Second Entry

(Reposted.  Originally written August 19, 3:06 pm)

And another blog!

I'm finding it difficult to write one of these every day. And, despite the fact that nobody is reading this as of yet, I wonder, what kind of thoughts can I dissect in a public forum? Both, what am I willing to reveal about myself to the internet, and also, what are people interested in reading? These questions, I'm sure, have occurred to most everyone who has started an internet blog, so I imagine they should not be considered for the attention-holding pile.

.....

I'm still plugging away at Ulysses. James Joyce has commandeered all of the time I've set aside for reading fiction. Three months, it's been, and I still have quite a ways to go. But now's as good a time as any to reflect, I guess, on the themes of the book, what wisdom I've received so far.

I wonder if piecing together Leopold Bloom's day would reveal something about the novel. So far, he has fixed breakfast for his wife, discussed metempsychosis with her, walked around town a bit, attended a funeral, gone to finish some advertising work for at the newspaper office, walked some more, eaten lunch, continued the advertising errand, walked a bit more, eaten an early supper (while worrying about his wife's infidelity) and had a rousing political debate in Barney Kiernan's bar. Currently, he is helping the widow Dignam with her insurance woes (offstage) having just escaped a bit of violent anti-semitic persecution at the hands of a stand-in Cyclops. 

What I'm trying to figure out is whether this story is as ordinary as it seems. Or, maybe a more pertinent thought is that life was much more interesting one hundred years ago, in Dublin, than in 2009 here in Southern California. Or, it could be that Bloom, with his unassuming, curious manner, is more interesting than most people, then and now. Or, it could be that Joyce has taken something ordinary, expanded it to fill 700-odd pages, and, with a bit of literary alchemy, produced an epic, modern anti-myth. The last of these, is, of course, the standard wisdom (I think?) with regard to Joyce's day-in-the-life. I think, though, that modern life, (at least here in more affluent parts of America) has gotten so stale, that the mundanity of Joyce's day has taken on, itself, a more mythic quality. Excepting the Citizen's final explosion of violence, the scene at the bar is an anachronism compared to our time, or at least, my experiences of our time. The participants in the conversation all have, at least, some factual information, on which to build their one-sided arguments. Tunnel-visioned as their discourse may be (excepting Bloom, of course), the poorer arguers seem to be at least somewhat based in reality and history. Comparatively, the major debates of my day are whether Obama is a citizen, if death panels will be unleashed by the current health care plan, and which torture methods are acceptable (judged on effectiveness, not ethics). The Citizen, Joe Hynes, Lenehan, are maybe fools, stentorian with their opinions, but their crime is that they exaggerate facts beyond recognition, not that they have no facts at all. Oh well.

Another difference: People seem to talk to each other in Joyce's 1904. The majority of Americans I encounter aren't interested in lengthy discussions. The news, large and authoritarian, hovering over everything we know, sees it fit that we be fed these jejune sound bites, and we gobble them up and puke them out on our friends. Such is political conversation. I want some decisions made. I want to take some kind of action as a result of having thought a problem through. But what stands in the way of that? What stands in the way is this gigantic interlocked, invisible network of politicians, the media, and business (business over all) that makes it clear that it has no interest in real substantive action. I feel like, even at a protest, I'm just shouting into a void. 

Back to Ulysses. What I think the book has done for me, despite it's remove from the hyper-sterilized personal bubbles of today, is given reality a bit of a polish. The idea that the myths of the past have some bearing on the ordinary qualities of daily life is exciting in an electric sort of way. Despite the fact that cyclopes don't REALLY exist, how much less interesting or terrifying than that mythical monster is a character like the Citizen? Anyone you encounter who espouses and believes in nationalist, prejudiced arguments and holds you captive to listen to their drivel, is easily as terrifying as the horrific son of Poseiden, especially should you find yourself on the other side of their beliefs, or the target of their racial, sexual, religious, (etc, etc) hatred.

Also, I like how, in the Sirens chapter, Joyce gave the most beautiful, musical moment to Simon Dedalus, a less beautiful character than Bloom. Very perceptive of the non-existence of a musical ideology, I think. Vacuous and still full of meaning. More on that later, hopefully.

What is interesting about the imagination is that it eventually takes you back to reality, not that it has led you away. The latter quality is required, but the former is what makes the flight of fancy worthwhile. 

Lunch! Lestrygonious! Clappyclapclap.