THE THREE Women dressed in Victorian garb at Davy Byrne’s pub were getting into the Bloomsday spirit – empty plates with the remains of Gorgonzola cheese sandwiches littered the table, along with glasses of Burgundy and a bottle of beer.
“Yes, I’ve read it,” said Breda de Gay, proudly. “Well, little bits of it. I know the gist of it, the important parts anyway, with the Burgundy and the cheese.”
“And the Guinness,” said Ena Smyth. “The Guinness for breakfast, that’s in it too. It’s the only time of year you’re allowed to have Guinness at eight o’clock in the morning.”
“I met an Australian man earlier and he said he’s read it from cover to cover,” said Breda again, rolling her eyes. “For God’s sake, we have it in our bones!”
For all the readings, dramatisations, walking tours and consumption of Gorgonzola yesterday, Ulysseswas yesterday living up to its stubborn reputation as Ireland's most admired – and unread – literary masterpiece
Over at Glasthule, the pavement outside Caviston’s food emporium was crowded with people in straw hats, striped jackets and flowing vintage dresses. Diners were tucking into Bloomsday breakfasts of liver, gizzards, rashers and sausages.
“I haven’t the attention span to read it,” confessed Natasha Czopor from Stoneybatter, dressed in an electric blue silk Edwardian dress, complete with black ostrich feathers. “I bought the book this morning in the James Joyce museum – I just like dressing up!”
Brian Miley, driving a 1938 Wolseley for the occasion, was getting into the spirit of the occasion, even if he hadn’t read it.
“It’s hard to get into, I believe,” he said. “I’m going to save it for my retirement.”
And when does he plan to retire? “Eh, well, I am retired.”
Surely the barbershop trio entertaining the crowds – as they do every Bloomsday – are acquainted with the great masterpiece of our age?
“Well, I haven’t read it,” admitted Walter Bernadini, part of the “We 3” trio. “I don’t know if I’d have the boredom threshold . . . The day is just great gas and there’s a great atmosphere.”
Over in Sandycove, stately plump Joyceans mingled outside the Martello Tower. A few braved the scrotum-tightening sea, which looked more azure blue than snot-green in the dazzling sunlight.
“It’s a book I dip into,” said Joe Davis, looking resplendent in a white suit. “I suppose over all the years that I’ve completed it.”
Jim (77), who declined to give his second name, wasn’t impressed by the bulk of the crowd.
“Look around, you’ve probably three or four genuine people who’ve read it,” he said, witheringly. “The rest are a shower of posers. Me, I like it because I recognise the Dublin I grew up in; the ghettoes. I still don’t understand it, mind you.”
Back in the city centre, a sign outside Davy Byrne’s advertised a Bloomsday special: Gorgonzola cheese sandwiches and burgundy for €12.90. Someone nearby complained loudly that prices had gone up since 1904.
A short distance away, hundreds gathered in Temple Bar’s Meeting House Square to hear readings, songs of the period and poems dedicated to James Joyce late into the afternoon.
Finally, someone who has successfully finished it: Spanish novelist and translator Eduardo Lago, who travelled from New York for the day. Not only that, but he won a literary award for a critical comparison of three Spanish translations of Ulysses.
“You don’t have to be a Joycean to enjoy this day,” he said. “It’s wonderful to see literature taking over the city and there are lots of ordinary people, not just scholars.
“That’s a very Joycean act. Yes, he’s difficult and demanding to read, but look around you, and see how people have responded to him. That’s what happens when you capture the soul of a people.”
