I reread Nestor last night. The talk of History's what interests me most about the book atm. Deasy, the unionist, banging on about it all moving toward the ultimate goal of the manifestation of God whilst Stephen feels it's a nightmare.
I like this from the start of the section,
Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left us then?
Sargent, the kid struggling with his algebra, is really sad. Reminds me of Luka's thing about "paste people" and Ian Curtis just being doomed from the start,
Ugly and futile: lean neck and tangled hair and a stain of ink, a snail's bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him under foot, a squashed boneless snail.