Hoppy birdthay to James Joyce, who was born on this day in 1882 in Rathgar (IR, UK). As a literature major during my undergraduate days, I was fascinated by Mr. Joyce’s works. I was, of course, fascinated by the interior monologue, even though I was toying with rejection of the influence of mentalism. I was also quite in the thrall of his play with words and sounds, even though I didn’t have the foreign language chops to understand some of it.
That pleasure in the words returned recently. Over the course of a few days last winter, I reread snatches of Finnegan’s Wake aloud while pedaling a stationary bicycle in the basement of the Tom Mountain house.
One event that I’d like to attend some time in my life: Bloomsday, 16 June, in Dublin.