Today I wrote about 1200 words. As expected, my work habits have improved now that I am travelling alone again. But I am extremely melancholic that I have left London and Claire, probably never to see her again. It is possible that I was happy there. Would I rather be happy or be a productive writer? This does not seem to be a very difficult question.
In any case, I am in Dublin now. My plan here is to visit a different depressing pub every afternoon, drink two pints at each, and write as much as I can through the duration of those pints. There are two kinds of pubs in Dublin. There are the cool pubs that tourists and young people visit, and then there are the real pubs, where old people watch horse races and eat cheese sandwiches. Needless to say I prefer the latter.
Aside from that, I am reading Joyce and trying my best to imagine the Dublin that he wrote about, although I am fairly certain that it no longer exists in any capacity. The Liffey is still here, though, and I can imagine the Irish Vishnu of Finnegans Wake drifting down it, contemplating everything all at once. Incidentally, when a breeze passes over the river, there is the unmistakable smell of sewage.
It is important for me to add that Guinness in Ireland is exactly the same as Guinness everywhere else. I can not voice this to any Irishman, because I will surely be beaten up, but it has to be said.
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