To Him Who Has Nothing

The Sun Shone, Having No Alternative, On The Nothing New.

But I Was Not Made For The Great Light That Devours, A Dim Lamp Was All I Had Been Given, And Patience Without End, To Shine It On The Empty Shadows.

James Joyce: His Writing Is Not About Something. It Is The Thing Itself.

What Do We Do Now, Now That We Are Happy?

Let Us Do Something, While We Have The Chance! ... Let Us Make The Most Of It, Before It Is Too Late! Let Us Represent Worthily For One The Foul Brood To Which A Cruel Fate Consigned Us!