WE have just passed Bloomsday, the annual opportunity to commemorate the events, bizarre, comical and poignant, chronicled by the Irish writer James Joyce in his magnificent novel, Ulysses. His narrative blends description, history, unrelated distractions, random thoughts, emotions; the entire panoply, indeed, of sentient and subconscious life. However, in relation to his native land, Joyce is an enigma. He left Ireland at a young age, calling down contumely on the entrenched attitudes he had encountered. Yet, for the rest of his life, he was apparently unable to write about anywhere else. His combined canon forms an anthem of awkward praise to the characters of his youthful, Irish environment.