Despite that bastard Murphy, things picked up once we entered Davy Byrnes’ pub, where a certain Leopold Bloom had once washed down a gorgonzola sandwich with a sherry. They didn’t have any food, but they did have Guinness, which is basically a liquid manifestation of the food pyramid.
This was the first step in our attempts to trace the steps of Msr. Bloom, which we cannot, unfortunately, give away for free, but plan to recount in an upcoming essay entitled ‘Reading James Joyce in Dublin’, in which we will attempt to connect Faulkner (and, subsequently, incest as it relates to quests for racial purity), Joyce’s influence on Mr. Bill, their respective uses of the c-word, a few more of Joyce’s words from Ulysses, the physical setting of the book today, and the transcending powers of a settling Guinness with our own personal vision quest.
(Editor’s Note— Our would-be author reports that his task may have been somewhat compromised by the fact that, in hindsight, he realized that he never read any of Ulysses while actually in Dublin, and, uh, isn’t quite finished with it yet. Stay tuned)
