Difference between revisions of "Sandhyas"

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Sandhya: A Hindu ritual done at the "junctions" (sandhyas) of the day-dawn, noon, and sunset-during which the Savitri Gayatri is repeated.
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Sandhya: A Hindu ritual done at the "junctions" (sandhyas) of the day — dawn, noon, and sunset — during which the Savitri Gayatri is repeated.
  
 
sanctus sanctus sanctus (mass)
 
sanctus sanctus sanctus (mass)
 +
 +
From Jacques Mercanton's ''Les Heures de James Joyce'' (reprinted in ''Portraits of the Artist in Exile: Recollection of James Joyce by Europeans'', edited by Willard Potts, translated by Lloyd C. Parks, page 221): "Likewise, the 'Sandhyas! Sandhyas! Sandhyas!'--a Sanscrit word meaning 'the twilight of dawn'--that opens the last part of the book is a restatement of the Sanctus of the Mass, which reverberates throughout the whole work."
  
 
slanty scanty shanty (page 305.24)
 
slanty scanty shanty (page 305.24)
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cf. Shan't we? Shan't we? Shan't we?, last words of Joyce's parody of "waste land" in a letter to Harriot Shaw Weaver (Aug. 15, 1925):
 
cf. Shan't we? Shan't we? Shan't we?, last words of Joyce's parody of "waste land" in a letter to Harriot Shaw Weaver (Aug. 15, 1925):
  
Rouen is the rainiest place, getting/  
+
Rouen is the rainiest place, getting/  
Inside all impermeables, wetting/  
+
Inside all impermeables, wetting/  
Damp marrow in drenched bones./  
+
Damp marrow in drenched bones./  
Midwinter soused us coming over Le Mans/  
+
Midwinter soused us coming over Le Mans/  
Our inn at Niort was the Grape of Burgundy  
+
Our inn at Niort was the Grape of Burgundy  
 
+
But the winepress of the Lord thundered over that grape of Burgundy/  
+
But the winepress of the Lord thundered over that grape of Burgundy/  
And we left it in a hurgundy./  
+
And we left it in a hurgundy./  
(Hurry up, Joyce, it's time!)  
+
(Hurry up, Joyce, it's time!)  
  
I heard mosquitoes swarm in old Bordeaux/  
+
I heard mosquitoes swarm in old Bordeaux/  
So many!/  
+
So many!/  
I had not thought the earth contained so many/  
+
I had not thought the earth contained so many/  
(Hurry up, Joyce, it's time)  
+
(Hurry up, Joyce, it's time)  
  
Mr Anthologos, the local gardener,/  
+
Mr Anthologos, the local gardener,/  
Greycapped, with politness full of cunning/  
+
Greycapped, with politness full of cunning/  
Has made wine these fifty years/  
+
Has made wine these fifty years/  
And told me in his southern French/  
+
And told me in his southern French/  
Le petit vin is the surest drink to buy/  
+
Le petit vin is the surest drink to buy/  
For if 'tis bad/  
+
For if 'tis bad/  
Vous ne l'avez pas payé/  
+
Vous ne l'avez pas payé/  
(Hurry up, hurry up, now, now, now!)  
+
(Hurry up, hurry up, now, now, now!)  
  
But we shall have great times,/  
+
But we shall have great times,/  
When we return to Clinic, that waste land/  
+
When we return to Clinic, that waste land/  
O Esculapios!/  
+
O Esculapios!/  
(Shan't we? Shan't we? Shan't we?)
+
(Shan't we? Shan't we? Shan't we?)

Latest revision as of 14:54, 17 May 2008

Sandhya: A Hindu ritual done at the "junctions" (sandhyas) of the day — dawn, noon, and sunset — during which the Savitri Gayatri is repeated.

sanctus sanctus sanctus (mass)

From Jacques Mercanton's Les Heures de James Joyce (reprinted in Portraits of the Artist in Exile: Recollection of James Joyce by Europeans, edited by Willard Potts, translated by Lloyd C. Parks, page 221): "Likewise, the 'Sandhyas! Sandhyas! Sandhyas!'--a Sanscrit word meaning 'the twilight of dawn'--that opens the last part of the book is a restatement of the Sanctus of the Mass, which reverberates throughout the whole work."

slanty scanty shanty (page 305.24)

shantih shantih shantih (last words of T.S. Eliot's "waste land")

cf. Shan't we? Shan't we? Shan't we?, last words of Joyce's parody of "waste land" in a letter to Harriot Shaw Weaver (Aug. 15, 1925):

Rouen is the rainiest place, getting/ 
Inside all impermeables, wetting/ 
Damp marrow in drenched bones./ 
Midwinter soused us coming over Le Mans/ 
Our inn at Niort was the Grape of Burgundy 

But the winepress of the Lord thundered over that grape of Burgundy/ 
And we left it in a hurgundy./ 
(Hurry up, Joyce, it's time!) 
I heard mosquitoes swarm in old Bordeaux/ 
So many!/ 
I had not thought the earth contained so many/ 
(Hurry up, Joyce, it's time) 
Mr Anthologos, the local gardener,/ 
Greycapped, with politness full of cunning/ 
Has made wine these fifty years/ 
And told me in his southern French/ 
Le petit vin is the surest drink to buy/ 
For if 'tis bad/ 
Vous ne l'avez pas payé/ 
(Hurry up, hurry up, now, now, now!) 
But we shall have great times,/ 
When we return to Clinic, that waste land/ 
O Esculapios!/ 
(Shan't we? Shan't we? Shan't we?)