So then, Joyce, you right bastard.

There walked a man 'pon Erin's shore,

Saw Erin was shite, walked there no more,

Walked instead 'neath Alpine peaks,

By alpine woods and alpine creeks,

But a voice said clear, a voice said true:

'You'll always be Irish,' o this Joyce knew!

And he was rightly fucked off about it.

So I handed in the aul Joyce essay on Monday, blessedly. I didn't think much of it. It ended suddenly, it was fairly unfocused, if a fella cam up to you an said 'show us a run o the mill English Literature essay, or the bunny gets it' (he has a bunny, and an anti-bunny weapon of some description), you'd have to do no more than usher him toward 'Names and Narrators: the Power of Perspective in "Cyclops"'. God, it's painful rememberin even that much. Even the title's drippin wi convention, like a stripey jumper, or anythin on channel 4. I can only hope that its middling qualities soothe the markers into such a state of incapacitation that they forget what essay they're readin an give it a good mark. These things I hope against hope.

Talkin shite? Borin my beatnik friend utterly shitless? This you may never know.

Joyce wasn't a terribly fascinatin chap, as far as conventional critical opinion goes; the author himself is represented in the book by Stephen Dedalus, an introspective, morose little bastard if ever there was one. Quite a hero o mine, so he is. The most interestin characters, e.g. Stephen's dad, his roommate Mulligan, an the Citizen, are the ones the author paints in the worst possible light. In a strange way, the author has been left thoroughly behind by the sheer brilliance of the text: Ulysses is now so much more than a mere novel with a writer an protags an plot: the fact that anythin like it exists is unbelievable. Some clever chap, I can't remember who, defined art as somethin that makes you proud to be human. I can't thank JJ enough for bustin the borders o literature so wide it made me proud again.

So then, Joyce, you put me through hell, and I'm not even sure what I gained from the experience. But by God, I loved every minute I spent in your company, engaged in a work of fiction that made you sorry to leave. Every man jack floatin bout Dublin that day in June was a sonnuva bitch one way or another, but its the full realisation of that shitty sidea folks makes a fella so happy to spend time with them. Finally, says the wee voice that'd rather be playin Baldur's Gate, finally a writer who knows what people are like.

In other news, I was out second in a field o seven at poker the night. Scundered I was. I was gunna buy a coppy o The Riverside Friggin Chaucer (Pointless Expenditure Edition) wi the winnings. Bastard Middle English.

Tomorrow: Dave on Richard Dawkins and 'The God Delusion.'

Thanks for readin,

Dave