Another year that I didn't make it down to Books & Books for Bloomsday. In the past I was often traveling, or busy in the newsroom; this year I came up with the excuse that only people who've actually read Ulysses should be entitled to celebrate it (distinguishing Bloomsday, say, from St. Patrick's Day).
Also, I was in Miami yesterday, having lunch with my friend the Japanese translator. Drivers in South Florida are all familiar with sitting at a raised bridge or waiting for a train to pass - but few are prepared for it. (Though my friend Dave used to say he always appreciated the lulls, especially at bridges, as they gave him time to look around, take in the view, collect his thoughts, consider the day. He's since moved back home to Chicago.) I sometimes have a book in the backseat; for a long time I drove around with Lawrence Durrell's Spirit of Place - but, even though it's a collection, it wasn't the best work to dip into quickly. Yesterday as we drove to lunch, I noticed that Bill had a small volume just behind his gear shift that seemed perfectly chosen for this purpose: Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass.
