Our friend and her husband had joined Rick and me on our patio for a mattress celebration apèro in the late afternoon sun. We were sheltered from the Tramontane which had been blowing for the past three days.
They had recommended a friend who had sold us the new mattress, so this was our thank you.
My mind jumped back to how I read most classics at uni including James Joyce.
When I was at Joyce's house in Dublin, I saw his desk and thought how he must have written Ulysses there.
I had loved Dubliners. For Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, I went from doubt to considering it a treasure hunt.
As for Ulysses, I've never made it past page 42. Thank goodness for Cliff Notes.
Joyce died in 1941 in my country, in Zurich to be exact.
I will never finish the book even though I tried after uni several times. I can live with that.
I took comfort in a travel guide of Switzerland that said about Zurich "James Joyce free since 1941."
I joke that my grave can read "She never finished Ulysses."
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