Monday, April 21, 2008

joyce imitation: dilly dedalus

Mourir. Mourant. Mort.
Partir, c’est mourir un peu.

Dilly lingered longingly over the tattered pages of the Chardenal’s French primer. Silly to splurge. Precious little we have. Ought not waste for wont of selfish indulgences. Have nothing but scanty scraps on which to live. Already sold most of Stephen’s abandoned books for a beggarly sum of a few bobs. And can’t bear to beg Sister Mary Patrick again… Oh! But what left? Kitty and Boody. Must manage this morning to make some meager change before my regretful return to our hollow home.

Boire. Buvant. Bu.
Quand le vi nest tire, il faut le boire.

Father? Perhaps pity will prompt him to provide a paltry few for his own penniless progeny. Not promising. Reckon he’s up at the Scotch House on William’s row right now as I stand at this spot. Sickens me to seek charity on so many occasions, but I know he squanders his skimpy savings on such sinful drink. But what left?!

Manger. Mangeant. Mangé.
Il faut manger pour vivre, et non vivre pour manger.

Clipclop. Clipclop.
A horse-drawn carriage careened ‘round the cobbled corner, stealing Dilly’s attention. Her gloomy gaze, drifting upward from the Chardenal’s French primer, watched the carriage clipclop down the course before settling upon a solitary bird across the way, hopping happily about beneath the bent boughs of a big tree. Dilly watched as the tiny creature burrowed it’s bitty beak into the damp dirt amid the dewsoaked grass. Searching the soft soil for a wiggly worm with which to feed it’s waiting young, the seablue bird finally found a good grub. Gracefully, the feathered friend flew up to find a fitting branch where it rested for a moment before returning to it’s short-neglected nest.

Even birds not for wont of food, thought Dilly.

Vivre. Vivant. Vécu.
L’espoir fait vivre.

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