One hundred ten years ago today, Leopold Bloom wandered the streets, byways, pubs, and other places in Dublin, only to end up supine with his head on the foot of the bed next to the feet of his wife Molly.
That, at least, is the gist of James Joyce’s tome Ulysses depicting the fictional Bloom on a psychological Odyssey. The climax, and I use that word advisedly and with some trepidation because of the subject matter, of the story is a 40 page, unpunctuated, stream of consciousness reminiscence/fantasy of Molly Bloom.
I recall the day because it was brought to my attention on June 16, 2001, when I took my last pre 9/11 flight. It seems to have been somewhat of an Odyssey ever since.