My book order turned up this morning–four books on or by James Joyce–and I settled in for a good read, starting with the autobiography James Joyce by Edna O’Brien. I find myself nonplussed by the opening chapter. Seems to me the good lady is trying to imitate Joycean prose, and that feels really odd.
No matter. The book was well-reviewed and I shall persevere, building a picture of the man before plunging back into the maelstrom for the first time in fifty years.
The timing was good. I’m feeling just a little worn and weary after my trips out yesterday and the day before. The pity of it is that today was as cold, grey and drizzly as yesterday was sunny and warm. Had it not been so I’d have sat in the garden to read. I like sitting all snug by a radiator indoors–it’s an old man thing, I suspect–but it does tend to make me droozy. Sitting in the sunshine can do the same but it’s a different kind of droozy. More aware and dedicated, somehow.
I don’t care. I can’t remember the quote exactly but T.S. Eliot reckoned that, while between fifty and seventy you need to find excuses for not doing something you’d rather avoid, from seventy onwards you can just say ‘No’. Sounds good to me.
Perhaps tomorrow will see a little activity to go with the reading.
Sitting in the sun
