Happy Bloomsday!
I first read James Joyce’s Ulysses seven or eight years ago. Since then, I’d always intended (but never managed, either through forgetting or being engrossed in some other book) to read, or rather be in the process of reading, the book on Bloomsday: 16 June, the anniversary of the day in 1904 when the entire book takes place. This year I managed it… I started, with plump Buck Mulligan appearing for his morning shave, a few days ago, and intend to celebrate the day by finding the time to read another couple of decent-sized chunks.
Of course, it’d be nice to try reading the whole thing in the equivalent 24-hour period it covers, but I have a Real Life to attend to, and it’d be even better to follow the course of the book round Dublin… something for the centenary next year, maybe. For now, though, I’m just re-reading it, and although there’s enormous scope for descriptive appreciation, any number of literary boffins can do that a lot more convincingly and effectively than I can. One thing I will say, though…
Ulysses is often, not entirely without justification, described as one of those “difficult” books, read only in the context of formal literary study or criticism. This is a shame; like other similarly-categorised works, a little effort is greatly rewarded. And although I’m well aware that, for many people, reading should ideally be the equivalent of drinking Horlicks, I can’t imagine not wanting to be challenged, either by imagery, language or intellectual concepts. There are plenty of fairly straightforward, easily-readable works in my list of favourite books, but Ulysses, with its constantly changing styles and its down-to-earth yet learned tone, suits me down to the ground. It’s pointless to compare such things, but I think I enjoy Ulysses in the same way as I enjoy the music of Frank Zappa.