Desperately Searching For Something to Say.

I had some time on my hands this evening and went in desperate search of something profound to write to the blog. I didn’t find anything, so eventually I gave up the quest and read some more of James Joyce’s Dubliners instead.

But by way of salvaging the evening’s surfeit of spare time, I suppose I could mention that yesterday I saw an old friend from my theatre days on the TV. And today I went searching for one of my favourite songs from my teenage years, and discovered that it had been written by a man who now lives a mere five miles from me. And maybe I might remark on today’s encounter with the Lady B, especially since such encounters are so rare these days. We had a conversation consisting of seven words – four of hers and three of mine. In mitigation, however, I might add that she was out jogging and braving the damp, dour November day dressed in a sleeveless top and shorts, while I had the benefit of multiple layers and a beanie hat.

But none of that is either profound or interesting, is it?

So what of my impressions of Dubliners? I haven’t said much about it yet, have I? It’s an odd sort of work, a collection of short stories in which the plots are always perfunctory at best, and only there to provide the platform for a character study. Since character is of paramount interest to me, I am finding it entertaining, even though the plots – such as they are – are generally as depressing as a foggy night in a dingy alley somewhere off O’Connell Street.

And it takes me back to what an indy publishing editor who wanted to use four of my own short stories said to me once: ‘I read some James Joyce today, and thought “he writes just like JJ Beazley.”’ Was that a compliment or a statement so strange as to be unworthy of note? Well, the man in question was young, American, and training for the priesthood, so maybe that explains it.