Читать книгу The Story I Am - Roger Rosenblatt - Страница 29

From the Memoir Making Toast

My grandson, Bubbies (née James), sits in my lap in the den. He locks his hands behind his head when he relaxes. I do the same. We sit there in a lopsided brown leather chair—same pose, sitting in tandem, like luge drivers.

One evening, he points to the shelf to his left and says, “Book.” He indicates The Letters of James Joyce, edited by Stuart Gilbert. It seems an ambitious choice for a twenty-three-month-old boy, but I take down the book and prop it open before us.

“Dear Bubbies,” I begin. “I went to the beach today and played in the sand. I also built a castle. I hope you will come play with me soon. Love, James Joyce.”

Bubbies seems content, so I “read” another:

Dear Bubbies,

Went to the playground today. Tried the slide. It was a little scary. I like the swings better. I can go very high, just like you.

Love,

James Joyce.

Bubbies turns the pages. I occasionally amuse myself with an invented letter closer to the truth of Joyce’s life and personality:

Dear Bubbies,

I hate the Catholic Church, and am leaving Ireland forever.

Love,

James Joyce.

It tickles me that Bubbies has chosen to latch on to a writer who gladly would have stepped on a baby to get a good review.

I try to put back the book, but he detects an implicit announcement of his bedtime, and he protests. “Joyce!” he says. Eventually, he resigns himself to the end of his day. He puts the book back himself and quietly says, “Joyce.”