I said in a recent post that the last story in James Joyce’s
anthology Dubliners is the longest
and most tedious of them all. Seems I owe Mr J an apology because last night I
read the final few pages and they contain the loveliest exposition of deep
melancholy and the perception of mortality that I think I’ve ever read. So
kudos to Mr J after all, although whether or not I will ever find the fortitude
to read Ulysses remains to be seen.
* * *
And while I’m in the mood for saying things that nobody will be interested to read, I thought I’d mention that Blogger stats reports many instances of someone using Chrome browser with Windows visiting the blog on a regular basis, but the location is never shown. I wish they’d send me an email or leave a comment so I know who’s watching me.
(I should also add that I'm trying to reach 200 posts by the end of the year, because to do less would be shameful.)
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