a day ago
Ten Minutes with... Leopold Bloom
AHEAD of Bloomsday this June 16 — the annual celebration of James Joyce's Ulysses — The Irish Post is delighted to present a remarkable find: a long-lost interview with none other than Leopold Bloom himself.
Or so it appears.
The yellowing typescript, mysteriously unsigned and dated June 1904, was recently uncovered in the bottom drawer of a desk on in Northampton. It said in very faded writing The Molumby Archive.
Whether it's a work of early fan fiction, an unauthorised parody, or some kind of proto-stream-of-consciousness journalism, we can't say for sure.
What we do know is that it reads uncannily like Dublin's most famous literary everyman — the quiet, kind-eyed, kidney-loving Mr Bloom, who on a single day in 1904 wandered from funeral to pub to beach, and in doing so became one of literature's most enduring modern figures.
Presented here, lightly edited and with apologies to the Joyce estate, it certainly appears to be what a Q&A with Leopold Bloom might have looked like — had anyone thought to ask.
On love, soup, art, cheese sandwiches and the meaning of everything — a Q&A with Joyce's wandering soul, in honour of Bloomsday...
What are you up to?
Walking mostly. Thinking too much. Looking in shop windows. Buying kidneys. Today I had an ould cheese sandwich in Davy Byrne's. Gorgonzola I think it might have been. Washed it down with a glass of burgundy. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe Eccles Street. Or Sandymount. Or Mars.
Which piece of music always sends a shiver down your spine?
Anything by Molly, singing in the parlour, throat open, full-throated, the way she used to when she thought no one was listening. I was. Always am.
The neighbours are coming round for dinner. What's on the menu?
Oh, something light. Nutty gizzards maybe. Giblet soup. To die for. Although people don't really say that as yet.
What are your Irish roots?
Born in Clanbrassil Street, Dublin. My father was a Jew from Hungary, came here with a different name and left me with his thirst and a fondness for drink I try to avoid. My mother was from Tipp. Come on Tipperary! She was a Higgins. Common name. You'd never rise to high office with a moniker like that.
But this dichotomy in my upbringing has left me to wonder what it means to be Irish.
What is your favourite place in Ireland?
My kitchen, when it's quiet, and there's bread in the bin.
Which book has really moved you?
And Scheherazade — a woman who understood the importance of storytelling and survival. Joyce knew what he was doing picking that for me. Sorry, that probably doesn't make much sense But then that's Ulysses for you.
Have you a favourite singer / band?
Besides Molly? John McCormack, I suppose. Or the blind street fiddler near the Shelbourne. You don't need to see to move a man's heart. But all that traditional music, the ould fiddling an' whatnot — that'll be gone in a few years. Goodbye to the diddly-aye.
Which living person do you most admire?
Stephen Dedalus, though he doesn't believe it. A stubborn young lad with too many thoughts in his head and not enough meat on his bones.
Which person from the past do you most admire?
Odysseus. Very well got. He wandered, he wept, he lied, he loved. And still he came home. No better man.
What would be your motto?
Love loves to love love. Or: Think slowly, act kindly.
Have you a favourite quote from the movies?
Haven't seen many pictures — the last was a magic lantern show with poor resolution. But I'm not really into quotes, if you please O no thank you not in my house stealing my potatoes and the oysters 2/6 per doz going out to see her aunt if you please common robbery type of thing.
Yes, well I kind of see what you mean. So, what books are on your bedside table at the minute?
A pamphlet on Turkish baths, and the Bible, more for the language than the morals. Oh, and a Catholic prayer book. Mostly for the Latin.
In terms of inanimate objects, what is your most precious possession?
Molly's letter, the one with the pressed flower. Smells faintly of lemon soap and regret. And grief. Infidelity. Recrimination. And unmet longing.
What's best thing about where you live?
The familiarity. The echo in the hallway. The indentation in the armchair where I always sit. You can build a life in the smallness of a home.
. . . . and the worst?
The silence when Molly's not singing.
What's the greatest lesson life has taught you?
That nothing is ever really over. Not love. Not loss. It all loops around in the end, like a day — or a book. Oh, and don't let good bread grow stale.
What do you believe in?
Possibility. Warm bread. Forgiveness. The kindness of strangers. That the soul has a weight. That we walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-law. But always meeting ourselves.
What do you consider the greatest work of art?
A woman's 'yes'.
Who/what is the greatest love of your life?
Molly. Always Molly. Even when I doubted. Even when she sang for someone else. That voice still finds me.
