tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226585002775487749.post6256011505022026319..comments2008-08-19T23:14:32.876-07:00Comments on Late-Imperial Literary London: Stream of consciousnessSnehalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01010164012306770474noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8226585002775487749.post-26693676473967458982008-08-06T13:26:00.000-07:002008-08-06T13:26:00.000-07:00I don't know that the gender issue would ever have...I don't know that the gender issue would ever have occurred to Joyce but I think he was trying to write from Stephen's point of view in every period of his life. I'm not sure that this is true stream of consciousness writing, certainly not when you compare it with "Ulysses." Joyce very definitely filters what thoughts we are privy to in "Portrait." In "Ulysses" he not only gets inside the head of his character but virtually stands back and lets us experience everything that passes through the character's mind without any kind of filter. <BR/><BR/>Here's a passage I found online from Chapter 4 in "Ulysses." there's nothing like it in "Portrait."<BR/> <BR/>He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Be a warm day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Black conducts, reflects (refracts is it?) the heat. But I couldn't go in that light suit. Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as he walked in happy warmth. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Makes you feel young. Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at dawn, travel round in front of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Walk along a strand, strange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning on a long kind of a spear. Dander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged smoking a coiled pipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Wander along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well, meet him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques along the pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal, the evening wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A mother watches from her doorway. She calls her children home in their dark language. High wall: beyond strings twanged. Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. Strings. Listen. A girl playing one of those instruments what do you call them: dulcimers. I pass.Richard Rossihttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16144316321730070148noreply@blogger.com