By Alberto Manguel
At one magical fast on your early early life, the web page of a book—that string of harassed, alien ciphers—shivered into that means. phrases spoke to you, gave up their secrets and techniques; at that second, complete universes opened. You turned, irrevocably, a reader. famous essayist Alberto Manguel strikes from this crucial second to discover the 6000-year-old dialog among phrases and that magician with out whom the booklet will be a dull item: the reader. Manguel lingers over interpreting as seduction, as uprising, as obsession, and is going directly to hint the never-before-told tale of the reader's development from clay pill to scroll, codex to CD-ROM.
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Additional info for A History of Reading
Once Jahnn even lifts a name, Almidano Artifoni, directly from the “Wandering Rocks” episode, as if explicitly to pay homage to his precursor—of course, for Jahnn in 1929 Almidano Artifoni would have been a purely fictitious name, one he perhaps enjoyed for “its sonority and foreignness,” as Mitchell surmises (113). ’ A jewel. ’ Ein Edelstein. Erhabenes mit alten geringen Worten sagen,” 311). 115), rendered in Goyert’s translation as “Nur grosse Worte für gewöhnliche Dinge, des Klanges wegen” (247).
Joyce is no longer holy. I believe he enjoys parodying God the most. (Füger, Kritisches Erbe, 131–32) A sobering counterbalance can be found in such comments as those by Walter Schmits, published on 3 November 1927 in the Kölnische Zeitung: Protracted stretches of the book resemble the disjointed, incomprehensible, and awfully boring gibberish of a person who has lost his mind. . The central characters . . are polluted and filthy souls. . [W]ith cold mockery [ Joyce] makes human sexuality look like a disgusting machine.
The stallion found me ready for mounting. Perrudja, your hand, Perrudja, your breath, your breath, that reeks of your lungs and your spittle. You are no hero, Perrudja, you did not lay me on your bed, did not make me pregnant. Perrudja, you forgot the most important thing. Weakling! Cried, tears. His fist under my chin. Against my plump breasts. Tread on me! Stun me. Twenty thousand crowns. Buy the whore. I am a whore. Look at my thighs. He is crying like a child. Do I hate him? Do I hate him? He let me go.