Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Book?

Today is, as all James Joyce fans know, the date on which the events described in Ulysses take place. It is therefore a great day, not least because nothing very special happens in the novel. Unless you count the meeting of a promising young man and his spiritual father. (And by the way, that picture of James Joyce over there is the one in which he later said he was wondering if the photographer would lend him five shillings. That's the kind of guy he was.)

For those who have not read Ulysses, because of its length or the difficulties of its language or for any other reason, I can't blame you too much; it's got a reputation as impossible to read, the exclusive property of elitist ivory-tower university bums. Nevertheless, I encourage you to give it a try. It's not all that difficult, you can find a positive tsunami of guides to the thing if you want them, and by golly it's fun.


According to the book, then, 102 years ago today, a young man of Dublin named Stephen Dedalus woke up, had a fight with his roommate, taught his usual class at the local middle school (his own alma mater), took a walk on the beach, then headed to the library to give a public lecture on Shakespeare's Hamlet. As I recall, it's not clear what he did with his afternoon; he must have run into some friends, because he eventually found himself in a hospital waiting room. The wife of an acquaintance was giving birth there and young Stephen tagged along to await news. He also managed to get himself amazingly drunk.


That same day, an ad salesman for a local newspaper named Leopold Bloom, the descendant of Jews, woke up, bought himself a pork kidney for breakfast, brought his wife her breakfast in bed and headed off to work. Before he got there he washed in the public baths and contemplated his daughter's letter from the previous day, the death of his young son many years before, the fact that he and his wife had not made love since, and his conviction that she expected a visit from her lover that afternoon. At work, he failed to convince his boss to accommodate an ad client, but he did convince him that there might be some useful examples of ad copy in the library. He went to the library and got what he needed, attended the funeral of a friend, had lunch , picked up his mail and then stopped in at a local pub, where he had a run-in with an antisemitic acquaintance. He therefore changed pubs, again agonizing over his conviction that his wife was even then having sex with her lover. After that tortured hour, he went to the hospital to attend to the birth, and there met Stephen.

Stephen allowed himself to be led away to a house of ill repute, and Leopold followed him there; he knew Stephen slightly as a youth of great promise and wanted to prevent him from doing anything damaging. The two of them eventually escaped from the whorehouse, though not without a few confusing mishaps owing to drink and overexcitement. Leopold invited Stephen home with him, gave him some cocoa and invited him to spend the night on the couch, but Stephen, sobered up, thanked him and left. Leopold, somewhat more confident after the night's adventures, went upstairs and asked his wife to make breakfast the next morning for a change. She agreed, surprised at her husband's unaccustomed assertiveness, and apparently feel asleep remembering their early courtship at Gibraltar, her childhood home.


Nothing very remarkable, but then again it's a very moving story, with a lot of ordinary people living as best they can and at least one (Leopold) reaching out to other humans - his wife, Stephen - in a new way. Yeah, Joyce based his plot on Homer's Odyssey, and it's important to notice the parallels because it turns this story of ordinary folks into a heroic epic and Joyce thought such people deserved that kind of attention. However, you don't really need that knowledge to enjoy the book, which is profoundly touching and very funny. Read a few sections and see for yourself.

I notice, by the way, that because Mr. Haughey, Ireland's former government leader, passed away a few days ago, this year's Bloomsday festivities have been cancelled. If you ask me, that's quite proper. On the other hand, I wonder what Joyce would have thought of Bloomsday itself or of cancelling it because of a state funeral. Considering that he spent just about all his adult life out of Ireland, I honestly doubt he'd care much either way. That's the kind of guy he was.

Benshlomo says, Happy Bloomsday anyway