Happy Birthday, Watch. Hopefully no spidermen in Barcelona!
Samuel Becket, that’s the one !
There’s Estragon, and his mate, sitting under a tree, waiting for Godot who may or may not show up.
Nothing much happens.
It’s really brilliant.
Ulysses, however, I’m going through a rough patch. There’s been the funeral, and the trip to the editor’s office, and now I’ve no idea what to make of what they’re all thinking, it’s like babel, and makes no sense.
It’s a strange sort of a book, one gets in to it, sometimes. At other times, it reads like the ravings of a madman, and I mean that literally – not as in “mad ravings”, but as in the sort of train of thought one might expect of someone not quite right in the head: Drifting all over the place thinking strange disjointed thoughts.
Ulysses by James Joyce, that is. Not my comments, I hope 🙂
Oh look, a topt off the tptage ! But it’s off to dreamland, perchance to sleep. Or it is the other way ’round ?
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