Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes.
This year’s Bloomsday discovery is a doozy. I have a feeling Joyce would be tickled, but I’m going to reserve any pronouncement until the day is done, and I’ve had time to reflect. Not, probably, the right way to participate in this particular experiment, but what can you do.
Anyway, here’s to a gorgonzola cheese sandwich and a glass of burgundy for lunch.