Many of the true Joyceans will by now have already begun their day's pilgrimage, regardless of climatic conditions. They will have stood at the tower in Sandycove, honoured stately Buck Mulligan and gazed at the singular sea, snotgreen or otherwise , no doubt reciting from memory the appropriate opening sequence. Devotees will have also tested their digestive systems by consuming that most taxing of breakfasts, the Joycean repast of nutty gizzards and grilled mutton kidneys delivering to the palate, should you be so inclined, "a fine tang of faintly scented urine."
That traditional breakfast could prove an inspirational beginning to a day of literary celebration. On the other hand, a less seasoned eater could be left suffering from a particular form of sea sickness as experienced only on land. Still, digestion is a private thing. There is a lot to be said for tea and toast and the discreet purchase of a bar of lemon soap from Sweny's at Lincoln Place. True, there are fewer book stalls to peruse these days and the streets are busier. Bloomsday is a marvellous ritual born out of a heaving, bustling city epic of comedy, astute observation, human comedy, satire, linguistic genius and a single-minded artistry. A scholarly industry has created libraries of textual criticism, while tourism, Joyce's famously quizzical expression and the actual pleasure to be had from reading the novel - and personally recreating the odyssey - have also endeavoured to keep Ulysses alive and living and read for 76 years.
Joycean romance
Intellectual gymnastics tend to take over. This can prove competitive. Should you weary of the quotes, spot the reference and general oneupmanship, there is always romance. Although spoilsports may suggest that there is nothing left to be said about a novel which has been studied, explored, extracted, filmed, performed, translated and argued about - have not scholars engaged in showdowns over it? - one aspect that is not as emphasied as it should be is its romance.
Joyce fled Dublin irritated by its many failings, including hypocrisy and social snobbery, never mind his continuing poverty, but his affection for his native city can not denied. Ulysess might will be the definitive love letter. It might be conceded that his love bordered on the obsessional, never a particularly healthy emotion, but love it was. It is difficult to consider Joyce in a romantic context. A Byron or Keats he wasn't and, as even admirers would concede, he has the face of cynic. His letters to Nora are too earthy to conform to conventional notions of romance and any aspiring lover who might happen to use them as models on which to base missives to a love object runs the serious risk of inspiring flight rather than romance. Still, even if his style of love letter be too Elizabethan for most love objects to consider, the idea of Ulysses commemorating his first "stepping out" with Ms Barnacle remains affecting. June 16th 1904 is the most famous first date in history.
Unforgettable first date
Considering that many men have to pause to recall their wedding anniversary, and often only remember the event in the process of elimination called upon to explain their wife's current air of martyrdom, it is impressive that Joyce placed such importance on that first date, which took place 94 years ago today. Even more cunning is his having so cleverly ensured that the rest of us won't forget it either.
Odyssey is the central theme of the novel and visiting other cities often causes this diary's thoughts to wonder about the possibilities of immortalising them in a similar literary gesture. Paris and Berlin have specific places in literature, while London has preoccupied many English writers from William Blake to Peter Ackroyd, Martin Amis and William Boyd. Scale is crucial. Dublin, at least Joyce's Dublin, possessed a civilised sense of size. Housing and zoning has bloated Dublin and is ruthlessly urbanising the Irish landscape. Joyce, a consummate city rat, might not have been too bothered about the destruction of the countryside, but he is unlikely to have approved of late 20th century Dublin. For one thing, it would have made the geography of Ulysses impossible.
Great icons
It would take a team of Leopold Blooms to circumnavigate London in a day at any time this century. Crowded tube stations and crazed commuters didn't diminish the Royal Academy's Holy Russia exhibition. Dimly lit the galleries displaying these beautiful works hummed with viewers openly expressing their admiration. Even the academy attendants, usually so silent, joined in.
These are the icons of the Moscow school, dating from about 1400 to 1660, painted by masters such as Andrei Rublev who has been canonised. The colour, austere beauty and size of many of these pieces defy description. The exhibition poster, depicting Saints Boris and Gleb sold out weeks ago, but the catalogue written by Russian, German and British experts is available from The Royal Academy of Arts at £27 sterling.