Dream and Dread
The grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets. The streets, shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed with a gaily coloured crowd. Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tall poles upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hue unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging unceasing murmur.
James Joyce is among the authors who cause me to both dream of being a writer and dread it at the same time, because to be a writer is to so plainly be a lesser to such men. The paragraph above is from Two Gallants, a short story in the collection called Dubliners and serves as a clear illustration of the man’s literary brilliance.