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3.64 AVERAGE
3.64 AVERAGE
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.
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.
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.
-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.
Like most monuments, needs to be walked around and viewed from many angles to be appreciated.
Just re-read in preparation for celebrating Bloomsday in Dublin this year: a life-long ambition.
This book is simply wonderful. You could spend a lifetime reading it and get something new every time.
It’s funny, sad, witty, inventive, challenging all at once. A total affirmation of life, humanity and above all, love.
This book is simply wonderful. You could spend a lifetime reading it and get something new every time.
It’s funny, sad, witty, inventive, challenging all at once. A total affirmation of life, humanity and above all, love.
Das Klügste hat Kurt Tucholsky dazu geschrieben, bei Erscheinen der ersten vollständigen deutschen Ausgabe 1927: "Der erste Eindruck ist so: Unmöglich, alles hintereinander zu lesen. Die Personen verwirren sich; wenn eine Handlung darin ist, habe ich sie nicht verstanden – ich weiß nicht immer, was real, gedacht, geträumt oder beabsichtigt ist. Aus einer Inhaltsangabe des Verlages ergibt sich, was an diesem einen Tage, der dem Buch zugrunde liegt, vorgeht – ich habe das nicht gemerkt."
Gleichwohl war Tucholsky von dem dicht "wogenden Nebel", der dieses Buch seiner Meinung nach umgibt, fasziniert, natürlich auch von diesem Bewusstseinsstrom, dem neuartigen stream of consciousness, z.B. von Molly Blooms – der Ehefrau Leopolds – innerem Monolog im abschließenden Penelope-Kapitel. Tucholsky hat seine Rezension beschlossen mit den treffenden Worten: "Liebigs Fleischextrakt. Man kann es nicht essen. Aber es werden noch viele Suppen damit zubereitet werden." Und es stimmt, dieses Buch ist ein Brühwürfel, mit dem bis heute gekocht wird – und es wird immer die geben, die das für ungenießbar halten.
What the heck did I just read? This book didn't make a darn bit of sense. Over 1000 pages of nonsense.
this book just reaffirmed to me that white men can be praised for doing the bare fucking minimum and still be labelled a genius.
technically i only read the first 10% of this, then the chapters Calypso, Penelope and Nausicaa but im counting those as a win for the psychological trauma this has caused me✋
technically i only read the first 10% of this, then the chapters Calypso, Penelope and Nausicaa but im counting those as a win for the psychological trauma this has caused me✋