for all your sustained illus-allus-illusions lady fair, tis not so much to set peace with mythoillogical misrepresentation (after all none of us can come to a solid consensus on exactly who Talos was or what his purpose was or what he ate on the fifth saturday of his thirty seventh year while in deep thought, but i digress) and james joyce and samuel beckett are dead. This, of course, is not entirely irrelevant though. for the most part, joyce's obsession with his mythoillogical counterparts nonwithstanding, portrait is his second easiest book to write no read )but not to read it red for in ireland everything is green) Dbuliners being the first. Again i digress. We've all established that daedelus and icarus and talos are of some importance to joyce, as are byron tennyson and shelley (Tennyson less so than byron because Tennyson had direction and followed grammar, byron didn't but then again when you smoke opium i'd imagine it would be hard to stay in form.) irregardless, daedelus is so important to joyce that stephen (joyce in portrait) gets his moniker for a last name and subsequently points out his heritage as the responsible male in the family who creates and doesn't crash and burn (requiat im pace, icarus.) the more important antagonist to daedelus is himself, his church and IRELAND. the stomping ground of great poets and writers who are chiefly noted for getting the sam hill out of ireland and never looking back. Fiddle dee fie, fiddle de fum drink your troubles away and sit on yer bum. Irish people are drunkards because that way they'll never notice the hellhole they're living in is slowly crushing their willpower and squelching their talent (you didn't actually believe they immigrated to amerika because they ran out of potatoes did you) Stepehen would've fared just as well if his name were Daedelus for all the life Ireland took from him. but joyce took flight , and his icarus (whom we could venture a guess) crashed on the way out. Jocaelus landed in gay Paris, home at the time of the intellectual circuit primarily consisting of people who had fled their respective hellhole homes (though why they didn't flee to hedonismland, erm, Amerika is beyond me) oddly enough, paris did open their creativity, it was subesequently squelched by Moocow, a truly talentless and udderly stuck in her own ass, Gertrude Stein. Gertie took the liberty of presiding her mervelousness over everyone else, frequently "correcting" their works (a hack is still a hack is still a hack, but i digress) i imagine it would take ten years to write a book if gertrude stein was breathing down your neck for six of them. in the end, stein scared them all off, first pound, then hemingway and fitzgerald, joyce and so forth. but i digress for none of these are prominent in portrait (neither is beckett, and he too is dead.) Ireland and her sister Gertrude ate all of them (except beckett) and sent them packing to the next destination. obviously, this is highly irrelevant to any thing regarding mythoillogical illusions and hence that is why stream of consciousness writers hate well thought out essay

ecce ireland?
(not if joyce has anything to say
about it)