sTEAK tARTAR and lUCIA7*
I was just now thinking about philology and Nietzsche’s inkpot, and those head seizures he was prone to, and Saint John’s Wart, a panacea for whooping, and Goethe’s Writher, the whole side of his head blown clear off, Margarita’s garden a mess of burl ends and steak tartar. I should be sleeping, counting the slaughter, the pickaxe sloughing neck and breastplate. But I am not, I am stuck thinking thoughts about philology and Nietzsche’s inkpot and seizures and Writher’s head blown clear off, and the mess it made of poor, dear Margarita’s garden, fucking thoughtless bugger. Then I thought, thought now, why it is that such men of great genius and mien loose they’re eyesight, patchy-eyes and Lucia dancing mad-footed in the Liffey, which has neither a beginning nor an end, but runs in a circle round Martello tower and Bunion’s hip.
I was just now thinking about philology and Nietzsche’s inkpot, and those head seizures he was prone to, and Saint John’s Wart, a panacea for whooping, and Goethe’s Writher, the whole side of his head blown clear off, Margarita’s garden a mess of burl ends and steak tartar. I should be sleeping, counting the slaughter, the pickaxe sloughing neck and breastplate. But I am not, I am stuck thinking thoughts about philology and Nietzsche’s inkpot and seizures and Writher’s head blown clear off, and the mess it made of poor, dear Margarita’s garden, fucking thoughtless bugger. Then I thought, thought now, why it is that such men of great genius and mien loose they’re eyesight, patchy-eyes and Lucia dancing mad-footed in the Liffey, which has neither a beginning nor an end, but runs in a circle round Martello tower and Bunion’s hip. 