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James Joyce

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Thaw! The last word in stolentelling! (424.35)
--
(Finnegans Wake ends with the word 'the')

 
James Joyce

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Harry Thaw shot the wrong architect.

 
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One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of a March thaw, is the spring.

 
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In the beginning was the Word. The Word was with God, signified God's Word, the word that was Creation. But over the centuries of human culture the word has taken on other meanings, secular as well as religious. To have the word has come to be synonymous with ultimate authority, with prestige, with awesome, sometimes dangerous persuation, to have Prime Time, a TV talk show, to have the gift of the gab as well as that of speaking in tongues. The word flies through space, it is bounced from satellites, now nearer than it has ever been to the heaven from which it was believed to have come.

 
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If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
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And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

 
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I will admit that an artist may be great and limited; by one word he may light up an abyss of soul; but there must be this one magical and unique word. Shakespeare gives us the word, Balzac, sometimes, after pages of vain striving, gives us the word, Tourgueneff gives it with miraculous certainty; but Henry James, no; a hundred times he flutters about it; his whole book is one long flutter near to the one magical and unique word, but the word is not spoken; and for want of the word his characters are never resolved out of the haze of nebulae. You are on a bowing acquaintance with them; they pass you in the street, they stop and speak to you, you know how they are dressed, you watch the colour of their eyes.

 
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