But we know that we are no longer the same, and not only know that we are no longer the same, but know in what we are no longer the same, you wiser but not sadder, and I sadder but not wiser, for wiser I could hardly become without grave personal inconvenience, whereas sorrow is a thing you can keep on adding to all your life long, is it not, like a stamp or egg collection.
@Seedling@thepoliticalcat
“I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance…. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right.” — #SamuelBeckett
According to David Norris, a Dublin senator and a leading Joyce scholar, the first official celebration of Bloomsday is held on its twenty-fifth anniversary on 16 June 1929. That night, Joyce is the guest of honour at a dinner party held at Les Vaux de Cernay, a village near Versailles. 1/2
After dinner, Joyce and his protege, Samuel Beckett, “get pretty tight,” Norris says. On the way home, frustrated by the frequency of requests, Joyce and Beckett are making for pit stops, the carriage driver decides not to wait for Joyce’s drinking buddy to return from the pissoir, and leaves Beckett “ingloriously abandoned on the outskirts of Paris”. 2/2