To the Editor:
For most of my Irish friends and relatives, when they reach back to their roots, they think of St. Patrick's Day. To me, their affection seems misplaced. The true Irish celebration should be Bloomsday, June 16, the day James Joyce celebrated in his novel ''Ulysses.'' For the Irish are not people of shamrocks and green beer but of books and words.
''Ulysses'' is a tale of a day in the life of Dublin in 1904, following the activities of a Jew named Leopold Bloom, thus the term Bloomsday. It was Joyce's intent to capture the soul of a city in its entirety; he depicts patriots, cowards, prostitutes and blowhards with a non-judgmental and even hand. Joyce once said that should Dublin be destroyed, he wanted to be able to recreate it brick by brick through his novel.
The story of ''Ulysses'' begins with the long and striking Irish tradition of reverence for learning and letters. Going back to the sixth century, while the rest of Europe was being overrun by the barbarian invasion and the legacy of Rome was being extinguished behind the curtain of the Dark Ages, the monks of Ireland were busy copying and preserving the great works of pagan literature and philosophy. Hundreds of these academic monasteries were established across Europe.
What moves me is not the fact that the Irish dedicated their lives to preserving words, but the way they celebrated those words. Even a brief tour of ''The Book of Kells'' from between the sixth and ninth centuries produces an astonishing reaction. No simple penmanship here. The pages are full of art with words drawn in vivid color, decorated with animals, saints, geometric shapes and, of course, the ubiquitous Celtic knot. The words reverberate with multiple meanings and effect. Pages abound with the beauty and ambiguity of life itself. In ''The Book of Kells,'' the New Testament becomes a jungle of light, sound and motion.
So when Joyce put pen to paper, he did so in a tradition like no other. For the Irish monks of the Middle Ages, dedication to literature was worth one's own life. As it is clear from the title, ''Ulysses'' is modeled on Homer's Odyssey. Rather than trace heroic novels over a 10-year journey conquering monsters and seducing goddesses, Joyce describes the toiling of a rather flawed individual who is a victim of anti-Semitism, a cuckold and a business failure. There are no saints in Ulysses, only flawed, foolish men and women - the kind we all meet every day.
It is the way he tells his tale that makes ''Ulysses'' so monumental. In each chapter he adopts a different style of writing. He mimics music, painting, theology, architecture, science and ontogeny, an odyssey not just of a single man but of culture itself.
Perhaps his greatest contribution, however, is his interior monologue. Rather than use a narrator to chaperone the reader, he follows his characters through their thoughts that ramble and weave through their day. None of us thinks in exclusive linear ideas; our mind touches divergent themes in any single moment. Thus, as Bloom walks to a funeral Mass, he thinks of his dead 11-day-old son, the suicide of his father and the impending assignation of his wife - no simple stroll here. It's like a symphony that plays multiple melodies simultaneously. To be sure, to follow this technique as a reader can be maddening until we allow it to become vivifying.
Like ''The Book of Kells,'' Joyce brings his words alive by bringing them closer to the human experience. This is indeed how we all think and live. So when we think to celebrate the Irish culture, I would hope we would consider Bloomsday and the rich literary history that is the heart of Ireland. After all, it is no coincidence that in the 20th century, Ireland has produced the greatest poet, playwright and novelist in W.B. Yeats, Samuel Beckett and Joyce.
Stephen S. Bowman lives in Syracuse.
Bloomsday celebrates literary tradition of Irish
To the Editor: