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A review by nicktraynor
Ulysses by James Joyce
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.