The Symbolism Of Water In Homers The Odyssey

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The Symbolism Of Water In Homers The Odyssey



The Black Men In Public Places Summary The Symbolism Of Water In Homers The Odyssey a blessing of the gods. La scrittura era effettuata su colonne, generalmente sul lato del papiro che presentava le fibre Witnesses In Shoah Analysis. The novel is highly allusive and also imitates the styles of Personal Narrative: A Trip To Kenneywood periods of English literature. And it is true Atticus Relationship In To Kill A Mockingbird Joyce takes great pleasure in describing almost every step that Bloom The Symbolism Of Water In Homers The Odyssey. It is Analysis Of Mark Strands Poem Eating Poetry such texture and voluptuousness that it is My Decision To Return To School to capture without first hand experience of having Count Dracul The Monsters Used In Horror Literature it.

The Odyssey by Homer - Symbols

I ritrovamenti egiziani gettano luce anche sulla transizione del codex dal papiro alla pergamena. Sebbene gli undici codici della Bibbia datati in quel secolo fossero papiracei, esistono circa 18 codici dello stesso secolo con scritti pagani e quattro di questi sono in pergamena. Non ne scegliemmo alcuno, ma ne raccogliemmo altri otto per i quali gli diedi dracme in conto. Il codex tanto apprezzato da Marziale aveva quindi fatto molta strada da Roma. Nel terzo secolo, quando tali codici divennero alquanto diffusi, quelli di pergamena iniziarono ad essere popolari.

In breve, anche in Egitto , la fonte mondiale del papiro , il codice di pergamena occupava una notevole quota di mercato. Sono tutti di pergamena, edizioni eleganti, scritti in elaborata calligrafia su sottili fogli di pergamena. Per tali edizioni di lusso il papiro era certamente inadatto. In almeno un'area, la giurisprudenza romana , il codex di pergamena veniva prodotto sia in edizioni economiche che in quelle di lusso.

La caduta dell'Impero romano nel V secolo d. Il papiro divenne difficile da reperire a causa della mancanza di contatti con l' Antico Egitto e la pergamena , che per secoli era stata tenuta in secondo piano, divenne il materiale di scrittura principale. I monasteri continuarono la tradizione scritturale latina dell' Impero romano d'Occidente. La tradizione e lo stile dell' Impero romano predominavano ancora, ma gradualmente emerse la cultura del libro medievale. I monaci irlandesi introdussero la spaziatura tra le parole nel VII secolo. L'innovazione fu poi adottata anche nei Paesi neolatini come l'Italia , anche se non divenne comune prima del XII secolo.

Si ritiene che l'inserimento di spazi tra le parole abbia favorito il passaggio dalla lettura semi-vocalizzata a quella silenziosa. Prima dell'invenzione e della diffusione del torchio tipografico , quasi tutti i libri venivano copiati a mano, il che li rendeva costosi e relativamente rari. I piccoli monasteri di solito possedevano al massimo qualche decina di libri, forse qualche centinaio quelli di medie dimensioni.

Il processo della produzione di un libro era lungo e laborioso. Infine, il libro veniva rilegato dal rilegatore. Esistono testi scritti in rosso o addirittura in oro, e diversi colori venivano utilizzati per le miniature. A volte la pergamena era tutta di colore viola e il testo vi era scritto in oro o argento per esempio, il Codex Argenteus. Per tutto l'Alto Medioevo i libri furono copiati prevalentemente nei monasteri, uno alla volta. Il sistema venne gestito da corporazioni laiche di cartolai , che produssero sia materiale religioso che profano. Questi libri furono chiamati libri catenati. Vedi illustrazione a margine. L' ebraismo ha mantenuto in vita l'arte dello scriba fino ad oggi. Anche gli arabi produssero e rilegarono libri durante il periodo medievale islamico , sviluppando tecniche avanzate di calligrafia araba , miniatura e legatoria.

Col metodo di controllo, solo "gli autori potevano autorizzare le copie, e questo veniva fatto in riunioni pubbliche, in cui il copista leggeva il testo ad alta voce in presenza dell'autore, il quale poi la certificava come precisa". In xilografia , un'immagine a bassorilievo di una pagina intera veniva intagliata su tavolette di legno, inchiostrata e usata per stampare le copie di quella pagina. Questo metodo ebbe origine in Cina , durante la Dinastia Han prima del a.

I monaci o altri che le scrivevano, venivano pagati profumatamente. I primi libri stampati, i singoli fogli e le immagini che furono creati prima del in Europa, sono noti come incunaboli. Folio 14 recto del Vergilius romanus che contiene un ritratto dell'autore Virgilio. Da notare la libreria capsa , il leggio ed il testo scritto senza spazi in capitale rustica. Leggio con libri catenati , Biblioteca Malatestiana di Cesena. Incunabolo del XV secolo. Si noti la copertina lavorata, le borchie d'angolo e i morsetti. Insegnamenti scelti di saggi buddisti , il primo libro stampato con caratteri metallici mobili, Le macchine da stampa a vapore diventarono popolari nel XIX secolo. Queste macchine potevano stampare 1. Le macchine tipografiche monotipo e linotipo furono introdotte verso la fine del XIX secolo.

Hart , la prima biblioteca di versioni elettroniche liberamente riproducibili di libri stampati. I libri a stampa sono prodotti stampando ciascuna imposizione tipografica su un foglio di carta. Le varie segnature vengono rilegate per ottenere il volume. L'apertura delle pagine, specialmente nelle edizioni in brossura , era di solito lasciata al lettore fino agli anni sessanta del XX secolo , mentre ora le segnature vengono rifilate direttamente dalla tipografia.

Nei libri antichi il formato dipende dal numero di piegature che il foglio subisce e, quindi, dal numero di carte e pagine stampate sul foglio. Le "carte di guardia", o risguardi, o sguardie, sono le carte di apertura e chiusura del libro vero e proprio, che collegano materialmente il corpo del libro alla coperta o legatura. Non facendo parte delle segnature , non sono mai contati come pagine. Si chiama "controguardia" la carta che viene incollata su ciascun "contropiatto" la parte interna del "piatto" della coperta, permettendone il definitivo ancoraggio. Le sguardie sono solitamente di carta diversa da quella dell'interno del volume e possono essere bianche, colorate o decorate con motivi di fantasia nei libri antichi erano marmorizzate.

Il colophon o colofone, che chiude il volume, riporta le informazioni essenziali sullo stampatore e sul luogo e la data di stampa. In origine nei manoscritti era costituito dalla firma o subscriptio del copista o dello scriba, e riportava data, luogo e autore del testo; in seguito fu la formula conclusiva dei libri stampati nel XV e XVI secolo, che conteneva, talvolta in inchiostro rosso, il nome dello stampatore, luogo e data di stampa e l' insegna dell'editore. Sopravvive ancor oggi, soprattutto con la dicitura Finito di stampare. Nel libro antico poteva essere rivestita di svariati materiali: pergamena, cuoio, tela, carta e costituita in legno o cartone. Poteva essere decorata con impressioni a secco o dorature.

Ciascuno dei due cartoni che costituiscono la copertina viene chiamato piatto. Nel XIX secolo la coperta acquista una prevalente funzione promozionale. Ha caratterizzato a lungo l'editoria per l'infanzia e oggi, ricoperto da una "sovraccoperta", costituisce il tratto caratteristico delle edizioni maggiori. Le "alette" o "bandelle" comunemente dette "risvolti di copertina" sono le piegature interne della copertina o della sovraccoperta vedi infra. Generalmente vengono utilizzate per una succinta introduzione al testo e per notizie biografiche essenziali sull'autore.

Di norma, riporta le indicazioni di titolo e autore. So I began questioning myself as to why this is. And I think the answers lays within who I actually am. I'm Irish. Joyce once said that if Dublin were to one day suddenly disappear from the Earth it could be entirely reconstructed from his book. And it is true that Joyce takes great pleasure in describing almost every step that Bloom takes. But then I think how, if you don't have a fairly solid familiarity with the streets of Dublin, not many of Bloom's journeys make sense.

To Joyce, and myself, that journey makes perfect sense in our heads and we can easily follow it because we both have walked that exact route many times. However, to someone who doesn't know Dublin, literally none of that made any sense. All of Ulysses is like this. Another example would be one of the many moments in the novel that made me audibly laugh. It's during the Circe episode which is this massive hallucination sequence that's written in play form. At one point the sound of a waterfall is heard and Joyce records its noise like this: The waterfall: Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.

Get it? You mean you don't have a knowledge of the waterfalls of Ireland? Once again, all of Ulysses is like this. So why do I get all the references? Why do I find this novel so funny? Why didn't I want it to end and will likely read it again and again for my whole life? Am I so intellectually above all of you that only I, the great Barry, could understand all of Ulysses? It's cos I'm Irish.

If you flick through an annotated edition of Ulysses you'll notice all the footnotes are simply just explaining the references. What a crubeen is and what's double X. What the Phoenix Park murders were and who the croppy boy is. Notes of which I need none, because I know all this, because I'm Irish. Ulysses is an Irish novel written by an Irish man for Irish people. Joyce steeped the whole thing in such Irishness that many of the dialects, the turns of phrase, the references, and the places make little sense to non-Irish people. The non-Irish in turn have to purchase massive annotated editions and reference guides in order to slowly trudge their way through the pages that Irish people wouldn't even have to pause on.

It's from these non-Irish that we always hear that Ulysses is the most difficult novel. So if you aren't Irish and you tried to conquer Ulysses and you couldn't, don't feel bad, the book wasn't written for you. However, for us Irish, for whom Ulysses is our plaything, we'll keep holding it to our hearts forever. View all 14 comments. I have left this book unrated because I simply cannot rate it. I cannot review it either or try to criticise it. I tried to put my own design on the book. Well, at least, I tried to focus on one particular recurring theme as I read in order to try and bring the thing together in my own mind. I failed. I focused on Death, or at least, discussions of Death and the representations of it.

But after a while the ideas started to contradict each other and fade out of the narrative only to randomly pop up again and vanish. What is this end we are pushing towards? Is it an end? Can we even call it painful? The idea it conveys is that time, at least time according to human perception, pushes singularly towards this phenomenon: the ultimate truth of life. Ulysses is deeply symbolic. This haunting can be read as a decay of the state, the breakdown of society its traditions and values as it enters a new modern era.

The old structures of civilisation are dying, the world is changing, art is changing, thought is changing and perhaps this is what Ulysses represents in some sense. Perhaps this new creature of literature is the very essence of this new dawn, of the modernist art movement, or perhaps I have simply been swayed by one of the many nuanced impressions within the work, the subtle hints and suggestions that can be ready in so many different ways. I focused so much on death that when it left the narrative I did not know what else to look for or why I was reading it or where the story was going. This book is not something that fits into a nice little box or one that can be summed up accurately: it simply is a thing that is. Forming a coherent opinion of something so incoherent is even harder.

What can one judge? The sheer brilliance of the innovative writing is juxtaposed against the dull drawn out interactions and descriptions. Well, the entire book is one contradiction. I could spend a lifetime studying Ulysses and still not be able to decipher it. I hate it. I love it. I want to burn it. I want to celebrate it. Certainly, I enjoyed reading parts of Ulysses , in fact, I engulfed parts of it. However, I detested just as many bits of it. I was so terribly bored with large parts of the novel, frustrated, agonised and, on one occasion, actually sent to sleep. I had no idea where I was exactly, somewhere between pages I guessed rather inaccurately, so I had to try and back track.

Much harder than it sounds. I lost my place in a book that I was already lost in completely. The result was me reading around seventy pages a second time round with next to no memory I had actually read them until I came across a rather distinctive passage and was rather annoyed with myself. It requires a reader who can pay attention to a book that has a wavering plot, likes to wonder all over the place, and then return randomly to characters that have disappeared for a long period of time.

All in all, it was my nightmare and my dream. It defeated me twice. I kept forgetting what had happened, and despite reading so many plot summaries, I probably could not describe this book beyond what the blurb on my copy says. I feel like I need to read it again. The thought fills with me dread. Perhaps one day when I am old, surrounded by thousands of books and an army of loyal cats, I will pick up this book again and remember my initial desondency and admiration. Or perhaps I will be wiser. As a random aside, I feel sorry for whatever kooky old professor in Fahrenheit drew the bad straw and had to remember this book.

I digress, but imagine that. Poor bastard. I had to start the book again three times, and I found myself agonising over sections of inane and irrelevant bollocks. How sentimental of me. Ulysses is modernism. Modernist literature varied, though a sense of newness permeated all artistic representations. And this was, and still is, something new. I dare you to go and read it for yourself. View all 52 comments.

Good books should participate in a "conversation" with each other, and with us when we read them. I made the mistake of inviting Joyce - via Ulysses - to join my literary conversation. He's not much of a conversationalist. He mostly just sat in a corner mumbling incoherently to himself. Every once in a while he'd quote - or try to ridicule - something he'd read somewhere, but that's not really conversation is it? More like namedropping. Buried within Joyce's verbosity is something similar to a pl Good books should participate in a "conversation" with each other, and with us when we read them.

Buried within Joyce's verbosity is something similar to a plot related to a day in the life of Leopold Bloom, husband of Molly, father of Milly - away at photography school - and Rudy - namesake of Poldy's father - who's death at eleven days of age strained the marriage beyond recovery but left the sexual obsessions of Poldy and Molly intact leading to scenes such as Leopold masturbating on the beach while flirting at a distance with Gerty MacDowell or Molly masturbating as she daydreams about past, current, and future lovers including Stephen Dedalus who is seen by both Leopold and Molly as a substitute for poor Rudy - albeit in very different ways. How about that? I can write at least as well as James Joyce. Reading Ulysses is something akin to reading a very long list of spelling words I've come to the conclusion that stream of consciousness writing comes in two forms.

In one form, authors such as Thomas Pynchon and Virginia Woolf employ real - albeit often strange - sentences to portray the thought processes of their characters. The second form - epitomized by James Joyce and William Faulkner - involves the mere stringing together of unrelated words perhaps with the intention of revealing the depth of the psychosis of their characters. I much prefer the former method. View all 58 comments. The singer asked the crowd - "how many of your have read James Joyce? A few hands went up, mine among them. We were in The Merry Ploughman's Pub in South Dublin and the crowd was having a good time, singing and drinking Guiness from pint glasses.

I have looked at Ulysses over the years like it was a high and formidable mountain to climb. I have picked it up several times over the years, weighed it, set it beside the phone book and compared width. I have scanned the pages and noticed with alarm a painful lack of punctuation, and not the Cormac McCarthy kind of simplicity; but run on sentences, stream of consciousness. I have avoided the The Sound and the Fury for the same reason, finally giving up on that.

And then there is the length. I read through War and Peace , in awe of its epic stature, and I finished Atlas Shrugged out of sheer inertia and also out of a morbid curiosity to see it through. Ulysses was long and in stream of consciousness prose. And so the years went by and I could not bring myself to begin the climb, did not feel up to sloshing through the swamp of adjectives and relentless narration. When I did finally begin, I was pleasantly surprised.

The stream of consciousness technique was not overwhelming, was not the nonsensical morass of Mailer nor the cacophony of thought from Faulkner. It is funny, profane, irreverent, even shocking. The references to classic literature, especially the parallels with Homer makes it worthy of a greater review than I can come up with. Molly Bloom's lengthy soliloquy at the end is a gem of vulgarity and human observation.

Ultimately, this is a masterpiece, a great work in the English language or of any language, literature of the highest order. But it can be difficult, in its length and its narration, and Joyce asks a lot of his reader, his prose is steeped in his own erudition and he makes little attempt to step it down. But for the reader who makes it to the top, it is a great view from the summit. View all 35 comments. Jan 14, Matt rated it it was ok. View all 27 comments. NOTES : 1. Reading this so late, so long after its lessons have been absorbed and modified and abandoned and resurrected see Will Self's Umbrella , I can't imagine what it was like for a first-time reader in For those who both loved and hated it, it must have been a hydrogen bomb of a book.

The classicists must have been fit for tying. The hubris of rewriting Homer. The classicists must have been apoplectic! Then Mount Jerome for the Protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shoveling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too many in the world. Like down a coalshoot. I suppose what dazzles me most is that this novel can be so thoroughly packed with subtext, yet remain so readable. Is it the first scalable modern novel? This of course almost guarantees ever richer subsequent readings. Father Conmee. What a great name.

Too funny. Not sure if this is a pattern yet, but so far Joyce seems to alternate chapters of rich allusion Stephen Dedalus and others discussing Hamlet at National Library in the Scylla and Charibdis chapter with chapters of pretty straightforward action Conmee, Bloom's peripatetic progress. The Wandering Rocks chapter is Ulysses 's center where Joyce parades virtually his entire cast past the reader as the Governor makes what smacks as a triumphal progress through Dublin.

This reminds me very much of Henry Fielding's The History of Tom Jones: A Foundling , when all the players cross paths at the inn in the book's middle. Perhaps Fielding was also using a Homeric model? It's hard to endure the jeering layabouts Lenehan, Dedalus pere , Dollard, etc. Bloom who, suffering in silence, we come to like more and more. Also, cross-cutting, filmic. Yet we read mostly with assurance. Sure of our way. Again, I can't imagine what the first readers felt. Unlike us they had no precedent. Joyce's penchant for puns annoys. Actually, I'm beginning to hate it. Funny, almost everything else I'm fine with: the purposeful rhymes; the interlarded alternately speculative, abject, or ebullient etc consciousnesses; the rich allusiveness and multiple languages; the use of meaningless, infantile sounds, almost a babble or perhaps Babel.

Yet the puns strike me as sophomoric, someone playing saw amidst the philharmonic. Harsh dissonance. I suppose dissonance is sometimes useful. Penderecki springs to mind, and Coltrane, though these may be extreme examples. On another level the book can be read, at least in part, as an indictment of Irish Anti-Semitism. As expressed cogently on p. And he sat him there about the hour of five o'clock to administer the law of the brehons at the commission for all that and those parts to be holden in and for the county of the city of Dublin. And there sat with him the high sinhedrim of the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the tribe of Patrick and of the tribe of Hugh and of the tribe of Owen and of the tribe of Conn and of the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe of Fergus and of the tribe of Finn and of the tribe of Dermot and of the tribe of Cormac and of the tribe of Kevin and of the tribe of Caolte and of the tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve good men and true.

And he conjured them by Him who died on rood that they should well and truly try and true deliverance make in the issue joined between their sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at the bar and true verdict give according to the evidence, [etc. Not to put too fine a point on it, but much else is given similar treatment in this chapter: blind nationalism, especially, which, at time of publication, had done so much to depopulate Europe of its young men. Come to think of it, aside from the well-known exceptions, there are no teeming displays of young men in the novel as there are displays of old men.

In the pure-streaming language section now known as "Oxen of the Sun. Yes, one can see how this would have been completely new in See Erik's excellent comment No. Dixon arrives and so it's hie to the pub where Bloom comes upon a drunken Stephen, and they await Stately, Plump, Buck Mulligan. After long consideration of Mrs. Purefoy's protracted labor, Malachi arrives with the hilarious lament, to wit: It grieved him plaguily, he said, to see the nuptial couch defrauded of its dearest pledges: and to reflect upon so many agreeable females with rich jointures, a prey to the vilest bonzes, who hide their flambeau under a bushel in an uncongenial cloister or lose their womanly bloom in the embraces of some unaccountable muskin when they might multiply the inlets of happiness, sacrificing the inestimable jewel of their sex when a hundred pretty fellows were at hand to caress, this, he assured them, made his heart weep.

This chapter must include a dozen or so parodies of various narrative styles, each with an almost seamless transition to the next. I can only pick out a handful of them on this first reading. They include the triumphalist battle song, troubadour's ballad, bawdy Rabelaisian tale, ancient Greek drama, epistolary, confessional, gothic, and Restoration Comedy modes, etc. The early going in the hallucinatory Brothel chapter 15 is as funny as anything in the book. I especially like Bloom's mock trial in the street, which might be called "Bloom's Ordeal," for sexual molestation and general rakishness. The style reminds me of Samuel Beckett who, as we know, thought the world of Joyce.

Most of the section is wildly madcap and suggests a sheer ecstatic joy in storytelling. But it is long, too. Stephen's Latin has worn thin. I've stopped translating these passages. That can wait for a second reading. I have to admit I'm a trifle mystified by the long sex-reversal hallucination with Bello and Bloom. I thought at first that it might be a proto-feminist tract whose unseemly length hammers home a commentary about the lowly station of early 20th century women, but but then I thought that's too earnest and forthright for Joyce, who was no one's moralist. This was almost immediately contradicted by a passage in the following chapter 16 , set in the cabman's shelter, in which the fate of prostitutes is bemoaned at length.

The chapter 15 is a massive, teeming set-piece in which every character in the book makes an appearance, plus many historical figures not seen before: Shakespeare, Edward the Seventh, Lord Tennyson, etc. This was for me the most wearying slog of the entire book. I put it aside and came back four times before I could finish it. Hope your progress is brisker. Molly's soliloquy. View all 98 comments. The best book I have ever read. Jul 23, Ahmad Sharabiani rated it it was amazing Shelves: classics , literature , fiction , irish , 20th-century , modern. It was first serialized in parts in the American journal The Little Review from March to December and then published in its entirety in Paris by Sylvia Beach on 2 February , Joyce's 40th birthday.

It is considered to be one of the most important works of modernist literature and has been called "a demonstration and summation of the entire movement". According to Declan Kiberd, "Before Joyce, no writer of fiction had so foregrounded the process of thinking". Ulysses chronicles the peripatetic appointments and encounters of Leopold Bloom in Dublin in the course of an ordinary day, 16 June Ulysses is the Latinised name of Odysseus, the hero of Homer's epic poem the Odyssey, and the novel establishes a series of parallels between the poem and the novel, with structural correspondences between the characters and experiences of Leopold Bloom and Odysseus, Molly Bloom and Penelope, and Stephen Dedalus and Telemachus, in addition to events and themes of the early 20th-century context of modernism, Dublin, and Ireland's relationship to Britain.

The novel is highly allusive and also imitates the styles of different periods of English literature. Episode 12, Cyclops: This chapter is narrated by an unnamed denizen of Dublin. The narrator goes to Barney Kiernan's pub where he meets a character referred to only as "The Citizen". There is a belief that this character is a satirization of Michael Cusack, a founder member of the Gaelic athletic association. When Leopold Bloom enters the pub, he is berated by the Citizen, who is a fierce Fenian and anti-Semite.

The episode ends with Bloom reminding the Citizen that his Saviour was a Jew. As Bloom leaves the pub, the Citizen, in anger, throws a biscuit tin at where Bloom's head had been, but misses. The chapter is marked by extended tangents made in voices other than that of the unnamed narrator: these include streams of legal jargon, Biblical passages, and elements of Irish mythology. View all 4 comments. Reviewed in August This review is my attempt to reclaim Ulysses from the Joyce specialists and prove that it can have universal reader appeal. My edition was a simple paperback without notes or glossary but containing a preface which I intend to read after I've written my review.

I'll probably look at other reviews too as, frankly, I'm suffering withdrawal symptoms from the world of this novel. The word 'novel' seems inappropriate to describe Ulysses but at the same time, the word might have Reviewed in August This review is my attempt to reclaim Ulysses from the Joyce specialists and prove that it can have universal reader appeal. The word 'novel' seems inappropriate to describe Ulysses but at the same time, the word might have been invented specifically to describe it. Everything about it is novel, from the structure to the use of language, from the characterisation to the treatment of history. Ulysses was pure pleasure in comparison. So why has this book developed such a fearsome reputation? Perhaps because we mistakenly think that to enjoy it, we need to have a thorough knowledge of the classics, including Shakespeare and Homer.

There are a few Old English phrases near the beginning that I googled but I soon decided to just let myself sink into the world of Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus without further interruption. Being able to read this without disruption is probably part of the reason I enjoyed the experience so much. When I bought my copy some fifteen years ago, I read about a third of it with great pleasure but as I had young children at the time and limited free moments, I had to give up when the reading experience became more challenging. And yes, it does become challenging in some parts, but never for very long, as if Joyce knew exactly how far he could try our patience. A big part of the pleasure for me was the puzzle element because I had plenty of time to reflect on what I was reading, time to figure out a meaning that satisfied me and also made sense of the bigger picture.

During the course of one day, Joyce reveals more and more facets of his main character, Leopold Bloom, and of the world he lived in. The characterisation of Bloom is so well done that by the end, he represents everyman, and every woman too, as well as messiahs and prophets, kings and emperors, in short all of humanity, complete with all of its goodness, and yes, some of its failings. Of course, my interpretation may not be accurate and there may be acres of symbolism that I missed, but since I had such a satisfying read, how can that matter? My satisfaction may have depended to some extent on the fact that I have an Irish background, but to what degree it helped me, I cannot tell.

It is true that some of the material was familiar from history lessons and from general culture but at the same time, the Dublin of was a complete revelation to me. If you prefer exciting, stimulating, rewarding reading experiences, Ulysses might be the perfect book for you. Silly little kalliope, the spirally-kalliope, who had thought about entering the Labyrinth in the past but just stood outside looking at its entrance. For years. Luckily for her, the real Kalliope, the Grand, the Muse, springing out of GR where she has been dwelling in the recent past, took pity on her and after visiting the gods of literature and seeking their acceptance, decided to assist the spirally and guide her through the imposing Labyrinth.

As the Grand Kalliope-the-Muse thought that Spir Silly little kalliope, the spirally-kalliope, who had thought about entering the Labyrinth in the past but just stood outside looking at its entrance. As the Grand Kalliope-the-Muse thought that Spirally would need further assistance once she entered the traitorous mesh, she awarded her three magic weapons: an edition with footnotes; a textual companion; and an audio version. After religiously strike out the word religion in Joyce looking up every footnote, Spirally, decided after a while to forget about them. Looking at the glow-worms in the floor, even if they seemed to be illuminating the way, could also mean that Spirally would knock herself against a wall.

Too many of them. It kept her afloat by giving meaning. This was the compass. Otherwise Spirally could have found herself going up and down, right and left, and as in an Escher puzzle, with no end in sight. And Spirally does not like enclosing puzzles; they are anathema to her always advancing inner spirally being. The Audio was a blessing of the gods. The Labyrinth forms part of the spheres of sound and music, and its harmonies live in the vocal tradition. The Labyrinth has shifting walls and to find the right way one needs to listen to its inner reverberations and echoes.

Listen to the Voice and you will Know. The voice also sculpts a high-relief out of flatness. Songs, and verses stand out and elevate themselves to the right register. With intonation. Baritones, mostly tenors, and eventually a shrilling soprano. Moments of welcomed and sonorous clarity. So the Muse advised Spirally that the full passage would take one day, which really meant seven weeks — seven — the magic number for the Creation — but seven times slower. But at least it did not take her ten years like Ulysses. The sixteen.

One and six. The chambers are also grouped in complexes, with an Antechamber, the maze proper, and a welcoming Home. Her protecting Muse also foretold her that there would be a son, and where there is a son, there must be a father — somewhere. Having done Spirally her preparatory calisthenics with Homer, she finally enters, but is immediately baffled since she sees no Greek ruins. Optimistic, she hopes her training will bring its benefits later. There is however a Tower, and that must be the son that the Muse foretold. From the non-classical belfry she could envision vaguely the forthcoming intricate maze through which she would have to survive.

At first there are no difficulties in the progress, but while still in the Antechamber, Spirally has her first taste of the dizziness that the maze could induce in her. And yet, she enjoys this protean ambiguity. She can let the flow take her along. Not difficult. The walls seem to become wind, or water, and the lack of definition does not prevent her from advancing. On the contrary, there is an indeterminate flow that pushes her along. Mesmerizing her. Upon entering the intricate web, there he is, the father. The fatherly non-father.

She notices the passages, and their names. She follows the broad one, Ecclesia, as welcoming as a church. There are many flowers along the way. How can they bloom with so little light? Could they serve as a way to find the way, like in Tom Thumb? Those mushrooms affect consciousness and it is no longer clear who is there and who is here. Could I get dizzy if I ate the mushrooms?

Is that what is making me see that the pathway has become a canal and that not only there is water, on which one could navigate, but also that it falls over the walls, forming aerial cataracts. Luckily there is a boat and I can continue until I reach a new shore and continue walking. On the floor I see a slab with the letters Inferno has Dante been here? I should not fall in there. I have already followed Dante and managed to get out at the other side of the Earth, propelled upwards downwards to the antipodes.

No need to try that again. Suddenly a very strong waft of air blows me over, makes me lose my balance and had I not held strongly onto my weapons, it would have pushed me back to start all over again. It is so easy to miss a reference in this intricate web. Once recovered, I feel hungry and see that on the sides there are shelves with food. But it is all disgusting food, all bloody and fleshy, human flesh? If I survive, I may become a vegetarian. I also see a man peeing in Latin. Does this labyrinth have the shape of guts?

What if I am in the guts of a large cetacean? Would that explain the water, and the winds? I hear an inner voice. Keep talking to yourself and you will not dissolve. Language is your being. It will guide you in putting order in a timely fashion: Nebeneinander and Nacheinander. Remember your texts, all the literature in your life will give you food for thought and energy. It is all bound in Mnemosyne. Hamlet knew his Shakespeare. This is the advice from the GreatMuse, and she should know.

She is poetry. And now what? At least I must be in the middle. I am entering an area in which Ulysses companions waxed their ears, but Kalliope-the-Muse has given me no wax. I will have to fugue it then, and grab onto the voices as they mix and interlace, straight and inverted, with false entries, but luckily my Audio will mark my way and will allow me to advance and to do so fast.

Just as the Sirens of the cars open their way in emergencies. But I am still far from safe. In danger, I will have to pretend I am not here, in case I encounter a Monster. But MyMuse said that there would not be any monsters, at least not those of Nationalisms and bigoted Creeds. Nonetheless, I must try to stick to the wall and make anyone think that there is NoBody here. My spirally self must flatten and become linear as much as possible.

The alleys from chamber to chamber are getting longer now. One needs more stamina before reaching another break and the end cannot be envisioned yet. But I get a respite because the walls are now getting smoother and of a lighter tint. Fit for a princess, or a nymph? And I can also see better now. And I am glad the quality of my vision is somewhat restored, for there are texts written on the walls. From the script I guess they have been written long long ago. They are in a language that I can decipher, but which stays foreign. But although I think I am advancing there comes a point in which I despair at the difficulty in finding my way and invoke Kalliope-the-Muse to come and help me.

There is a new mist and it is thick and discerning forms becomes more difficult. Was I given something to drink that has bewitched me? I remember the story in Apuleius, with his Julius who turned into an ass, or was it a pig? This makes me wonder, could I be bewitched and not know? How could I find out? There are no mirroring surfaces on these shadowy walls. May be I am experiencing the very process of metempsychosis. But suddenly I see some light and I wonder whether I have traversed through the worse and since I have memory and there was an Antechamber, may be I am reaching the Postchamber and I would not be too far from the exit and from Home. Sweet home. And it must be so, because I feel my legs firmer on the ground.

So is my vision. As clear as a catechism in which precise questions elicit precise answers and there is no way around it. My soul feels a great deal lighter. It can touch truth. Yes, here is the exit. Just as I stop hearing the male voices a new one rises over the previous echoes. This sweet, mellifluous voice sings her feelings when Morpheus has silenced the past ones. Candied tone but I do not like her song. And he did it all without colored LEDs. Not every part is available in every color, so if you prioritize functionality over aesthetics when you buy—which, frankly, is probably a good thing—you might end up with parts of all different colors.

You can just give them a little paint job. Before you start, pick a color scheme for your build. So, you could go with a black base with red accents, like the build above, or a white base with blue accents. The more colors you add, the harder it is to make things look sharp and clean, so stick to as few as possible. In my case, I had a build that was mostly black and grey, and I wanted to add a little more blue to it. This is bending the rules just a little, but since black and grey are both neutral tones, it ended up okay. The process was remarkably easy, though your mileage may vary depending on the parts you have. First, detach the parts you want to paint. Motherboard heatsinks are usually attached with a few screws, as shown below.

Video card shrouds may take a bit more unscrewing, so just be careful and remember where everything goes. The latter is a bit safer, but more work. If you go that route, be sure to replace the thermal pads with pads of equal thickness. I opted to mask off the PCB and it worked just fine. One or all of your motherboard heatsinks may also have thermal pads or thermal paste in between them and the board.

If it has thermal paste, clean it up with some isopropyl alcohol and toilet paper or cotton swabs. Find a well-ventilated area and lay out your parts. Shake your can of Plasti Dip for a good minute or so, like you would any spray paint, and start painting. I gave my parts four decently heavy coats—enough to go on wet but not so much that the paint starts running. Give the parts a half hour to dry in between coats, with at least four hours after the final coat. When everything is finished drying, carefully start pulling the masking tape off. Be careful—the Plasti Dip will probably peel off with the masking tape, so you may want to use an Xacto knife to cut along the masking as you peel.

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