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Whitesnake are an English hard rock band, founded in 1977 by David Coverdale (second from right:formerly of Deep Purple). They were active primarily in the 1980s, but still tour, albeit with an entirely new line-up (bar Coverdale and Aldridge), to this day.
Some of the most famous musicians who have joined the band for a time were: Jon Lord, Ian Paice, Cozy Powell, Neil Murray, Bernie Marsden, Micky Moody, John Sykes, Adrian Vandenberg, Vivian Campbell, Tommy Aldridge and Steve Vai.
Throughout its career, the band has been compared by critics to Deep Purple, not only because three past members of the band were once in Deep Purple, but also because of their sound and influences.
The Beatles
"I Am the Walrus" from Magical Mystery Tour
Call it an "urban legend" of the literary community; or perhaps just a bit of musical apocrypha, but there has been a persistent belief that John Lennon was influenced by Finnegans Wake when he penned the lyrics for "I Am the Walrus," one of the Beatles' more linguistically surreal tunes. The evidence is scanty -- it is known that Lennon was aware of Joyce, and had professed to having read a bit of the Wake after someone had remarked that his own writing was "Joycean." It is also known that Lennon was influenced by literature in general, particularly by Lewis Carroll. But the only "hard evidence" is the "goo goo g'joob" phrase from "Walrus," which is often -- and most likely mistakenly -- connected to a line from the Wake (FW 557.7: "goo goo goosth"). Is that enough to establish a real connection? Was Lennon influenced by Joyce when he wrote "I Am the Walrus"?
"I Am the Walrus"
I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly.
I'm crying.
Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come.
Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody Tuesday.
Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob.
Mister City Policeman sitting
Pretty little policemen in a row.
See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky, see how they run.
I'm crying, I'm crying.
I'm crying, I'm crying.
Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye.
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess,
Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob.
Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun.
If the sun don't come, you get a tan
From standing in the English rain.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob.
Expert textpert choking smokers,
Don't you thing the joker laughs at you?
See how they smile like pigs in a sty,
See how they snied.
I'm crying.
Semolina pilchard, climbing up the Eiffel Tower.
Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna.
Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Alan Poe.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob.
Goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob g'goo.
NO EASY WAY OUT
We're not indestructible
Baby better get that straight
I think it's unbelievable
How you give in to the hands of fate
Some things are worth fighting for
Some feelings never die
I'm not asking for another chance
I just want to know why
There's no easy way out
There's no shortcut home
There's no easy way out
Giving in can't be wrong
I don't want to pacify you
I don't want to drag you down
But I'm feeling like a prisoner
Like a stranger in no-name town
I see all the angry faces
Afraid that could be you and me
Talking about what might have been
Thinking about what used to be
There's no easy way out
There's no shortcut home
There's no easy way out
Giving in can't be wrong
Baby, Baby, we could shed this skin
We could show how we feel inside
Instead of going down an endless road
Not knowing if we're dead or alive
Some things are worth fighting for
Some feelings never die
I'm not asking for another chance
I just want to know why
There's no easy way out
There's no shortcut home
There's no easy way out
Giving in can't be wrong
(Robert Tepper)
پریشب دلم هوای راکی بالبوا کرده بود بد فرم! راکی 4 رو پیدا کردم و جای دوستان خالی حظی بردیم در وصف نگنجیدنی...آخه همش فلینی و فینچر و گدار و آنتونیونی که نمیشه...دل آدم دنبال چیزای ساده هم است بیشتر وقتا...خلاصه که فیلم ما رو برد تو همون حال و هوای دوران شیرین با طعم بستنی پاک نوجوانی...همون دورانی که از ته دل دنبال یه قهرمان بودیم؛ دنبال کسی که بتونه انتقام بال های شکسته مونو از دنیایی به بزرگی و خبیثی دراگوی فیلم راکی بگیره؛ قهرمانی که پشت یه ماشین کورسی تو خیابونای خلوت و بارون زده برونه و از همه مهم تر تو ماشینش آهنگ های راک با حال بذاره...هیچ وقت زنگ صدای Robert Tepper که توی فیلم آهنگ محشر No Easy Way Out رو می خونه از خاطرم نمیره...انگار همه چیز همین دیروز بود...
William Blake: What is your name?
Nobody: My name is Nobody.
William Blake: Excuse me?
Nobody: My name is Exaybachay. He Who Talks Loud, Saying Nothing.
William Blake: He who talks... I thought you said your name was Nobody.
Nobody: I preferred to be called Nobody.
Silent, O Moyle
Words by Thomas Moore, to the air "My Dear Eveleen";
musical arrangement by N. Clifford Page
Liner Notes:
This Thomas Moore song from his volume of Irish Melodies figures in one of James Joyce's short stories and in Ulysses, as well as in Finnegans Wake.
Ulysses
There is a brief reference to the "Song of Fionnuala" in the Scylla and Charybdis episode of Ulysses. Gathering in the conversations of the other men with him in Dublin's National Library, Stephen Dedalus is acutely aware of his own sense of separation, of alienation. He does not belong to their national-commercial-aesthetic coterie. At the same time, his heart is still torn over the recent death of his mother. Exiled, alone, living in a world apart from theirs, his art unheard and unappreciated by them, Stephen has a fleeting thought that neatly sums up his feelings:
Cordelia. Cordoglio. Lir's loneliest daughter.
[192:36]
Cordelia, of course, is the spurned but faithful daughter of Shakespeare's King Lear. Cordoglio is an Italian word meaning "grief" or "anguish." Finally, in the last phrase, he identifies himself with Fionnuala, the daughter of the sea king, Lir. Though transformed into a swan and doomed to hardship and wandering far from her homeland, she was gifted with both human speech and the power of song.
Interestingly, the National Library, where this scene occurs, is situated on Kildare street — the same street where Lenehan and Corley in Dubliners heard the harpist playing "Silent, O Moyle."
This line illustrates in a nutshell less the originality than the genius and sheer efficiency of Joyce's stream-of-consciousness technique (or monologue intérieur, a method of narrative which was, as a matter of fact, first exploited by the French author M. Edouard Dujardin in his tale Les Lauriers Sont Coupés, published in 1887). The Bard has been the main topic of conversation in the library, which conjures up the first reference. The name of Shakespeare's character Cordelia suggests the similar-sounding word cordoglio; and it further elicits the allusion to Moore's song by tying together the linguistically related names of "Lear" and "Lir" as well as the parallels in their stories.
The sequence of references reveals with exquisite exactitude, and in a manner that pages of descriptive exposition could never succeed in doing, both Stephen's mood and his individual mode of thinking.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Finnegans Wake
There is at least one oblique reference to "Silent, O Moyle" in chapter III.3:
...and I wound around my swanchen's neckplace a school of shells of moyles marine to swing their saysangs in her silents...
[548:32-34]
If he had not become a writer, there is a very good chance that James Joyce would still have made a name for himself by pursuing a career as a vocal performer. In 1904 he even shared the stage with the great opera singer and recital artist, John McCormack; and later on in life, after he had established himself as an author, he tirelessly promoted the singing career of his fellow Irishman and tenor, John Sullivan.
The close relationship between James Joyce and music has long been recognized by his readers, critics, and biographers. Joyce, like his father, was both an excellent singer (with a sweet tenor voice) and an accomplished pianist with an encyclopedic mastery of music of every type and genre, rivaling his vast knowledge of world literature. As a writer, he nevertheless incorporated music into all his works in increasingly complex ways, especially in Chamber Music, Dubliners, A Portrait of the Artist, Ulysses, and Finnegans Wake.
Beside helping our understanding of Joyce, studying his use of music is a wonderfully entertaining way to make the works more immediate and accessible.
Joyce was acquainted with music of all sorts, from grand opera to bawdy street ballads, and he interspersed countless allusions to these works throughout the body of his writings. What has long been rare in Joycean scholarship, however, is the opportunity to hear these songs performed in an historically accurate style that would be familiar to Joyce, and as his contemporaries would have heard them. The selections on the recording, recently released by Sunphone Records, are among the best known in the Joyce canon...
It's three miles to the river
That would carry me away,
And two miles to the dusty street
That I saw you on today.
It's four miles to my lonely room
Where I will hide my face,
And about half a mile to the downtown bar
That I ran from in disgrace.
Lord, how long have I got to keep on running,
Seven hours, seven days or seven years?
All I know is, since you've been gone
I feel like I'm drowning in a river,
Drowning in a river of tears.
Drowning in a river.
Feel like I'm drowning,
Drowning in a river.
In three more days, I'll leave this town
And disappear without a trace.
A year from now, maybe settle down
Where no one knows my face.
I wish that I could hold you
One more time to ease the pain,
But my time's run out and I got to go,
Got to run away again.
Still I catch myself thinking,
One day I'll find my way back here.
You'll save me from drowning,
Drowning in a river,
Drowning in a river of tears.
Drowning in a river.
Feels like I'm drowning,
Drowning in the river.
Lord, how long must this go on?
Drowning in a river,
Drowning in a river of tears.
Whenever I want to forget what I am or what I’m going to reach, I gaze at the sky. I gaze at the sky and try to capture something fleeting and instinctively blue. Something outliving the enchanting songs of ancient Sirens. Something enigmatic and mystically inviting. An affirmed sensation welcoming, rather forbidding, you to the great divide above. You’d like to feel lost, forgotten, and oblivious in that boundless blue.
Blue: like the color of a pretty medieval belle’s eye shedding tears for her unheard knight; like the flying liberty of a few migrating wild geese; like the innocent dream of a child in which he touches God’s face; like the tiny morose drops falling from the cloud-stained eye of the sky; like me; like you; like any other goddamn fellow who still feels he exists…
If our society should go to smash tomorrow (which, as Joyce implies, it may) one could find all the pieces, together with the forces that broke them, in Finnegans Wake. The book is a kind of terminal moraine in which lie buried all the myths, programmes, slogans, hopes, prayers, tools, educational theories, and theological bric-a-brac of the past millenium. And here, too, we will find the love that reanimates this debris . . . Through notes that finally become tuneable to our ears, we hear James Joyce uttering his resilient, all-enjoying, all-animating 'Yes', the Yes of things to come, a Yes from beyond every zone of disillusionment, such as few have had the heart to utter.
--Joseph Campbell, A Skeleton Key to Finnagans Wake
(Lucia Joyce. Photograph by Berenice Abbott. Lucia, who was diagnosed as schizophrenic by Jung, was an inspiration for Milly Bloom in Ulysses and Issy in Finnegans Wake.)
When Samuel Beckett died in 1989, a striking snapshot of a feral woman dancing, clad from head to toe in silver fish scales, was found among his papers. Beckett had kept this memento of his affair with James Joyce's turbulent daughter, Lucia, for more than 60 years. To her father, Lucia was the "wonder wild," his dark muse, who spent much of her adolescence locked with him in a room while he wrote "Finnegans Wake," his final novel. "Whatever spark or gift I possess," Joyce wrote in 1934, "it has been transmitted to Lucia and kindled a fire in her brain." But the rest of the world saw her differently; in the history of 20th-century literature, Lucia is portrayed as a troublesome blight on the Joyce family, an eccentric, mentally unstable woman in the mold of Vivienne Eliot, Zelda Fitzgerald and Sylvia Plath.
A Love Song for Bobby Long (2004)
Directed by: Shainee Gabel
John Travolta
Scarlett Johansson
Gabriel Macht
The pleasure of the movie is in its intentions to evoke nostalgic lyricism in a tone poem of lost opportunities and resilient human emotion...(This is my inborn mood which I cherish!)
James Joyce's Women (1985)
1985, Color
Directed by Michael Pearce
Cinemotography by John Metcalfe
Music by Arthur Keating, Vincent Kilduff & Garrett O'Conner
Cast (in order of credits)
Fionnula Flanagan . . . Nora Joyce, Gertie MacDowell, Harriet Shaw Weaver, Main Washerwoman, & Molly Bloom.
Chris O'Neill . . . James Joyce
James E. O'Grady . . .The Interviewer
Tony Lyons . . . Leopold Bloom
Paddy Dawson . . . Stannie Joyce
Martin Dempsey . . . Joyce's father
Gerald Fitzmahony . . . The Dublin Gossips
Joseph Taylor . . . Dubliner
Rebecca Wilkinson . . .Washerwoman
Gladys Sheehan . . . Washerwoman
Gabrielle Keenan . . . Cissy Caffrey
Michele O'Connor . . . Edy Boardman
The yellow raven sipped the air
Of thunder and of rain ...
The yellow raven sipped the air
Gentle eyes kissing the rain ...
Where do you go, fantastic dreambird?
Take me away to somewhere
Take me away from here!
Where do you go, fantastic dreambird?
Answer to my yearning
Take me away from here!
The firebird began to cry
When the music died away ...
The firebird began to cry
And smoke was slowly drifting by ...
Where do you go, fantastic dreambird?
Take me away to somewhere
Take me away from here!
Where do you go, fantastic dreambird?
Answer to my yearning
Take me away from here ...
(Scorpions)
اولش خیال ورم داشت که بالاخره تونستم زمان رو متوقف کنم اما یک کم که بیشتر تو چشای ساعت دیواری مون زل زدم دیدم نه...مثل این که واقعاً خسته شده از این همه ثانیه و دقیقه و ساعتی رو که داره ذره ذره کوک می زنه به لحاف چهل تیکه عمرمون...الان دو روزه که زمان سنج خونگی مون اعتصاب کرده و ساعت ده و دو دقیقه و سی و چهار ثانیه رو نشون میده...ما که یادمون نیست ولی اون یادشه خروار خروار دقیقه و ساعت رو مثل یه مشت خاک دادیم به باد...ولی این مگه آخر خط همه مون نیست؟ همچون غبار در باد.....
All moanday, tearsday, wailsday, thumpsday, frightday, shatterday till the fear of the Law.
(301.20-22)
End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousandsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
(628.13 to 3.3)
اگه قرار باشه دلم برای شیراز یک بار دیگه تنگ بشه ترجیح میدم برای کتابخانه میرزای شیرازی دانشگاه و ارگ کریم خان تنگ بشه...تنها جاهایی که هیچ وسوسه ای قادر به بیرون آوردن من از اونجا نبود...هنوز بوی کتابای خاک گرفته رو حس می کنم وقتی از بین قفسه ها (کوچه ها بهتره بگم) مست مست رد می شدم و فکر می کردم فردا چقدر قشنگ می تونه باشه...
بوی عطر نارنجای ارگ کریم خان...بوی شیرین و ترش گذشته هر کدوم از اتاقاش...بوها با "یاد آوری زمان از دست رفته من" ارتباط عجیبی دارن...رنگ دارن...درد دارن...چی می شد اگه می شد هر صبح دنیا رو از پشت این شیشه های رنگارنگ دید؟...
To Poe, who understandably felt somewhat cheated in this life, the idea of one or more future lives held an obvious appeal. He used reincarnation as a theme in several stories, but there is no reason to presume that he actually believed in it as a doctrine. His quote from "Marginalia" suggests something other than traditional reincarnation: ". . . in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream". Certainly, Poe's religious views were unconventional, though they may seem considerably less so today, with our dizzying array of groups preaching a virtual cornucopia of spiritual possibilities.
It would certainly have been understandable if Poe had lost confidence in a divine hand, one that directs our daily lives for purposes of our own spiritual benefit. The sad and youthful deaths of so many loved ones (his mother, Mrs. Stanard, Frances Allan, his brother and especially the long and lingering illness of Virginia) would have tested anyone's faith. Poverty, illness and failure no doubt seemed his constant companions. If we can accept the testimony of Dr. John Moran, which generally must be taken with more than a little scepticism, Poe's last words were "Lord, help my poor soul." The most realistic view is that Poe's religious inclinations changed greatly back and forth during his lifetime, but were never seriously abandoned.
۱) عیال به دنبال اصرار پسر مشغول یافتن اسباب بازی ها ست اما از داخل جعبه تاریخ تمدن ویل دورانت بیرون می آید.
2) بنده در جستجوی کتاب های جیبی اتشارات پنگوئن با وسایل بوفه عیال مواجه می شوم.
3) به امید یافتن کتاب های شعر در جعبه ای را باز می کنم: آلبوم های عکس؟!
4) زمزمه اعتراض عیال از آشپزخانه به گوش می رسد. موضوع چیست؟ جعبه حاوی وسایل و ادوات کابینت ها به محموله Cambridge Companions تغییر ماهیت داده است.
(در این بین عیال و من هر دو به این نتیجه فلسفی می رسیم که باید برای نگهداری و حمل کتاب نیز مانند بنزین سهمیه تأیین کرد. هر انسان چقدر کتاب می تواند داشته باشد؟!)
5) دنبال کتاب های سینمایی می گردم اما انگار دوباره کارتن اشتباهی را باز کرده ام: روغن مایع و قند – بخش شیرین و چرب زندگی!
6) نتیجه فلسفی-اخلاقی دیگر: می گویم اگر 21 گرم از وزن مان کم شود چه می شود؟ عیال می گوید مثل این می شود که کتاب ها و کامپیوتر از این خانه کم شوند. یعنی انگار یک جورایی سبکبال می شویم. اندکی فکر می کنم و می بینم که حق با اوست گویا. راستی وزن زندگی کسی که نصف وسایلش کتاب است چقدر است؟
(راستی در این بین از تجسم سر و صدا و تعقیب و گریز تام و جری وار پسر و دختر از میان اسباب و اثاثیه یادتان نرود.)
"If I Close My Eyes Forever"
Baby
I get so scared inside, and I don't really understand
Is it love that's on my mind, or is it fantasy?
Heaven
Is in the palm of my hand, and it's waiting here for you
What am I supposed to do with a childhood tragedy?
If I close my eyes forever
Will it all remain unchanged?
If I close my eyes forever
Will it all remain the same?
Sometimes
It's hard to hold on
So hard to hold on to my dreams
It isn't always what it seems
When you're face to face with me
You're like a dagger
And stick me in the heart
And taste the blood from my blade
And when we sleep, would you shelter me
In your warm and darkened grave?
If I close my eyes forever
Will it all remain unchanged?
If I close my eyes forever
Will it all remain the same?
Will you ever take me?
No, I just can't take the pain
But would you ever trust me?
No, I'll never feel the same, Oh
I know I've been so hard on you
I know I've told you lies
If I could have just one more wish
I'd wipe the cobwebs from my eyes
If I close my eyes forever
Will it all remain unchanged?
If I close my eyes forever
Will it all remain the same?
Close your eyes
(Lita Ford Feat. Ozzy Osbourne)
…There are three conditions of art: the lyrical, the epical and the dramatic. That art is lyrical whereby the artist acts forth the image in immediate relation to himself; that art is epical whereby the artist sets forth the image in mediate relation to himself and to others; that art is dramatic whereby the artist sets forth the image in immediate relation to others…
Wilde’s condemnation by the English people arose from many complex causes; but it was not the simple reaction. Anyone who scrutinizes the graffiti, the loose drawings, the lewd gestures of those people will hesitate to believe them pure at heart. Anyone who follows closely the life and language of men, whether in soldiers’ barracks or in the great commercial houses, will hesitate to believe that all those who threw stones at Wilde were themselves spotless. In fact, everyone feels uncomfortable in speaking to others about this subject, afraid that his listener may know more about it than he does. Oscar Wilde’s own defense in the Scots Observer should remain valid in the judgment of an objective critic. Everyone, he wrote, sees his own sin in Dorian Gray (Wilde’s best known novel). What Dorian Gray’s sin was no one says and no one knows. Anyone who recognizes it has committed it.
Here we touch the pulse of Wilde’s art – sin. He deceived himself into believing that he was the bearer of good news of neo-paganism to an enslaved people. His own distinctive qualities, the qualities, perhaps, of his race – keenness, generosity, and a sexless intellect – he placed at the service of a theory of beauty which, according to him, was to bring back the Golden Age and the joy of the world’s youth. But if some truth adheres to his subjective interpretations of Aristotle, to his restless thought that proceeds by sophisms rather than syllogisms, to his assimilations of natures as foreign to his as the delinquent is to the humble, at its very base is the truth inherent in the soul of Catholicism: that man cannot reach the divine heart except through that sense of separation and loss called sin.
James Joyce
March 29, 1909
I bless the wings that bring you
Back across the shore
If I could touch you now my darling
And love you just once more
If I could hold you, hold you, hold you,
I know you'd understand,
I know you'd understand.
As I cross the bridge by the waterfall
As I make my way by the stars
There's a shadow walking beside me
Here in my heart
Like the restless wind in the tree tops
Like a whispered voice in my ear
I will always be there for you
I'll always be here...
اینجوری که نیل یانگ به آدم نگاه می کنه منو یاد نگاهای آقای کامیابی میندازه...
حس می کردی تمام روحت رو اسکن می کنه...
بعضی وقت ها حس و حال آدم میشه مثل پسرک فیلم "بازگشت"...
تک و تنها منتظر هیچکس...
زیر بارون...
An ardent admirer of Joyce, this blind Argentine mentions him several times in his writings, and was one of the first Spanish-language reviewers of Ulysses. He’s also written two poems about James Joyce: “James Joyce,” and “Invocation to Joyce.” Here are some of the more interesting references to Joyce from some of his essays and lectures.
Yeats, Rilke and Eliot have written verses more memorable than those of Valery; Joyce and Stefan George have effected more profound modifications in their instrument (perhaps French is less modifiable than English and German); but behind the work of these eminent artificers there is no personality comparable to Valery’s.
– Essay: “Valery as Symbol”
I believed, and still believe, that some twenty-five hundred years ago there was a prince of Nepal named Siddhartha or Gautama who became the Buddha, the Enlightened or Awakened One – as opposed to the rest of us who are sleeping or are dreaming this great dream that is life. I remember that line of Joyce: “History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.” Well, Siddhartha, at age thirty, woke up and became the Buddha.
– 1977 Lecture: “Buddhism”
Let us recall another example, one more famous than Groussac. In James Joyce we are also given a twofold work. We have these two vast and – why not say it? – unreadable novels, Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. But that is only half of his work (which also includes beautiful poems and the admirable Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man). The other half, and perhaps the most redeeming aspect (as they now say) is the fact that he took on the almost infinite English language. That language – which is statistically larger than all the others and offers so many possibilities for the writer, particularly in its concrete verbs – was not enough for him. Joyce, an Irishman, recalled that Dublin had been founded by Danish Vikings. He studied Norwegian – he wrote a letter to Ibsen in Norwegian – and then he studied Greek, Latin . . . He knew all the languages, and he wrote in a language invented by himself, difficult to understand but marked by a strange music. Joyce brought a new music to English. And he said, valorously (and mendaciously) that “of all the things that have happened to me, I think that the least important was having been blind.” Part of his vast work was executed in darkness: polishing the sentences in his memory, working at times for a whole day on a single phrase, and then writing it and correcting it. All in the midst of blindness or periods of blindness.
– 1977 Lecture: “Blindness”
بابا انار داشت
بابا نان داشت
بابا جان داشت
بابا شعر ندارد
بابا سیگار ندارد
بابا باغچه ندارد
زندگی پسر دارد
پسر بابا ندارد
راستی کسی میدونه هفتمین سامورایی کجاست؟ کسی میدونه این شیش تا سامورایی به کجا خیره شدن؟ کسی میدونه قهرمان های گمنام شباشونو چطوری صبح می کنن؟ کسی میدونه کوروساوا الان تو چه فکریه؟ کسی میدونه کی قراره هشتمین سامورایی باشه؟
Flight Of Icarus
As the sun breaks above the ground an old man stands on the hill
As the ground warms to the first rays of light a bird song shatters the still
His eyes are ablaze, see the madman in his gaze
Fly, on your way, like an eagle, fly as high as the sun
On your way, like an eagle, fly and touch the sun
Now the crowd breaks and a young boy appears, looks the old man in the eye
As he spreads his wings and shouts at the crowd "In the name of God my father I'll fly!"
His eyes seem so glazed as he flies on the wings of a dream
Now he knows his father betrayed, now his wings turn to ashes to ashes his grave
Fly, on your way, like an eagle, fly as high as the sun
On your way, like an eagle, fly as high as the sun
Fly, on your way, like an eagle, fly as high as the sun
On your way, like an eagle, fly as high as the sun
On your way, like an eagle, fly toward the sun
On your way, like an eagle, fly...
Fly as high as the sun
Steve Harris (first from left):
It's a really good song but we much prefer it live. We tend to play it a little bit faster live. Looking back on it now we feel we could have played it at the faster speed on the album. This little extra touch gives it a bit more fire. If you're counting solos, this is Dave.
در شماره چهارشنبه 10 مرداد 1386 روزنامه شرق، چند مقاله کوتاه و بلند در مورد درگذشت آنتونیونی به چاپ رسیده است که در میان آن ها نوشته حضرت اجل کامران شیردل، با عنوان "آرزو می کردم زودتر بمیرد"، از همه بیشتر دل ستانی می کند. نمی دانم برای آقای شیردل اثبات "ارادت و سرسپردگی" به آنتونیونی آن هم به شرط چاقو مهم است یا شرح مبسوط پیشینه درخشان و غیر قابل توصیف سینمایی/موسیقیایی/هنری ایشان در ایامی که در ایتالیا به مقوله هنر می پرداختند؟! ایشان همه جا آنتونیونی را به مانند سایه تعقیب می کرده است چون او خیلی مهم بوده:
"پس از فیلم ماجرا و از نفس افتاده تصمیم گرفتم معماری را رها کنم و در رشته سینما تحصیل کنم. از آن جایی که معماری نقش مهمی در سینمای آنتونیونی داشت، برای جوانی مثل من که عاشق معماری و پیش از آن عاشق موسیقی بود و با این پس زمینه به سراغ سینما می رفت طبیعی بود که آنتونیونی به یک قطب تبدیل شود..."
ایشان ادامه می دهد تا آن جا که دوباره خواننده را سورپریز می کند:
"تز ورودی دانشگاه سینمایی رم را درباره تمام آثار سیاه و سفید آنتونیونی نوشتم...حاصل کتابی شد در حدود نود و دو صفحه و پذیرفته شدن در دانشگاه با نمره ای بالا که به عنوان تنها ایرانی تا به حال صاحب این افتخار شدم..."
خواننده عزیز اگر کمی دیگر صبر و تحمل بفرمایید تا بنده یک چشمه دیگر از افتخارات این منتقد شیردل را متذکر شوم اصل مطلب را با احترامات فائقه تقدیم خواهم کرد. داستان تا آن جا پیش می رود که در سال 1354 به دعوت جشنواره جهانی فیلم آنتونیونی به تهران می آید. خوب کی قرار است دیلماج استاد باشد؟ گوش بدهید:
"...من به خاطر تسلط به زبان ایتالیایی و اشراف بر سینمای او همراه او شدم...[آنتونیونی] پس از آن که لهجه رمی و توانایی من در صحبت کردن به زبان ایتالیایی را دید احساس راحتی کرد...و گفت ترجیح می دهد به زبان مادری اش...به سوالات پاسخ دهد."
با راوی تا آن جا می رویم که الهه سینما، آنقدر او را وسوسه می کند تا برود رم و یکی از آخرین کارهای استاد را ببیند آن هم تنها و در سالنی تاریک (مگر در سالن روشن هم می شود فیلم دید؟!). نتیجه چیست؟
"طبعاً دیدن آن برایم دردناک بود زیرا با فیلم بسیار بدی مواجه بودم...برای منی که بسیار [آنتونیونی] را دوست داشتم و بخشی از زندگی ام را وقف او کرده بودم لحظه غمناکی بود، بتم می شکست...دو سه هفته پیش به اصرار دوست جوانی که شاید همان نسبت میان من و آنتونیونی را با من دارد به تماشای اروس نشستم. منقلب شدم، فیلم زننده بود..."
از این جا به بعد، پس از آن که هنرمند بزرگوار خود را تجسد دوباره آنتونیونی پنداشته و پهنه نبرد را از یلان تهی می بیند با دست دیگر گرزی را نیز برداشته و به سوی پیکر تهی از زندگی آنتونیونی چهار نعل می تازد:
"...به این نتیجه رسیده ام که در تاریخ هنر بعضی ها زیاد عمر می کنند، شاید گفتن این جمله آزار دهنده باشد اما آنتونیونی هم زیاد عمر کرد. شاید مرگ فرصت اشتباه کردن را از او می گرفت..."
با نهایت احترام باید به عرض برسانم برای افرادی که همه عمرشان را در سایه بزرگان و با اتکا به معرفت ایشان گذرانده و تا توانسته اند خروارها پز فلسفی و هنری داده اند، از مرگ این بزرگان نیز به چشم مایه بزرگی و نام آوری خود استفاده می کنند. آقای شیردل شما قرار است مثلاً در سوگ به اصطلاح استادتان انگشت حسرت به دندان بگزید نه این که در پناه فقدان هنرمندی سترگ موجبات تولد دوباره خود را فراهم سازید. تمجید و ستایش از خودتان را نکوهیده نمی دانم، مبارکتان باشد، اما نه در سایه دهن کجی به اصطلاح هنرمندانه به حاصل یک عمر فعالیت انسانی که در عرصه سینما می تواند همتایی چون جیمز جویس در ادبیات داشته باشد. از شما انتظار نمی رود که برای بزرگداشت خودتان از آنتونیونی مایه بگذارید. بگذارید آنتونیونی بماند و اشتباه کند، فلینی بماند و اشتباه کند، کوبریک، هیچکاک، و کوروساوا بمانند و اشتباه کنند که اشتباه آن ها تجربه ای است به پویایی هنر و ماندگاری زیبایی. این جمله را شنیده اید که می گویند "ادبیات دروغی است بزرگ، اما حقیقت از دل همین دروغ بیرون می آید"؟ هر چه قدر دروغ بزرگ تر باشد آبستن حقیقتی است خیره کننده تر. گاهی اشتباهات بزرگان چنان عظمتی دارد که کارهای به اصطلاح بی عیب و نقص کوچکمردان را یارای ایستادن در کنار آن ها نیست. امیدوارم جامعه هنری ما در فکر جایگاهی مرفع برای بزرگمردی همچون شما باشد قبل از اینکه زمان از آن ها جلو بزند. خوشحالم که سنگ محک شیشه عمر هنرمندان را به دست شما ندادند و گرنه...بهتر است نیم نگاهی به اطرافتان انداخته و کمی از اشک ها و شک ها یتان را نثار هنر هفتمی های این مرز و بوم بکنید. راستی رئیس کیمیایی یا سکس و فلسفه مخملباف را دیده اید؟؟!! شما را به خدا کمی دعای زندگی و مرگ برای همین دوستان دور و نزدیکمان بکنید. نمی دانم چرا ولی مطمئنم دعایتان مستجاب می شود...
Woody Allen
From the physical comedy of Bananas to the neurotic satire of Deconstructing Harry, Woody Allen has made a career of making poignant films that combine slapstick, wry intellectual humor, and painful insight into the daily perils of modern life. Though may of his films are touched by an almost Romantic nostalgia, more then a few are stylistically quite postmodern, serving up witty reflections about art, celebrity, memory, and filmmaking itself.
Though none of his movies show any serious Joycean influence, Woody Allen has name-dropped Mr. Joyce a few times, as he has with numerous other “high-brow” authors.
Manhattan (1979)
Chris Lockhart writes: “In Woody Allen’s Manhattan, there is a line similar to ‘I wouldn’t say your novel is too difficult, I’m just saying it makes Finnegans Wake look like an Airplane movie.’”
Crimes and Misdemeanors (1989)
Woody Allen’s character jokingly confesses that he cribbed his love letters from James Joyce, which is “why there’s so much about Dublin in them.”
Richard Linklater
Richard Linklater is a promising young American with several wonderful and offbeat films to his credit. Two of these have clear Joycean influences; while the amazing Waking Life has an extended discussion of Philip K. Dick.
Slacker (1991)
A hilarious and extremely clever cult film, Slacker is a low budget masterpiece. Set at a Texas University, it has absolutely no plot. Essentially, a roving camera plays the part of an omniscient eye, following one person until he or she encounters another; the camera then tracks this other person as he or she moves on until it again breaks off and follows the events of a new individual or group of people. A whole web of interactions soon emerges, showing the inter-relatedness of everything, even seemingly random things. All types of people are captured: conspiracy nuts, arguing couples, party-goers, Brian Eno-freaks, criminals, saints . . . and a few who seem to be borderline insane. The camera eye also begins to undergo changes as well, the point of view occasionally leaping into other cameras....
As I was watching this film for the first time, I couldn’t help thinking to myself that it was highly reminiscent of the “Wandering Rocks” episode in Ulysses, where Joyce omnisciently tracks all his characters through Dublin. And then, lo and behold, in the middle of the movie my suspicions of Joyce influence were confirmed – one character reads aloud from Ulysses as he encourages his friend to toss the detritus of a broken relationship off a bridge.
Before Sunrise (1995)
Another hint that Linklater is a Joyce fan was brought up by J. LeRoy Boison, who pointed out that Before Sunrise is a love story that takes place entirely on one day – June 16, known to Ulysses fans as “Bloomsday.”
(Jake Gyllenhaal and Mark Ruffalo in "Zodiac")
Robert Graysmith: Doesn't it bother you that people call you Shorty?
Shorty: Doesn't it bother you that people call you retard?
Robert Graysmith: Nobody calls me that.
Shorty: Right
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Zodiac 3: Before I kill you, I'm going to throw your baby out the window.
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Robert Graysmith: Paul, are you okay?
Paul Avery: No... but thanks for asking.
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Robert Graysmith: I... I Need to know who he is. I... I need to stand there, I need to look him in the eye and I need to know that it's him.
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Robert Graysmith: We met at the movies once.
Dave Toschi: I'm sure it was magical.
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Robert Graysmith: Does anybody ever call me names?
Paul Avery: You mean like 'retard'?
Robert Graysmith: Yeah.
Paul Avery: No.
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Arthur Leigh Allen: I am not the Zodiac. And if I were, I certainly wouldn't tell you.
David Byron (1947-1985): The lead vocalist of the legendary English rock band Uriah Heep between 1969 and 1976
WHAT'S WITHIN MY HEART
Will I never see again
The smiling faces of my friends
Could it be they're gone completely
And though thoughts will linger
Sweetly in my heart
May I hear once more
The bird calls my name
May I be permitted just one friend
To share my game
The one who doesn't give a damn
For what I seem to be
And really cares for what I am and
What's within my heart
I believe the sun will shine
And I know that given time
The leaves will blow tumble and
Cry upon the autumn stone below
And my heart grows tired each day
As the sun grow cold
Weary uninspired each day
Til the story is told
You gave your love to one
Who only wants
What you seem to be
And doesn't really care for you or
What's within your heart
On my grave lay one black rose
Do this for me but don't suppose
Because I'm gone, my soul is dead
For I'll be here in spirit
And our love once more
There must be a heart somewhere
In need of the love I have
That will reach out in sincerety and
Take my life in hand
Then I'll know it's not some one
Who wants just what I seem to be
The one who cares
For what I am and
What's within my heart
What's within my heart ...
Master Of The Moon
And then you dream
Of a world with only windows
Inside you
You can hide you
You know
And then the night
You're just another empty shadow
No questions, no answers
No one to scream at you
Turn around and when you face the sun
We can make you be like everyone you know
Hey you, you're just master of the moon
And then the eyes
If you look at them they'll blind you
Who are you, what are you?
Why do you scream at me?
Turn around and when you face the sun
We can make you be like everyone you know
Hey you, master of the moon
We can shake you make you over
We just need some time to
Shed some light upon your darkness
We need your mind
And then you dream again
In a world that only you know
Inside you
You can hide you
No one to scream at you
Turn around and when you face the sun
We can make you be like everyone you know
I'll turn away and never face the sun
You'll never make me be like you
I'm master of the moon
Coincidence is another device that Joyce manipulates to draw his characters together, since in his view there is no chance meeting that is not fraught with purpose and possibility. Bloom and Stephen, archetypal father and son surrogates, observe and bump into each other several times throughout the day before their ultimate coming together at
Mr. Michelangelo Antonioni (1912-2007)
and his wife in 2002
در سفر تنها سوال این است: تا کجا می توانیم در نابودی معنا پیش برویم؟ این جا مسئله نظری در قالب عینی مسافرتی شکل می گیرد که دیگر مسافرت نیست و بنابراین قاعده اساسی به همراه دارد: هدف گرفتن راه بی بازگشت است. و لحظه حیاتی همان لحظه وحشیانه ای است که پرده از این راز بر می دارد که مسافرت پایانی ندارد و دلیلی هم ندارد که به پایان برسد. پس از لحظه معینی، خود حرکت است که تغییر می کند...
(ژان بودریار: آمریکا)
Q: What is the problem that lies closest to your heart?
A: Can there exist a saint without God?
Q: In a world without film, what would you have made?
A: Film.
Q: To what do you attribute your present activity?
A: To film.
Q: What do you feel is your principle fault, as a man?
A: Modesty.
Q: And as an artist?
A: It takes courage to write: "As an artist, I feel that. . ." Courage I don't have.
"We must live", says the pastor in Bergman's Winter Light to a man contemplating suicide. "WHY must we live?" retorts the man. This question occupies a central place in Bergman's art and life, as indeed it should in the life of every human being. In answer to this question, the pastor in Winter Light says nothing and lowers his eyes, indicating in this way the impotence of faith to supply the answer to this most important question. The insistence on asking such simple, yet disquieting questions, which demand introspection and self-examination, is arguably the most valuable quality of Bergman's filmmaking. The questions are on a child's level - Why must we live? Who are we? Is there a God? - but as grown-ups many believe that they have already found the answers to them. It is only at the approach of death that such people begin to concern themselves once more with these questions (this is stunningly portrayed in Cries and Whispers, The Silence and Wild Strawberries.)
نما: داخلی / 5 بعد از ظهر / داخل مطب دندان پزشک
دندان پزشک: متأسفم، نسج دندوناتون خیلی کمه...
من: (طبق قواعد دال و مدلولی سوسور، چشمام خیلی احمقانه علامت سوال را تداعی می کنند)
دندان پزشک: (با نگاهی عاقل اندر سفیه وار) منظورم اینه که...
من: (بال بال زنان با دهانی باز، گردنی خشک شده، و چشمانی پر از نور کور کننده) بل...بل...بللللله.
دندان پزشک: (مته کوچکش را می فشارد یعنی هنوز حرفم تمام نشده) یعنی جنس دندوناتون طوریه که میناش از عاجش بیشتره...
من: آآآآ.........آآآآآآآآآآآآ.....
دندان پزشک: مینا هم که خیلی شکننده است...می دونین که...!
من: آآآآآآآآآآآ...آآآ....(توی دلم می گم – بلانسبت شما – خر که نیستم!)
نما: خارجی / 6:10 بعد از ظهر / خیابان احمد آباد، پیاده به سمت کتاب فروشی داروین
من: (فکم اومده پایین، حرارت تنم زده بالا، فکرم زده تو جاده خاکی، زمزمه کنان) یعنی بین فرم دندونا و فرم زندگی میشه یه ارتباطی پیدا کرد؟ یعنی میشه زندگی آدم هم از جنس مینا باشه؟ بشه راحت یه حالی بهش داد و خوردش کرد؟ شما میگین میشه؟
نما: همچنان خارجی / 6:25 بعد از ظهر / داخل تاکسی به سمت کتاب فروشی داروین
من: (تو فکر آخرین کار دیوید فینچر و چایی کافه نادری هستم، دردخندی روی لبام خودنمایی می کند)
امروز متاسفانه با خبر شدم که جازیست و خواننده گروه راک افسانه ای Jane ، پیتر پانکا (نفر اول از سمت چپ)، دو روز پیش یعنی 28 ژوئن 2007 در سن 58 سالگی بر اثر بیماری سرطان در گذشت. این گروه در سال 1970 فعالیت خود را در آلمان آغاز نمود و علیرغم این که در طی این سالیان دستخوش تغییرات زیادی شد اما پیتر همچنان عضو ثابت و دلسوز گروه باقی ماند. گروه Jane از پیشگامان Progressive Rock به شمار می رود و هم دوره با دیگر غول های راک دوران خود مانند Eloy ، Ramses ، و Amon Dull بوده است. این گروه در سال 2003 با انتشار آلبومی به نام "Shine on" به طرفداران قدیمی خود ثابت کرد که همچنان دود از کنده بر می خیزد. جدا از سولوهای محسور کننده گیتار، پیتر پانکا هر آن چه در توان دارد در این آلبوم به کار گرفته و در کنار خواندن آهنگ ها ریتم کوبنده و با اقتدار درام اش را به رخ می کشد. آخرین آلبوم این گروه که تحت عنوان Peter Panka’s Jane در سال 2006 منتشر شد به نام "Voices" کاری در خور توجه است. پیتر رفت اما Jane جاودانه خواهد ماند. به تمام طرفداران این گروه تسلیت می گویم.
Viewed on its surface, the world of Bloom's
باشه باشه...
می دونی فرق من با تو ها (ببخشید - شما ها) چیه؟
من هر فقط پینک فلوید گوش می کنم نمی تونن اشکام خودشونو ول نکنن...
خوب شد حالا؟! دلاتون خنک شد؟! راحت شدین؟!
حالا گت د هل اوتا مای فیس...
This song was based on an incident which occurred whilst BJH were recording "Galadriel" for the Once Again album at EMI’s Abbey Road Studios, when Norman Smith got one of John Lennon’s guitars out of a cupboard where it had been left after a recording session at the studio. Lennon was one of John Lees’ heroes, so our John was delighted to have the chance to play the blond Epiphone guitar:
John Lennon’s Guitar
Back in the autumn of seventy
On the night shift at Abbey Road
Four young men were recording a song named "Galadriel"
For an album they'd call Once Again
The producer was Norman Smith
Who'd engineered with The Beatles and John
Whose guitar was to be instrumental that day
When I came to play
I remember it well, as if it was yesterday
The day that I played John Lennon's guitar
I remember it well, as if it was yesterday
The day that I played John Lennon's guitar
Back in the autumn of seventy
As I played on my borrowed guitar
How could I know The Beatles would split the next day
My heroes break up and go their own way
Now autumns they came and they go
But my friends and my memories remain
And my heroes, well some of them fell from the stage
But their light still remains
I remember it well, as if it was yesterday
The day that I played John Lennon's guitar
I remember it well, as if it was yesterday
The day that I played John Lennon's guitar
I remember the day
I remember the day
I remember the day
I remember the day
The day that I played John Lennon's guitar
I remember the day, as if it was yesterday
And I know that the memories will never fade
I remember the day, as if it was yesterday
The day that I played John Lennon's guitar
Love Song
Evening yawns and stretches out
Behind the window
Inhaling the fading rays of the sun;
An aching image begins whirling
– As autumn leaves falling –
Deep in my mind.
The swans sing before they die,
Said a poet. But I
Am doomed to see them fade, fall,
Choked by the song of
The Inevitable.
Shall lilies bloom in the Dooryard?
Shall the Stargazer say a word?
Could I?
I open the window – let the Evening
In – Its suffocating breath flows
Over the floor, touching dubiously here and there
The blessed stillness of my haunted place.
And I still remember the Stargazer's silence
While the fire flickers in the delirious eyes
Of the window.
No, the Stargazer shall not say a word.
Not a single word.
But who should look out of window
To find the always? And they
(lecherous eyes, big mouths)
treating me as an unexpected sigh
In a cosmic royal dinner party.
Closing my eyes – or the window –
I see the Stargazer whispering
His vague fears and tears into the dark of night.
Why should it be this way? Why should it be?
Who am I? The ancient shepherd, a wounded silence,
Or just an imposed presence?
Time has come to wake up.
We’re going headlong into the bitter sweet halo
Of the nightmare.
Walking in the wasteland, giving in to the cold wings
Of the west wind,
Let’s be quiet;
Lest the Stargazer’s peace become disturbed.
Ali Ghahreman
When the full moon moves in the sky
I feel like a moon-stone
If the blue light comes down
I'm so high.
Restless people walking around
To forget the night time...
About the book:
In his study of negative existence and how it affects James Joyce's principal characters, Gian Balsamo joins the ongoing debate about the Irish writer's relationship to Dante and considers the centrality of messianism to that relationship. Finding in Dante a negative poetics that becomes a model for Joyce, Balsamo suggests that the inception and cessation of life—two occurrences that conventionally are deemed impossible to experience personally and directly—typically frame the existential experiences of Joyce's main characters. Balsamo perceives Stephen, Leopold, and Shem as messianic figures because they rebel against this convention, clustering their lives around the very events of inception and burial.
Balsamo traces the engagement of each of the three characters in a negative existence immune from the rules and limitations of ordinary experience. Each struggles to express rather than exorcise the fecundity of his own mortality; each reinvents his biography as involving the pivotal transaction of one death—be it a mother's, a son's, or even that of his own body—in return for catharsis.
Drawing on the writings of Giambattista Vico, Saint Augustine, Émile Durkheim, and Noam Chomsky, Balsamo challenges the current debate by identifying the messianic thread that ties together the biographies of Joyce's three characters. Faced with the fissure between history and poetic vocation, Stephen embraces the sacrificial poetry of silence. Faced with the domestic squalor provoked by the loss of his son, Leopold renews at every meal the cathartic exchange of food and semen. Faced with a destiny of death and decomposition, Shem reenacts the tradition of the medieval cycle drama, stretching his own body like a parchment on a cross and then rubricating it like a sacred manuscript.
At a number of points in Ulysses, William Blake's intellectual presence makes itself felt through the consciousness of Stephen Dedalus. The passages in question do much to
establish a similarity between Stephen's way of looking at the world and Blake's, for the Blakean material is not merely quoted but used, worked closely into the texture of Joyce's
own style. And even more striking than such verbal parallels are the broad conceptual resemblances between these two mythmakers: the organ symbolism of
realized that Blake participated in that tradition. There was, in addition to the intrinsic interest of Blake's poetry, the use Blake had made of sources of symbol and allusion which
were also Joyce's--the Old and New Testaments, the Kabala, Swedenborg, Jacob Boehme, Milton, Shakespeare, Dante, Paracelsus...
