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PRINT December 1980

The Writing of the Walls

But the world, mind, is, was and will be writing its own wrunes for ever, man, on all matters that fall under the ban of our infrarational senses for the last milchcamel, the heartvein throbbing between his eyebrowns, has still to moor before the tomb of his cousin charmian where his date is tethered by the palm that’s hers. But the horn, the drinking, the day of dread are not now. A bone, a pebble, a ramskin; chip them, chap them, cut them up allways; leave them to terracook in the mutthering pot: and Gutenmorg with his cromagnom charter tintingfast and great primer must once for omniboss step rubrickredd out of the word press else is there no virtue more in alcohoran. For that (the rapt one warns) is what papyr is meed of, made of, hides and hints and misses in prints.

James Joyce, Finnegan’s Wake, 1939

Architecture began like all writing. It was first an alphabet. A stone was set upright

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