L’Esprit’s commemorative issue celebrating Bloomsday and Dalloway Day on the centennial of Ulysses.
Contents
- The Waste Land, Dion Farquhar
- The Title Wouldn’t Be Mine, Either, Ryan F. Love
- Cordie’s Call, Claude Clayton Smith
- Writing the Days Away, Pippa Alexander
- Buck Mulligan Meets Mrs. Dalloway, G. M. Monks
- Drawing Modigliani, Robert Wallace
- We’ll To The Woods Once More, D. W. White
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The Waste Land
the boys asked: What do you want?
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The Title Wouldn’t Be Mine, Either
All those pretty horses gallop away, running from the cities of the plain and into the expanse where I cannot see. Before they broke my hold I shepherded them as far as I could, or drove them—whatever the term is for horses. They want a land my borrowed words cannot paint.
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Cordie’s Call
The telephone is ringing and ringing. It is nine o’clock in the morning. He is sitting in the Florida room, sitting in the folding chair by the rickety card table, staring through the screen of the open sliding glass door. He sees Ursula on the diving board about to do one of her fancy dives. She…
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Writing the Days Away
I have been here many times before. I love how crisp the air is, and how the wind swishes around me; like it is enveloping me in a comforting hug. I watch people from here blindly weaving through the crowds. They look like ants from where I stand, and I feel in these split seconds…
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Buck Mulligan Meets Mrs. Dalloway
Years have flown by and here I am, Buck Mulligan, having the pleasure—if pleasure is the right word and right words have served me well although wrong obfuscating, even clever misspelled ones, have their literary worth worth and what am I worth—of soon meeting Mrs. Clarissa Dalloway at one of her parties in this year 1924.
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Drawing Modigliani
The bed is empty beside her—she feels the emptiness. He’s been with her less lately. She knows he’s back to drinking. He was with her last night, but then he left. What time was that? She scours her memory—did he even return? When she was out with her mother yesterday, she thought she saw Cocteau slipping into…
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We’ll To The Woods Once More
As with all art forms, there are to be found in fiction various movements, lineages, schools, questions, and, indeed, problems. For those who, with any degree of seriousness, study, consume, and attempt literature, there is an infinite supply of specific areas of investigation, turns within turns, subterranean Undergrounds of rabbit holes.
in mediam mentem // modernday22
L'Esprit Literary Review 