We crossed the river, yesterday. We skimmed impatient hands across jewelry, postcards, record albums, tin canisters emblazoned with long-dead logos, crockery. My eye was momentarily entrapped by these shiny things, distractions all. The sun riveted its heat into my flesh, dribbles of sweat danced down my arms before diving off of my jagged fingernails to land in the grassy unknown, spent. My eyes, shaded, landed on a pile of ink and ideas cobbled together with old leather and faith. This fellow was on top… Continue reading
James Joyce reading from Ulysses, 1924.