reread Joyce's Ulysses

When I say “reread Ulysses” I more mean get past the first 150 pages of it. I always putter out then, leaving Bloom cold and alone by lunch time, on this way to work or to a funeral. But this time my chances are the best they’ve ever been to get to the juicy parts.

Bob and I have been switching off each night and reading a couple pages. It’s instant gratification to have someone to share how great I thought a sentence was and I adore Bob’s ability to say “I think they’re in a classroom, Stephan just got paid…” Oh! I think to myself. I had been pretty sure it was some strange dream sequence. I get lost in the language, he can follow along with the details. Perfect Ulysses buddy.

I try and re-read Ulysses once a year. It reminds me of why I went to school beyond the basics, and what I love about the English language: it’s utter flexibility and adaptability. Yes, it’s the langauge of colonialism, or at least one of them, but there’s something beautiful about the bumpy contours of my mongrel, mother tongue.

But, if you’re really up for a challenge: once you’ve read Joyce’s book of the Day, you really ought to take a crack at his book of the Night: Finnegans Wake is, well, breathtaking. And it will kick your ass. It defies reading.

But, it’s not meant to be read, really: it’s meant to be sung. Listen to the arcane music of the Wake, and you’ll find nuggets of starlight, even if you don’t finish it.