Far Back, Far Back In

My God, What A Clumsy Olla Putrida James Joyce Is! Nothing But Old Fags And Cabbage Stumps Of Quotations From The Bible And The Rest, Stewed In The Juice Of Deliberate, Journalistic Dirty-mindedness—what Old And Hard-worked Staleness, Masquerading As The All-new!

Reason Is A Supple Nymph, And Slippery As A Fish By Nature. She Had As Leave Give Her Kiss To An Absurdity Any Day, As To Syllogistic Truth. The Absurdity May Turn Out Truer.

If I Had My Way, I Would Build A Lethal Chamber As Big As The Crystal Palace, With A Military Band Playing Softly, And A Cinematograph Working Brightly; Then I'd Go Out In The Back Streets And Main Streets And Bring Them In, All The Sick, The Halt, And The Maimed; I Would Lead Them Gently, And They Would Smile Me A Weary Thanks; And The Band Would Softly Bubble Out The 'hallelujah Chorus'.

This Spring As It Comes Bursts Up In Bonfires Green, Wild Puffing Of Emerald Trees, And Flame-filled Bushes, Thorn-blossom Lifting In Wreaths Of Smoke Between Where The Wood Fumes Up And The Watery, Flickering Rushes. I Am Amazed At This Spring, This Conflagration Of Green Fires Lit On The Soil Of The Earth, This Blaze Of Growing, And Sparks That Puff In Wild Gyration, Faces Of People Streaming Across My Gaze.

I Cannot Be A Materialist - But Oh, How Is It Possible That A God Who Speaks To All Hearts Can Let Belgravia Go Laughing To A Vicious Luxury, And Whitechapel Cursing To A Filthy Debauchery - Such Suffering, Such Dreadful Suffering - And Shall The Short Years Of Christ's Mission Atone For It All?