So it’s 16th June, a very special day in Ireland – especially Dublin – because 16th June 1904 is the date on which the story takes place of Ulysses by James Joyce. Bloomsday – named after the character Leopold Bloom – is an annual celebration not only of all things Joycean but also of Ireland’s wider cultural and literary heritage.
If you haven’t read Ulysses yet then you definitely should. It’s one of the great works of modern literature. And don’t let people put you off by telling you that it’s a difficult read. It’s a long read, that’s for sure -it’s over 900 pages – but the writing is full of colour and energy and it has a real sense of place. It’s a wonderful book. I’ve read it three times now, once as a teenager, once in my thirties, and again a few years ago when I’d reached sixty. Don’t worry if you don’t understand all of Ulysses. It’s like life: most of us never figure out what that’s all about, and it doesn’t really matter.
Joyce once said of Ulysses
I’ve put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant.
Well, he wasn’t wrong about that! They’re still arguing, The text is a kind of cultural celebration: references to Greeky mythology jostle with popular songs, lists, parodies, question-and-answer sections, and records of the characters innermost thoughts. The book is full of allusions and part of the fun is trying to follow them up. And anyone who likes puns will have a field day!
Anyway, here’s an excerpt. It’s from near the start of Chapter 4, where we meet Mr Leopold Bloom for the first time and discover that he’s fond of cats. He is making breakfast for his wife Molly, who is still in bed. I don’t know if Joyce ever had a cat, but he obviously knew a lot about them!
–o–
Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didn’t like her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.
—Mkgnao!
—O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.
The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.
—Milk for the pussens, he said.
—Mrkgnao! the cat cried.
They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.
—Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.
—Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.
She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon’s milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.
—Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.
He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can’t mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.
I’ll also mention that if you have about 30 hours to spare you can listen to all of a radio broadcast of Ulysses from 1982.
In the Dark 