There was an air of great simplicity about the man; his squalid demeanour, his irascible wit; that one was oft fooled into thinking that such charm brought with it great fortune, unfortunately though this was never the case.
For Stephen as he was known was a beggar of sorts; a man who despite his wealthy past saw fit to crawl the streets of Dublin with not so much an aristocratic grace but with a sardonic disposition that rarely sat comfortably amidst the proprietors of modern society.
Conversely; he was a writer by trade, though one whose past works were much maligned by the literary press of the time, who would often deem his material convoluted or even sanctimonious in tone. However Stephen was rarely bothered by this, in fact one could say that he wasn’t too concerned with the trivialities of life at all; preferring to make light of contention and authority rather than pandering to their collective wishes.
Nevertheless it was this thoroughly tactless manner of his that piqued the interest of the local Bailiff John Ward who had neither clue nor notion regarding the actual whereabouts of Stephen’s hall of residence. For Stephen; though arguably socially inept was an excellent strategist who would periodically pace the floor of his local tavern in order to ascertain the moment with which Ward would arrive. Ergo avoiding any contact by means of throwing himself out of the nearest side window in a mischievous though deftly daft fashion, all the while proclaiming that: “I’ll pay you back tomorrow!” It was a commonly held belief however that this tomorrow had yet to see the light of day.
Upon making such a hasty exit it was par for course for Stephen to proceed to another public house; usually towing his latest poem along with him, inarticulately scrawled upon a discarded table cloth. Curiously he would oft jokingly refer to this as “combining art with practicality” although it has to be said that many did not find this as entertaining as he did himself.
One such poem read:
“The bastards have ne’er known/ That love, the light has always shown/ Upon the aged whickered thatch/ That greets the dawn correctly.”
Another read:
“For Jesus was the sailor’s guide/ In whom the stars did oft confide/ Quoting reason out of spite/ For Jesus was a sailor!”
Stephen apparently thought of himself as a hack or gutter poet in comparison to his more esteemed contemporaries, lacking the subtle turn of phrase and the potency of a Yeats or Rhys, he did however hold dearly the humanity of his work. For such simplistic odes to the natural world were something of an oddity in the literary circles of Dublin and had it not been for the ostracising effect of said Gaelic intellectuals, he would still have wrote the long complicated passages for which he was unjustly reviled.
In all honesty though he was more renowned for stating that; “All men both great and small need find themselves a healthy woman!” than for his actual prose and debating technique. The former being of great benefit to him during his formative years spent languishing around the palatial confines of Trinity College. It was also during this time that he first met Joseph Rea who soon became his rather reluctant albeit amiable sparring partner.
It was something of a tradition for Rea to start a discussion and for Stephen to finish it; usually closing with a rhetorical statement that would oft make little or no sense outside of its original context. Rea himself would soon find it near impossible to surpass Stephen in both eloquence and wit but for a while at least he convinced himself that he had the measure of his delinquent friend.
“Stephen, do you still suggest that God exists regardless of the distinct lack of evidence?”
“Evidence is easy to come by! For example do you see that tree ne’er the auld principal’s office down the road?”
“Yes?”
“Well if I were to doubt that tree’s existence would it not be near pointless to argue the contrary?”
“Eh… but that still defines a lack of evidence!”
“Ai! But on whose terms?”
“You really are a conceited bastard!”
“You’ll 'ave me soon Joe! You’ll ‘ave me soon!”
Stephen was sometimes so overtly affected by these bouts of nostalgia that he would recurrently dedicate whole days to the art of remembrance. Forgoing the luxuries of food and drink in favour of chaste cigarettes that would not only pacify his longing to return to the past from whence he came, but also satisfied his love of blatant procrastination.
For although Stephen was always to a certain extent preoccupied with thought, he was well aware that Ward was still on his case; an incessant hound seeking payment in place of blood.
For Stephen as he was known was a beggar of sorts; a man who despite his wealthy past saw fit to crawl the streets of Dublin with not so much an aristocratic grace but with a sardonic disposition that rarely sat comfortably amidst the proprietors of modern society.
Conversely; he was a writer by trade, though one whose past works were much maligned by the literary press of the time, who would often deem his material convoluted or even sanctimonious in tone. However Stephen was rarely bothered by this, in fact one could say that he wasn’t too concerned with the trivialities of life at all; preferring to make light of contention and authority rather than pandering to their collective wishes.
Nevertheless it was this thoroughly tactless manner of his that piqued the interest of the local Bailiff John Ward who had neither clue nor notion regarding the actual whereabouts of Stephen’s hall of residence. For Stephen; though arguably socially inept was an excellent strategist who would periodically pace the floor of his local tavern in order to ascertain the moment with which Ward would arrive. Ergo avoiding any contact by means of throwing himself out of the nearest side window in a mischievous though deftly daft fashion, all the while proclaiming that: “I’ll pay you back tomorrow!” It was a commonly held belief however that this tomorrow had yet to see the light of day.
Upon making such a hasty exit it was par for course for Stephen to proceed to another public house; usually towing his latest poem along with him, inarticulately scrawled upon a discarded table cloth. Curiously he would oft jokingly refer to this as “combining art with practicality” although it has to be said that many did not find this as entertaining as he did himself.
One such poem read:
“The bastards have ne’er known/ That love, the light has always shown/ Upon the aged whickered thatch/ That greets the dawn correctly.”
Another read:
“For Jesus was the sailor’s guide/ In whom the stars did oft confide/ Quoting reason out of spite/ For Jesus was a sailor!”
Stephen apparently thought of himself as a hack or gutter poet in comparison to his more esteemed contemporaries, lacking the subtle turn of phrase and the potency of a Yeats or Rhys, he did however hold dearly the humanity of his work. For such simplistic odes to the natural world were something of an oddity in the literary circles of Dublin and had it not been for the ostracising effect of said Gaelic intellectuals, he would still have wrote the long complicated passages for which he was unjustly reviled.
In all honesty though he was more renowned for stating that; “All men both great and small need find themselves a healthy woman!” than for his actual prose and debating technique. The former being of great benefit to him during his formative years spent languishing around the palatial confines of Trinity College. It was also during this time that he first met Joseph Rea who soon became his rather reluctant albeit amiable sparring partner.
It was something of a tradition for Rea to start a discussion and for Stephen to finish it; usually closing with a rhetorical statement that would oft make little or no sense outside of its original context. Rea himself would soon find it near impossible to surpass Stephen in both eloquence and wit but for a while at least he convinced himself that he had the measure of his delinquent friend.
“Stephen, do you still suggest that God exists regardless of the distinct lack of evidence?”
“Evidence is easy to come by! For example do you see that tree ne’er the auld principal’s office down the road?”
“Yes?”
“Well if I were to doubt that tree’s existence would it not be near pointless to argue the contrary?”
“Eh… but that still defines a lack of evidence!”
“Ai! But on whose terms?”
“You really are a conceited bastard!”
“You’ll 'ave me soon Joe! You’ll ‘ave me soon!”
Stephen was sometimes so overtly affected by these bouts of nostalgia that he would recurrently dedicate whole days to the art of remembrance. Forgoing the luxuries of food and drink in favour of chaste cigarettes that would not only pacify his longing to return to the past from whence he came, but also satisfied his love of blatant procrastination.
For although Stephen was always to a certain extent preoccupied with thought, he was well aware that Ward was still on his case; an incessant hound seeking payment in place of blood.
