http://ecclesialuniversity.ca/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/pop_c08a_004.jpg John Bunyan “The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678) https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/39/Southerne_Oroonoko_1776_performance.jpg/2 20px-Southerne_Oroonoko_1776_performance.jpg Aphra Behn Orinooko ( 1688) Thomas Sprat (1653-1713) 1667 London coffee house William III (reigned 1689-1702) 1962/1989 1719 https://i.ytimg.com/vi/dogKtjrdvMA/hqdefault.jpg Daniel Defoe: Robinson Crusoe (1719) https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/43/Gullivers_travels.jpg Jonathan Swift ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ (1726) https://pagesofjulia.files.wordpress.com/2012/07/mollflanders.jpg (1722) http://pictures.abebooks.com/isbn/9780486796277-us-300.jpg 1740 http://www.otago.ac.nz/library/exhibitions/18thc/cabinet12/12richardsonpb.jpg Samuel Richardson (1748) http://www.allyoucanbooks.com/sites/default/files/imagecache/book_cover_medium/ebook-cover/Apology% 20Life%20Shamela%20Andrews_Fielding.jpg Henry Fielding : ‘Shamela’ (1741) http://www.allyoucanbooks.com/sites/default/files/imagecache/book_cover_medium/ebook-cover/Joseph%2 0Andrews,%20Volume%201_Fielding.jpg ‘Joseph Andrews’ (1742) https://yooniqimages.blob.core.windows.net/yooniqimages-data-storage-resizedimagefilerepository/Det ail/10231/48787ccb-0d16-474b-a69e-185346eb4271/YooniqImages_102312008.jpg http://www.bl.uk/learning/timeline/english/all/tomjones.jpg ‘Tom Jones’ (1749) http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LGwoP5dV8Ts/TomuoAm37kI/AAAAAAAAAtg/1EHDme8DeOU/s400/Albert+Finney+Tom+Jo nes.PNG https://i.ytimg.com/vi/oWEx40H3Qu8/hqdefault.jpg http://emanuellevy.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/tom_jones_5.jpg https://thesouloftheplot.files.wordpress.com/2014/02/tomandmolly_tomjones.jpg http://www.bfi.org.uk/films-tv-people/sites/bfi.org.uk.films-tv-people/files/styles/gallery_full/pu blic/image/tom-jones-bfi-00n-pqi.jpg?itok=EBYPS7AE http://www.fractiousfiction.com/sitebuilder/images/tristram_shandy-300x235.jpg Laurence Sterne ‘Tristram Shandy’ (1759-67) https://libshelflife.files.wordpress.com/2011/09/the-castle-of-otranto.jpg (1764) http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3hNiLFTlMAw/TgkV2qWUKTI/AAAAAAAADt8/6GBwply5VWs/s1600/evelina.jpg 1778 http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51Z7MITA3cL._SX314_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg (1794) http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1179168942l/882108.jpg (1800) http://ottmag.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/jane-austen-quotes-6.png (1775-1817) https://gatherednettles.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/northanger-abbey-by-austen-meadows.jpg Northanger Abbey https://images.rapgenius.com/866f388dd944cc2501e677b22febf488.1000x563x1.jpg Sense and Sensibility (1811) http://www.vam.ac.uk/b/sites/default/files/styles/vam_colorbox/public/villa/submissions/balbusso_pr ide_prejudice02.jpg?itok=Iez1O8fL Pride and Prejudice 1813 https://booksandreviews.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/mansfieldpark.jpg (1814) It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a good wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters. “My Dear Mr Bennet,” said his lady to him one day,“have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?” Mr Bennet replied that he had not. “But it is,”, returned she; “for Mrs Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.” Mr Bennet made no answer. “Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.” “You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.” This was invitation enough. http://i.onionstatic.com/avclub/5365/60/16x9/960.jpg Emma (1815) http://www.janeitejournal.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Persuasion-2007-persuasion-2619145-400-266 .jpg Persuasion (1818) https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a7/Sir_Henry_Raeburn_-_Portrait_of_Sir_Walter_Scot t.jpg Sir Walter Scott (1771- 1832) http://www.mirrorservice.org/sites/gutenberg.org/5/9/9/5998/5998-h/images/Titlepage.jpg Walter Scott Waverley (1814) http://www.scotiana.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/Rob-Roy-Walter-Scott-Oxford-Worlds-Classics-.jpg https://shereadsnovels.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/the-heart-of-midlothian.jpg (1816) http://bookbanter.co.uk/davidpurdie/files/2012/06/Ivanhoe.jpg (1820) http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bf/William_Makepeace_Thackeray_by_Jesse_Harrison_Wh itehurst-crop.jpg William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863) Vanity Fair (1847) http://ia.media-imdb.com/images/M/MV5BMTk5NTYyMTUxOF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwOTI4NTYxMQ@@._V1._CR4,30,258, 441_UY1200_CR36,0,630,1200_AL_.jpg 1847-8 http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1179771588l/954193.jpg 1844 http://theredlist.com/media/database/settings/cinema/1970-1980/barry-lyndon/024-barry-lyndon-thered list.jpg http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Observer/Columnist/Columnists/2011/9/26/1317046410264/Charles-D ickens-007.jpg Charles Dickens (1812-1870) 1836 http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xCJpowar2kY/UlfMk37tprI/AAAAAAAADkQ/TXvRRUQS1Ug/s1600/The-Pickwick-Papers -image.jpg (1836-7) http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02123/pickwick_2123775b.jpg http://image0-rubylane.s3.amazonaws.com/shops/barkusfarm/A5476.1L.jpg https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f5/Olivertwist_front.jpg Oliver Twist (1837-9) http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2011/08/23/article-2029334-0D8BA00E00000578-238_468x286.jpg http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U5SiFA1EyYs/VX5aMJRpdbI/AAAAAAABGf4/FAudxf4h7P8/s1600/Sir.PNG Fagin https://wynstep.files.wordpress.com/2015/12/1425009-1947-oliver-twist.jpg Bill Sykes https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/6e/c4/c3/6ec4c34b098945a4ac6efe5a4c954fae.jpg (1840-1) http://charlesdickenspage.com/illustrations_web/The_Old_Curiosity_Shop/The_Old_Curiosity_Shop_71.jp g The Death of Little Nell https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/99/Charles_Dickens-A_Christmas_Carol-Title_page-Fi rst_edition_1843.jpg (1843) http://pasadenahistory.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/Scrooge-from-Charles-Dickens-A-Christmas-Caro l-image-by-John-Leech-public-domain.jpg Scrooge http://www.achievement.org/library/bookcovers/DavidCoppe_0.jpg (1849-50) https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4a/Bleakhouse_serial_cover.jpg (1852-3) London. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor Sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets, as if the waters had but newly Retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow flakes – gone into mourning, one might imagine for the death of the sun. Dogs undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas, in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest. The Condition of England Novel http://blogs.r.ftdata.co.uk/westminster/files/2012/10/disraeli.jpg Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881) https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/88/Sybil.jpg/220px-Sybil.jpg Sybil or The Two Nations (1845) 1820-95 The Condition of the Working Class in England (1845/1887/1891) 1848 https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1c/Elizabeth_Gaskell_7.jpg Elizabeth Gaskell (1810-1865) 1848 https://nightmaresdaydreamsandimaginedconversations.files.wordpress.com/2011/12/n85853.jpg North and South (1854-5) https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/ab/The_Bront%C3%AB_Sisters_by_Patrick_Branwell_Bro nt%C3%AB_restored.jpg The Bronte Sisters https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d3/CharlotteBrontePortrait.jpg Charlotte Bronte (1816- 1855) http://lovelace-media.imgix.net/uploads/758/0180f290-bb8d-0132-46b9-0e9062a7590a.jpg? Jane Eyre (1847) http://a4.files.biography.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,g_face,h_300,q_80,w_300/MTE5NTU2M zE2MTY1NDczODAz.jpg Emily Bronte (1818-1848) Wuthering Heights (1847) ‘This is nothing’, cried she: ‘I was only going to say that heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out on into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights where I awoke sobbing for joy. * * * * My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight but necessary. Nelly I am Heathcliff! http://a5.files.biography.com/image/upload/c_fit,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,h_1200,q_80,w_1200/MTE4MDAzNDEwNzg 2ODc4OTkw.jpg Anne Bronte (1820- 1849) https://bramanswanderings.files.wordpress.com/2015/02/penguin-3.jpg?w=500 (1847) http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_dJIlRvI824Y/TUcYZn50izI/AAAAAAAAAQI/w-jwRpWUQXo/s1600/Hard+Times+01.jpg (1854) http://wp-schoolbook.s3.amazonaws.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/gradgrind-cartoon1.jpg Mr Gradgrind http://www.loyalbooks.com/image/detail/Little-Dorrit.jpg (1855-7) http://www.loyalbooks.com/image/detail/Our-Mutual-Friend.jpg (1864-5) https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/2b/09/88/2b09889e3262e42c6e30b9c3d7b5a18d.jpg (1860-1) http://images-cdn.moviepilot.com/images/c_fill,h_388,w_620/t_mp_quality/cjxr637rjsfpd5ze5hj9/david- lean-s-great-expectations-1946-film-the-definitive-version-revisited-771711.jpg Magwitch http://www.bl.uk/britishlibrary/%7E/media/bl/global/english-online/collection-items-manual/u/n/k/un known-poster-nt__anthony_wager_ssg24951.jpg Miss Havisham http://therumpus.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/Trollope.jpg Anthony Trollope (1815-1882) https://thecaptivereader.files.wordpress.com/2011/12/the-warden.jpg 1855 http://www.openlettersmonthly.com/issue/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/twwln.jpg 1875 http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/55/George_Eliot_2.jpg George Eliot (1819- 1880) http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1327194481l/301348.jpg (1859) https://shelflove.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/mill_on_the_floss.jpg 1860) http://www.connectberlin.de/bookclub/Cover_pictures/middlemarch_eliot.jpg (1871-2) Nor can I suppose that when Mrs Casaubon is discovered in a fit of weeping six weeks after her wedding, the situation will be regarded as tragic. That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency, has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity. http://www.openlettersmonthly.com/issue/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/EliotDanielDeronda.jpg (1876) http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02825/thomas-hardy-2_2825734b.jpg Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1178724039l/825901.jpg (1872) http://images.contentful.com/7h71s48744nc/4FppvZseFa0MSwoAqkqKki/fbffb1a17c10ee77afcf55a93f84f134/f ar-from-the-madding-crowd-cover-image.jpg (1874) http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PcCMOUan_fc/UM52VLm3n7I/AAAAAAAACvE/WMR3Vc6JuQw/s1600/Madding+Crowd.jpg http://images2.static-bluray.com/reviews/11371_5.jpg http://movie-dude.co.uk/Image%20FftMCLoc%2026.jpg https://heavenali.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/return.jpg (1878) https://beckylindroos.files.wordpress.com/2013/11/landscape.jpg A Saturday afternoon in November was approaching the time of twilight, and the vast tract of unenclosed wild known as Egdon Heath embrowned itself moment by moment. Overhead the hollow stretch of whitish cloud shutting out the sky was as a tent which had the whole heath for its floor. The heaven being spread with this pallid screen and the earth and the earth with their darkest vegetation, their meeting-line at the horizon was clearly marked. In such contrast the heath wore the appearance of an instalment of night which had taken up its place before its astronomical hour was come: darkness had to a great extent arrived hereon, while day stood distinct in the sky. Looking upwards, a furze-cutter would have been inclined to continue work; looking down, he would have decided to finish his faggot and go home. The distant rims of the world and of the firmament seemed to be a division of time no less than a division of matter. https://legacyofjane.files.wordpress.com/2014/04/tess-of-the-durbervilles-by-thomas-hardy1.jpg (1891) https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/39/b8/71/39b8714b30cadbb396b6d00f110efa3f.jpg http://i.onionstatic.com/avclub/5023/62/16x9/960.jpg https://madbibliophile.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/judeobscure.jpg (1895) 1895 British Modernisms Theophile Gautier (1811-1872) L’art pour l’art Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880) Madame Bovary (1856) Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867 Les Fleurs du Mal (1857) The Flaneur Flaneur taking a lobster for a walk Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) ‘A Season in Hell’ (1873) Stephane Mallarme (1842-1898) John Ruskin (1819-1900) 1843 to 1860 Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (John Millais) Walter Pater (1839-94) Gerard Manley Hopkins (1884- 1889) Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) Friedrich Nietzsche (1844- 1900) The Birth of Tragedy (1872) Genealogy of Morals (1887) Ivan Sergejevic Turgenev (1818-1883) Fathers and Sons (1862) Henry James (1843-1916) William James (1842-1910) The Turn of the Screw (1898) The Portrait of a Lady (1881) Joseph Conrad (1857-1924) 1899 Nostromo (1904) Ford Madox Ford (formerly Ford Madox Hueffer) (1873-1939) with James Joyce (centre) and Ezra Pound (right) 1915 Ezra Pound (1885-1972) William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) T.S.Eliot (1888-1965) For once I saw myself saw with my own eyes, the Sibyl at Cumae, hanging in a cage, and when the boys said to her ‘Sibyl, what do you want’, she answered ‘I want to die.’ From the ‘Satyricon’ by Petronius (c.27-66 A.D) 1943 E.M. Forster(1879-1970) A Room With A View (1908) 1985 1910 1924 1984 D.H. Lawrence (1880- 1930) Sons and Lovers (1913) 1915 Women in Love (1920) 1928,Italy 1960, England ‘Tha’s got such a nice tail on thee,’ he said, in the throaty carressive. ‘Tha’s got the nicest arse of anybody.It’s the nicest, nicest woman’s arse as is! An ‘ivery bit of it is woman, woman sure as nuts. Thar’t not one o’ them button-arsed lasses as should be lads, art,ter! Tha’s got a real soft sloping bottom on thee, as man loves in his guts. It’s a bottom as could hold up the world, it is!’ All the while he spoke he exquisitely stroked the rounded tail, till it seemed as if a slippery sort of fire came from it into his hands. And his finger-tips touched the two secret openings to her body, time after time, with a soft little brush of fire. ‘An’ if tha’ shits an’ if tha pisses, Im glad. I don’t want a woman as couldn’t shit nor piss.’ Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) 1922 1925 But this question of love (she thought, putting her coat away), this falling in love with women. Take Sally Seton; her relation in the old days with Sally Seton. Had not that, after all, been love? * * * The strange thing, on looking back, was the purity, the integrity of her feeling for Sally. It was not like one’s feeling for a man. It was completely disinterested, and besides, it had a quality which could only exist between women, between women just grown up…. …the charm was overpowering, to her at least, so that she could remember standing in her bedroom at the top of the house holding the hot water-can in her hands and saying Aloud, ‘She is beneath this roof…She is beneath this roof!’ 1927 She could have wept. It was bad, it was bad, it was infinitely bad. She could have done it differently of course; the colour could have been thinner and faded; the shapes etherealized; that was how Pauncefort would have seen it. But then she did not see it like that. She saw the colour burning on a framework of steel; the light of a butterfly’s wing lying upon the arches of a cathedral. Of all that only a few random marks scrawled upon the canvas remained. And it would never be seen; never be hung even, and there was Mr Tansley whispering in her ear, ‘Women can’t paint, women can’t write…’ James Joyce (1882-1941) Dubliners (1914) 1916 1922 A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willow patterned dish: the last. He stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it too, calling the items from a slip in her hand. Chapped: washing soda. And a pound and a half of Denny’s sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips. Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. New blood. No followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the clothesline. She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack. The ferretyeyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Sound meat there like a stalled heifer. Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it. Perpetuating national hatred among nations. - But do you know what a nation means? says Joe Wyse. -Yes, says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same place. -By God, then says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for I’m living in the same place for the past five years. * * * - Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? Says the citizen. -I’m talking about injustice says Bloom…Force, hatred, all that. That’s not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that’s it’s the very opposite of that that is really life. -What? Says Alf. -Love says, Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, he says to John Wise. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin is still there. (pp.430-2 Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14 A lovesMary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the girl that has the bicycle. M.B. loves a fair gentleman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Poo Chow. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle with the eartrumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turned in eye. The man in the brown mackintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You love a certain person. And this person loves that other person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody. (p.433) Finnegans Wake (1939) Loonely in my loneness. For all their faults. I am passing out. O bitter ending. I’ll slip away before they’re up. They’ll never see. Not know. Nor miss me. And it’s old and old it’s sad and old it’s sad and weary I go back to you my cold father, my cold mad father, my cold mad feary father, till the near sight of the mere size of him, the moyle and moyles of it, moananoaning, makes me seasilt saltsick and I rush, my only into your arms. I see them rising! Save me form those therrble prongs! Two more. Onetwo moremens more. S. Aleval. My leaves have drifted from me…Yes, tid. There’s where. First. We pass through brass. Behush the bush to. Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far call. Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Tillthousends thee. Lps.The keys to. Given. A way a lone a last a loved a long the Paris 1922-1939 Modern Irish Drama http://www.telegraph.co.uk/content/dam/books/2015-09/30sept/Wilde-xlarge.jpg Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) http://roundtherocktx.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/maxresdefault-2.jpg https://lagosbooksclub.files.wordpress.com/2013/09/17788-the-importance-of-being-earnest.jpg http://img.rp.vhd.me/4658790_l4.jpg http://d3rm69wky8vagu.cloudfront.net/photos/large/3.158614.jpg The Importance of Being Earnest: A Trivial Comedy for Serious People by Oscar Wilde (1895) Algernon: Did you hear what I was playing, Lane? Lane: I didn’t think it polite to listen, sir. Algie: I’m sorry for that for your sake. I don’t play accurately – anyone can play accurately – but I play with wonderful expression. As far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte. I keep science for life. Lane: Yes, sir. Algie: And, speaking of the science of life, have you got the cucumber sandwiches cut for Lady Bracknell? Lane: Yes, sir Algie: Oh!... By the way Lane, I see from your book that on Thursday night, when Lord Shoreman and Mr Worthing were dining with me, eight bottles of champagne are entered as having being consumed. Lane: Yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint. Algie: Why is it that at a bachelor’s establishment the servants invariably drink the champagne? I ask merely for information. Lane: I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I have often observed that in married households the champagne is rarely of a first-rate brand. Algie: Good heavens! Is marriage so demoralising as that? Lane: I believe it is a very pleasant state, sir. I have had very little experience of it myself up to the present. I have only been married once. That was in consequence of a misunderstanding between myself and a young person. Algie: I don’t know that I am much interested in your family life, Lane. Lane: No, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. I never think of it myself. Algie: Lane’s views on marriage seem somewhat lax. Really, if the lower orders don’t set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them? They seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moral responsibility. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/content/dam/books/2015-11/nov01/george-bernardshawmain.jpp-large.jpg George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950) http://www.benchtheatre.org.uk/plays80s/pygmalionimage.jpg http://watchinsomemovies.files.wordpress.com/2010/11/37-my-fair-lady1.jpg http://blackbirdtheater.com/wp-content/uploads/photo-gallery/Man-and-Superman/superman-poster-990w. jpg John Bull’s Other Island by George Bernard Shaw (1907) Broadbent: All the capable people in Ireland are of English extraction. It has often struck me as a most remarkable circumstance that the only party in parliament which shows the genuine old English character and spirit is the Irish party. Look at its independence, its determination, its defiance of bad Governments, its sympathy with oppressed nationalities all the world over! How English! Doyle: Not to mention the solemnity with which it talks old fashioned nonsense which it knows perfectly well to be a century behind the times. That’s English, if you like. Br: No, Larry no. You are thinking of the modern hybrids that now monopolize England. Hypocrites, humbugs, Germans, Jews, Yankees, foreigners, Park Laners, cosmopolitan riffraff. Don’t call them English. They don’t belong to the dear old island, but to their confounded new empire; and by George! they’re worthy of it; and I wish them joy of it. Doyle: My dear Tom, you only need a touch of the Irish climate to be as big a fool as I am myself. If all my Irish blood were poured into your veins, you wouldn’t turn a hair of your constitution and character. Go and marry the most English Englishwoman you can find, and then bring up your son in Rosscullen; and that son’s character will be so like mine and so unlike yours that everyone will accuse me of being the father. [With sudden anguish] Rosscullen! Oh, good Lord, Rosscullen! The dullness! the hopelessness! the bigotry! Broadbent: [matter-of-factly] The usual thing in the country, Larry. Just the same here. Doyle: No, no: the climate is different. Here, the life is dull, you can be dull too, and no great harm done [Going off into a passionate dream] But your wits can’t thicken in that soft moist air, on those white springy roads, in those misty rushes and brown bogs, on those hillsides of granite rock and magenta heather. You’ve no such colours in the sky, no such lure in the distances… …It’s all dreaming, all imagination. He can’t be religious. The inspired Churchman that teaches him the sanctity of life and the importance of conduct is sent away empty; while the poor village priest that gives him a miracle or a sentimental story of a saint, has cathedrals built for him out of the pennies of the poor. He can’t be intelligently political: he dreams of what the Shan Van Vocht said in ninetyeight. If you want to interest him in Ireland you’ve got to call the unfortunate island Kathleen ni Hoohlihan and pretends she’s a little old woman. It saves thinking. It saves working. It saves everything except imagination, imagination, imagination; and imagination’s such a torture that you can’t bear it without whisky. http://api.ning.com/files/4MXCALxsrL1PxgUQbgzqrD8Zg3HdEhwY*s3BQ7eaXFQvGpRKVbV9hDvBcTjI3bqAIJoJOd*Pn J2f2FQQFt-CU4kTMP*EHzil/johnmsynge.jpg J.M. Synge (1871-1909) The Playboy of the Western World by John Millington Synge (1907) http://api.ning.com/files/4MXCALxsrL3m646hilBjjkT*rWxOLGF88MigUuOwUaik2HB-F1Z-hMRQr3mSfSSLyGAIVrukF vAkd5WkvI9FWAy-WXyX0aX4/playboy_western_world.jpg http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvwliin7fI1qce9kx.jpg http://culturespotla.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/PWW.jpg http://www.aristheatre.org/images/shows/Aris-PotWW-04.jpg Philly: Well, that lad’s a puzzle of the world. Jimmy: He’d beat Dan Davies’ circus or the holy missioners Making sermons on the villainy of man. Try him again, Philly. Philly: Did you strike golden guineas out of solder, young fellow, or shilling coins itself? Christy: I did not mister, not a sixpence nor a farthing coin. Jimmy: Did you marry three wives maybe? I’m told there’s a sprinkling have done that among the holy Luthers of the preaching north. Christy: (shyly) I never married with one, let alone a couple or three. Philly: Maybe he went fighting for the Boers, the like of the man beyond, was judged to be hanged, quartered and drawn. Were you off east young fellow, fighting bloody wars for Kruger and the Boers? Christy: I never left my own parish till Tuesday was a week. Pegeen: (coming from counter) He’s done nothing, so. (To Christy ) If you didn’t commit murder, or a bad, nasty thing, or false coining, or robbery, or butchery, or the like of them, there isn’t anything would be worth your troubling for to run from now. You did nothing at all. Christy: (his feelings hurt) That’s an unkindly thing to be saying to a poor orphaned traveller, has a prison behind him, and hanging before, and hell’s gaping below. Pegeen: (with a sign to the men to be quiet) You’re only saying it. You did nothing at all. A soft lad the like of you wouldn’t slit the windpipe of a screeching sow. Christy (offended ) You’re not speaking the truth. Pegeen: (in mock rage) Not speaking the truth, is it? Would you have me knock the head of you with the butt of the broom? Christy: (twisting round on her with a sharp cry of horror). Don’t strike me. I killed my poor father, Tuesday was a week, for doing the like of that. Pegeen: (with blank amazement) Is it killed your father? Christy: (subsiding) With the help of God I did surely, and that the Holy Immaculate Mother may intercede for his soul. Philly: (retreating with Jimmy) There’s a daring fellow. Jimmy: Oh, Glory be to God! Michael: (with great respect) That was a hanging crime, mister honey. You should have had good reason for doing the like of that. Christy: (in a very reasonable tone) He was a dirty man, God forgive him, and he getting old and crusty, the way I couldn’t put up with him at all. Pegeen: And you shot him dead? Christy:(shaking his head) I never used no weapons. I’ve no licence, and I’m a law-fearing man. Michael: It was with a hilted knife maybe? I’m told, in the big world, it’s bloody knives they use. Christy:(loudly, scandalized) Do you take me for a slaughter- boy? Pegeen: You never hanged him, the way Jimmy Farrell hanged his dog from the licence, and had it screeching and wriggling three hours at the butt of a string, and himself swearing it was a dead dog, and the peelers swearing it had life? Christy: I did not then. I just riz the loy and let fall the edge of it on the ridge of his skull, and he went down at my feet like an empty sack, and never let a grunt or groan from him at all. http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--dwgEhiaBdw/T5ZCfYTG5KI/AAAAAAAAEY8/oqRmPbKYOi8/s1600/easter_rising_irela nd_strike_1913.jpg http://combatace.com/uploads/post-32273-1240462271.jpg http://www.liberalhistory.org.uk/uploads/libhist5.jpg http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BvDadI7ehc0/T5ZEApVccZI/AAAAAAAAEZ8/0reNlt_URUc/s1600/sigscomposite.png http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/2e/Thomas_MacDonagh.png/220px-Thomas_MacDonag h.png Thomas Macdonagh http://easter1916.ie/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/people_mcbride.png John MacBride http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qO171BA401A/UVWbnjcwfOI/AAAAAAAAIIY/AVj35gaMGaw/s400/con2.jpg Constance Markiewicz http://www.laphamsquarterly.org/sites/default/files/styles/tall_rectangle_custom_user_large_1x/publ ic/images/contributor/yeats_360x450.jpg?itok=ZTqJMXlJ from Easter 1916 by W.B. Yeats Easter 1916 I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born That woman’s days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful She rode to harriers? This man kept a school And rode our winged horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed So daring and sweet in thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road, The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute thy change; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-cocks call; Minute by minute they live: The stone’s in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven’s part, our part, To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know that they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse – MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly; A terrible beauty is born. September 25,1916 from Ulysses by James Joyce (1922) https://tulsajoyce.files.wordpress.com/2013/09/joyce-1902.jpg http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02940/sylviajoyce_2940850b.jpg http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01977/joyce_1977858b.jpg http://www.turnau.cz/sites/default/files/images/James-Joyces-Ulysses-005.jpg (Staggering Bob, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with humid nostrils through the foliage) BLOOM: Simply satisfying a need. (With pathos) No girl would when I went girling. Too ugly. They wouldn’t…_ (High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nanny goat passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants) THE NANNYGOAT: (Bleats) Megegaggeg! Nannananny! BLOOM: (Hatless, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsepine.) Regularly engaged. Circumstances alter cases.(He gazes intently downwards on the water) Thirtytwo head over heels per second. Press nightmare. Giddy Elijah. Fall from cliff. Sad end of government printer’s clerk. (Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom, rolled in a mummy, rolls rotatingly from the Lion’s Head cliff into the purple waiting waters) THE DUMMYMUMMY: Bbbbblllllbbblblodschbg? https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR5WQAeb8k8A8yUAqnalpdKeyce7QGF7S_70wHCpPeGQTv 175mm http://web.vipwiki.org/media/cache/1966522/samuel-beckett.jpg http://www.onlinegalerij.nl/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/samuel-beckett.jpg Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett (1952) http://i0.wp.com/meanderite.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/waitingforgodotw-1024x768.jpg?fit=1024%2 C768 Vladmir (Didi): What do we do now? Estragon (Gogo): Wait. Didi: Yes, but while we’re waiting? Gogo: What about hanging ourselves? Didi: Hmm. It’d give us an erection. Gogo: (Highly excited.) An erection! Didi: With all that follows. Where it falls mandrakes grow.That’s why they shriek when you pull them up. Did you know that? Gogo: Let’s hang ourselves immediately! Dodo: From a bough? [They go towards the tree.] I wouldn’t trust it. Gogo: We can always try. Didi: Go ahead. Gogo: After you Didi: No, no, you first. Gogo: Why me? Didi: You’re lighter than I am. Gogo: Just so. Didi: I don’t understand. Gogo: Use your intelligence, can’t you? [Vladimir uses his intelligence] Didi:[Finally] I remain in the dark Gogo: This is how it is [He reflects] The bough… The bough… [Angrily] Use your head, can’t you? Didi: You’re my only hope. Gogo: Gogo light – bough not break – Gogo dead. Didi heavy – bough break – Didi alone. Whereas – Didi: I hadn’t thought of that. Gogo: If it hangs you it’ll hang anything. Didi: But am I heavier than you? Gogo: So you tell me. I don’t know. There’s an even chance. or nearly. Didi: Don’t let’s do anything. It’s safer. Gogo:Let’s wait and see what he says. Gogo: Who? Didi: Godot. https://static01.nyt.com/images/2015/10/03/arts/03friel-obit-4/03friel-obit-4-blog427.jpg Translations by Brian Friel (1981) https://drama.washington.edu/sites/drama/files/styles/large/public/images/translations-02.jpg?itok= pG_tOYiH https://therealchrisparkle.files.wordpress.com/2014/03/translations038-568x320.jpg http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01760/Translations_Sarah_1760747c.jpg http://www.studynotes.ie/wp-content/themes/studynotes.ie/img/thumb.php?src=http://www.studynotes.ie /wp-content/uploads/2013/08/Screen-Shot-2012-06-14-at-12.46.59-e1376659574521.png&w=620&h=270 https://www.princeton.edu/main/images/news/2006/10/IMG_1245-i2.jpg Maire: Lieutenant George. Yolland: Don’t call me that. I never think of myself as a lieutenant. Maire: What-what? Yolland: Sorry-sorry? (He points to himself again.) George. Maire nods: Yes-yes. Then points to herself. Maire: Maire Yolland: Yes, I know you’re Maire. Of course I know you’re Maire. I’ve been watching you night and day for the past… Maire: (eagerly) What –what? Yolland: (Points.). Maire. (Points.) George. (Points both) Maire and George. Maire nods: Yes-yes-yes. I-I-I Maire: Say anything at all. I love the sound of your speech. Yolland: (eagerly) Sorry-sorry? In acute frustration looks round, hoping for some inspiration that will provide him with communicative means. Now he has a thought: he tries raising his voice and articulating in a staccato style and with equal and absurd emphasis on each word. Every-morning-I-see-you-feeding-brown-hens-and-giving-meal-to-black-calf (the futility of it) – O my God. Maires smiles. She moves towards him. She will try to communicate in Latin. Maire: Tu es centurio – in –in-in exercitue Britannico – Yolland: Yes-yes? Go on – go on – say anything at all. I love the sound of your speech. Maire: - et es in castris quae – quae – quae sunt in agro – (the futility of it) – O my God. Yolland smiles. He moves towards her. Now for her English words. George – water. Yolland: ‘Water’? Water! Oh yes – water –water – very good – water – good –good. Maire: Fire. Yolland: Fire – indeed – wonderful – fire, fire, fire – splendid – splendid! Maire: Ah…ah… Yolland: Yes? Go on. Maire: Earth. Yolland: ‘Earth’? Maire: Earth. Earth. Yolland still does not understand. Maire stoops down and picks up a handful of clay. Holding it out. Earth Yolland: Earth! Yes, of course – earth! Earth. Earth. Good Lord, Maire, your English is perfect! * * * * * * Yolland: Maire. She moves away. Maire Chatach She still moves away. Bun na habhan? (He says the name softly, almost privately, very tentatively, as if he were searching for a sound he might respond to. He tries again. Druim Dubh? Maire turns towards him. She is listening. Yolland is encouraged. Poll na gCoarach. Lis Maol. Maire turns towards him. Lis na nGall. Maire: Lis na nGradh. They are now facing each other and begin moving – almost impreceptibly – towards one another. Carraig an Phoill. Yolland: Carraig na Ri. Loch na nEan. Maire: Loch an Iubhair. Machaire Buidhe. Yolland: Machaire Mor. Cnoc na Mona. Maire: Cnoc na nGhabar. Yolland: Mullach. Maire: Port. Yolland: Tor. Maire: Lag. She holds out her hands to Yolland. He takes them. Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) Theophile Gautier (1811-1872) Stephane Mallarme (1842-1898) Ford Madox Ford, James Joyce, Ezra Pound Originally Published 1915 Marcel Duchamp: ‘Fountain’ 1917 Tracey Emin: ‘My Bed’ (1998) T.S. Eliot: 1920 E.M. Forster (1872-1970) A Room with A View (1908) Howard’s End (1910) Maurice (1913/14) A Passage to India (1924) D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) James Joyce (1882-1941) Dubliners (1914) A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) Ulysses (1922) Finnegans Wake (1939) Virginia Woolf (1882- 1941) Jacob’s Room (1922) Mrs Dalloway (1925) To The Lighthouse (1927) Orlando (1928) The Waves (1931) But this service in King’s College – why allow women to take part in it? Surely, if the mind wanders (and Jacob looked extraordinarily vacant, his head thrown back, his hymn-book open at the wrong place), if the mind wanders it is because several hat shops and cupboards upon cupboards of coloured dresses are displayed upon rush-bottomed chairs. Though heads and bodies may be devout enough, one has a sense of individuals – some like blue, others brown; some feathers, others pansies and forget-me-nots. No one would think of bringing a dog into church. For though a dog is all very well on a graveled path and shows no disrespect to flowers, the way he wanders down an aisle, looking, lifting a paw, and approaching a pillar with a purpose that makes the blood run cold with horror (should you be one of a congregation – alone, shyness is out of the question, a dog destroys the service completely. So do these women – though separately devout, distinguished and vouched for by the theology, mathematics, Latin, and Greek of their husbands. Heaven knows why it is. For one thing, thought Jacob they’re as ugly as sin. WE ARE TRANSMITTERS As we live, we are transmitters of life. And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to throw through us. That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards. Sexless people transmit nothing. And if as we work, we can transmit life into our work, life, still more life, rushes in to compensate, to be ready and we ripple with life through the days. Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool, if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding, good is the stool, content is the woman, with fresh life rippling into her, content is the man. Give, and it shall be given unto you is still the truth about life. But giving life is not so easy. It doesn’t mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up. It means kindling the life quality where it was not, Even if it’s only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief. Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyrining Impethnthn thnthnthn. Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips. Horrid! And gold flushed more. A husky fifenote blew. Blew. Blue bloom is on the Gold pinnacled hair. A jumping rose on satiny breasts of satin, rose of Castille. Trilling, trilling: Idolores. Peep! Who’s in the peep of gold? Tink cried to bronze in pity. And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying call. Decoy. Soft word. But look! The bright stars fade. O rose! Notes chirruping answer. Castille. The morn is breaking. Jingle jingle jaunted jingling. Coin rang Clock clacked. Avowal.Sonnez I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. La cloche! Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye. Jingle. Bloo. Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs. War! War! The tympanum. A sail! A veil upon the waves. Lost throstle fluted. All is lost now. Horn. Hawhorn. When first he saw. Alas! Full tup. Full throb. Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring. Martha! Come! Clapclop. Clipclop. Clappyclap. Goodgod henev erheard inall. Deaf bald pat brought pad knife took up. A moonlight call: far : far. I feel so sad. P.S. so lonely blooming. Listen! Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923) Dorothy Richardson (1873-1957) Evelyn Waugh (1903-1966) Graham Greene (1904-1991) George Orwell (1903-1950) Samuel Beckett (1906-1989)