Ulysses fin

At 12:49 this afternoon, just as the mailman came around with a stack of letters for me, I finished the last page of Ulysses. This is a moment that I'm extremely proud of, even though it arrives a little bit late. I was supposed to have finished the book over two months ago. I read it with a reading group. But during my second semester at college, I was distracted by such meaningless things as speech class and extra-credit papers. And so, Ulysses, though ever-present in my mind and on my night table, slipped from sight for several weeks at a time.

However, I made a conscious choice that I was going to finish the book before I left for a beach trip with some friends. I didn't want the weight of James Joyce hanging over me... After all, remember what Bloom does on the beach... As I read Ulysses, I was frequently met with situations that resembled the novel. Much as I liked Bloom, I wouldn't want to have a repeat of that scene come into my life while I'm on vacation. No, I'd rather run into Buck and Stephen shaving in the early hours.

I often read at the beach, but it's usually pulp fiction novels that I take, not massive tomes. And after reading a book such as Ulysses or say one of Nabokov's more challenging works, or particular works of post-post-modern literature, I feel the need to go through a period of relaxation via, frankly, trash-lit. (Thus why I'm reading 2 James Pattersons and a Dan Brown novel.) I thought that I might be able to sneak in the last bit of Ulysses at the beach if I had to, but then I changed my mind. Fired up by a recurring case of insomnia, I read chapters 16 and 17 one night after the other. I stopped myself from continuing onto Chapter 18, even though I felt that I could continue. Chapter 18 would have to have a day to itself, I thought. And what a better way to begin Molly's soliloquy than by laying in bed? I lazily picked the book up and read the first 2 sentences of the 8 sentences that make up the final chapter.

By 9 AM I was downstairs at my desk, answering emails. I read sentences 3 through 6 in between small tasks, taking a moment to reflect on them before moving along. By 11:30, I was on sentence 7. I went out to get bread for lunch, then ate up the rest of the tuna I'd made before. While I ate the sandwich, I propped the book up against a stack of other books and finished sentence 7. By the time I finished my sandwich, it was 12 o'clock, and time to begin the final, transformative sentence. I call it transformative because it marks a shift in Molly's thinking, beginning with the word "no" and ending with the repetition of the word "yes" again and again.

As I finished the book, I must admit that I felt Molly saying "and yes I said yes I will Yes." I felt myself tearing up. I've spent almost a year with these people, and it was hard to say goodbye.

Ah well, there's always next time. Plus I still have to read Portrait of the Artist. And of course there's always the Wake.

JPC

Bloomsday

Oh,

stately and plump JPC walked past the
riverrun of eve and adam after the fall
(athenaemneowfniaodsosoamownowofahgheowofoofowwllaa!)
of gasoline prices, past the artist, the young man from Dublin and his good Anna, his Molly Bloom, in the land where chamber music comes pennyeach through the night and helpingyhelping lassies lend a hand to the good man of Dublin, the emerald and his shaving water, intoning --Introibo ad altare Dei.

Happy Bloomsday Everyone,

JPC