Frank Delaney's Re: Joyce

Just over halfway through Chapter 3, Proteus, we continue last week's passage. Sir Lout the gigant, and a live dog.

Stephen ascends from the tide, in both thought and motion, but finds only weeds, rocks, and rats. Louis Veuillot on Gautier, and an Arabian tale of sand and stone that may or may not be off-topic.

Stephen doesn't want to spend another night at Martello tower; luckily, his soul walks with him. Elsinore.

A return from Paris to Sandymount Strand, and the Kish lightship. Depressions in sand and soul, and time passing.

Paris still remembered on the Strand. Kevin Egan used to be a fine figure of a boy. Old bombs, old exiles, and old songs - and we're done with kevin Egan.

Continuing a paragraph, Kevin Egan in the Paris of Stephen's memory. Victoria and Maud Gonne, Millevoye and Faure. Bathtime. Next paragraph: the bomber smokes, and muses on the jailbreak of James Stephens. 

Conversations in Paris. Dalcassians, Arthur Griffith, pimander. Stephen as his father's son in Kevin Egan's eyes. A shirt tells a story.

Stephen still remembers Paris with Kevin Egan and Patrice: gunpowder cigarettes, absinthe, milk, coffee, and postprandials.

The smell of Paris, a sensual meditation, and a bit of French farce. Giacomo Joyce.

Frank takes a look at four more stories from The Dubliners in this poorly-named episode: A Painful Case, Ivy Day in the Committee Room, A Mother, and Grace.

Pained memories, and a song. Sense-memories of Paris.

Columbanus, Fiacre, and Scotus. Stephen's return from Paris, with dirty magazines and a fateful telegram.

Stephen's remembered self, still in Paris, walks like the dispossessed - and murders in his mind. The Linati schema.

Nostalgia for Paris: medical studies and cheap stew, ticket stubs and alibis.

Thinking of Paris and Irish expatriates: Patrice, dynamite, and wild geese. The Michelet view of women, and a little French dialogue.

Stephen is not going to his aunt's house after all. Kevin Egan, and the works of the blasphemous M. Leo Taxil.

Musings on the sand, shells, lost ships, and sewage. A stogged bottle, and Christ imagery on a clothesline.

Stephen imagines his writings lasting an epoch, a mahamanvantara. Then: back to the third-person narrative of grainy sand and squeaking pebbles. 

Still Chapter 3, on the Sandymount Strand. Stephen reflects on his childhood reading habits, literary ambitions, and private conceits.

Stephen will never be a saint, for various reasons.