L’Esprit’s first annual commemorative issue celebrating Bloomsday and Dalloway Day
- 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
the boys asked: What do you want?
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.
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 has turned the large wheel on the diving board to obtain the maximum spring. But the telephone is ringing and ringing. He lets it ring.
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 I know them; and yet they know nothing of me. Sometimes I stand here for so long the weather and skyline changes. It has often felt the season could have changed. The golden sun slowly rises and peaks out from behind the buildings, whilst people negotiate the space around each other, wrapped up heavily against the cold.
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.
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 a café, the tail of his charcoal-black long coat clinging to his heels. She wondered if her mother had noticed. The baby had kicked right then, as if it had known its father sat inside drinking red wine.
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.