If James Joyce were alive today and sent me an email, his message would probably end up in my junk-folder. Here’s what I was looking at inthere, just now:
Overcome by awe as was democracy my chair, glancing from mustard time to time with a NONCHALANT air out of the window, cancel I dictated a little faster. On looking towards her again, I perceived her of the coveted defend canoe, and measured the stature of its owner, while the pollen crafty brain weighed the fly chances of the white man.
I mean, that’s, like, deep man.
Or was it Proust? I always get those two messed up. :)
Proust, that’s ” circular ” writing. Sentences give the impression to look / feel like circles.
By the way. Joyce in litterature = Varèse in music. Right?
Ooooh: bold assessment. But I think you may be right.