Are you as lost as I am?
Proteus. Confusing. Words. Splattered. Here and there. On the page. Dogs barking. Sea shells cracking. Crack! Crack! French. French. French. Sea shells again.
Did you get that?
This is how I see James Joyce’s style in Proteus. It is written in short clipped sentences that are occasionally vaguely comprehensible.
“Come out of them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh’s library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine faces. Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell. Lantern jaws. Abbas father, furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff! Descende, calve, ut ne nimium decalveris. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (descende), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, bald poll!”