To the events!
MONDAY - (Bloomsday!)
Given my rather incessant references to my turbulent passage through Ulysses, it should come as no surprise that I observed Bloomsday, or rather, I observed it to the extent that my work schedule allowed. I began the day's journey at No. 7 Eccles Street, the home of Leopold Bloom & Family. I was there around 815 AM, and already there were crowds of Joyceans gathered 'round, several of whom were in period costume. There was a reading of an early episode of the text (humorously, the performer had chosen the episode where Leopold visits the outhouse and reads the newspaper) but, sadly, I was unable to stay for long.
And so, South I walked, as has become my custom, from O'Connell street. The length of my journey was increased because, instead of coming from Parnell Square, I was had begun at Eccles and had to traverse Upper Dorset Street. I was pleased to discover that the address that is, perhaps, the most famous in literature is located just off of a Road whose name bears a striking resemblance to my own.
I arrived at the Light Rail stop to discover that it had the temerity to depart before I boarded. A quick glance at the screen told me that the next train was not expected for 12 minutes. I didn't want to wait that long! I resolved to race the train to the next stop.
Unlike the Metro system in DC, the LUAS line runs above ground on the street. Its path is set by a metal groove, but it cannot fly down the road at 65 mph, as the metro does, and it must occasionally stop at lights. I took at vantage of one such event to dart through traffic, leaving the train behind.
It soon made up lost ground, however, and gained on me rather quickly, driving down Abbey Street hot on my tail. As it grew even with me, several of the passengers inside stared at me. I must have presented a rather odd sight: sprinting down the cobblestone with coattails flying, dodging baby carriages and the carts of newspaper vendors. I know not from whence I derived the speed, but I did cover the 1/4 mile to the next stop in about the same time that the train did, and leapt on board as the doors were sliding closed. I was filled with adrenaline and pride that managed to keep up with a train, even if it wasn't a Japanese Maglev Supertrain(tm). It was a very Chariots of Fire moment and, to celebrate, I played the theme song from that great film on my iPod as soon as my breathing slowed down enough to hear, and reminisced about the days of my brief but glorious Cross Country career.
(Incidentally, more tweed was used in the making of Chariots of Fire than any other film ever. It's a remarkable accomplishment of humanity).
Thus filled with a sense of bracing machismo from my feat of speed, I swaggered off the train and into work. In a rather glaring contrast with the heightened mood produced by the accomplishment of the morning, much of the day was concerned with databasing and logging constituent requests. We did not, of course, neglect to take our two tea breaks - elevenses and high tea - at the appropriate time.
After work, I returned to the City Centre to see what other Bloomsday mischief I could find. In Ulysses, Leo Bloom stops at a Pub called Davy Byrne's. It stands now, as it did in 1904, on Duke Street. Leo ordered a glass of burgundy and a gorgonzola cheese sandwich when he was at Davy's and, today, many Joyceans order the same thing in commemoration, especially on 16 June. I had plans to do the same thing, until I discovered that the Pub was charging far more than is reasonable for a slice of stinky cheese and a glass of a wine that most people don't even deign to drink anymore, preferring to boil it away in some sort of stew. Unwilling to drop 14 Euro on such literarily significant but other wise gustatorily unremarkable fare, I contented myself instead with watching some of the readings. It was also amusing to observe the rapid progress towards inebriation that some of my comrades were making at 530 in the afternoon (for 530 really is the middle of the afternoon when it doesn't get dark until 1030). There is a certain amount of self-satisfaction that comes for conspicuously celebrating a book that most commonly produces the reaction "what the...fuck?" among those who try to read it. You're getting drunk, but you're doing so for a very highbrow purpose.
All of the revelers were quite merry and sincere appearing and, to be sure, it is very fashionable to celebrate such an unashamedly erudite holiday, one that commemorates a massive and famously impossible book. I wondered, as I watched, how many of these people had actually read the book whose legacy they were celebrating. Most critics place it atop lists of "Most Important Novels of the 20th Century", which is interesting considering that no one touches the thing any more, even otherwise intelligent and well-read people. I've talked to a number of the literati in the circles in which I live, and many of them refer admiringly but ambiguously to Ulysses. A masterpiece, they say, truly....you know, great. Of the many people who attempt to evince a knowledge of the book, I have found only 4 of them to be convincing enough to convince me that they have actually read the thing...and of those, 3 are in the Jefferson Society, hardly a representation of the population at large.
Having ruminated thusly, I decided that the best way to celebrate Bloomsday was not amid the crowds of people shelling out money for the privilege of acquiring, by means of a rather sordid sandwich, their share of the legend. Rather, the best way to celebrate Bloom's adventure and humanity was to read his book. I went to Stephen's Green and acquired a bench and, there, continue to forge ahead in the book, eventually making it to what I believe is the halfway point. I stopped at the memorial arch to observe the names of those men of this city who perished in the World Wars. Then I walked home.
Considering all of the posters on lamposts, all of the expensive and elaborate tributes being staged throughout the city, all of the readings, it was a thoroughly ordinary way to spend the day. If anything, though, I think that's what the book is all about: the epic in the ordinary. By superimposing the structure and, to some degree, the events of Homer's legendary Odyssey atop the events of a day in the life of a thoroughly unremarkable man, Joyce conveys the modest majesty, the sometimes dark dignity of every man's life. It's an enormous legend projected into an almost, but not quite, improbably pedantic scale. That's what I've taken from the book so far, anyway. Given what I know from what I've read, my rather ordinary passing of the day is a more appropriate tribute to the ordinary lives of the ordinary people of this city than an elaborate festival is, fun as that festival may be. Some - though not by any means all - of those who were engaging in the festivities in a more full throated manner were displaying a rather grotesque variety of posturing that is quite antithetical to the universality at which the novel thrusts. On the whole, though, I suppose that I am happy that people are celebrating a book and a man who immortalized this city as it was 100 years ago.
I did begin the journey of my day, as Bloom began his, day on Eccles Street, though, which was a nice bit of symmetry between my life and the book. And my Chariots of Fire-style dash down Abbey Street alongside the train infused a bit more "epic" into my day than is usual. And that is enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment