It’s not by design that various impressions and thoughts from reading Ulysses are now woven into my memories of the first couple of weeks of the baby’s life. After all that’s all I do these days: watching him sleep and reading the book. Books actually, the Don Gilford annotation, the Bloomsday guide and the Stuart Gilbert study in addition to the novel itself. Staying at home gives me the rare opportunities to lay all four books open around me. Whenever I’m getting sick of it — reading a book like this feels like you are humoring the author more than anything else — I just lay down the book and walk over to his crib. I can stand there at length, my mind more or less blank, just watching him moving his hands and legs constantly in his sleep.
I try to contemplate whatever connection there is between us, to no avail — so far he’s oblivious of my existence but he doesn’t seem to like it when I hold him. He completely has his own thing, feeding, sleeping, kicking, not like to be bothered. I tried to get him to listen to Liszt and Oscar Peterson, figuring string might be too early for his tender ears at this point. He made no comment on either. Bloom did not try to be a father figure to Stephen, he just naturally “consubstantiates” him with his kindness and serenity. I worried that I would be too impatient and unrealistic when it comes to his growing process, somehow I don’t want him to listen to those music for baby CDs Dongdong’s friend sent. In the morning I shifted him to one hand, to free the other and pick songs on the ipod. I set on the obvious choice, Chopin’s cello suite by Shafran, and when it comes to my favorite passage I looked at him with earnest trying to find a trace of elation on his face. I know I’m being stupid.
Wang Maomao 