Oh to be in Dublin

Bought new in the USA.
Dust-jacket many times repaired

James Joyce’s novel, Ulysses, is nearing Bloomsday – June 16 – it’s hundredth celebration of the day it describes. Ulysses is famous, not least that it can be summarised numerically. Based on the select band who say they read “for pleasure” here are some figures:

Heard of it – 99%
Seen it on sale – 17%
Bought it new – 2%
Picked it up secondhand – 5%
Read the first page – 100% of those who own it
Read the second page – 4% (ditto above)
Read it all through – 0.05% (ditto above)
Read it a second time (or more) – 0.0002% (ditto).

Regular Tone Deaf readers (a rapidly diminishing breed, alas) will know I am not famed for my humility. With that kind of introduction you wouldn’t expect me to admit belonging to the First-Page Brigade. I have, in fact, read Ulysses twice – if not thrice, I sort of forget. Nor will the faithful be surprised when I say this post will exceed my self-imposed limit of 300 words. The subject is too important for less.

So what’s it about? Two men - Leo Bloom (a Jew who sells advertising space) and Stephen Dedalus (youngish, over-active intellectually, given to high-flying conversation) - pursue their lives in Dublin over the course of a day. Late at night they meet and find common cause.

Both have serious matters on their mind. During the day Bloom’s wife, Molly, will be unfaithful to him in bed with the exotically named Blazes Boylan. Stephen’s mother has recently died, he refusing to make the Catholic observances about death she begs of him prior to her death.

The novel ends with a forty-five page soliloquy – no punctuation other than half a dozen para breaks – in which Molly Bloom reflects on being a woman.

Ulysses is by far the most adult book I’ve read. To summarise it – other than numerically, tongue in cheek – is beyond me. Instead here are extracts which may give you the tiniest flavour of what you are missing. That said, I have never – would never – recommend reading it. The urge to do so must be internal, a willingness to wrestle with difficulties implicit.

STEPHEN. And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen’s embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar; whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir’s turban, and this, the scallop of Saint James. An old pilgrim’s hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells.

BLOOM. He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing. Sitting or kneeling you couldn’t. Standing? His head might come up some day above ground in a landslip with his finger pointing.

STEPHEN ….went down Bedford row, the handle of the ash clacking against his shoulderblade. In Clohissey’s window a faded1860 print of Heenan boxing Sayers. Staring backers with square hats stood round the roped prizering. The heavyweights in light loincloths proposed gently each to other his bulbous fists. And they are throbbing : heroes’ hearts.

He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.

- Two pence each, the huckster said. Four for sixpence.

- Tattered pages. The Irish Beekeeper. Life and Miracles of the Curé of Ars. Pocket Guide to Killarney.

BLOOM In liver gravy, Bloom mashed potatoes. Love and war someone is. Ben Dollard’s famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a suit for that concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musical porkers. Molly did laugh when he went out. Threw herself across the bed, screaming.

MOLLY ….he hadn’t an idea about my mother till we were engaged otherwise hed never have got me so cheap as he did he was 10 times worse himself anyhow begging me to give him a tiny bit cut off my drawers that was the evening coming along Kenilworth square he kissed me in the eye of my glove and I had to take it off asking me questions is permitted to inquire the shape of my bedroom…