page_73 67 - vigji/cainjb GitHub Wiki

• tense:
• gender:
• species:
• cues: Painter referenced

• cues:

• cues: But that was far away, and instead was a quiet country town, gabled and venerable, unmodernised and unambitious, with a river, a Tudor ruin, a park of deer, heather commons and, on the E. V. Lucas a non Lucendo principle, immense woods.

• cues: Chris leaving Palos

• cues:

• precedes: 67
• follows: Notes:

Annotated text: All the artist in me flared up. After all, my given name was world-famous as the inherited one of a bold, subtle and delightful painter. I was, perhaps, unreasonably proud of that ; took a sort of proprietary interest in The Mumpers. Augustus Edwin John

Why not? It would have been absurd to concern myself with Hamlets one, a thing of dreams only, or to have let my spirit flutter around Runymede. Surrey, bordering Berkshire

But that was far away, and instead was a quiet country town, gabled and venerable, unmodernised and unambitious, with a river, a Tudor ruin, a park of deer, heather commons and, on the E. V. Lucas a non Lucendo principle, immense woods. Lucus a on lucendo -> "woods, as there is no light"; inverse etymology (etymologiae e contrariis); Varrone. Midhurst? Middeherst, meaning "Middle wooded hill", or "(place) among the wooded hills"; Cowdray House nearby. Alternative South Norwood? ("south nord"?) has a park, Conan doyle played cricket

O the orators joys! O trieste, trieste etait mon ame, to inflate the chest, to roll the thunder of the voice out from the ribs and throat a cause, a cause dune femme. Verlaine

I rather relished my sandwich. But food and drink were so bad for the stuff.

I remembered the place of my initiation behind the old Port at Marseille, the furtive plush, the little airless secret rooms hung round with the darker works of Beardsley and Felicien Rops, and ringing with the gloat curses of the Head, as we called him, lubriciously gasping in the grip of ether.

I took the first blink of the light at the place of the Whympers.

Mrs. Allingham painted the fishshop, I remembered, and the author of the Land of Mist played cricket for it till he went up the hill. Arthur Conan Doyle, played cricket for Portsmouth, Hampshire Rovers, Norwood, Marylebone Cricket Club

I too had been struck from the float for ever held in solution, I too had received identity by my body, that I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of my body. Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, Walt Whitman

That was a pretty important day, for old Chris left Palos on it ; and you all know by this time the result of that. 3 August

But upon my soul I wasnt sure how to celebrate, though celebration was one of my specialties. Ought I to allow myself another ration of my herb of grace, and sheerly rejoice, or should I merely weep?

Helen and crooning? Poe and Prohibition? Canvas-backed clams and the prejudicial Menkin? The balance was too hard to strike. In the end I carried on as usual.

Original page: page_73.pdf page_67.pdf

Original text:

All the artist in me flared up. After all, my 
given name was world-famous as the inherited 
one of a bold, subtle and delightful painter. I 
was, perhaps, unreasonably proud of that ; took 
a sort of proprietary interest in The 
Mumpers. Why not? It would have been 
absurd to concern myself with Hamlets one, a 
thing of dreams only, or to have let my spirit 
flutter around Runymede. But that was far 
away, and instead was a quiet country town, 
gabled and venerable, unmodernised and 
unambitious, with a river, a Tudor ruin, a park 
of deer, heather commons and, on the E. V. 
Lucas a non Lucendo principle, immense 
woods. O the orators joys! O trieste, trieste 
etait mon ame, to inflate the chest, to roll the 
thunder of the voice out from the ribs and 
throat a cause, a cause dune femme. I rather 
relished my sandwich. But food and drink were 
so bad for the stuff. I remembered the place of 
my initiation behind the old Port at Marseille, 
the furtive plush, the little airless secret rooms 
hung round with 
the darker works of Beardsley and Felicien 
Rops, and ringing with the gloat curses of the 
Head, as we called him, lubriciously gasping in 
the grip of ether. I took the first blink of the 
light at the place of the Whympers. Mrs. 
Allingham painted the fishshop, I remembered, 
and the author of the Land of Mist played 
cricket for it till he went up the hill. I too had 
been struck from the float for ever held in 
solution, I too had received identity by my 
body, that I knew was of my body, and what I 
should be I knew I should be of my body. That 
was a pretty important day, for old Chris left 
Palos on it ; and you all know by this time the 
result of that. But upon my soul I wasnt sure 
how to celebrate, though celebration was one 
of my specialties. Ought I to allow myself 
another ration of my herb of grace, and sheerly 
rejoice, or should I merely weep? Helen and 
crooning? Poe and Prohibition? Canvas-backed 
clams and the prejudicial Menkin? The balance 
was too hard to strike. In the end I carried on 
as usual.

Italian text:

L'artista che era in me si infiammò. In fondo il nome che portavo era celebre nel mondo in quanto ereditato da un audace, sottile e delizioso pittore. Forse nutrivo un irragionevole orgoglio, per questo ; e provai una sorta di interesse proprietario per Le Mendicanti. Perché no? Sarebbe stato assurdo preoccuparmi di quello di Amleto, fatto solo di sogni, oppure lasciar fluttuare il mio spirito intorno a Runnymede. Ma quello era molto lontano e invece c'era una tranquilla città di campagna, con tetti a due spioventi e venerabile, non modernizzata né ambiziosa, con un fiume, una rovina Tudor, un parco con i cervi, distese di erica di proprietà comune e, riguardo a E.V. Lucas, un Lucus a non lucendo, boschi immensi. Oh, le gioie dell'ora-tore! Ô triste, triste était mon âme, gonfiare il petto, far uscire la voce tonante dalle costole e dalla gola à cause, à cause d'une femme. Apprezzai il mio tramezzino. Ma mangiare e bere interferivano con la sostanza. Rammentai il luogo della mia iniziazione dietro il vecchio Port a Marsiglia, il lusso furtivo, le piccole stanze segrete soffocanti con appese tutto intorno le opere più oscure di Beardsley e Félicien Rops, che risuonavano delle maligne imprecazioni di Head, come lo chiamavamo, che ansimava lubrico tra le grinfie dell'etere. Vidi il primo balenio di luce a casa dei Whymper. La signora Allingham aveva dipinto la pescheria, rammentai, e l'autore de Nel paese delle nebbie giocò a cricket per quel paese fino a quando sali sulla collina. Anch'io ero stato sbalzato fuori da quella massa fluida tenuta in perpetua soluzione, anch'io avevo ricevuto identità dal mio corpo. Quello che ero veniva dal mio corpo, lo sapevo, e quel che dovevo essere doveva venire dal mio corpo, lo sapevo. Fu un giorno molto importante perché fu quello in cui il vecchio Cris lasciò Palos; e ormai ne conoscete il risultato. Ma per l'anima mia non sapevo come festeggiare, anche se i festeggiamenti erano una delle mie specialità. Dovrei forse concedermi un'altra razione della mia erba della grazia e limitarmi a gioire, oppure dovrei semplicemente piangere? Helen e canticchiare? Poe e il proibizionismo? Calzoni da pescatore e il pregiudizievole Menken? Era troppo difficile trovare un equilibrio. Alla fine continuai come sempre.