Nabokov "Strong Opinions" （インタービューと評論など）を読んでいる。
以下の答えは気がきいてるし、もってまわってて（Pompous）笑った。できたら日本語にしてみる。 http://lib.ru/NABOKOW/Inter01.txt
（Do you like being interviewed?）
Well, the luxury of speaking on one theme-- oneself-- is a sensation not to be despised.
**As an admirer of Borges and Joyce you seem to share their pleasure in teasing the reader with tricks and puns and puzzles. What do you think the relationship should be between reader and author?
I do not recollect any puns in Borges but then I read him only in translation. Anyway, his delicate little tales and miniature Minotaurs have nothing in common with Joyce's great machines. Nor do I find many puzzles in that most lucid of novels, Ulysses.
On the other hand, I detest Finnegans Wake in which a cancerous growth of fancy word-tissue hardly redeems the dreadful joviality of the folklore and the easy, too easy, allegory.
The old drunk guy is singing this song toward the beginning of the film "Clockwork Orange".
I figured it must be a real Irish folksong, but for about 20 years I was never sure.
1. In Dublin's fair city,
Where girls are so pretty,
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,
As she pushed her wheelbarrow
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"!
「インテリ」タイプではなかったと思う。 Noraみたいな感じを想像する。 http://www.online-literature.com/james_joyce/
Joyce's mother, Mary Jane Murray, was ten years younger than her husband. She was an accomplished pianist, whose life was dominated by the Roman Catholic Church. In spite of their poverty, the family struggled to maintain a solid middle-class facade.
After graduation in 1902 the twenty-year-old Joyce went to Paris, where he worked as a journalist, teacher and in other occupations under difficult financial conditions. He spent a year in France, returning when a telegram arrived saying his mother was dying. Not long after her death, Joyce was traveling again.
The opening lines of The Song of Roland. The pagan villain invokes Mohammed and Apollo. http://www.galileolibrary.com/history/history_page_76.htm
Charles the King, our Lord and Sovereign,
Full seven years hath sojournèd in Spain,
Conquered the land, and won the western main,
Now no fortress against him doth remain,
No city walls are left for him to gain,
Save Sarraguce, that sits on high mountain.
Marsile its King, who feareth not God's name,
Mahumet's man, he invokes Apollin's aid,
Nor wards off ills that shall to him attain.
18：James Joyce Love Letter Sells for Record $447,298 at Auction：2004/07/13(火) 01:15
``Joyce is hot because he's the best writer of the century, and because he had the good grace to die leaving a small canon,''
He writes in the letter of his ``ungovernable lust'' for his wife, who had threatened to leave him. He compares her to a ``strange-eyed whore'' and signs the letter, ``Heaven forgive my madness.''
最後の章はテンもマルもないＭの回想というか意識の流れというやつですな中略
今日のお昼のボイランたら大きなおちんちんだわね馬のようだわね中略
そういえばあの彫刻のおちんちんはきれいで口に入れたくなったわね中略
ああ遠くで列車の汽笛が聞こえるわ Once in the dear dead days beyond recall 中略
Ｂがプロポーズした時のことを思い出すわ二人で海の見える丘の上に登って
そしてＢがわたしにキスして私は目でもう一度言ってと言ったのよｙｅｓ
わたしは腕をＢの首にまわして下に引き寄せて私の胸が感じられるようにそして香水ｙｅｓ
心臓はもうはやくはやく鳴っていたそして私はこう答えたＹｅｓ
I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.
My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music. My pleasures are the most intense known to man: writing and butterfly hunting.
http://www.generationterrorists.com/quotes/the_great_gatsby.html
And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further... And one fine morning -
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of my tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms, she was always Lolita.
http://www.bartleby.com/200/sw4.html
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality.
