ONE MORE YEAR

I finished Ulysses

…at 23h33, January 5th, 2011. 

Unite to give praise to Ulysses; those who will not, may content themselves with a place in the lower intellectual orders.

-Ezra Pound

All hail those of higher intellectual orders! Although Ulysses is only 3/4 the length of my other favourite novel, Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace, it took me twice as long to read. However, much like Infinite Jest, now that I am done I feel as though I have lost a good friend. I bought Ulysses the first month I arrived in Vancouver. Since then, I have moved across the world, and James Joyce with me every step. 

For those considering Ulysses, I strongly suggest purchasing the Oxford World’s Classics edition. It includes the book’s publication history, two different schemata for interpreting symbolism, a chronology of the author, explanatory notes, and even a map of old Dublin. Here is an author’s quote from the introduction, perfectly outlining Ulysses’ position in Modernist literature :

In realism you are down to facts on which the world is based: that sudden reality which smashes romanticism into a pulp. What makes most people’s lives unhappy is some disappointed romanticism, some unrealizable or misconceived ideal. In fact you may say that idealism is the ruin of man, and if we lived down to fact, as primitive man had to do, we would be better off. That is what we were made for. Nature is quite unromantic. It is we who put romance into her, which is false attitude, an egotism, absurd like all egotisms. In Ulysses I tried to keep close to fact.

And ‘close to fact’, it is. Ulysses’ basic ‘plot’ (if you can call it that), is based on the quotidian goings-on in Dublin on June 16th, 1904. Nothing special happens. The true allure of Ulysses is its variety of literary devices. As Jeri Johnson summarizes with regards to the book’s initial criticism, “Ulysses looked like a novel, but it also looked like drama, or catechism, or poetry, or music depending on which page one happened to open.” With regards to this variety, Joyce said :

I’ve put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I mean, and that’s the only way of insuring one’s immortality.

James Joyce, immortal Dubliner, you have stolen my heart and scarred my soul. 

“Let’s meet up on strawberry”

I am losing my mother tongue. 

I had been in denial for a week, blaming my poor sentence structure and obsessive rereading a result of indulging in too much Ulysses. Then yesterday, I said “strawberry” instead of “Saturday”. Saying “strawberry” was the straw-breaking moment when I realized that my brain is not programmed for mastering two languages; it can only either master one or half-ass both. Thinking back over the past week, I realized that I had started speaking my English with a slight French accent to English-speaking French people because it was easier for them to understand. My mother tongue leaving me is obviously punishment for the betrayal. Now not only am I panicking about losing my flair for language, but neither my English nor my French sound proper anymore. 

I think I am going to start keeping my mouth shut. 

*20 minutes later: I just wrote rainbows instead of rain boots in a list of things to purchase.

snotgreen, bluesilver and rust

Today is a moving-into-transition day, otherwise known as the beginning of my three-week limbo in Kelowna. 

My goodbye weekend included Joan Jett & The Blackhearts at the PNE, a ride on The Hellevator, a gifted Fiona Ackerman painting, an afternoon on Granville Island, a nightime showing of The Neverending Story in McSpadden park, the purchase of a Diana F+ camera, Belgian beer, and hours of Ulysses.

Although I have had an amazing farewell week, I have also encountered setbacks with regards to Paris. My passport and visa were returned to me with the wrong study dates. Furthermore, none of the thirty studio listings I responded to have contacted me back, meaning that I am still without accommodation. 

Goodbye Vancouver, hello…