A fost odată ca niciodată, la un liceu mai superior din București…
Lecția de zi: perspectiva narativă. Ca să înțelege și copchiii cu ce se papă narațiunea, sclavii aceștia au fost rugați să rescrie un paragraf de literatură engleză, ales din trilioanele de paragrafe care s-au scris deja, dintr-o altă perspectivă. Ca de obicei, grupa în care sunt eu atrage cele mai nenorocite subiecte, deci cu asta am avut de-a face:
Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were awfully holy, weren’t you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O si, certo! Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still! On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: naked women! What about that, eh?
What about what? What else were they invented for?
Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.
(James Joyce – Ulysses)
…șiii asta ne-a ieșit:
He never thought of him becoming a saint. He used to prove his so-called innocence by praying to be spared of the red nose. And besides, in his prayers in the Serpentine avenue mingled frivolous things, perverted thoughts that were twisting inside his dirty conscience.
He used to be a harsh adept of criticism, blaming his youth for praising himself in front of the mirrors. Paradoxically, his sarcasm often went so far as he ended up calling himself an idiot and even throw blessings for that, realising, however, that all of his concerns brought no improvement to his condition.
Twirling thoughts of letters and words from the seven books he used to read at the same time sentenced him to everlasting dreams of glory, when he would have found his his masterpieces in bookstores all over the world.
Copyrightul se împarte între cele două genii pustiitoare din banca a treia și aliatul lor de încredere (nume de cod: Georgică). Rest in torment, James Joyce. Cine citește toată cartea asta fără bătăi de cap și o și pricepe are o partidă gratis de la mine.