Happy Bloomsday
My relationship with James Joyce has never been simple. I tried to read Ulysses in high school, knowing (though not really why; I don’t remember anyone ever actually introducing me to the book) that it was something great, something that as a lover of books I would have to come to terms with eventually. I found a much-abused copy at my local literacy centre, where they had a shelf of books that you could either use as a lending library, or just buy outright. I bought Ulysses, and that night sat down to read about stately, plump Buck Mulligan. Ulysses kicked my ass. I don’t think I made it more than ten pages in on that first attempt, nor on the five or six others I made in the two years before leaving for university (it was not one of the volumes to make the trek to Waterloo). In my… Continue Reading