Thirty-Two Year Old – Molly Bloom


…I must do a few breathing exercises I wonder is that antifat any good might overdo it thin ones are not so much the fashion now garters that much I have the violet pair I wore today thats all he bought me out of the cheque he got on the first O no there was the face lotion I finished that last of yesterday that made my skin like new I told him over and over again get that made up in the same place and dont forget it God only knows whether he did after all I said to him Ill know by the bottle anyway if not I suppose Ill only have to wash in my piss like beeftea or chickensoup with some of that opoponax and violet I thought it was beginning to look coarse or old a bit the skin underneath is much finer where it peeled off there on my finger after the burn it’s a pity it isnt all like that and the four paltry handkerchiefs about 6/- in all sure you cant get on in this world without style all going in food and rent when I get it Ill lash it around I tell you in fine style I always want to throw a handful of tea into the pot measuring and mincing if I buy a pair of old brogues itself do you like those new shoes yes how much were they Ive no clothes at all the brown costume and the skirt and jacket and the one at the cleaners 3 whats that for any woman cutting up this old hat and patching up the other men wont look at you and women try to walk on you because they know youve no man then with all the things getting dearer every day for 4 years more I have of life up to 35 no Im what am I at all Ill be 33 in September will I O well look at that Mrs Galbraith shes much older than me I saw her when I was out last week her beautys on the wane she was a lovely woman…

James Joyce, Ulysses

Published in: 32 Years Old | on May 24th, 2010 | No Comments »

Sixteen Year Old – Stephen Dedalus


He began to confess his sins: masses missed, prayers not said, lies.

–  Anything else, my child?

Sins of anger, envy of others, gluttony, vanity, disobedience.

–  Anything else, my child?

There was no help. He murmured:

–  I…committed sins of impurity, father.

–  With yourself, my child?

–  And…with others.

–  With women, my child?

–  Yes, father.

–  Were they married women, my child?

He did not know. His sins trickled from his lips, one by one, trickled in shameful drops from his soul, festering and oozing like a sore, a squalid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth, sluggish, filthy. There was no more to tell. He bowed his head, overcome.

The priest was silent. Then he asked:

–    How old are you, my child?

–    Sixteen, father.

James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Published in: 16 Years Old | on December 19th, 2009 | No Comments »