Dublinesque Read Free Page B

pinnacles of the age of print, of the Gutenberg galaxy, the twilight of which he is having to live through.
    “What’s the lecture about?” asks his father.
    Brief hesitation.
    “It’s about James Joyce’s novel
Ulysses
, and the Gutenberg constellation giving way to the digital age,” he replies.
    It was the first thing that occurred to him. Afterward he pauses, and then, as if dictated by an inner voice, he adds:
    “They actually want me to speak about the end of the age of print.”
    Long silence.
    “Are the presses closing down?” his mother asks.
    His parents, who — as far as he knows — have not the slightest idea who Joyce is and even less what kind of novel lies behind the title
Ulysses
and who, moreover, have been caught off guard by the topic of the end of the age of print, look at him as if it’s just been confirmed that, even though it’s beneficial for his health, he’s been very odd lately, owing to his permanent sobriety since giving up alcohol so radically two years ago. He senses this is what his parents are thinking and fears greatly that they are not entirely in the wrong, since his constant sobriety
is
affecting him, why pretend otherwise? He is too connected to his thoughts and sometimes disconnects fatally for a few seconds and gives answers he should have thought through more, such as the one he has just given them about
Ulysses
and the Gutenberg galaxy.
    He ought to have given them a different answer. But as Céline said, “Once you’re in, you’re in it up to your neck.” Now that he’s announced he is going to Dublin, he’s going to push on into the tangled affair, up to his neck, as far as is necessary. He will go to Dublin. No doubt about it. This will also allow him to verify whether or not the many extraordinarily precise details in his strange dream were real. If, for instance, he sees that in Dublin there is a pub called the Coxwold with a big red and black door, this will mean nothing less than that he really did cry with Celia, in an emotional scene, sitting on the ground, in Dublin, perhaps before he was ever there.
    He will go to Dublin, capital of Ireland, a country he doesn’t know much about, only that, if he remembers correctly — he tells himself he’ll look it up later on Google — it has been an independent state since 1922, the very year — another coincidence — his parents were born. He knows very little about Ireland, although he knows a good deal about its literature. W. B. Yeats, for example, is one of his favorite poets. 1922 is, moreover, the year in which
Ulysses
was published. He could go and hold a funeral for the Gutenberg galaxy in Dublin Cathedral, which is called St. Patrick’s, if he remembers rightly; there, on that holy site, Antonin Artaud finally went completely mad when he saw no difference between the saint’s cane and the one he was using himself.
    His parents are still looking at him as if thinking that his permanent sobriety has led him perilously down the pathways of autism; they seem to be reproaching him for daring to talk about someone called Joyce when he knows perfectly well they have no idea who this gentleman is.
    His father turns around in his chair and appears to be about to protest, but finally says only that he would like someone to explain something.
    Again? Now it seems like he’s parodying himself. Could it be a touch of humor on his part?
    “What, Dad? The storm’s over. What else do we have to explain to you? The unfathomable dimension?”
    Unperturbed, his father continues what he’s started, and now he wants to know why exactly they’ve chosen his son to speak in Dublin about the decline of the Gutenberg constellation. And he also wants to know why his son still hasn’t said anything at all about his trip to Lyon. Perhaps he didn’t really go there and wants to hide this from his parents. They are used to him telling them about his trips, and his behavior today is alarmingly anomalous.
    “I don’t know,