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July 8th, 2004
09:50 pm - [Met-Him-Pike-Hoses.]
After returning to Missouri from working in Chicago I have been lazing about like a contented zoo animal in the climate-controlled comfort of my Mother's guest bedroom. I have been re-reading Ulysses all week and am finally at a place of real understanding. [In it and in myself.]
I read the thing at least two or three times a year, every year, and have done so since I was a little kid. Sometimes I read it more but rarely less. I have devoured most every study guide and dissertation and reader ramblings that I come across. I have dissected most every single word and phrase in a nice handful of different translations/interpretations/editions. I've gone crazy and grown strong over it. Like Jacob wrestling the angel. I’ve created pages and pages and pages of notes on my own, in my head and in secret scribbled notebooks, and have I developed a strong enough understanding of the book to feel like I can honestly hold my own in any circle of discussion on the subject. No kidding. I feel like a sweepstakes winner most of the time when I read it. Like I have some grand goddam secret that nobody else gets to know. [Like I said. No kidding.]
Listen, when I was nine or so, just after my father decided to walk out on us all, I found a copy of Ulysses [along with a handful of other library books] that he must have forgotten or left behind on purpose. He must have, at one point, used my name to secure a library card. Maybe he had a huge fine or some shit. I'll never know why he didn't have, or couldn't get, a card of his own. At any rate, I recall going to the Bookmobile one day and amassing an impressive pile of books. I have always been a voracious reader since I first could read. And I LOVED the Bookmobile. The library has always been, and still surely is, a sacred and exciting place for me. But the Bookmobile!? Hooo! Like a perfect combination of a library and an ice cream truck at the same time. Books on wheels! Hooo! I assure you that as a child I was a Bookmobile fanatic.
And that fucking sad, awful day when I tried to check out my stack of books, I was refused. I was told I had a list of books that were already overdue and that I owed a large fine and no additional items could be checked out until they were settled. Holy shit. Me at nine could never even conceive of not following the rules of the library or Bookmobile let alone ever allow myself to begin amassing late fees. And ruining my Bookmobile privileges. There had to be some mistake. But, of course, there wasn't. My shithead father had fucked me over before I ever even knew it. And in almost the worst way possible as far as I was concerned. I couldn't check out any more books until my fine was paid or the books were returned. I was floored over this and really sort of embarrassed by it.
So for a while there, with my father long gone, I never found the books and never was able to come up with the money for replacing the lost books and never could check out any more library books. Until one day when I was climbing around in the basement closet and I pulled myself up onto the top shelf. And I found that stack of library books. And Ulysses was one of them.
I would hole myself up in that closet fort I made for myself for hours and hours on end and I would just study those books. Ricahard Bach's Illusions was one. Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet was another. And, of course, Ulysses.
I ended up owning the books anyway as someone in my family came up with the money to pay for the books and when I found them they were already considered lost and paid for. So they were mine. To keep.
So I think that I became obsessed with intellectual pursuits of all kinds, most of all Ulysses, very early on. Before I could really even know anything of the story. Especially after pretending and laboring through it the first few times. Not really even reading it then probably. More like scanning it and staring at it and trying to extract something from it by sheer force of will. I am sure that I felt like if I could know these books that he chose for some reason or another, if I could really know them, then I might, perhaps, know something more about my father.
And that same sappiness later on turned into just wanting to, very plainly and very simply, best him on an intellectual level. [Even more so since he is and was an anesthesiologist and I always only wanted to be an artist.] I only secretly admit now that for most of my adolescent and young adult life I have probably been preparing myself for some fantastic and imagined tournament of Jeopardy! against my father where I would most assuredly stomp him flat. I'd even be trouncing all over him so tremendously that I would show him what it mean to be a pristine sport and offer to spot him a chunk of my own score in order to even things up a bit. And I would still just walk all over him. Hooo! And I would finally get my chance to make him be the one to feel so embarrassed and so shitty. If I couldn’t find him and punch him in his head I could at least be smarter and more well-read than him.
But now I am an adult and I still re-read the thing like my life depends on it. It is now my own personal obsession and feat and is not obscured by some pissed-off teenaged angst, hell-bent on destruction and set on proving something, anything, to the world. Pi and prime numbers and Pythagoras are some of my favorite things. But I am in love with Ulysses. And Leopold Bloom. And The Lotus Eaters. And James Joyce. And Dublin.
A few times I actually found myself feeling sorry for the old man. I have decided that he only had that certain stack of titles for all the wrong reasons. Hindsight shows that around the time that he checked those books out he was probably cheating on my mother with a nurse and I bet, seriously fucking wager, that he never even read those books. He just wanted them around so he could say that he was reading them to sound all smart and sensitive to the nurse. It was all probably a big sham. But a good sham, if it was one in the first place, as the nurse later became his wife.
What sort of person would ever steal library books using a false library card to begin with? One that would most assuredly get the living shit kicked out of them at Jeopardy!
Current Mood: Sweepstakes Winner.
Current Music: Blur - Tender.
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dogging richard bach, eh? you can't save your face and your ass at the same time, I guess. "For he upholds the torch of truth, although devoured by the flame"...
How strange, I came across "the Prophet" and "Ulysses" through my (long story) father as well. He never left, but kindly stayed and allowed me to enact the compulsive half of his obsessive (with the reading books there was no way for me to fully grasp at the time, and the 97 step tile cleaning technique....). It's strange, but that asshole got me into some of the best literature of my life. Isn't it strange being grateful to them, even if it is in a solipsistic way? Okay, I have to admit I have never gotten much out of my attempts to read Ulysses, but I'm going to give it another shot just because this post kicked so much ass. ![[User Picture]](http://l-userpic.livejournal.com/113588792/902144) | | From: | ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1) kyana |
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| Date: | June 15th, 2005 01:26 pm (UTC) |
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I'm so glad I found this -- the day before Bloomsday! Our little town will be having its 3rd annual day and I've gone the last two times (alternately loving it and being bored senseless.) I bought the book last year determined I'd read it, but I haven't. I'll go again tomorrow. I wonder how long I'll last this time! I've never made it to the evening celebration -- by afternoon I'm exhausted -- physically (from the usual heat & humidity) and mentally (from concentrating so damn hard!) -- so both times I just went home and took a nap under the ceiling fan. ha!
Thank you for this rich entry. Thanks for the response. Where are you at? Was looking for Bloomsday activities here in Tucson but it seems like there are none to speak of. I might try and get a marathon reading started down at the local cafe but I am thinking it is too late in the game for any success.
Next year. Next year.
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