Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. Talbot repeated:

—Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, Through the dear might…

—Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don’t see anything.

—What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward. His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer’s heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar’s, to God what is God’s. A long look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the church’s looms. Ay. Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro. My father gave me seeds to sow. Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.

—Have I heard all? Stephen asked.

—Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.

 —Half day, sir. Thursday.

From “Ulysses,” by James Joyce

One century has passed since Ulysses was published.  Many considered it the most influential novel of world literature. Academic institutions celebrate this occasion. Twain said that “a classic is a book which people praise and don’t read.” I have tried three times to read this impenetrable work. Every time I start, I reach a further chapter in the book.  Like Picasso’s painting, this abstract writing attempts to trigger images of our emotions rather than those of reality.  I highlighted the above snippet the first time I read this book. Joyce writes, “Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.” Were these outlandish paragraphs and dialogues the result of drunken nights?  Maybe.  I have begun to re-read Ulysses. I will let you know the outcome.