All the others before that day were similar to the path of Calvary. Before the sun set and the small hours arrived, Joyce guessed the corrections for 17 hours. Neither he nor Sylvia slept, had lunch or dinner. They spent a year like this, until February 2, 1922.
But what was that book that had to open up new paths, paths, crossroads for Literature? They call it the ‘novel’. ‘Poems’ too. Perhaps the word ‘artifact’ used by more than one person is better suited. Not so. One knows.
According to Anthony Burgess of ‘Mechanical Orange’, the fact is that not only can he compare himself to Shakespeare, Milton or Pop, but also to the work of the author, who hated and loved to drink Proust. to the reader. Life as well.
Admired by the greatest
Admired by Borges, the author of TS Eliot’s books ‘Lau Quarteto’ and ‘Lur eremua’, translated into Basque by Gabriel Aresti, Sarrionandia and Jon Juaristi, if we go into the pages of ‘Ulysses’, we will find no escape. And even if he denies the reader all the solutions, he will remain in debt to Joyce. Forever.
Some contemporary writers have a compass. Many others do it every year. Everywhere you look today, the tide of protectionist sentiment is flowing. and in a beautiful and drunken atmosphere of adoration. At these ‘Bloomsday’ gatherings, fried pork kidneys are the delicacies to be tasted. With toast. With tea. With black and creamy beer.
As soon as ‘Ulysses’ opens, he says: the reader will be lost in the streets of Dublin, through the references that Joyce used easily, guiltily, maliciously. In his book, Homer’s shadow is huge. Ovid’s too. As big as Aristotle’s book ‘A Thousand and One Nights’. All the rites of the Catholic Church are revealed, turned upside down. He is fluent in other languages, which is his own language, English, which would be crushed in Finn’s Way, which would crush the writer.
At these ‘Bloomsday’ gatherings on June 16th, fried pork kidneys are the delicacies to be tasted. With toast. With tea. With black and creamy beer
Yes, February 2nd is not an ordinary day, it will be ordinary. As soon as we wake up, we will receive the amazing, horrible, amazing, 1017-page Basque version of Xabier Olarrar’s ‘Ulises’, published by Igela in the summer of 2015. Xavier spent three years struggling and enjoying the universe; with words in war, in dance, in mystery. Olarra began this unrestricted event on June 16, 2012 (when else?). In his words, he assumed a duty that no one but the Titans would assume. I thought the Basque readers of the 20th century might appreciate it. ”
As Joyce fell into English literature, the translator swam eight hours a day (almost drowning) in Basque literature and brought ‘Ulysses’ to us, playing with Etxepare, Leizagarra and Axular, in parodies, trying to find all the resources available in Basque. And what was not there creating.
In the next two months, we will have to read games like the ones below, with the fascination of having a black beer in your hand:
Ulises
‘A riddle, sir. Ask me, sir
A difficult one sir
Here is the riddle »:
The rooster crowed
The sky is blue;
The bells in the sky.
At eleven o’clock
Because it has hit them, this soul
He needs to get into the sky
‘What is it, sir? We give up »
Stephen replied, itching in his throat.
The fox lands his grandmother under the holly.
