So: I read me some Ulysses last week.
To an extent, I did so knowing that this wouldn’t be a fully immersive experience — I had dim memories of a Martin Amis essay on Joyce’s novel rattling around in my head, had some trepidations about approaching it without a small reference library by my side, and then decided to delve in anyway.
Having finished the novel on Saturday night, I feel sure that I “got” maybe a third of it — there are classical allusions and references to Irish politics of the early 20th century that went more or less over my head. I acknowledged this going in, which may read as blasphemous to some. Honestly, my goal here was to simply read the novel. It had been sitting on my shelf unread for years, and it seemed like a good enough time to read it. It won’t be the only time I do so, I suspect, and I wanted to have one session with the book with which I could simply immerse myself in its pacing and its rhythms.
For the record: it left me wrenched and deeply, deeply moved and, for the bulk of it, utterly thrilled at what could be done, and what was done, with the words on a page.
Congrats, man! Can’t tell you how many 1,000 page novels I bought during grad school that still stare out at me from my library shelves some 10 years later, while I chase my toddler around the room. Figure it’ll only be another 18 years until the house will be quiet enough to tackle those tomes.
I tried to read it while in Dublin. Reading a chapter, then rereading it along with a concordance, then rereading the chapter again. Took forever and I gave up. Good idea to just read it all without messing with references, to at least get a sense of the whole.