Word: joycean
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...rare heroes. O'Casey can also bring himself to toss a rhetorical posy: "Oh, Shaw, there is not your equal now! When shall we see your like again!" A roguish wordmonger, O'Casey peppers each page with Joycean puns and wordplays, e.g., Tea Deum, imaginot line, the rust was silence. Ever the dramatist, O'Casey savors his exit with ..a tender salute to old age and a last toast to life: "The sun has gone, dragging her gold and green garlands down . . . Soon it will be time to kiss the world goodbye...
Poet Grudin's aim is simply to do the same job all over again in a Times Square accent. His hero is "Louie Bloom Jerce, the inky darkling," i.e., a Joycean "jerk" whose attachment to writing has made him black as ink and a bit of an Irish "darlin"' into the bargain. This opus is Inky's "histree" - which means, of course, both "his tree" and personal "history." Inky admits that, unlike Jerce, he is not much of a scholar - "the penalty for not sticking to my last from the first." He advises people...
Vice Squad (Levy and Gardner; United Artists) introduces the stream-of-consciousness technique at the precinct level. What James Joyce did in Ulysses for Leopold Bloom, this picture does for a detective captain. And though a day in the life of a flatfoot does not exactly provide many Joycean transfigurations-especially when the flatfoot is Edward G. Robinson -the film does leave the audience feeling like a thoroughly chewed cigar...
...some weeks a kindred argument has been raging in the pages of Britain's London Observer. "Great men," wrote Critic Ivor Brown, firing a blanket salvo at all Joycean obscurantists, "are not so silly as to make a practice of wasting their words." Philip Toynbee, the historian's son, rushed to the defense of obscurantism with some obscuration of his own. "To ask why James Joyce didn't write Ulysses less obscurely is a non-question," he declaimed. "It is equivalent to asking why a tree isn't a rock or why a motorcar...
...scope pretty murky. Most of the brand-new writers in N.D. XI stick to well-worn avant-garde trails, either rediscover a flabby surrealism("The rabbits jumped on the bed and sat in a furry row, staring") or, like Harvard Student John Hawkes, lose their story in a messy Joycean montage of elliptical dialogue and overfertilized imagery. A deadening number of these interior probings take place on college campuses, where they should have been published...