Etwas literarische Prosa, empfohlen von meiner Vermieterin Mrs. Noone, als Untermalung des wunderschönen Sonntages letzter Woche auf der Halbinsel Howth im Norden von Dublin:
As for them saying theres no God I wouldnt give a snap of my two fingers for all their learning why dont they go and create something I often asked him atheists or whatever they call themselves go and wash the cobbles off themselves first when they go howling for the priest and they dying and why why because theyre
afraid of hell on account of their bad conscience ah yes I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head.....
(James Joyce (1882-1941), Irish author. Ulysses, ch. 18, "Penelope," The Corrected Text, ed. Hans Walter Gabler, Random House (1986). Molly Bloom's monologue.)
No comments:
Post a Comment