He could not have moulded language to his thought —this is my point—for it is not given to any one man to do that, but only to time and nations.
Of course such an imposition did not occur to Skelton or Wyatt or Surrey or Shakespeare, a fact from which we might like to draw the great consolation of supposing that when men have certain thoughts to express, language will always be found to have readied itself for their expression beforehand.
And these are but simple words, primitive sense-images from the most primitive stage of civilization when life seemed bounded by the eyes. We are not in the habit of hearing very much from this artist either about his meanings or his intentions but we can know at least that this is intended to be language and that these are presumably words; furthermore in writing thus Mr.
And they are but single-root words reverberating without internal harmony. Joyce has rejected valid English, and, one may conclude, for but one possible reason—that normal speech is insufficient for his needs.
Thus the beauty of a beautiful word like is not merely the beauty of letters set side by side, not merely the beauty of liquid sound, but its beauty is a shell’s re-entrant curve, one of the most beautiful of all natural lines.
But our words are informed by more than that: they bear on their backs riches piling up by as often as there are days and nights and dawns for every symbol to gather fresh nuances of meaning from all that their reality undergoes in the varied mind.
We know all these words— The result urges us to speak of the craft of writing—technique—style, of which we must speak later on as the sole release from words: for the moment it might seem as if language were too rich for the artist’s use. These are mainly two—despite the overteeming richness of what we do possess our vocabulary is not of our manufacture and it is limited: and meanwhile, liberty to invent, and add to, and replace is absolutely denied us—denied us, as it would seem, for all time.
And yet there are some who give us pause when they cry out, (or behave as if they would cry out)—how poor, stale, impoverished, fossilised is this imposition men call speech—how inadequate for human needs! He is almonthst on the kiep fief by here, is Comestipple Sacksoun, be it junipery. He can prapsposterus the pillory way, to Hirculos pillar. Without this racking of words of which I have made mention to suggest, that speech is not always satisfying to the artist, more than one country presents the illustration of a people expressing itself at different periods in ways so far divergent that we are inevitably driven in the end to examine the matter of the influence of language as the most satisfactory explanation for several reasons.
Forshapen his pigmaid hoagshead, shroonk his plodsfoot. Or consider the more familiar transformation which overtook English literature after c.
1300, when the Saxon gloom that is a byeword among critics of the period was swallowed up by any casual couplet you may pick from the “Canterbury Tales,” no more than the spice or the salt that a cook dashes in a sweet cake.