Chekhov's Mistress
Bloomsday: Celebration or Freaky Geeky Idolatry?
I was thinking yesterday, while passing a man wearing a Hemingway Festival t-shirt, about this coming Bloomsday, which I typically participate in at Symphony Space in New York City (which coincidentally is one of the largest of these gatherings in the world). The thing is that I hate the idea of idolatry and it seems that intellectuals (or should I just say readers, so as not to sound too high-minded) are equally guilty as hysterical Michael Jackson fans at getting overly enthusiastic about a single person and treating them as some sort of god. Admittedly, being a literature lover, I think of the masters in a god-like way, in the sense that I truly believe what each has contributed can not be replicated (although see Borges’ “Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote) and mystical. But, as Hamlet said, “The play’s the thing.”
The Economist Magazine just ran an article asking “Is the fuss over James Joyce’s Ulysses greater than the book?” They talk of the trend in tourism “in which a dead author becomes a lure for living admirers and the merely curious” and a late-night light show on the banks of the river Liffey that will project images of Joyce. I agree that that does seem an odd celebration for an self-exiled writer whose portrayal of the city was anything but flattering. But they also point out that most of the celebrants have never actually read the entire book. That’s not necessarily true, but even if so, okay, because, for example, like “haute couture,” the clothes on the runway are there merely to exploit the possibilities, not to be worn prosaically everyday.
My point is, that I respect the desire to admire the work of Joyce through readings and some of the other artistic out-shoots, even if they seem silly in more sober moments. That is probably the only, and perhaps the best way the book can be enjoyed – believe me, to hear Frank McCourt and his brother Malachy, and Marian Seldes and some of the other famous, and not-so, read this book on stage at Symphony Space makes it truly come alive. So, I think those that bash Ulysses and Bloomsday, like Reason Magazine’s on-line editor, who asks “Why does a book so bad it “defecates on your bed still have so many admirers?” need to loosen up a bit, because their criticisms are pointless. People seem to fear that which they don’t understand, and that, judging from most of the quotes in Reason’s article, may be the case. On the other hand, while I would indeed join a bunch of people I don’t know in reading a book, typically a solitary act, and pay $16 for the privilege, I think a laser light show would merely be like a screaming teenager at a Beatles concert – they can’t hear the music.
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About this Post
- Posted by: Bud Parr
- Date: June 11, 2004
- Filed Under:
Reading Railroad: Events
- Comments:0
- Links to this Post: Technorati
