In Joyce, one can find the boundaries of tradition and innovation closely entwined. Perhaps no other author can perfectly embody that turn-of-the-century decadent style with the desire to explore a new world free of the literary conventions and convictions that had previously reigned. And while reading his work, one can find that eagerness and excitement of a voyager who, like Baudelaire, feel a mind filled with fire and bitter desire, soothing, in the finite waves, our infinities.
Edmund Wilson called him “the great poet of a new phase of human consciousness” and indeed, the consciousness of a newly- found power, a sort of renewed Byronic hero springing from its ashes. Reality is but an instrument for him to reveal a hidden, unsound truth in its core, and it is through the labyrinthine experimentation that is commenced a whole universe of possibility.
To follow the Joycean mood, I proceed to celebrate Bloomsday in good company, his always loyal cup of chocolate. It is well-known that he delighted in the beverage several times a day, meticulously prepared, of course, by Nora. Such was his indulgence in the alluring enchantments of its flavor that he mentions it in Ulysses as well, enjoying it at 2 am with Fitzharris, alongside conversation.
There were also some homemade truffles, Irish scones, and chocolates especially for this particular occasion, accompanied by his earlier work (A Portrait), which all made for a buoyant celebration.
It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness…
Ulysses, Chapter 11 – Sirens.