Betraying James Joyce

Ireland Love 2017.JPG

There´s no doubt I´m a rebel. It´s not like I wake up and decide: I´m going to be a rebel today. I just am; I was born this way.

I love what, and whom, I love independently of conveniences or external pressures; I won´t spend a second with a person, or thing, that doesn´t set my soul on fire.

I go where my heart sends me and I won´t do what everybody else´s doing  if that´s not part of my personal path. Some call it arrogance; I call it the courage to be myself.

My choice of books follows this rule: the rebel´s, heart following rule.

I´ve been meaning to read James Joyce´s “Ulysses” for a long time.

As I finished my third visit to the Writers´Museum in Dublin, I headed for the bookshop with one goal in mind: buy and, this time around, read Joyce´s master piece.

I´ve heard about it; I know it´s one of those books every aspiring author, or writer or whatever you may call to someone who writes compulsively, should read; I´ve grabbed it several times, trying to get hooked; wanting to get hooked; wishing, hard-hard-hard, to get hooked.

The result was invariably the same: it made me sleepy, bored to death. They say it´s a master piece and I don´t doubt it. Maybe it´s my problem – I´m not ready for the book.

Maybe not. All I know is I cannot invest my time, and focus, on something that makes me want to sleep and, just before I do, slap anyone who crosses my way.

There I was, eyes, sharp, decided, focused on the shelf where The Master Piece was exhibited. I grabbed it, opened it, inhaled its smell (in the middle of the book; always in the middle) and started to read.

-I want to love you; I really do. – I whispered towards the book´s pages.

-…- Silence. Passive aggressive stillness.

I could sense arrogance in the air. And I really dislike arrogance. But I kept reading.

-Can someone get me a pillow? And a bed? Please!

I quit. Yet again. Lost battle.

I ended up, as usual, betraying Joyce by a far inferior book, according to Literature experts: Angela´s Ashes by Frank McCourt, a book I instantly fell in love with. No reason. No recommendations. No MUST READ list. Pure, plain, straighforward love.

I opened it, started reading and knew I was interested. Why, exactly? I don´t know. Should I know? Can you explain love?

I can´t.

Documentary on the rejected author. Something to ease my guilt sense.

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