Making my very—very, very—slow way through James Joyce’s Ulysses, & coming to a lot of conclusions (or I suppose they are tentatively putaside questions) about my own writing, & about life in general.
—History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to wake.
From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?
—The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.
Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:
—That is God.
Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!
—What? Mr Deasy asked.
—A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
What is God? If there is no belief in Him—and there is, clearly, worldwide belief in Him, but I mean personally—then what do we strive for? I believe it is a form of human perfection that is only temporary in concept and likely impossible in form and matter, but the concept and the strife and the striving is important. we create ourselves; & in doing so our society, our history, our God. I do not believe in God, but I believe Joyce speaks truth. / I wish I had a greater understanding of this God.