Archetype
01-26-2009, 11:12 PM
I'm running through a lot of material on or from the romantic period, and [to me] it's pretty interesting to read the different styles, even during this period. It got me thinking about Joyce's Portrait, and the boys' discussion on the greatest poet.
Not in any way necessary to read this for the thread, but I like the passage:
As soon as the boys had turned into Clonliffe Road together they began
to speak about books and writers, saying what books they were reading
and how many books there were in their fathers' bookcases at home.
Stephen listened to them in some wonderment for Boland was the dunce
and Nash the idler of the class. In fact, after some talk about their
favourite writers, Nash declared for Captain Marryat who, he said, was
the greatest writer.
--Fudge! said Heron. Ask Dedalus. Who is the greatest writer, Dedalus?
Stephen noted the mockery in the question and said:
--Of prose do you mean?
--Yes.
--Newman, I think.
--Is it Cardinal Newman? asked Boland.
--Yes, answered Stephen.
The grin broadened on Nash's freckled face as he turned to Stephen and
said:
--And do you like Cardinal Newman, Dedalus?
--O, many say that Newman has the best prose style, Heron said to the
other two in explanation, of course he's not a poet.
--And who is the best poet, Heron? asked Boland.
--Lord Tennyson, of course, answered Heron.
--O, yes, Lord Tennyson, said Nash. We have all his poetry at home in a
book.
At this Stephen forgot the silent vows he had been making and burst out:
--Tennyson a poet! Why, he's only a rhymester!
--O, get out! said Heron. Everyone knows that Tennyson is the greatest
poet.
--And who do you think is the greatest poet? asked Boland, nudging his
neighbour.
--Byron, of course, answered Stephen.
Heron gave the lead and all three joined in a scornful laugh.
--What are you laughing at? asked Stephen.
--You, said Heron. Byron the greatest poet! He's only a poet for
uneducated people.
--He must be a fine poet! said Boland.
--You may keep your mouth shut, said Stephen, turning on him boldly.
All you know about poetry is what you wrote up on the slates in the
yard and were going to be sent to the loft for.
Boland, in fact, was said to have written on the slates in the yard a
couplet about a classmate of his who often rode home from the college
on a pony:
As Tyson was riding into Jerusalem
He fell and hurt his Alec Kafoozelum.
This thrust put the two lieutenants to silence but Heron went on:
--In any case Byron was a heretic and immoral too.
--I don't care what he was, cried Stephen hotly.
--You don't care whether he was a heretic or not? said Nash.
--What do you know about it? shouted Stephen. You never read a line of
anything in your life except a trans, or Boland either.
--I know that Byron was a bad man, said Boland.
--Here, catch hold of this heretic, Heron called out. In a moment
Stephen was a prisoner.
--Tate made you buck up the other day, Heron went on, about the heresy
in your essay.
--I'll tell him tomorrow, said Boland.
--Will you? said Stephen. You'd be afraid to open your lips.
--Afraid?
--Ay. Afraid of your life.
--Behave yourself! cried Heron, cutting at Stephen's legs with his
cane.
It was the signal for their onset. Nash pinioned his arms behind while
Boland seized a long cabbage stump which was lying in the gutter.
Struggling and kicking under the cuts of the cane and the blows of the
knotty stump Stephen was borne back against a barbed wire fence.
--Admit that Byron was no good.
--No.
--Admit.
--No.
--Admit.
--No. No.
At last after a fury of plunges he wrenched himself free. His
tormentors set off towards Jones's Road, laughing and jeering at him,
while he, half blinded with tears, stumbled on, clenching his fists
madly and sobbing.
While he was still repeating the CONFITEOR amid the indulgent laughter
of his hearers and while the scenes of that malignant episode were
still passing sharply and swiftly before his mind he wondered why he
bore no malice now to those who had tormented him. He had not forgotten
a whit of their cowardice and cruelty but the memory of it called forth
no anger from him. All the descriptions of fierce love and hatred which
he had met in books had seemed to him therefore unreal. Even that night
as he stumbled homewards along Jones's Road he had felt that some power
was divesting him of that sudden-woven anger as easily as a fruit is
divested of its soft ripe peel.So, I wonder which poet does yall like, above the rest? How much does the given list suck? Is Shakespeare the cop-out answer? English language, since that's what I knows.
There is a poll coming...
Not in any way necessary to read this for the thread, but I like the passage:
As soon as the boys had turned into Clonliffe Road together they began
to speak about books and writers, saying what books they were reading
and how many books there were in their fathers' bookcases at home.
Stephen listened to them in some wonderment for Boland was the dunce
and Nash the idler of the class. In fact, after some talk about their
favourite writers, Nash declared for Captain Marryat who, he said, was
the greatest writer.
--Fudge! said Heron. Ask Dedalus. Who is the greatest writer, Dedalus?
Stephen noted the mockery in the question and said:
--Of prose do you mean?
--Yes.
--Newman, I think.
--Is it Cardinal Newman? asked Boland.
--Yes, answered Stephen.
The grin broadened on Nash's freckled face as he turned to Stephen and
said:
--And do you like Cardinal Newman, Dedalus?
--O, many say that Newman has the best prose style, Heron said to the
other two in explanation, of course he's not a poet.
--And who is the best poet, Heron? asked Boland.
--Lord Tennyson, of course, answered Heron.
--O, yes, Lord Tennyson, said Nash. We have all his poetry at home in a
book.
At this Stephen forgot the silent vows he had been making and burst out:
--Tennyson a poet! Why, he's only a rhymester!
--O, get out! said Heron. Everyone knows that Tennyson is the greatest
poet.
--And who do you think is the greatest poet? asked Boland, nudging his
neighbour.
--Byron, of course, answered Stephen.
Heron gave the lead and all three joined in a scornful laugh.
--What are you laughing at? asked Stephen.
--You, said Heron. Byron the greatest poet! He's only a poet for
uneducated people.
--He must be a fine poet! said Boland.
--You may keep your mouth shut, said Stephen, turning on him boldly.
All you know about poetry is what you wrote up on the slates in the
yard and were going to be sent to the loft for.
Boland, in fact, was said to have written on the slates in the yard a
couplet about a classmate of his who often rode home from the college
on a pony:
As Tyson was riding into Jerusalem
He fell and hurt his Alec Kafoozelum.
This thrust put the two lieutenants to silence but Heron went on:
--In any case Byron was a heretic and immoral too.
--I don't care what he was, cried Stephen hotly.
--You don't care whether he was a heretic or not? said Nash.
--What do you know about it? shouted Stephen. You never read a line of
anything in your life except a trans, or Boland either.
--I know that Byron was a bad man, said Boland.
--Here, catch hold of this heretic, Heron called out. In a moment
Stephen was a prisoner.
--Tate made you buck up the other day, Heron went on, about the heresy
in your essay.
--I'll tell him tomorrow, said Boland.
--Will you? said Stephen. You'd be afraid to open your lips.
--Afraid?
--Ay. Afraid of your life.
--Behave yourself! cried Heron, cutting at Stephen's legs with his
cane.
It was the signal for their onset. Nash pinioned his arms behind while
Boland seized a long cabbage stump which was lying in the gutter.
Struggling and kicking under the cuts of the cane and the blows of the
knotty stump Stephen was borne back against a barbed wire fence.
--Admit that Byron was no good.
--No.
--Admit.
--No.
--Admit.
--No. No.
At last after a fury of plunges he wrenched himself free. His
tormentors set off towards Jones's Road, laughing and jeering at him,
while he, half blinded with tears, stumbled on, clenching his fists
madly and sobbing.
While he was still repeating the CONFITEOR amid the indulgent laughter
of his hearers and while the scenes of that malignant episode were
still passing sharply and swiftly before his mind he wondered why he
bore no malice now to those who had tormented him. He had not forgotten
a whit of their cowardice and cruelty but the memory of it called forth
no anger from him. All the descriptions of fierce love and hatred which
he had met in books had seemed to him therefore unreal. Even that night
as he stumbled homewards along Jones's Road he had felt that some power
was divesting him of that sudden-woven anger as easily as a fruit is
divested of its soft ripe peel.So, I wonder which poet does yall like, above the rest? How much does the given list suck? Is Shakespeare the cop-out answer? English language, since that's what I knows.
There is a poll coming...