When the only joy you know is waiting. 1st Edition.
on Books, and on receiving them
Time- more than a week ago.
Place- international-no-borders of Medium.
It was when I opened SouthPawPoet’s post wherein she mentions how she has read Joyce’ Ulysses once already, but couldn’t understand it clearly, and how on the then coming Bloomsday she is more than eager, and focused to not only go through the epic thoroughly, this time, but to digest it too. It’s a matter of no shame saying that understanding Joyce’ masterpiece, which is considered in a league of its own, standing erect along with T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, is not only not a child (or an immature’s) play, but also a task Herculean. It took me more than a month to study and grasp Eliot’s saga, with the help of multiple elaborative notes, commentaries, and some readings from Librivox. Then only was I able to by-heart the five parts, and also invoke often incidental imagaries from it, my memory. Saying to experiment in the same manner on Joyce’ finesse not only derogates it but makes you look more ignorant than you rant you are. I had have actually read a few pages of it already, earlier in my sophomore high school year : epubed, eye straining digital pages which you can exceed not more than three because the text goes through your thick skull — not as in through your brains, as in right through you. And though the book remains saved in my phone library, heck more than thousands are there, I never gave it a second glance since. It was this post that fueled the teen-spark in me, to take a challenge, and ‘Nike’ it.
And thus in the heat of my immature Classic reading mania and the passion of inhaling the rawest of senses tantalizing essence those pages and eternal words withhold within, I placed an order of a Wordsworth edition of this fantasia from Flipkart. Now a reader’s thought — I didn’t order from Amazon: fuck I am never ever going to buy anything, least the books, from them… because, they suck! They are one of those literal book-haters, who know NO reverence… fuck you, I can’t stand a person turning pages from any of my books in any wrong way, and you fuckers take my money, of the product and the delivery charges both, and show up with a fucking mishandled copy, and that too of Euripides’ plays: who the fuck do you think you are; no one, and I mean NO ONE fucks with the books- not mine, least an ancient Classic. The copy is torn out at the edges, probably result of throwing and catching game played while shipping it, the cover blackened in blotches, as if someone with unwashed hands dared to touch it… I kept it only because my cousin ordered it for me through her phone and now she’s gone on a fortnight’s trip to Kolkata….. not only this time: I’ve seen similar assholery back when I ordered faber&faber’s Modern Verse Anthology too: ugh, that was a ruin.
Time and place- Now
Ulysses arrived home after what seemed like a forever of delivery period. period. I kept it close to my earlier bought, Wordsworth edition of Chapman’s Homer, clicked for this post, and though you guys can’t see it, the later is 4’, and the former, lying by it, is more than half of it — 2’2"! I’m like, that’s the size of my nose bridge! Alright, this may be surprising to y’all, but yes! I judge a book by its thickness, I might have written a poem on it, but heck, the point is I’m double as surprised: I used to think Joyce’ would be thin. Ha, no innuendo here! So yeah I am astonished, just a bit… but hey, that won’t stop me from reading it on. I said I judge by the thickness, which may mean I am a fat-book lover; there’s supposedly a word for that too…these guys have words for everything. Now on, I will be reading Joyce, might steal a muse from him or two, you know, you become what you read, not give my critique of it, heck no way, this shit is outta my league! I may try to enter that zone though. I am going to learn sooo much. Let’s end this more than 4mins with the very first line from the intro of the book, as the writer speaks himself of it—
“I’ve put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that’s the only way of insuring one’s immortality.”
- Zev, ‘literary reviewer wannabe’, over and out.
here’s ‘not’ D.H. Lawrence —