Scan barcode
momotan's review against another edition
2.0
Che dire, a volte quando si affrontano grandi "classici" osannati dalla critica, si ha fortuna e si capisce come possano essere diventati "classici", appunto, guadagnandosi una meritata gloria.
Altre volte invece i brutti presentimenti trovano conferma, e il classico si rivela il classico mattone contro cui ci si schianta.
In questo caso non starò a citare Paolo Villaggio e Ėjzenštejn, anche se ammetto che sia stato il mio pensiero, ma posso ammettere con stanca tranquillità che questa volta mi sono imbattuto nel secondo tipo di classico.
La lettura risultava difficile già nei primi capitoli, lenta e apparentemente senza destinazione, ma almeno aveva un senso e prometteva di dire anche qualcosa, una volta fatta chiarezza sui personaggi.
Poi è iniziato il caos, una girandola di stili parodizzati che si susseguono senza soluzione di continuità e culminanti nell'allucinatorio pezzo "teatrale".
Il finale non migliora le cose, dopo un primo momento in cui sembra voler tornare al registro degli inizi si passa prima a un assurdo... question time? rubrica di domande e risposte?, e infine a un lungo flusso di pensieri (chiaramente senza punteggiatura, pensieri scritti come li pensa e probabilmente li scriverebbe la protagonista del flusso stesso, la ben poco letterata Molly).
Una lettura che da subito veniva anticipata come difficile, che io ho trovato nei momenti migliori noiosa, in quelli peggiori incomprensibile e assurda.
Non ha certo aiutato il fatto che la mia versione del libro (versione kindle dell'edizione Newton, il Mammut insomma) fosse addirittura priva della divisione in capitoli mantenendo solamente quella nelle tre grandi macroparti (i tre capitoli iniziali, tutta l'epopea di Bloom, e il finale).
Quantomeno ci sono gli editoriali di supporto, grazie ai quali ho potuto capire quali sarebbero state le assonanze omeriche (e mi trovo d'accordo con le opinioni più recenti, almeno stando a quanto qui riportato, che non credono più tanto a questa visione del libro come "riscrittura moderna dell'Odissea", quanto piuttosto che la storia di Odisseo sia una sorta di sottile canovaccio sul quale modellare un poco i capitoli del libro, oltre che magari un bello scherzo per far dannare generazioni di studenti di lettere).
Sicuramente, visto che il libro è considerato un Classico e risulta amato da tanti, la colpa sarà mia, di una scarsa conoscenza dell'Odissea e di Shakespeare e dei molteplici stili scimmiottati da Joyce, oltre che di una bassa tolleranza per centinaia di pagine di nulla.
E soprattutto colpa della mia testardaggine di non volere abbandonare un libro dopo centinaia di pagine, quando è comunque evidente che non sia fatto per me.
Altre volte invece i brutti presentimenti trovano conferma, e il classico si rivela il classico mattone contro cui ci si schianta.
In questo caso non starò a citare Paolo Villaggio e Ėjzenštejn, anche se ammetto che sia stato il mio pensiero, ma posso ammettere con stanca tranquillità che questa volta mi sono imbattuto nel secondo tipo di classico.
La lettura risultava difficile già nei primi capitoli, lenta e apparentemente senza destinazione, ma almeno aveva un senso e prometteva di dire anche qualcosa, una volta fatta chiarezza sui personaggi.
Poi è iniziato il caos, una girandola di stili parodizzati che si susseguono senza soluzione di continuità e culminanti nell'allucinatorio pezzo "teatrale".
Il finale non migliora le cose, dopo un primo momento in cui sembra voler tornare al registro degli inizi si passa prima a un assurdo... question time? rubrica di domande e risposte?, e infine a un lungo flusso di pensieri (chiaramente senza punteggiatura, pensieri scritti come li pensa e probabilmente li scriverebbe la protagonista del flusso stesso, la ben poco letterata Molly).
Una lettura che da subito veniva anticipata come difficile, che io ho trovato nei momenti migliori noiosa, in quelli peggiori incomprensibile e assurda.
Non ha certo aiutato il fatto che la mia versione del libro (versione kindle dell'edizione Newton, il Mammut insomma) fosse addirittura priva della divisione in capitoli mantenendo solamente quella nelle tre grandi macroparti (i tre capitoli iniziali, tutta l'epopea di Bloom, e il finale).
Quantomeno ci sono gli editoriali di supporto, grazie ai quali ho potuto capire quali sarebbero state le assonanze omeriche (e mi trovo d'accordo con le opinioni più recenti, almeno stando a quanto qui riportato, che non credono più tanto a questa visione del libro come "riscrittura moderna dell'Odissea", quanto piuttosto che la storia di Odisseo sia una sorta di sottile canovaccio sul quale modellare un poco i capitoli del libro, oltre che magari un bello scherzo per far dannare generazioni di studenti di lettere).
Sicuramente, visto che il libro è considerato un Classico e risulta amato da tanti, la colpa sarà mia, di una scarsa conoscenza dell'Odissea e di Shakespeare e dei molteplici stili scimmiottati da Joyce, oltre che di una bassa tolleranza per centinaia di pagine di nulla.
E soprattutto colpa della mia testardaggine di non volere abbandonare un libro dopo centinaia di pagine, quando è comunque evidente che non sia fatto per me.
jmart168's review against another edition
I started reading this in 1994. Joyce is a challenging read. I hope to finish it before I die.
pavram's review against another edition
Ubi me deo sa Hamletom toliko da sam batalio knjigu na neko vreme. Ostatak je i više nego dobar - ali samo za nekog ko je živeo u '20-tim u Dablinu i posebno. Za nas ostale - demonstracija sile.
473 od 700 i kusur stranica
473 od 700 i kusur stranica
jennyjanuary's review against another edition
4.0
I am incredibly conflicted about this book. Actually, I am incredibly conflicted about James Joyce in general. On the one hand, I find this novel particularly pretentious, catering only to the literati and not to anyone who would stoop so far as to just want a good story to read. And then on the other hand... Joyce dosen't shy away from shit and piss and come and blood, or any of that. To him, it was the snot-green sea, the… scrotum-tightening sea. He wrote these dirty, racy letters to Nora all about how he wanted to fuck her and smell how she smelled after he did. Or about the stains in her underwear – which is something I have never seen anyone else talk about – or the noises her body made, how she felt, how he felt when he thought about her. In fact, Nora herself said of him, and I quote: “I guess the man’s a genius, but what a dirty mind he has, hasn’t he?”
So I guess I admire him, really.
But that doesn't give you a good idea of what the novel is like. So, to sum it up: Reading Ulysses is like watching someone figure out how to be his most brilliant self. It's very interesting and very trying and a lot of it doesn't work. But I guess I'd say it's worth it.
So I guess I admire him, really.
But that doesn't give you a good idea of what the novel is like. So, to sum it up: Reading Ulysses is like watching someone figure out how to be his most brilliant self. It's very interesting and very trying and a lot of it doesn't work. But I guess I'd say it's worth it.
athinaa's review against another edition
5.0
What a thrill, what a joy, to be swept by currents, tides of polymath's outmost incantations. Every chapter an invention, bearing fruits, branches multiplying without cessation. Without Joyce, nought would be, would have been, will ever be, mere convolutions of an amnesiac void.
nicktraynor's review against another edition
2.0
I’m glad I listened to this as an audiobook; I’m not sure I would have made it through the trial of physically reading it, what with all the unfamiliar words (since I’m obsessive at looking them up in the dictionary). The Irish narrator was enjoyable to listen to and I think this imparted some authentic flavour to the experience. I loved how he pronounced words like “girl” and “world”. Endlessly amusing to me. “My girl is a Yorkshire girl”, hahahaha.
I’ll firstly tackle the main routine of the book: stream of consciousness. I really don’t understand how this resembles any experience of consciousness at all, except perhaps if one were describing an episode of being under the influence of amphetamines, where one’s thoughts would race as they do in the novel. Human thought is typically more repetitive, corporeal and less interesting than that described by Joyce. The sheer volume of material covered by Leopold Bloom, and later by Molly, beggars belief. I didn’t think it was a genuine representation of an advertiser’s canvasser’s thoughts. Far too sophisticated and expansive for the circumscribed experience of a typical person.
Secondly, the mundanity of the thing was oppressive to endure. There was no redemption of the protagonist, certainly no romance and most of all no sympathy to the human condition of suffering. It was just some (pretty despicable) guy living a humdrum existence. It felt cerebral and cold, and I had no connection whatsoever to the characters.
Joyce’s scholarship in his composition of the work was the impressive thing. The lexicon, multiplicity of foreign language and his brute volume of words is the sublime achievement of the book. It captures an historical time. Unless one appreciates this in and of itself, it would mean nothing to a reader. Fuck he loved a list though. They were brutal. So much content, indigestible. Repetitively.
Finally, I want to mention the final chapter. I found it vulgar, inauthentic and upsetting. I hadn’t minded the intellectuality of all the preceding work until I encountered the thoughts of Leopold’s repulsive, odious and self-centred wife. She was sickening in her duplicity and conceit. I hated her and it left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I have wanted to read this for 25 years. I was disappointed and underwhelmed, even though I now acknowledge Joyce as a genius. His vision pales in comparison to a noble sympathy like that of Tolstoy. I don’t regret these 30 hours spent listening, however, and maybe I’ll give it another chance again one day.
I’ll firstly tackle the main routine of the book: stream of consciousness. I really don’t understand how this resembles any experience of consciousness at all, except perhaps if one were describing an episode of being under the influence of amphetamines, where one’s thoughts would race as they do in the novel. Human thought is typically more repetitive, corporeal and less interesting than that described by Joyce. The sheer volume of material covered by Leopold Bloom, and later by Molly, beggars belief. I didn’t think it was a genuine representation of an advertiser’s canvasser’s thoughts. Far too sophisticated and expansive for the circumscribed experience of a typical person.
Secondly, the mundanity of the thing was oppressive to endure. There was no redemption of the protagonist, certainly no romance and most of all no sympathy to the human condition of suffering. It was just some (pretty despicable) guy living a humdrum existence. It felt cerebral and cold, and I had no connection whatsoever to the characters.
Joyce’s scholarship in his composition of the work was the impressive thing. The lexicon, multiplicity of foreign language and his brute volume of words is the sublime achievement of the book. It captures an historical time. Unless one appreciates this in and of itself, it would mean nothing to a reader. Fuck he loved a list though. They were brutal. So much content, indigestible. Repetitively.
Finally, I want to mention the final chapter. I found it vulgar, inauthentic and upsetting. I hadn’t minded the intellectuality of all the preceding work until I encountered the thoughts of Leopold’s repulsive, odious and self-centred wife. She was sickening in her duplicity and conceit. I hated her and it left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I have wanted to read this for 25 years. I was disappointed and underwhelmed, even though I now acknowledge Joyce as a genius. His vision pales in comparison to a noble sympathy like that of Tolstoy. I don’t regret these 30 hours spent listening, however, and maybe I’ll give it another chance again one day.
alan_m's review against another edition
4.0
Took a couple weeks to stew on this one.
First of all, it's too long. I'm sure Joyce was deliberate with his every word (he was a very particular writer) but lord have mercy, entertainment value ought to be a priority too. A few chapters are unforgivably long and painful; it's a minority of chapters, for sure, but if 5% of this book sucks, then that's like 50 bad pages. Considering the often difficult prose, that's over an hour of my life reading bad pages.
One other thing I didn't like was the racism. And this isn't a Huckleberry Finn situation--the book isn't ABOUT racism. There are just occasional jabs at black people's appearance and character throughout the narration, and considering how antisemitism is a major theme, I found that hypocrisy awfully disappointing.
But I admit. The real worst thing a book can be is boring, and most of this book is very much not boring.
First of all, it's too long. I'm sure Joyce was deliberate with his every word (he was a very particular writer) but lord have mercy, entertainment value ought to be a priority too. A few chapters are unforgivably long and painful; it's a minority of chapters, for sure, but if 5% of this book sucks, then that's like 50 bad pages. Considering the often difficult prose, that's over an hour of my life reading bad pages.
One other thing I didn't like was the racism. And this isn't a Huckleberry Finn situation--the book isn't ABOUT racism. There are just occasional jabs at black people's appearance and character throughout the narration, and considering how antisemitism is a major theme, I found that hypocrisy awfully disappointing.
But I admit. The real worst thing a book can be is boring, and most of this book is very much not boring.
evergreen994's review against another edition
1.0
-Begone Procrustes, you daemon of the ages. I won't be fooled by your hospitality!
Ulysses is an endless vomit of random references with a narrative I could not care less about. Reading it to completion and understanding all the idiotic and childlike allusions is the only true, imagined point of the endeavour. And yes! You should be keeping a score, or what's the point?
In the completion you are tasked to become a part of a postmodern plot. What do you get in the return? You get the legitimization of those semi literate and the most useless among us.
Mr. Joyce, I do know the answers to your idiotic riddles, but I do not ask for your approval, for not only do I not perceive you as an authority, I see nothing to respect and acknowledge here.
This truly is a *horrible piece of cultural violence* and only purpose i could see for it is throwing it in the garbage in hope of some catharses.
The only reason this won't do is pure consideration for the tree that had to die for it to be printed and for the tragedy of the translator that actually tried. So this horribleness on my shelf has a new function. It is an immortal testament to the horrors of post modern world and to the futility of doing before understanding.
Some things are better left undone. Don't be a part of the plot and wear it as badge of honor.
Garbage like this is the reason why I can't force myself to read fiction for years now. Reading the rest of the reviews here only enforces that position.
Ulysses is an endless vomit of random references with a narrative I could not care less about. Reading it to completion and understanding all the idiotic and childlike allusions is the only true, imagined point of the endeavour. And yes! You should be keeping a score, or what's the point?
In the completion you are tasked to become a part of a postmodern plot. What do you get in the return? You get the legitimization of those semi literate and the most useless among us.
Mr. Joyce, I do know the answers to your idiotic riddles, but I do not ask for your approval, for not only do I not perceive you as an authority, I see nothing to respect and acknowledge here.
This truly is a *horrible piece of cultural violence* and only purpose i could see for it is throwing it in the garbage in hope of some catharses.
The only reason this won't do is pure consideration for the tree that had to die for it to be printed and for the tragedy of the translator that actually tried. So this horribleness on my shelf has a new function. It is an immortal testament to the horrors of post modern world and to the futility of doing before understanding.
Some things are better left undone. Don't be a part of the plot and wear it as badge of honor.
Garbage like this is the reason why I can't force myself to read fiction for years now. Reading the rest of the reviews here only enforces that position.