Well, I can’t believe I’ve missed another Bloomsday. My calendar reminded me, and I thought about typing something witty or at least melancholic and Joycesque. But I was OBE.

I was having an out of body experience. … No.

I was overcome by events. As some of my many faithful readers might know, we’ve been dealing with a health crisis with our beloved little Pomeranian, Happy. I’ve been posting some about her on her own blog, Happy’s Trials.

Anyway, that’s been the hungry crucible of all of my free time of late.

Here’s a quote from Mr. Joyce:

“Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why.”

Funny, Joyce never struck me as the kind of writer who would give a wet shilling for the English reading public. But, while I’ve read many thing by Joyce, I’ve read nothing about Joyce since my college days.

Here’s a better one:

“My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire.”

Yeah. Happy Bloomsday, belatedly, y’all.