James Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941)
Why not have an Irish Whisky to honor him? Or, at least, an Irish coffee. Or else, spend the day in an Irish pub, which is probably what he would have done. If I were in Dublin, I’d take a walk along the River Liffey.
This is a quote from Ulysses that I always liked:
The sun set on Bloomsday at twenty-seven minutes past eight and its undertaking shadows wrapped the rocks of Sandymount Strand in deep purple thought.
I love how he assigns a color to thought, and this line makes me imagine how glorious it would be to be on the Strand at that time.
Joyce was on the cover of Time magazine twice. Notice how both times they make an issue of his failing eyesight.
The first photos I thought of putting at the top of this post were of Paris and not of Ireland. What’s ironic is that I instinctively associated Joyce with Paris rather than Ireland. He spent a good deal of his adult life living in Paris but writing about Dublin. Also, I’ve been to Paris, therefore, I have photos I’ve taken to feature, but I’ve never been to Dublin, where I’m dying to go and take the James Joyce tour.
You might be interested in reading another post I did about Joyce called Ineluctable Modality of the Visible.