Blog run by Ellen, 20. Student at Oxford. Is currently limping through 'Finnegans Wake'.
This blog is mostly about James Joyce with smatterings of Ben Whishaw, William Morris, and the odd personal post.
"The Ellenous breed are a usually a wild creature and found in the depths of caves and under rocks." - urbandictionary.com

adventuresonpaper:

where the fuck am i going to put all these books

(via ourfauxpas)

ohlookdaveshere:

every muscle in my body is tightly wound with frustration

i do not care for james joyce or his writings

i do not want to review him

fuck off

scuastapa:

joyceansreadjoyce:

gib-mir-kampfgeist:

gib-mir-kampfgeist:

joyceansreadjoyce:

Just finished ‘The Merchant’s Tale’. Am wondering about the practicalities of having sex in a tree.

Yes. Oh yeah. Asked myself the same question.

How about there is a really stable branch on which he sits on with an equally stable branch above and she sits on his lap and basically does lots of pull-ups… See it?

She has arms like Beowulf.

It’s so obvious, and now I have no idea why I had issues imagining it.

Sóþlic.

#truly 

theoxfordbreakdown replied to your post:I am half-way through The Faery Queene. I’m aiming…

pray4ellen

I expect this to go viral.

aulaura-borealis:

joyceansreadjoyce:

I am half-way through The Faery Queene. I’m aiming to have it finished by next weekend. God help me.

I remember that feeling…

Oh dear! 

shrunkenmaps:

The memory of his childhood suddenly grew dim. He tried to call forth some of its vivid moments but could not. He recalled only names. Dante, Parnell, Clane, Clongowes. A little boy had been taught geography by an old woman who kept two brushes in her wardrobe. Then he had been sent away from home to a college, he had made his first communion and eaten slim jim out of his cricket cap and watched the firelight leaping and dancing on the wall of a little bedroom in the infirmary and dreamed of being dead, of mass being said for him by the rector in a black and gold cope, of being buried then in the little graveyard of the community off the main avenue of limes. But he had not died then. Parnell had died. There had been no mass for the dead in the chapel and no procession. He had not died but he had faded out like a film in the sun. He had been lost or had wandered out of existence for he no longer existed. How strange to think of him passing out of existence in such a way, not by death but by fading out in the sun or by being lost and forgotten somewhere in the universe! It was strange to see his small body appear again for a moment: a little boy in a grey belted suit. His hands were in his side-pockets and his trousers were tucked in at the knees by elastic bands.

James Joyce A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

I am half-way through The Faery Queene. I’m aiming to have it finished by next weekend. God help me.

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