Reading hard books

This was really good. A customer, looking for Anthony Trollope, said,  ‘I’ve read all these.’

We looked at each other.

I said defensively, ‘I’m having a go at Ulysses.’

He lit up. ‘Oh yes. Oh yes. Good. Good. Do you have help?’

I admitted I did. A website, chosen at random, to get me through every word of it, one paragraph at a time. A guide with a torch lighting a path and smashing the overhangs out of the way. When I got to Leopold on the toilet, I was hooked. When his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease, I was committed to the book. Don’t care how hard.

The customer said, ‘Oh. Good. Good. It’s just what you need. James Joyce. Strange man of course. Ireland’. He looked at the floor as though looking at Ireland.

Once, a young woman said, ‘Oh, James Joyce, he makes us look around and look at things.’

It’s true.

“The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.”

The customer admitted to finding Anna Karenina difficult. The names. The Russian names. ‘But after all, in an affair, there are only three names. The rest are of no consequence.’ He looked down at the floor, staring at something, possibly Russia.

“Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.” Says Joyce.

The customer stayed a while looking through the classics. He would take a book and stare at the cover for a long time. He read the first chapter of Madame Bovary before putting it back in the wrong place. Eventually he left.

Outside, somebody passing the door said, ‘Every time I go past this place it’s shut. What’s the point?’

That’s right. I’m shut because I’m home having a crack at Ulysses and humid nightbluefruit.

Above image of my shop. Not really. It’s actually a rare book library in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Not even inside yet

I’m not even inside the shop yet, and there’s plenty to see. As I walk from the car to the door of my shop, there is:

– a man holding his dog up and moving it’s huge paw up and down to make it wave at someone through the bakery window.

– a collision at the bin between two older couples who say, ‘Oh goodness, sorry, ‘ to each other.

-three young tradesmen running across the road toward a four door ute, and one takes the driver’s seat and flips the bird at the other two. They look at her, and then get into the back seat and look at each other.

-there’s a little black dog in a parked car barking hysterically at the dog who is still waving through the bakery window.

 – a lady has put up the flag for the art gallery, and is now standing talking to two other ladies, and they all have their arms folded and are nodding.

– someone keeps calling hoky doky – it goes on and on. I go outside to put up my open signs. I can see the hoky doky person. It’s a man in a cherry coloured jumper and forest green work jeans, now walking toward me pushing a wheelbarrow loaded up with a rake and a three pots. He calls back to a waving lady, ‘Hoky doky, I’ll get it.’

– a lady in black jeans and orange boots walks past fast. She passes the wheelbarrow, walking while looking at her phone. She has another two phones, one in each back pocket.

– two men are now standing at the window deciding. ‘Rudyard Kipling or James Joyce…’ One man says into his phone, ‘He’s still looking.’ The man looking has a black beanie and a spectacular pair of purple glasses.

-two ladies walking side by side pass them, and one says, ‘I’d like to see the sun today.’

…the lithe black form

“Scratch my head. Prr. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees. —Milk for the pussens, he said. —Mrkgnao! the cat cried. They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them.”

James Joyce, Ulysses

Painting by Katya Minkina

manycoloured

“The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?”

James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Painting by Guillermo Marti Ceballos