Holy crap, can you believe it's been a year since last year's Joyce hysteria? Bloomsday seems considerably more muted this year, overshadowed perhaps by news of Joyce estate shenanigans. Still, the Australian gives it a game go ...
Dubliners is a remarkable book partly because of the deliberateness of its design and partly because of the way it renders that design unnoticeable. As he progressed as a writer, Joyce made it obvious in Ulysses how much he loved shop-soiled language, how much more time he had for Bloom's bumbling cliches as the tawdry music of a humane and imaginative mind, or Molly's witch's brew of slatternliness and dirty talk, than he did for the labyrinths and prison houses of Stephen Dedalus's verbal brilliancy. Stephen's verbal subtleties would meet their destiny only when they heard the music of Bloom and Molly.

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