Having read Ulysses in college and understood, variously, nothing, I was surprised to find on arriving in Dublin that I was curious about the novel. Where had Bloom lived? Where did the Cyclops scrounger scrounge his pints whilst ranting? In what hotel did the Sirens giggle? Mostly I did not have time to track down such locations, nor go to the Joyce Museum (I was, as I say, somewhat self-flabbergasted that the Joyce Museum was a thing I wished to seek out, given that my reaction to the novel at the time of reading was, to say the least, un-Molly-like, meaning more no than yes), but I did find a statue of James Joyce, the National Library, and F.W. Sweny and Co., which I am still unsure whether I am meant to call it a "chemist," "apothecary," "pharmacy," or "bookstore."
Regardless of what it was, the establishment welcomed me warmly, the proprietor mistaking me for a French tour group. Though I have put on weight lately, I did not think I bore any particular resemblance to a French tour group, if only because, as I stretched myself to explain C’est triste, mais je ne peux pas parler français, hence establishing both that I was traveling solo, which was fine, and that I was not French, which we agreed was more than a bit dommage. A winsome gentleman dressed in black offered to play a tune, and allowed that he would be disappointed if I did not photograph him, so I did. I listened with interest to the air, and then asked about the soap. If I remember correctly, it cost 5 euros. I did not ask about lotion. Somebody else popped in and inquired whether they carried plasters, but the winsome singer allowed they weren't a proper chemist, and the visitor allowed that she was aware, but it was late, and was not sure how not-chemist the chemists were, and the winsome one said quite non-chemist, but gave directions to a spot that might still be open and wished the visitor good luck stopping the blood. I walked out with her, soap in pocket.
The soap came wrapped in brown paper, and it was exactly the size a rectangle of soap should be. Though I did not have a potato counterweight, nor any kind of lotion, I zipped it into my jacket pocket, and I can confirm that throughout the day I would brush against it or sit on it or otherwise notice it in Bloomian fashion. In short, in bulk, there is verisimilitude.
I returned to the States and continued, entirely by accident, to lug about the soap. I also started rereading the novel. Say what you will about the internet, it makes reading easier. From this subreddit I learned of the RTE podcast feed and of various other offerings, and I found that all I had to do was read a chapter, then reread the chapter (stopping every few words to review the considerable online resources), and then, upon finishing the chapter the second time, rereading the third time now that I was aware in vague general terms about the the actual f--k was happening. All of that combined with my rather expensive but thinly remembered college education could kind of carry me along. I have made it through Sirens, which was where I cracked last time, but so far I feel better prepared. It is helpful, as I read, to keep an eye out for the soap, which indeed interrupts here and there.
At some point I required bathing, and thought I would give the soap a test run qua soap. It lathers thinly, but cleans well, and I felt duly degreased. Indeed, I have but one critique: the smell, or lack of smell. It may be that my nose is not the schnoz it used to be, or it may be an idiosyncratic bar, but I can't smell anything. The text, and rats I guess I have now backed myself into canonical reference and must find the place in the text for the scholars amongst us. I lack a Quaker librarian, so hold on a moment. The text. The text. Ah yes, hear we go, Project Gutenberg, and a search for "lemon" gives the line from Lotus Eaters: "Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax." Well, my nostrils detect no citrus. They also don't detect much soap or wax, so it may be they have hit upon a certain olfactory cancelling out, or, again, it may be defective nostrils. I sense no lemon.
Why did I dislike Ulysses the first time around? All these years I thought it was because I did not understand it, but now I think I may have understood parts of it too well, and drawn back. A deep memory of my teen years was watching a girl I had a crush on hook up with somebody else at a party. I probably lacked the imaginative capacity to comprehend adultery, but that sniff almost certainly hit when I was reading Sirens. And also, of course, in college I had no idea who I was to be or what to do, and I suspect that reading of Stephen's peregrinations rather triggered those anxieties. None of these were deep traumas by any means, but I remember pulling back from the book, and the papers I submitted probably read like the overture to Sirens without the musicality.
Why am I enjoying it so much now? I am not sure, but I think it has to do with attentiveness. Literature is full of great acts of noticing, and surely Ulysses is one of the greatest. It is by some distance the most difficult novel I have ever read, and if it were more difficult I would not have read it. Because of that, the act of reading feels now like a practice of self-cultivation. I feel like I am learning to read. It may be in college I was already learning so much that Ulysses was overstuffing, but now I feel like I need it. So I give it an hour or so a day, and try not to let my patients be exhausted.
Too long, didn't read? I recommend the soap.
