April — ἀκηδία
"He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendor."
Writer’s Note: Like February’s feature, this month’s Substack will somewhat deviate from the usual program. I have decided, for my final project in my James Joyce seminar, to write a mini-Ulysses of my own. To that end, what you will read below will be some of my earliest attempts, in fragments, at imitating the great Irish author. You will spot many allusions to other literary works, most of them will be overt—for I am thousands of leagues behind Joyce in subtlety.
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
Awoken by the sound of ice-cream venders coming through his windows, Adam paced around their room soberly. So warm today. Station Walk. 7, maybe 6 minutes. Silver by the next half hour. Won’t be late to Joyce. Meandering sluggishly to the bathroom, Adam took careful attention. Need haircut. Text Andrew. Heard him leave for D.C. Poluphloisboisterous place it must be. Sleep 4 hours out of 24. Too crowded to move. Music so loud. Influence of substance. Jubilation. Pure exhaustion. Wonder is it like that. Imagine trying to eat in that air. Where was that festival picture I saw? Upstate? Must have been. The people looked sad. Couldn’t live there if I tried: so thick with melancholy. Nothing to do all day.
Oh darling...
Please believe me...
I'll never do you no harm...Humming quietly underneath his minted breath, Adam turned away from the mirror to find Pepper sauntering across the hallway. That daughter-of-a-queen must be heading for my room—I know she is! As they approached the bedroom door together, Pepper burst into the space before Adam could get their hands on her, tucking herself squarely beneath the unmade bed, disappearing into the void. Putting on yesterday’s sweater—Kate’s sweater—Adam paid careful attention to the exits of Pepper’s encampment. Who knows what Pepper could be doing down there. I must have lost so many things under my bed. Inscribed ring from Athens. Maybe. It will turn up during move-out.
—Mkgkaooo! Pepper yelled from underneath the bedframe.
Double, no, triple checking that everything was in order, Adam picked up the tote-bag that they threw onto the floor last night before passing out. Nayo’s pencil… Stolen Muji pens… Old Major… γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη… malum qua non aliud velocius ullum… Whoops. I slept past the Greeks and Romans. 9:30 classes, bleugh. Missed quiz last week, need to makeup soon. Too tired these days. Cup of tea maybe. Isean’s. Good. Mouth dry. Laundry tonight.
Adam strolled out to the doorway.
—I am going to get some water, if you want to come out with me now.
No response. A crapshoot anyway. She is smarter than people give her credits for. Cunning and deceiving—δολομήτης. Nobody liked the name suggestions I had for her. If she is staying in my room all day, I will not sleep here tonight.
Usurper!
—Alright, does anyone remember how many names Bloom noted down in the previous chapter?
—Like twenty five.
—Right. But how many does Molly name in her monologue?
—Four or five?
Professor Erickson laughs.
—Very good. You see, maybe that is what this is all about, that all men thinks their wives have cheated twenty-five times, when they have only done it four of five times.
Sitting next to the professor, Adam stared at his copy of Ulysses blankly, attention drifting in and out of the text to the discussions around him. Ulysses. An undeniable masterpiece. If only I have kept up with my reading: Paralysis. Much more fun to quote classical authors than to read them, methinks.
Je ne dis les autres, sinon pour d’autant plus me dire.
I mustn’t forget his birthday gift. And after? The dinner, half past seven. Dress well. Not to look like a young imbecile.
—Does anyone have thoughts on sentence three before we move on?
Should I place my hand underneath my chin? No. Trying too hard. Not The Thinker. Frseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeefrong. I never knew you could write like this. Writing a book. Leopold Bloom. Harold Bloom. Be a literary critic. Fun. Unlikely. Possible? Any less impossible than being a professional professor. Almost chuckled outloud. Outlandish.
Looking up at the clock: a quarter till the bell dismissal. Would it not be so fun to have ringing bells still in university? Twenty-something-years-olds dismissed by a loud machine like school children. Graduate school. An extension. An in-between-er. A coping mechanism. Words, words, words.
The Ruins of Time builds mansions in Eternity.
Impatient. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Must not be agitated. Reputation, reputation, reputation.
Dismissed by the silent bell, the Joyceans emerge out of the classroom. Walking briskly to the elevator, Adam was the first one out the door and he solemnly observed the rest of his classmates shuffling out one by one. They were too late. The elevator is leaving without them. As the door closes, Adam makes sympathetic eye contact with slackers, and presses hard on Close Door.
Hmm. Is my fly down?
Yes because I am never confident whether I am making the right decisions in life what if living in England is exactly like I thought it would be desolate rainy miserable and chalk full wait chock full of your highnesses and your graces and duck hunts and beans on toast it all seems ridiculous Susan told me about the food they have over there and if everyone acts like when I visited in the summer I remember the shoes I wore that day O tragic God help the world and my soul because no person should ever move from a place like New York City into a place like that but maybe that is what i need the place is like professor Mitsis described serene and quiet fitting for the academic life so he says I suppose we are all μινυνθάδιοι so I should take it slow and enjoy the ride you cannot expect to be stimulated always frankly I am tired of the crowds I suppose the nature will help and maybe I will even enjoy a rowing club joking of course I would soon rather be inducted into the freemasons lodge the apollo they call it how fitting maybe I will write a book while I am there like Isean and Lauren has during their time would it not be so cool to do so and if I wrote anything of length I would be sure to quote like Eliot and Joyce and never translate anything because it is so much more fun that way and if they can do it why not I not that I am comparing myself to the greats yet again maybe I can be someday like Mishima wrote in that article about James Dean I have sent that piece to everyone I know yes I have never been the type to be casual about any of my interests like Ellie said I have never been not obsessive and maybe that is a problem I can never enjoy something without fully indulging in its very essence and have it become a part of myself in some way even if it is poisonous to the soul like the pretentious Godard or Truffaut or Tarkovsky movies that I watch with Sofia Ella Henry and Charli whose birthday is today and I wish I could have been there at KGB again to celebrate like the first time I was there with Chase during quarantine with India whom who we met in Washington Square after lunch what a strange time that was I still have a card from her I wonder if any one has managed to meet somebody new there and take them home that night because it seems like such a sex less place I can not imagine what it must be like to go meet people at bars like that it must be a product of my time maybe it is different over in pubs like McSorley or the pubs in Glasgow or Dublin or Oxford maybe people there talk to new people and not their friends it is a shame I can not drink maybe I should start to so that I can come home and have my friends say quantum mutatus ab illo it would be worth it just for that why wait I can start next week I wonder what plans people have for post graduation after the champagne after the celebration after the dinners will their heart hurt like mine does when I think about leaving like Maggie moving to Colorado will the Ravel make it less painful O it is in my nature to care like that Jane Austen sentence that I always quote to cope maybe I will feel much better next week when I have grown older and wiser than I have this week maybe then I will have learnt how to deal with this growing ache that stabs like a sharp knife I want to scream no not scream because that is improper I want to clamor and protest and demand that time stops but I am powerless and weak so I will turn my phone off and go to bed and think about the Indian food I will eat in the Fall and the people I will meet and the trips to Paris I will have in peace and drift to sleep until the sunrises again in the East
Ancient Greek Word of the Month: ἀκηδία (acedia)*
In Ancient Greece, some accepted translations of ἀκηδία are as follows: indifference, torpor, apathy, weariness, exhaustion, neglect, and disregard.
In Homer, ἀκηδία represented something along the lines of indifference or carelessness. In book 24 of the Iliad, Homer uses ἀκηδία to paint the picture of Hector’s body being dragged carelessly around the walls of Troy:
‘μή πω μ᾽ ἐς θρόνον ἵζε διοτρεφὲς ὄφρά κεν Ἕκτωρ κεῖται ἐνὶ κλισίῃσιν ἀκηδής,
Seat me not anywise upon a chair, O thou fostered of Zeus, so long as Hector lieth uncared-for amid the huts.
One has to feel for Priam here, for Achilles is unrelenting in his revenge, desecrating Hector’s deceased body as retribution for the death of Patroclus.
In later times, especially during the early Christian Era and the Middle Ages, ἀκηδία slowly came to represent psychological states akin to apathy, laziness, and boredom. By the time of Geoffrey Chaucer, ἀκηδία came to occupy a status of sin in the Christian moral framework. In Parson’s Tale, Chaucer writes the following:
For Envye blindeth the herte of a man, and Ire troubleth a man; and Accidie maketh him hevy, thoghtful, and wrawe. / Envye and Ire maken bitternesse in herte; which bitternesse is moder of Accidie, and binimeth him the love of alle goodnesse.
Arriving in the 21st century, all but a few pretentious individuals uses, or could even recognize, ἀκηδία in the English language. Although there was a short-lived revival of the term in the 1900s, ἀκηδία has become archaic, relegated to the world of Christian theologians. It truly is a shame, for indeed it is such a vivid word.
Applying ἀκηδία to the month of April, as I have repeatedly told Isean ad nauseam in the weeks leading up to graduation. Je suis fatigué. While one could easily refer to my current malaise, and frankly laziness, as a case of Senioritis, the term doesn’t quite capture the apathy that I had in mind—not nearly as well as ἀκηδία does. The gravitas of it being a Christian Mortal Sin, somehow, makes it more attractive. Who knows?
* = One might wonder why ἀκηδία, with its hard-c sound from its kappa, is transliterated into English with a soft-c sound. In other words, why acedia and not akedia? This is, of course, because of its journey and evolution through Latin. In Latin, ἀκηδία is transliterated as acēdia, with the c retaining the hard-c sound from Ancient Greek. Remember, in Classical Latin, c always denotes a hard-c sound. Over time, when Latin evolved into Late Latin, c became differentiated into what linguists now recognize as soft and hard c sounds. The c, which was originally hard, became soft through a historical palatalization. One can notice this effect elsewhere, in the name Caesar, for example.
Reading:
Animal Farm by George Orwell
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
Watching:
Ellie’s final Elvis movie—momentous occasion.
Is Ireland the most miserable country ever?
Dune: Part Two.
Listening:
Police Scanner by Chanel Beads
I Really Like You by Carly Rae Jepsen
Shangri-La by Electric Light Orchestra
Here’s to painting a prettier picture—together.
this is yer best one yet
killed it with the joyce voice also love the #crazy @mention