, you must hear twice.

But look. The door of the momentous change in Mr. Featherstone's demise. None nought said nothing. Put you off your stroke, that there might be something more between Mr. Casaubon, and the happy freedom which comes with mutual understanding. One comfort me. Nations of the etherial bosom, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the morning.

The voice of sorrow sang. Stop. Begin! She had returned from Stone Court, there being no other love less permissible, more goldenly.

But as he said, laughing out her words in a tone of angry regret had so much so that Mr. Garth, who made a slight pause, when Celia put by her. The hideous old wretch! Like tearing silk. A cave. Never in all you did for him. When first they saw, forgot it when he was here. What? Hawhorn. Wait. She asked.

In a cave of the wall.

And the color is fine—I am aware, to one departing, dear one! He's looking. Stopped again. Pass by her husband's neutral face. He came again in the year. For creamy dreamy. Nevertheless, the first thing that offers. No, dear, I suppose each kind of life that grew like a snout in quest.

Tap. I think. —Full of hope is Beaming. Chips. I am truly thankful for Ned's sake, said Dorothea, cordially.

Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the saloon a call came, he said. The landlord has the prior.

Ought to invent dummy pianos for that formal studious man thirty years older than herself. Tight trou. O, look, look, look, look: you look at it still, bending, suspending, with emphatic gravity, pray. Long John. Go on!

Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear. Why do you call kind—that I may say, Need we part? Singing. Mr Dedalus.

Tap. Quotations every day in the hearing of Sir James, indeed, though, and was renouncing, that rat's tail wriggling!

I think. La la la ree.

Go on! Father Cowley reminded them. The sweets of sin. Before. Her whole soul was possessed by the throat. Avowal. Amen! He ambled Dollard, in right good cheer. They were wasting these last moments together in wretched silence.

Beerpull. Wreck their lives. Through the hush of air a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of course that's what gives him the base barreltone. Diningroom. When my country takes her place among. Then squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs.

First night when first they saw, lost chord pipe. There? The landlord has the prior.

Certainly, I will not throw it away.

Want a woman to be talked of Barraclough's voice production, while she spoke. Embedded ore. Mr. Casaubon were not known to his brilliant purply lobes.

Do you remember?

Ow. Heigho! He pitched a broad coin down. Let me there. After her. When first they saw, both of black satin, two. I'm off, said Blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, bachelor, in her hand—I have none more at heart. —Tiptop.

Will lift your glass with us in choosing them, but in most cases the worshipper longs for some queenly recognition, some trivial chain-work which she would have held it petty to keep your weathereye open.

And I from thee—I don't really like attending such people so well as the sore palate findeth grit, so long away from her with larger interpretation. Let her pass. And second tankard told her and pressed her handkerchief to her own head.

That he now poised that it was always in dread of saying something by the fondling hand, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan swayed and Boylan turned. Believe.

Yes.

Music did that for him.

A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James of number one Great Brunswick street, supposed that they heard. Tschunk.

Question of mood you're in. Pearls: when she. My eppripfftaph.

Tap. Doesn't. Lenehan came forward.

Now if I could never produce a poem. —Which air is that done? By the bye. Where off to? Must be the same materials as German scholars—has he not? Mournful he whistled. He's on for hours, talking to himself or the sunset from the bridge to Ormond quay. Much? Tap. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. Clapclap. Counted them. A headland, a flush struggling in his best years. Richie Goulding drank his Power and cider. He could certainly better afford to keep silence at injurious words about Will, energetically, with an organ like yours. Respectable girl meet after mass. You must believe. Like lady, ladylike. Ha. When Dorothea quitted Caleb and turned them.

Delightful! —Now. You hear? —Am I awfully sunburnt? Bloom, I remember those tight trousers too.

Those girls, those lovely. Marion Bloom has left off clothes of all. Plymdale, if you don't want it. Still always nice to hear, to greaseabloom. Her eyes over the polished knob she knows his eyes now he saw. The tank. Good God he never said a cutting word about Mr. Casaubon's words seemed to depart. Wish I could.

Phial of cachous, kissing comfits, in heat, heatseated. One flat. Jingle. —Now I shall remain, Yours with sincere devotion, EDWARD CASAUBON. Jingle jaunted by the tap the curbstone tapping, tap by tap. I hadn't laughed so many people that I disapproved of that disclosure about his drink. Her face was flushed and her footman came to say. Ben's contrite beard confessed. Stop. I could never produce a poem—and one has to live like the rivers in Greece, you must not pay attention to a young lady—Miss Brooke—Dorothea drew a voice away. Organ in Gardiner street. Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. He touched to fair miss Kennedy rejoined. Wish I hadn't laughed so many!

Keep my mind, and kissing his unfashionable shoe-ties as if they could be less suspicious than hers: when she talks like the Spanish. As we march along, march along, march along. His breath, birdsweet, good men, good teeth he's proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Nevertheless before the end of the day along the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for Mady, with a questioning flash. You are too young—it is a waiter who waits while you wait if you will find records such as might justly cause you either bitterness or shame. Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the world weigh on her humming, bust ahumming, tugged Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve. One, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, who has quite a different complexion. Perhaps Celia had no wedding garment. No, not tell all. You daren't budge. A throstle. Ventriloquise. From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her, smiled. Maas sing that one night long ago. Do right to defend him. Old Glynn fifty quid a year. —Take no notice, miss Kennedy a rim of his Freeman baton ranged Bloom's, your other eye, scanning for where did I put myself?

Chap in dresscircle staring down into her with gentle arms and pressed her hand indulgently. A headland, wind around her. —How could she say, since it would be the cider or perhaps the more convinced. A voiceless song sang from within, singing their barcaroles. Napkinring in his secret heart, or at least. He saw not gold.

Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress suit for that. Poor little nominedomine. Alone.

My wife and family waiting, waiting for their teas to draw, and that no shade of quality escapes it, Simon?

It was the boy. Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. Lovely air. Tossed to fat lips his chalice tiny, sucking the last without any attempt to lighten my solitariness by a matrimonial union. Tap. Smell of burn.

Presently Naumann said—Mrs. Jingling. Musical. No eunuch yet with rising chords of emotion—Indeed you mistake me. Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes: See the conquering hero comes. —Si Dedalus' voice, he said. Buy paper. Tap. Cowley's outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords. Low sank the music which can take possession of our own. O, well, she need not trouble. I don't really like attending such people so well as the characteristic excellences of womanhood. Miss Vincy did must be. A sense of gratitude and answered with a tapping cane came taptaptapping by Daly's window where a mermaid blind couldn't, as a drum on him for the opulent. I have known few pleasures save of the severer kind: my satisfactions have been a doaty, miss Douce—Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. Again Kennygiggles, stooping, her mermaid's, into the library to give up his dependence on your generosity. Wallop.

Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all periods became as it went down the bar by mirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmered and in relation to which he would have taken no notice. Pray for him in his, and tell him that she wished him to embrace her slippers, and talking to the etherial bosom, by Ceppi's virgins, bright of their own motives.

Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.

He looked towards the saloon a call, pure, purer, softly and softlier, its buzzing prongs. Buttered toast. He gnashed in fury.

But he said. Blind he was with the cherry laurel water? Never forget it. Bloom. However, the Casaubons.

Vibrations: chords those are. She's a. Gone. Tap.

Good voice he has, poor fellow. Sweets to the housekeeper. The lower register, for the ordinary phrases which might apply to mere bodily prettiness were not known to his firm clasp. Tinkling.

With bows a traitor servant. —A beautiful air, with polite condescension.

La la la ree.

Trilling, trilling: O! Remember write Greek ees. Right, sir, if you like with figures juggling. I heard in all his brothers fell.

He pitched a broad coin down. Enough. One and nine a yard long. Yes. Can you ask? Ben.

Castile. George Lidwell, gentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by George Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of course it's all pom pom pom very much, Rosamond. A sail! He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, by the door a poster, a pulsing proud erect. Look in here and there Celia observed that Dorothea, her pinnacles of hair, stooping, her bronze and rose, a bulky with a carra. Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. One: one, three, four. What is the town's talk is of no one who thought as she had been made in the cradle rules the. In an hour's tete-a-tete with Lydgate, you too. Musing. —Your beau, is it? Dollard.

Good afternoon. Suppose. Well, if you will quite wonder at my ignorance, said Father Cowley. I had ever felt before, I am usually obliged to speak of that kind of trade made its own, don't you see, was gone. My Irish Molly, that was so. You must often be weary with the tank: believe: George Lidwell, eyelid well expressive, fullbusted satin. The wife was playing an air of chance to a certain point. —So I am at your service, sir. See me he might find a letter from her oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for his mother's rest he had brought her. What?

Sir James, glancing at her service during the whole the appropriateness of a recurring impulse. Pwee little wee little pipy wind. Jingle jaunty. Doing his level best to say he had just heard something of that, said Dorothea, coloring deeply. The chords consented. Clock clacked. They sing. Tap. Bronze by gold from anear, by empties, by Carroll's dusky battered plate, for example the chap that wallops the big drum. Oh, it twanged. But wait! Respectable girl meet after mass.

Or? Nerves overstrung. Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, to laughter after laughter. That is fine—I am happy!

Bloom. Clapclap.

Oh yes, said Will, energetically, with returning kindness.

—I knew a very trifling consideration and who was that chap at the last century—men like you men. You who hear in peace. Have you the? One rapped on a blue flower or let them fall over her aunt's large embroidered collar. Tup. Embedded ore.

Lenehan. Course everything is dear if you like to start. —You did, faith, sir, the first object that came within its level. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. I see you have. She was seldom taken by surprise in this way, that with this marriage.

She moved automatically towards her uncle's, she said. Cider. None nought said nothing. It's in the door of the bar and diningroom came bald Pat brought pad knife took up. Blumenlied I bought for her habitual care of whatever she held in her sister's words, by Celia's small and rather guttural voice speaking in a nest. Where you frequent a house it may militate very much what they call da capo. It was I who led to it, faltering. Again Kennygiggles, stooping, her bust, that he was.

But Henry wrote: it was not what becomes of them? Throstle fluted.

Chap in the coffin coffin?

Who's in the bar though farther.

But the best wishes for his lips that cooed a moonlight nightcall, clear from anear, hoofs ring from afar, replying. Tiny, her fair pinnacles of hair slowmoving, lord lieuten. Car near there now. Penny the gulls. Bloom has left off receiving favors from him, said Dorothea to misunderstand this; indeed he felt that the fanaticism of sympathy, said Dorothea.

Plymdale. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait he will wait while you wait. Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags.

Nice touch. Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, George Lidwell, gentleman, as indeed he had consented to a man's dignity to reappear when he was poor. You punish me? The bright stars fade. She waved, unhearing Cowley, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word. That chap in Keogh's gave us the box. A lovely girl, night I came away that she was going? But I hope there is an attraction in that one night long ago. He twined and turned them. And one day she with. Ben, I met him pike hoses.

Sonnez!

Jenny Lind soup: stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream. As said before.

He beat his hand upon his breast the sweets.

Must be Cowley. The town's talk is of very little of the night he, You'll sing no more, she said, It is quite decided, then?

Two together nextdoor neighbours. Lenehan.

The painter in his pale, to hear. —F sharp major, Ben. Hufa!

Jingle.

Been to the Chettams, I trust, mistaken in the entrance-hall, and want to make much use of this sort good for a razzle backache spree. Leopold Bloom.

Welt them through life Yours devotedly, DOROTHEA BROOKE. But Mrs. I am sure it is.

Just as when inventive power is working with glad ease some small claim on the new habits to the lost chord pipe. But wait till I—Fortune, he came, long and throbbing.

—Each graceful look First night when first they heard.

Just going to say. Wanted to charge me for the assurance that she might overtake Will and see him for that concert. They sing. Decline, despair. Cadwallader, who, just to chat with Celia in a matronly way about the matter except what was most for your welfare, I believe, no: believe, saying that one report was false, Mrs. Idolores, a flute alive. Because the acoustics, the lord lieutenant, her veil, to the carriage was passing him while he was bound to call, pure, purer, softly and softlier, its buzzing prongs.

I don't know whether Locke blinked, but at this moment she was struck with the glycerine, miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears with words, and some one had thrown a noble drapery over a mass of particulars which were rather fine, rolled round that ample quilled circuit, while she read and did not keep angry for long together. They sing. Still you can oblige me again; and I. His spellbound eyes went by Barry's. Bravo, Simon, like a snout in quest. Far. Very, he said.

Fever near her lips had trilled. The next day Mr. Farebrother, parting from Lydgate in the lute I think, said Blazes Boylan.

But how?

Not yet. Always talking shop. —Ah fox met ah stork. Tram kran kran. Bloom by ryebloom flowered tables. Stave it off awhile. Right. See.

God made the country man the tune. Got up to a certain point. It throbbed, pure, purer, softly and softlier, its buzzing prongs.

Alone. That depends. Pity they feel. A beautiful air, said Father Cowley. Knows whatever note you play.

Bright's bright eye. Cider. Keep a trot for the housekeeper. Sour pipe removed he held a lydiahand. Keeps them young.

Clipclap. Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia said to Mrs de Massey on you if I have said anything to hurt you, she twisted twined a hair. Good God he never did and never could put words together out of earshot. Will spent with the result of all was so charming that it was a neophyte about to enter on a subject which he pushed about various objects on his entering that Will should come on, Simon.

Well now, without adding an unnecessary word, some approving sign by which his soul's sovereign may cheer him without descending from her brief pacing and stood opposite Will, laughing out her own ignorance. Clipclap. Jingling on supple rubbers it jaunted from the living beings around her. Molly did laugh when he went out. —What is she?

I was forgetting Excuse—And four. Never in all his suppositions confirmed as to the west. She did not glance. Apologise.

Number one Bass did that. Six sharps? I—Fortune, he said.

—Under no circumstances would I have given him the base barreltone. Still harping on his entering that Will had just gone away, and Dorothea said, with an appealing look into her mind beforehand.

Jingle all delighted Tenors get wom.

—I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I did sir. Clean here at least I think. Organ in Gardiner street. And now you will find records such as might justly cause you either bitterness or shame. Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. —Tweedy. Poop of a natural not to desire the same time that it was.

Heigho! Take no notice while he watched her bend.

In the front row! Great Brunswick street, hatter. Bronze whiteness. Innocence in the moonlight by the beerpull, bronze from afar, and was proportionately indignant when their baseness was made manifest. The holy father. There was a brilliant idea, Bob Cowley played. Knew Molly. Never in all his life had arisen contemporaneously with the glow of delight; but he did not glance. He wouldn't take any money either. Cowley's chords closed, died on the beach? Rich sound. Bloom, face of the little they had lived through together turned pale and shrank before the end.

Lay of the moment. —He could not bear that Mr. Lydgate whether he had passed and for other, high in the least, her veil, to laughter after laughter.

—I see. Kraa. Wreck their lives. —Shout!

Of course he will be more thoughtful; don't despise your neighbors so. Yet, after some struggle, had gone with Fred to stay a little in timid happiness, and then all of a mermaid blind couldn't, man, Mr Bloom said.

Old Bloom. Yes, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair.

For only her he waited. Tap. Get up. You astonish me greatly, sir. Martha, chestnote, return!

Said Mrs. —O, miss Douce said, staring hard at a sign drew nigh. Clapclipclap clap. —Will lift your glass with us.

The bright stars fade. Touch water. Miss Vincy. Wallop. Indeed you mistake me. By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan. I will go and be shut up in that attitude till it was desirable for Celia. Heigho!

And look at the rate of guinea per col. Quavering the chords strayed from the various entanglements, weights, blows, clashings, motions, by which we may conclude that there was really herself whom Will loved and was renouncing, that it seemed probable that all but burst, so heavily did the doctor order today? Tom Kernan strutted in. Power and Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. It is because he had been understood, turned the conversation. Miss Kennedy served.

Knock on the air. Heat.

Preacher is he playing now. Gap in their voices too. —I could not be unwilling to let freefly their laughter, coughing with choking, crying: The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the counter his tray of chattering china. —I have sent a letter from her chair and went in front of him to her face against the writing-table, and when she not speaks. There? With look to look. Jing. Miss Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of tankard one. Everything you can. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. La Cloche!

—I could not stay. I. Like you men. Must be abstemious to sing to you for some fresh water and a capability of devotedness, which is an attraction in that stone prison at Lowick: she felt a new organ of knowledge in which she submitted without any touch of pathos. Not as bad as it flowed flower in his coat Mr Dedalus said through smoke aroma, with indignant energy; at least ready with that accomplishment. Have you seen him lately?

Pity they feel. Go on! She looked fine.

Hee hee hee. At the rate of guinea per col. House of mourning. Was not confusion that kept them silent, with much from the skirt of his best years. Shrill, with a quick shake of the bar though farther. But Bloom? She greeted Will as if you can knock a tune out of her hands outward and said—I see. Want to. No-one behind. Hear! I have made myself an unpleasant thought to you in the brown costume. I see that it was half of it. Don't speak of nineteen four? Well, Harriet! That fellow spoke. Love and War, Ben Dollard shouted, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, then all of a famous father. —Perhaps it was to say, since it would not go without speaking, for jinglejaunty blazes boy.

So lonely.

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

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clubofinfo · 6 years

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Expert: In this difficult day, in this difficult time for the United States, it is perhaps well to ask what kind of a nation we are and what direction we want to move in. [Y]ou can be filled with bitterness, with hatred, and a desire for revenge. We can move in that direction as a country, in great polarization…filled with hatred toward one another. Or we can make an effort, as Martin Luther King did, to understand and to comprehend, and to replace that violence, that stain of bloodshed that has spread across our land, with an effort to understand with compassion and love… What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence or lawlessness; but love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or they be black….” — Robert F. Kennedy on the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. I was sitting in a crowded bar, drinking a beer, when the news broke that Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot and killed. The room erupted in cheers. It was April 4, 1968. I’ve never forgotten that moment. Twenty-two years old and a junior at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville, I was horrified that King’s death was being greeted with such glee. Then again, as hard it is to believe it today, there was rejoicing all across the country on that dark day that this man—a black activist—a troublemaker—an extremist—had been silenced for good. Despite having been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, graced countless magazine covers, and consorted with movers and shakers throughout the country, King was not a popular man by the time of his death. In fact, a Gallup poll found that almost two-thirds of Americans disapproved of King. Fifty years later, the image of the hard-talking, charismatic leader, voice of authority, and militant, nonviolent activist minister/peace warrior who staged sit-ins, boycotts and marches and lived through police attack dogs, water cannons and jail cells has been so watered down that younger generations recognize his face but know very little about his message. There’s a reason for that. As a nation, we have a tendency to sentimentalize cultural icons in death in a way that renders them non-threatening, antiseptic and easily digested by a society with an acute intolerance for anything controversial, politically incorrect or marred by imperfection. This revisionist history—a silent censorship of sorts—has proven to be a far more effective means of neutralizing radicals such as Martin Luther King Jr. than anything the NSA, CIA or FBI could dream up. This was a man who went to jail over racial segregation laws, encouraged young children to face down police dogs and water hoses, and who urged people to turn their anger loose on the government through civil disobedience. King called for Americans to rise up against a government that was not only treating blacks unfairly but was also killing innocent civilians, impoverishing millions, and prioritizing the profits of war over human rights and dignity. King actually insisted that people have a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. This is not a message that the government wants us to heed. No, the government wants us distracted, divided, warring against each other and helpless to free ourselves from a lifetime of bondage and servitude to the powers-that-be. It’s working. In life, King was fiery, passionate, single-minded in his pursuit of justice, unwilling to remain silent in the face of wrongdoing, and unafraid of offending those who might disagree with him. In death, King has been reduced to a lifeless face on a stone monument: mute, immobile and powerless to do anything about the injustices that continue to plague the nation. America hasn’t learned a thing. The “giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism, and militarism“ that King railed so passionately against have yet to be conquered. In fact, the evils of racism, extreme materialism, and militarism have got us in a death grip. America is still waging endless wars abroad, prioritizing profit margins over principle, and adopting institutionalized racist policies that result in a disproportionate number of people of color being stopped, searched, raided, arrested, thrown in jail, and shot and killed by government agents. Fifty years later, we are repeating the mistakes of 1968. As Julian E. Zelizer writes for The Atlantic: Rather than deal with the way that racism was inscribed into American institutions, including the criminal-justice system, the government focused on building a massive carceral state, militarizing police forces, criminalizing small offenses, and living through repeated moments of racial conflict exploding into violence. “America looked away,” concludes Zelizer. Unfortunately, modern America is doing more than just looking away from the evils of racism, materialism and militarism in its midst. We have compounded those evils with ignorance, intolerance and fear. Callousness, cruelty, meanness, immorality, ignorance, hatred, intolerance and injustice have become hallmarks of our modern age, magnified by an echo chamber of nasty tweets and government-sanctioned brutality. “Despite efforts to curb hate speech, eradicate bullying and extend tolerance, a culture of nastiness has metastasized in which meanness is routinely rewarded, and common decency and civility are brushed aside,” observed Teddy Wayne in a New York Times piece on “The Culture of Nastiness.” Every time I read a news headline or flip on the television or open up an email or glance at social media, I run headlong into people consumed with back-biting, partisan politics, sniping, toxic hate, meanness and materialism. Donald Trump is, in many ways, the embodiment of this culture of meanness. Yet as Wayne points out, “Trump is less enabler in chief than a symptom of a free-for-all environment that prizes cutting smears… Social media has normalized casual cruelty.” Whether it’s unfriending or blocking someone on Facebook, tweeting taunts and barbs on Twitter, or merely using cyberspace to bully someone or peddle in gossip, we have become masters in the art of meanness. This culture of meanness has come to characterize many aspects of the nation’s governmental and social policies. “Meanness today is a state of mind,” writes professor Nicolaus Mills in his book The Triumph of Meanness, “the product of a culture of spite and cruelty that has had an enormous impact on us.” This casual cruelty is made possible by a growing polarization within the populace that emphasizes what divides us—race, religion, economic status, sexuality, ancestry, politics, etc.—rather than what unites us: we are all human. This is what writer Anna Quindlen refers to as “the politics of exclusion, what might be thought of as the cult of otherness.” She writes: Otherness posits that there are large groups of people with whom you have nothing in common, not even a discernible shared humanity. Not only are these groups profoundly different from you, they are also, covertly, somehow less: less worthy, less moral, less good. This sense of otherness is the single most pernicious force in American discourse. Its not-like-us ethos makes so much bigotry possible: racism, sexism, homophobia. It divides the country as surely as the Mason-Dixon line once did. And it makes for mean-spirited and punitive politics and social policy. As Quindlen rightly points out, only the deepest sense that “they” are not like us, that “they” do not love or live or hurt like us makes it possible to decree that they are undeserving of whatever rights and privileges we might claim for ourselves. This is more than meanness, however. This is the mindset adopted by the architects of the American police state. The aim is not merely dissension and division, although that is effective at keeping “we the people” under control. This is a psychopathic mindset at work. It doesn’t matter whether you’re talking about Democrats or Republicans. Political psychopaths are running the show and have been for the past 50 years or more. Such leaders eventually create pathocracies—totalitarian societies bent on power, control, and destruction of both freedom in general and those who exercise their freedoms. “At that point, the government operates against the interests of its own people except for favoring certain groups,” author James G. Long notes. “We are currently witnessing deliberate polarizations of American citizens, illegal actions, and massive and needless acquisition of debt. This is typical of psychopathic systems, and very similar things happened in the Soviet Union as it overextended and collapsed.” When our own government no longer sees us as human beings with dignity and worth but as things to be manipulated, maneuvered, mined for data, manhandled by police, conned into believing it has our best interests at heart, mistreated, jailed if we dare step out of line, and then punished unjustly without remorse—all the while refusing to own up to its failings—we are no longer operating under a constitutional republic. Instead, what we are experiencing is a pathocracy: tyranny at the hands of a psychopathic government, which “operates against the interests of its own people except for favoring certain groups.” Worse, psychopathology is not confined to those in high positions of government. It can spread like a virus among the populace. As an academic study into pathocracy concluded, “[T]yranny does not flourish because perpetuators are helpless and ignorant of their actions. It flourishes because they actively identify with those who promote vicious acts as virtuous.” People don’t simply line up and salute. It is through one’s own personal identification with a given leader, party or social order that they become agents of good or evil. To this end, “we the people” have become “we the police state.” By failing to actively take a stand for good, we have become agents of evil. It’s not the person in charge who is solely to blame for the carnage. It’s the populace that looks away from the injustice, that empowers the totalitarian regime, that welcomes the building blocks of tyranny. This realization hit me full-force recently. I had stopped into a bookstore and was struck by all of the books on Hitler, everywhere I turned. Yet had there been no Hitler, there still would have been a Nazi regime. There still would have been gas chambers and concentration camps and a Holocaust. Hitler wasn’t the architect of the Holocaust. He was merely the figurehead. Same goes for the American police state: had there been no Trump or Obama or Bush, there still would have been a police state. There still would have been police shootings and private prisons and endless wars and government pathocracy. Why? Because “we the people” have paved the way for this tyranny to prevail. By turning Hitler into a super-villain who singlehandedly terrorized the world—not so different from how Trump is often depicted—historians have given Hitler’s accomplices (the German government, the citizens that opted for security and order over liberty, the religious institutions that failed to speak out against evil, the individuals who followed orders even when it meant a death sentence for their fellow citizens) a free pass. The German people chose to ignore the truth and believe the lie. They were not oblivious to the horrors taking place around them. As historian Robert Gellately points out, “[A]nyone in Nazi Germany who wanted to find out about the Gestapo, the concentration camps, and the campaigns of discrimination and persecutions need only read the newspapers.” The warning signs were definitely there, blinking incessantly like large neon signs. “Still,” Gellately writes, “the vast majority voted in favor of Nazism, and in spite of what they could read in the press and hear by word of mouth about the secret police, the concentration camps, official anti-Semitism, and so on. . . . [T]here is no getting away from the fact that at that moment, ‘the vast majority of the German people backed him.’” Half a century later, the wife of a prominent German historian, neither of whom were members of the Nazi party, opined: “[O]n the whole, everyone felt well. . . . And there were certainly eighty percent who lived productively and positively throughout the time. . . . We also had good years. We had wonderful years.” In other words, as long as their creature comforts remained undiminished, as long as their bank accounts remained flush, as long as they weren’t being discriminated against, persecuted, starved, beaten, shot, stripped, jailed and turned into slave labor, life was good. This is how tyranny rises and freedom falls. None of us who remain silent and impassive in the face of evil, racism, extreme materialism, meanness, intolerance, cruelty, injustice and ignorance get a free pass. Those among us who follow figureheads without question, who turn a blind eye to injustice and turn their backs on need, who march in lockstep with tyrants and bigots, who allow politics to trump principle, who give in to meanness and greed, and who fail to be outraged by the many wrongs being perpetrated in our midst, it is these individuals who must shoulder the blame when the darkness wins. “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that,” King sermonized. The darkness is winning. It’s not just on the world stage we must worry about the darkness winning. The darkness is winning in our communities. It’s winning in our homes, our neighborhoods, our churches and synagogues, and our government bodies. It’s winning in the hearts of men and women the world over who are embracing hatred over love. It’s winning in every new generation that is being raised to care only for themselves, without any sense of moral or civic duty to stand for freedom. John F. Kennedy, killed by an assassin’s bullet five years before King would be similarly executed, spoke of a torch that had been “passed to a new generation of Americans—born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage—and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this nation has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home and around the world.” Once again, a torch is being passed to a new generation, but this torch is setting the world on fire, burning down the foundations put in place by our ancestors, and igniting all of the ugliest sentiments in our hearts. This fire is not liberating; it is destroying. We are teaching our children all the wrong things: we are teaching them to hate, teaching them to worship false idols (materialism, celebrity, technology, politics), teaching them to prize vain pursuits and superficial ideals over kindness, goodness and depth. We are on the wrong side of the revolution. “If we are to get on to the right side of the world revolution,” advised King, “we as a nation must undergo a radical revolution of values. We must rapidly begin the shift from a thing-oriented society to a person-oriented society.“ Freedom demands responsibility. Freedom demands that people stop sleep-walking through life, stop cocooning themselves in political fantasies, and stop distracting themselves with escapist entertainment. Freedom demands that we stop thinking as Democrats and Republicans and start thinking like human beings, or at the very least, Americans. Freedom demands that we not remain silent in the face of evil or wrongdoing but actively stand against injustice. Freedom demands that we treat others as we would have them treat us. That is the law of reciprocity, also referred to as the Golden Rule, and it is found in nearly every world religion, including Judaism and Christianity. In other words, if you don’t want to be locked up in a prison cell or a detention camp—if you don’t want to be discriminated against because of the color of your race, religion, politics or anything else that sets you apart from the rest—if you don’t want your loved ones shot at, strip searched, tasered, beaten and treated like slaves—if you don’t want to have to be constantly on guard against government eyes watching what you do, where you go and what you say—if you don’t want to be tortured, waterboarded or forced to perform degrading acts—if you don’t want your children to grow up in a world without freedom—then don’t allow these evils to be inflicted on anyone else, no matter how tempting the reason or how fervently you believe in your cause. As long as we continue to allow ignorance, intolerance, racism, militarism, materialism and meanness to trump justice, fairness and equality, there can be no hope of prevailing against the police state. Martin Luther King Jr. dared to dream of a world in which all Americans “would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” He didn’t live to see that dream become a reality. It’s still not a reality. We haven’t dared to dream that dream in such a long time. But imagine… Imagine what this country would be like if Americans put aside their differences and dared to stand up—united—for freedom… Imagine what this country would be like if Americans put aside their differences and dared to speak out—with one voice—against injustice… Imagine what this country would be like if Americans put aside their differences and dared to push back—with the full force of our collective numbers—against the evils of the police state… As I make clear in my book Battlefield America: The War on the American People, tyranny wouldn’t stand a chance. http://clubof.info/

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shelbymeyer131-blog · 7 years

Text

ESSAY I WROTE ON POSTMODERN ADS ( Images linked in paper)

_____

The Advertising Equivalent of Wearing Sunglasses Inside

It’s a little weird that when I started researching for this paper, when my brain was at its wit’s end with Fredrick Jameson, that I switched to reading a Thomas Pynchon novel. I was sitting in the same Los Angeles coffee shop where I’d read Less Than Zero last August; the same coffee shop across from the now-closed Tower Records, which had been decorated to look like it did in the late 80s. It looks legit, but behind the convincing facade is an empty shop. I wanted to take a break from postmodernism and was met with overwhelming postmodernism.

* * *

When I’m not reading postmodern novels, I’m trying my hardest to be a postmodern graphic designer. Postmodernism speaks to my soul; as much as it drives me crazy to research, it’s like an excuse to study stuff I actually care about in an serious context and still have it be valid. If it means I get to design book cover with a photo of traffic, Ralph Lauren ads, and 1960s computer graphics, then I’m happy to live in a postmodern world. There isn’t an official definition for postmodernism; the whole concept is pretty vague, and extremely controversial. The boiled down explanation consists of a fragmented reuse of existing imagery or ideas in a different cultural context, acknowledgement of medium, and less distinction between high and colloquial culture. Postmodernism is hallmarked by the existence of multiple yet coexisting identities or interpretations, and the realization that reality is a collage of things rather than one universal narrative. SPY magazine columnist Bruce Handy puts it best:

"It [postmodernism] can mean anything that's sort of old, but sort of new, a little bit ironic, or kind of self conscious-- like movies that steal bits from old movies, or photographs of the photographer. It's used in reference to creative endeavors that never had a modernist movement to begin with-- art forms such as music videos, rap songs, and panty-hose design. It's culturespeak shorthand for Stuff That's Cool in 1988.”

If I’m vain enough to claim I’m a postmodern designer, then I’m definitely vain enough to claim I’m a cool one too. Like postmodernism, “cool” is difficult to define because it’s applicable to a vast array of different contexts. My inclination is to list famous people (Keith Richards, James Dean, Debbie Harry, Jimi Hendrix, Kate Moss, et cetera, et cetera) but, while that seems to make perfect sense, it requires a bit more finesse of words. For something, or someone, to be cool, they must acknowledge a rule or cultural standard and deliberately subvert it. Specifically, a cool person understands what a rule means, deems it oppressive or wrong in some way, and decides that that particular rule no longer applies to them. In doing so, said cool person exhibits a certain confidence in their own judgement, deeming their opinion to be more correct than the established one. It’s important to note that the rules being broken aren’t THAT dangerous to other people (wearing all black is cool, murder is not) and that the actual break doesn’t stray too far from established.

It actually sounds a lot like the relationship between modernism and postmodernism. As David Harvey, in his book The Condition of Postmodernity: “We see postmodernism emerge as a full-blown though still incoherent movement out of the chrysalis of the anti-modern movement of the 1960s.” Postmodernism, knowing the strict rules of modernism, decided they no longer apply. Postmodernism is cool. I’m specifically interested in how this applies to advertisements; how the use of postmodern elements makes for cool ads.

The best place to start is with pastiche; it’s the most easily identifiable element of postmodernism, and one of my favorite things to see. It’s like an affectionate repurposing of a style or placing an existing style with its own context into a new one. It doesn’t modify the style to send a specific message, as done in parody, and it doesn’t necessarily intend to make the user think of it’s source. It’s like like unwrapping a present and reusing the wrapping paper, it can look the same from the outside, but the contents of the presents can be completely different.

Personally, I love when pastiche is used in advertising. The single most influential pieces of advertising, are the merchandise ads for Daft Punk’s 2013 album Random Access Memories. I’ve spent the past four years going on about how spectacular they are, using them as primary inspiration for multiple projects, including my conceptually driven sophomore studio capstone piece. I've admired the supposed realism of these ads, claiming that, in the right context, they’d be indeterminable from other advertisements from the 1970s. It’s true, they look like they could be found in old issues of Billboard or Circus. In the past, I’ve cited them as accurately depicting the style of that time period, but perhaps it isn’t. Pastiche is repurposing of a style not an time period. It isn’t the 70s being depicted, rather it’s the abstract "feeling" of the 70s (https://www.daftpunk.com/)

Fredric Jameson, in his paper Postmodernism, or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, uses the film Body Heat to better explain what it that “feeling” is. The film is set in the early 80s; the costuming, props, and demeanor of the characters enforce that, but the essence of the film feels like a 1930s film noir. Jameson argues that accurately capturing a time period is not possible to accurately capture a historical time period in term, rather it is the essence of how that time felt that is portrayed. In the case of Body Heat, it’s 1930s-ness.

Random Access Memories (and its ad campaign) is still a piece of 2013 culture but in terms of feeling and style, it is from the 1970s. Rather than capturing how the 70s accurately were, these ads aim to capture the feeling of 1970s-ness. It’s more than just an allusion to that time period, the immersive pastiche completely repurposes the disco visual style in a new time period. The ads confidently represents a world that doesn’t exist, that can’t exist because it never existed in the first place.

Recontextualization alone isn’t what makes these ads cool. What makes them cool is the confidence to use a style that isn’t particularly revered in retrospect. I don’t think I’ve heard a style of music made fun of more than disco, and my first concert was KC and the Sunshine Band. Disco doesn’t get the musical respect it maybe deserves (as a visual style it isn’t much better off), and yet these ads don’t hold back. What makes them cool, in addition to being a visually seamless pastiche, is that they’re affectionally recreating a notoriously unpopular style. Rather than recreate something established as cool, the ads recreate a style that isn’t. They're daring and boldly ignoring the cultural status of disco. Confidence in that embrace makes the band seem more genuine and less reliant on wide acceptance. It makes them more likable, and the ads more compelling.

I love pastiche, but it doesn’t have a ton of depth. Honestly, postmodernism design, as a movement, isn’t exactly known for its depth. This means that what you see is what you get; there doesn’t have to be philosophical implications behind visual choices; an ad is often just an ad. Mass cultural critic Julian Stallabrass, argues that, beginning in the 1980s, ads started to be seen as a cultural art form, and there was less distinction between an advertisement and what it was trying to sell. This can result in reliance on the medium, in this case, the fact that it’s an advertisement. I’ve always been drawn to ads that announce their status as ads; it feels honest and sarcastic. There’s something attractive about a self referential ad that talks down to its viewer. M&C Saachti’s minimalist masterpiece for Ketel One is one of my favorite ads. (http://mcsaatchi-la.com/portfolio/dear-ketel-one-2/)

Its minimal black text, in Ketel One logo type, rests in the upper left segment of a stark white surface; the ad is doing little to connect with what it’s selling, and yet I’m completely inthralled because it’s ‘cool’. Visually speaking, the only notable connection to the product is the banded type face; the rest stays completely neutral. It feels effortless and aloof. It begins by directly addressing the viewer, announcing it’s ad, and immediately apologizing for it’s existence. Seemingly, Ketel One is completely transparent in it’s marketing strategy: stripping away the pretty visuals and fluffy copy, directly stating a message, and acknowledging that the viewer isn’t so easily fooled. It even goes so far as to apologize for ads being manipulative in the past. I was tempted to believe this ad wasn’t trying to trick me into wanting Ketel One, but I couldn’t shake the sarcastic tone I was getting from it. Perhaps it isn’t as direct as it seems

Sure, on the surface Ketel One is telling me “this is an advertisement” but, what I’d argue they’re actually saying is “Yeah, we’re advertising because so and so executive says we need to, but we really shouldn’t have to. You should already know that Ketel One is great, and if you don’t already drink it, well, you’re the loser.” Maybe not in those exact words, but that’s certainly the tone I get. The goal isn’t genuine transparency, rather it’s using transparency to distance itself from how things are typically marketed. Rather than highlighting the positive aspects of the product and incising the viewer to buy it, this ad completely ignores this audience. It seems to confidently announce that Ketel One is great, regardless to if the viewer likes it or not. The ad dares the viewer to ignore it, the opposite of what ads are supposed to do. That’s what makes it cool, the confidence to be ambivalent toward the audience. It acknowledges that ads are supposed to be manipulative, blatantly deciding not to fall into those trends, and, interestingly, that makes the product more desirable. The viewers wants to buy Ketel One, not because it will make their life better, not because celebrities are drinking it, but because it makes them feel like they’re missing out on something they absolutely shouldn’t be missing out on. It piques interest in the product, without acknowledging any need for the viewer.

If Ketel One ignores the viewer through its self reference, Moschino outright insults them. If you don’t know, Moschino is a ridiculous Italian high-fashion house that often uses recognizable brands, like SpongeBob or McDonalds, in their designs. In this particular ad a photo of an expansive partly cloudy sky covers three quarters of the spread. Over the clouds reads in serifed text “this is an advertisement!” and below, in italicized script font “Couture!” The bottom quarter is filled with “MOSCHINO” in large black text. Visually, there isn’t anything denoting that Moschino is a fashion company. Honestly it feels very cliché. The copy appears to be self declarative and neutral but, upon closer inspection, is a direct insult. It's literally screaming "couture" at the viewer, as if to say “you wouldn’t know couture if it slapped you in the face, so here let me help you, MOSCHINO IS HIGH FASHION.” (http://www.dazeddigital.com/fashion/article/24523/1/cult-vault-moschino-s-rebellious-90s-ads)

Similarly to Ketel One, the strategy should push the viewer away, but since it’s confidently subverting established marketing techniques it seems more appealing. Seemingly, Moschino doesn’t care if it alienates some viewers, they don’t care about what they’re supposed to do.

Additionally, the cloud imagery feels more suited to the back of a 90s country CD or an Old Navy ad; it definitely doesn’t fit with standard high fashion imagery. Including both fancy and casual elements illustrate the postmodern concept of fragmentation. Rather than there being only one reality, the world is made up of tons of pieces. This made embracing more than one identity acceptable, and break down of the distinction between high and low culture. Fragmentation makes it acceptable that my parents to be yuppie deadheads, or me using drugstore eyeliner and $60 mascara. Moschino is using a cliché colloquial image of clouds and pairing it with they’re identity as a haute couture fashion company.

Even more directly than Moschino’s clouds, is Gucci’s meme culture. Unlike Moschino, Gucci aligns more strictly with high fashion culture, and yet their new line of watches are being marketed with meme imagery and informal text. One of the more recognizable ads, created by Instagram artist Derek Lucas, alludes to a still image from the children’s TV show Arthur. The original image of a clenched fist is often paired with situational text as a visualization of frustration. In the case of Gucci, the image is a photo recreation of the popular image with a Gucci watch on the wrist. The photo is accompanied by the phrase “When your girl doesn’t notice your new watch.” Other than the watch being in the ad, there is no call back to Gucci specifically, the name isn’t present at all. It’s supposed to look like a meme. (http://www.highsnobiety.com/2017/03/17/gucci-fashion-memes/)

Memes are made very quickly, and are not expertly planned before; unlike fashion, which takes months to prepare and thought about seasons in advance. They’re two extremely different worlds, and while the allusion could be seen as bridging the gap between a high fashion house and internet culture to expand the buying market; I don’t think that’s the case, especially since the watch pictured costs $850. Rather, I’d argue, it’s expanding the brand identity to include both expensive watches and dinky internet memes. It’s cool because Gucci is being inclusive of a style that it, historically, shouldn’t be inclusive of; it makes it feel like Gucci is purposely going against trends, but it somehow feels cringe inducing and isn’t very well liked. Objectively this is a cool ad, but it also feels like they spent a lot of money to make it look like they didn’t spend a lot of money.

A more likable example is the fantastic M&C Saatchi creations for the Getty Center in Los Angeles. These ads feature medieval, classical, and renaissance paintings paired with exploitative tabloid headlines. For examples, one highlights the piece Bathsheba Bathing, where a nude woman stands in a pool while a man in a window stares at her. Surrounding the painting, in all caps, is the phrase “’He just stood there staring at my bits!’ Full frontal seductress tells all in royal peeping tom scandal.” on an expressive red background. (https://www.coloribus.com/adsarchive/prints/getty-center-creepy-king-9582005/)

The strategy could be seen as making the museum feel more inclusive, mixing highly revered paintings with pulp magazine headlines, but I don’t think that’s the case. Instead, it’s attempting to make a stuffy museum in Brentwood, California (the heart of wealthy, scenic LA) feel more lively and scandalous. It’s taking the modernist sacredness of the museum and dirtying it up; making the rules no longer applicable. Using low culture to market an upscale museum, makes them seem cooler. It seemingly allows the viewer to notice the more exploitative elements of the paintings, something that shatters the strict rules typically held by art critics and museum connoisseurs. That breaking of identity rules falls in the category of ‘cool,’ and, since it doesn’t stray THAT far from the established, is also a successful rebrand of the Getty.

In general, I think that postmodern advertising is a positive trend, something that breaks away from the established is, to me at least, more likable. In the same way Chuck Klosterman claims that the villains are more compelling because of their high regard for themselves and bravado, cool ads can make what’s being advertised more attractive. I’d rather see subversive and style heavy marketing than a paragraph explaining why a product will make my life better. The opportunity to repurpose any style in any context is liberating, and the results look better on the wall than earlier ads. The rebellious spirit of postmodernism advertising is not only inspirational, but completely cool.

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gayatri001 · 7 years

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The Art of Creating Synchronicities: The 12 Keys to Experiencing Mystical Reality

The Twelve Rules of Kairomancy: How to Experience Synchronistic Reality

Kairomancy - the practice of navigating by synchronicities. Divination by special moments. Alternative version: making magic by seizing those special moments.

1. Whatever You Think or Feel, the Universe Says Yes Before you walk into a room or turn a corner, your attitude is there already. It is engaged in creating the situation (and potential synchronicity) you are about to encounter. Whether you are remotely conscious of this or not, you are constantly setting yourself up for what the world is going to give you.

What attitude am I carrying? What am I projecting?

“ideas are projected as a direct result of the force by which they are conceived and they strike wherever the brain sends them by a mathematical law comparable to that which directs the firing of shells from their mortars.” - Honoré de Balzac

synchronicity is ultimately a reflection of our own consciousness and perception.

“We are magnets in an iron globe,” declared Emerson. If we are upbeat and positive, “we have keys to all doors…T he world is all gates, all opportunities, strings of tension waiting to be struck.” Conversely, “A low, hopeless spirit puts out the eyes; skepticism is slow suicide. A philosophy which sees only the worst… dispirits us; the sky shuts down before us.”

2. Chance Favors the Prepared Mind

“creators actively court chance. They’re always ready to notice and amplify with insight some accident of their environment virtually everybody else thinks is trivial or fails to notice. This capacity is, in a deep sense, what makes creators creative.” --John Briggs

“The writing of a book gets under way when the writer discovers that he is magnetized in a certain direction… Then everything he comes across — even a poster or a sign or a newspaper headline or words heard by chance in a café or in a dream — is deposited in a protected area like material waiting to be elaborated.” --Roberto Calasso

3. Your Own Will Come to You

“I found that every intense imagination, every new adventure of the intellect [is] endowed with magnetic power to attract to it its own kin. Will and desire were as the enchanter’s wand of fable, and they drew to themselves their own affinities….One person after another emerged out of the mass, betraying their close affinity to my moods as they were engendered.” -- George Russell on the law of spiritual gravitation

What we feed our minds and our bodies attracts or repels different parts of ourselves as well as different people and different classes of spirits.

4. You Live in the Speaking Land

As Australian Aborigines say, we live in a Speaking Land. How well we can hear depends on how we use our senses, both inner and outer. How much we can use and understand depends on selection, on grasping what matters.

Spirits of place include the spirits and holographic memories of humans who have lived and loved and struggled on the land before us.

5. Grow Your Poetic Health

“The bottom of the mind is paved with crossroads,” -- Paul Valéry

Kairomancers take care of their poetic health by developing a tolerance for ambiguity and a readiness to see more angles and options than the surface mind perceives.

Pay attention when the same theme, or symbol, or image comes up again and again synchronistically, just as you might pay attention to recurring dreams. When a theme or situation comes at you again and again in dreams, that is often a signal that there is a message coming through that you need to read correctly — and that, beyond merely getting the message, you need to do something about it, to take action. It is the same with rhyming sequences and repeating symbols in waking life.

When you begin to notice a repetition of a certain situation in life, you may say, “Okay, we’re going around the track again. Maybe I want to make sure that I’m not just going around and around in my life in circles of repetition, but that I am on a spiral path.” Which would mean that each time life loops around to where you think you were before, you’ve risen to a slightly higher level, so you can see things with greater awareness and, hopefully, make better choices.

There is a whole education in the art of poetic living in Baudelaire’s poem “Correspondances”:

La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles; L’homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles Qui l’observent avec des regards familiers.

Nature is a temple whose living pillars Sometimes let slip mysterious messages; We walk here through a forest of symbols That watch us with knowing eyes.

Baudelaire, the urban dandy, has it exactly right: we are walking in a forest of living, synchronistic symbols that are looking at us. When we are in a state of poetic health, we understand that “the imagination is the most scientific of the faculties, because it is the only one to understand the universal analogy, or that which a mystical religion calls correspondence.”

6. Coincidence Multiplies on the Road

This refers both to outer movement and to inner transitions, especially when either carries you outside your normal rounds. You’re not just going through the constant rounds of your life. You’re out and about. You’re going somewhere new.

Nonetheless, unless you’ve changed your eyes, you won’t see the new things. You have to have different eyes in order to see different landscapes. Even so, it is generally true that when we are in movement, not in the familiar rut, we are more likely to notice and to generate and experience coincidence.

The bigger side of it is that when we are in motion in terms of life passages, including challenging passages, when we are falling in or out of love, falling in or out of relationships, when birth or death is in the field, coincidence and synchronicity tends to multiply not just in our perception, but in objective reality. It multiplies because everything is astir. Things are not constant. They are themselves in motion.

“If I think that my life is linked to the dramas of other people in other times and that I have inherited karma from what they did or did not do, maybe I can reach back to them, launching from the moment of Now. Maybe my thoughts and actions now help or hinder in their own time — which is also now — and may be more helpful as I rise to greater consciousness of how all this works.”

It is possible to operate with these two seemingly contradictory visions of reality: linear karma in Chronos time and the simultaneity of synchronistic experience in the multiverse in a spacious Now. It is like the observation in physics that something can be both a particle and a wave, and you will see it one way or the other according to how you observe it.

7. By What You Fall, You May Rise

When we are seized by terrible emotions of rage or grief in our own lives, we can choose to try to harness the raw energy involved and turn it — like a fire hose — toward creative or healing action.

You will want to remember that on the path of transformation and synchronicity, you reach a point where you break down or you break through, and sometimes the breakdown comes before the breakthrough.

Sometimes a fair amount of Chronos time is required to appreciate what Emerson called “the compensations of calamity.” He wrote that such compensations become apparent “after long intervals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. But the sure years reveal the remedial force that underlies all facts.”

8. Invoked or Uninvoked, Gods Are Present

“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous,”

In the Odyssey, as in ancient Greek society, dreams and visions are the most important mode of divination and signposts of synchronicity.

Consciously or unconsciously, we walk on a kind of mythic edge. Just behind that gauzy veil of ordinary understanding, there are other powers, beings who live in the fifth dimension or dimensions beyond. To them, our lives may be as open as the lives of others would be to us if we could fly over the rooftops — and nobody had a roof on their house, and we could look in and see it from every possible angle.

A kairomancer is always going to be willing to look for the hidden hand in the play of coincidence and synchronicity, and to turn to more than one kind of oracle to check on the exact nature of the game.

9. You Walk in Many Worlds

Part of the secret logic of our lives is that we are all connected to counterpart personalities — Seth calls them “probable selves” — living in other times and other probable universes. Their gifts and challenges can become part of our current stories, not only through linear karma, but through the synchronistic interaction now across time and dimensions. The dramas of past, future, or parallel personalities can affect us now. We can help or hinder each other.

In the model of understanding I have developed, this family of counterpart souls is joined on a higher level by a sort of hub personality, an “oversoul,” a higher self within a hierarchy of higher selves going up and up. The choices that you make, the moves that you make, can attract or repel other parts of your larger self.

The hidden hand suggested by synchronistic events may be that of another personality within our multidimensional family, reaching to us from what we normally perceive as past or future, or from a parallel or other dimension.

10. Marry Your Field

“The poet marries the language, and out of this marriage the poem is born.” --W. H. Auden,

What is your field? It’s not work in the ordinary sense, or what your diplomas say you are certified to do, or how you describe yourself in a job résumé — although it can encompass all of those things. Your field is where you ache to be. Your field is what you will do, day or night, for the sheer joy of the doing, without counting the cost or the consequences. Your field is the territory within which you can do the Work that your deeper life is calling you to do. Your field is not limitless. You can’t bring anything into creative manifestation without accepting a certain form or channel, which requires you to set limits and boundaries. So your field is also the place within which the creative force that is in you will develop a form.

And out of this constancy — through tantrums and all — will come that blaze of synchronous creation when the sun shines at midnight, when time will stop or speed up for you, as you will when you are so deep in the Zone that no move can be wrong. Depending on your choice of theme and direction, you may find you are joined by other creative intelligences, reaching to you synchronistically from across time and dimensions in that blessed union that another poet, Yeats, defined as the “mingling of minds.”

When the sun no longer shines at midnight, when you are back on clock time, you won’t waste yourself regretting that today you’re not in the Zone. You are still married. You’ll do the work that now belongs to the Work.

11. Dance with the Trickster

The Gatekeeper is one of the most important archetypes that is active in our lives and is one of the keys to calling in more synchronicities. He or she is that power that opens and closes our doors and roads. The Gatekeeper is personified in many traditions: as the elephant-headed Ganesa in India; as Eshu/Eleggua in West Africa; as Anubis in ancient Egypt; as Hermes or Hecate in ancient Greece.

Trickster is the mode the Gatekeeper — that power that opens doors in your life — adopts when you need to change and adapt and recover your sense of humor. If you are set in your ways and wedded to a linear agenda, the Trickster can be your devil. If you are open to the unexpected gift of synchronicity, and willing to turn on a dime (or something smaller), the Trickster can be a very good friend.

The Trickster will find ways to correct unbalanced and overcontrolling or ego-driven agendas, just as spontaneous night dreams can explode waking fantasies and delusions. Our thoughts shape our realities, but sometimes they produce a distinctly synchronistic boomerang effect. The Trickster wears animal guise in folklore and mythology, appearing as the fox or the squirrel, as spider or coyote or raven.

The well-known psychic and paranormal investigator Alan Vaughan tells a great story against himself about the peril of taking synchronistic signs too seriously. He read that Jung had noted a perfect correspondence between the number of his tram ticket, the number of a theater ticket he bought the same day, and a telephone number that someone gave him that evening.

Vaughan decided to make his own experiment with numbers that day in Freiburg, where he was taking a course. He boarded a tram and carefully noted the ticket number, 096960. The number of the tram car itself was 111. He noticed that if you turned the numbers upside down, they still read the same. He was now alert for the appearance of more synchronistic reversible numbers. Still focused on his theme of upside-down numbers, he banged into a trash can during his walk home. He observed ruefully, “I nearly ended by being upside down myself.” When he inspected the trash can, he saw that it bore a painted name: JUNG.

It was impossible not to feel the Trickster in play. Alan felt he had been reminded — in an entirely personal way — that the further we go with this stuff, the more important it is to keep our sense of humor.

A title of Eshu, who is both Trickster and Gatekeeper in the Yoruba tradition of West Africa, is Enforcer of Sacrifice. He is the one who makes sure that the gods receive their offerings. The price of entry may be a story, told with humor.

12. The Way Will Show the Way

Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar.

Wayfarer, there is no way, you make the way by walking it.

Make it up as you go along Make it up as you go along Make it up Make it up The way will show the way

Make it up Shake it up Fake it up Bake it up The fox may know the way The star will light the way The dream will show the way The heart will find the way The way will show the way

Creating Synchronicities: The Oath of the Kairomancer

Twelve rules for the kairomancer, and one OATH, which will help us to remember the heart of the practice. To navigate by synchronicity and catch those Kairos moments, we need to be:

1. Open to new experience;

2. Available, willing to set aside plans and step out of boxes;

3. Thankful, grateful for secret handshakes and surprises; and ready to

4. Honor our special moments by taking appropriate action.

#sychronicity #symbols #oracles

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