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Ulysses

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Ulysses is one of those big, mad bellwethers of a book that X will tell you is the biggest, best, most important blah blah blah and Y will tell you is a load of badly written tripe. Neither X nor Y tend to notice that the book consciously encourages both responses...but, well, I'll get back to the academic riffing in a minute.

I first tried to read Ulysses aged about 14 (I was an annoying little boy that way) and didn't get very far. The first three chapters are set in and around the mind of Stephen Dedalus, one of the most ridiculously clever and over-educated characters ever conceived, as he takes breakfast with some friends, teaches in a school some miles south of Dublin and walks along a beach. Along the way, his mind ruminates on subjects as diverse as 16th century underworld slang, his dead mother, and something he calls "the ineluctable modality of the visible" which I'm still struggling with. But he's a curiously ambiguous character, this Stephen; he fancies himself as a poet and rebel but when, on the beach, he picks his nose, he has a quick look around to see that nobody's watching before he smears the snot on a rock. (Joyce likes to poke fun at pretension this way - although he doesn't suggest that Stephen's ideas or rebel stance are completely hollow, either.)

The 14-year-old me didn't get that far. I gave up. It wasn't until I was 19 or so that I got as far as chapter four and encountered a Mr. Bloom, pottering around the kitchen making breakfast, that I started to get a grip. Bloom is one of the most likeable characters in fiction. He's a quiet, rather shy, oddly intelligent advertising salesman married to a voluptuous siren of a wife, Molly. Either you're prepared to go the distance with Bloom, or else cast the book aside with a hollow oath, because he's about to spend the entire day walking around Dublin. Nothing will happen except that a man will be buried, a baby will get born, and Bloom will help Stephen when the latter gets into a drunken fracas with some British soldiers. (Ireland was still part of the Union in 1904, and Dublin was a garrison town. Many non-Irish readers concentrate on Joyce's innovation or wit or technical whatever, but Joyce is extremely historically aware, and Ulysses, like all his other books, is riddled with the traces of English domination. These add to the book, rather than diminish it.)

Readers who like those clanky, tinpot contraptions known as "plots" may get a tad frustrated. Leaving aside Joyce's gifts for parody (a _tad_ too indulged, in my opinion), the, if you like, human interest in Ulysses is in the details of the to-ing and fro-ing between the characters. A quite banal conversation turns out to have all sorts of fascinating undercurrents; Bloom, who is Jewish and therefore even more of an outsider than Stephen, is extremely good at detecting the hints and shifts in the tones of the people he meets. He keeps running into two things that cause him particular discomfort: anti-Semitic remarks, and reminders that his wife is about to sleep with another man.

Ulysses is about language, but that makes it sound like it's some godawful lumbering doorstop written by an English professor. (John Barth, come on down!) It doesn't feel abstract at all; it's full of sights (the band of old sweat inside Bloom's hat), smells (restaurants, horse urine, flowers) and especially sounds (cats, printing presses, trams). I can't think of any other book which transports you so completely to a different place and time. (It might've helped that I grew up in Dublin and knew most of the places that Joyce is writing about.) Borges described Joyce's prose style, at least in the earlier half of the book, as "strong and delicate" and that's a good description.

As the day wears on, the book starts to rumble at the foundations and it lurches with increasing unpredictability from style to style. Joyce is making a point about language; that things are altered by the manner in which we describe them. This can get a bit wearisome after a while, but when it works well - as in the chapter where the doings of a young girl on a beach are narrated in the style of a girl's magazine story - it can be very funny and rather touching. The book closes with a mighty tour de force as Molly Bloom sits up and thinks about her life and her curious husband.

Okay, that's the beginner's guide. My personal opinion? It's the best Irish book, a constant wonder, irritation and delight to read, and a stunning effort of imagination and intelligence by the most significant and most lavishly talented Irish writer. 20th and 21st century Irish culture is unthinkable without it. I'm grateful that it's there. What else is to be said?

I picked this up for a group read of Ulysses. I figured it would be convenient to have it on the computer so I could look up all the references I didn't understand, and the price was certainly right. Unfortunately, as I came to realize, this edition of the book is missing pieces of text. I probably wouldn't have noticed this, except that when I googled one of the references that I didn't get, I came up with a preview of a book called Ulysses Annotated, which describes in detail the meaning of all the references. As I read, I noticed that in several places there were references noted that I hadn't seen in the text. Finally, I got annoyed and googled the exact line that preceded an area of missing text, and found that some lines of verse had been omitted from my edition of the book. It's a shame, since I was enjoying the clear formatting and the ease of use that the Kindle edition was giving me, but since it's not really a book that I want to spend money on, I guess I'll be giving Project Gutenberg's version a try.

The eBook is missing text. I also have a print edition, but I wanted a copy I could read on my phone when i had the time. The part I noticed is missing is the Ballad of Joking Jesus. It's probably missing other text as well.

Stuff you probably want to know:

1. It's read by two people: one guy, who does absolutely everything (including Molly) up till the last chapter, then the last chapter, which is read entirely by a woman.

2. The guy is supremely talented at reading. It's a dramatic reading, in which he imitates the voices of the others and tries to get into it. I would regard his imitation of the voices of others as supremely believable.

3. He has a light British accent (London), but switches to a convincing Irish brogue when reading straight spoken dialogue for most characters. Excellent French and Latin pronunciation. His Italian and Spanish are less successful. The woman is certifiably Irish.

4. There are no sound effects (footsteps, keys, etc.), but there are a few songs interlarded, usually at the beginning of each CD.

5. If you're a Joyce scholar, you are doubtless using the Gabler edition of 1986, WHICH WASN'T THE EDITION USED FOR THIS. I think they're actually using the 1922 edition! Anyhow, this is a constant irritant for serious Joyce fanatics, as, since you are doubtless using Gabler, there'll be something in almost every paragraph that's just a whit different. It's a constant distraction, alas!

6. He reads it a little fast for my taste (especially in Circe).

7. Yes, it is totally unabridged.

8. There are 22 CD's total.

9. You should buy it. I had read Ulysses twice before I got it, and going through it with this CD set really opened up the book to me, in a way I couldn't have gotten with any other type of ancillary aid. It was like reading the book for the first time! Wasn't so incomprehensible after all!

I should warn you that one thing you might find thoroughly infuriating is that the title tracks / id tags of the CD tracks are totally in chaos. It's so bizarre, it smacks of sabotage. (For example, the title track of the 1st track of the 2nd (!) CD is: "Time for lunch. 1 p.m. After Dignam's funeral . . ." While the actual content is the "ineluctable modality of the visible" passage. It's craaaaazy!

Rest assured, this is just the names your computer sees: everything is there, and in the correct order. My point is that if you plan on porting everything over to your iPod, you're gonna have some tedious clerical work ahead of you.

I have frequently heard Ulysses proclaimed the best book ever written, but I could never understand why. I purchased this edition of the novel three years ago, and since then it sat on my shelf, a mighty 900 page undertaking that I kept putting off. I was reluctant to read it, for I have often heard how difficult it was to get through. Finally, I have read it, and though I believe it presumptuous to call any one book "the best book of all time", I certainly believe that Ulysses could claim that title. First off, it is not a difficult read. If you could get through A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, you can get through Ulysses. I heartily recommend this edition because of the brilliant introduction by Declan Kibard. Before I read Ulysses, I could not understand how this could be the best book of all time. According to my understanding, it was a novel detailing, in 900 pages, one day in the life of a Jewish Irishman, Leopold Bloom. A totally unremarkable day at that. After reading Kibard's introduction, I was fiercely eager to begin the novel. In his introduction, totally some 70 pages, Kibard answers the precise question I had: Why would this book be called the best of all time? This book is never boring, and is actually a quite enjoyable read. It is arranged in 18 chapters, and to me, the most astounding aspect of this piece of literature is the fact that every chapter is written in a different style. Joyce wanted to show that "originality" in terms of style was merely a new arrangement of previous styles, and so shows his brilliance as a writer by changing his technique and method completely in each chapter. It is indeed difficult to believe they were written by the same person. The styles are listed as: Narrative (Young), Catechism (Personal), Monologue (Male), Narrative (Mature), Narcissism, Incubism, Enthymemic, Peristaltic, Dialectic, Labyrinth, Fuga per canonem, Gigantism, Tumescence detumescence, Embryonic development, Hallucination, Narrative (Old), Catechism (Impersonal), Monologue (Female). Some chapters, such as the Cyclops, done in Gigantism, are deliciously satirical and overdone, while others, such as the Lotus-eaters, are sharp and direct. Though Joyce is often called a "stream of consciousness writer", only a few chapters are the truly chaotic stream of consciousness, such as the Oxen of the Sun, the Proteus, and the Sirens. The culmination of absurdity and abstraction occurs in the massive Circe chapter, a play styled as a hallucination in the brothels of Dublin. This novel is nearly impossible to take in with just one reading, and I will be reading it again shortly. On this note, I would say that I heartily recommend reading Ulysses straight through in its original form, rather than labouring under the weight of the hefty annotated edition. A true masterpiece, one of the best books I've ever read, and yes, quite possibly the best book ever written.

O.k. to start with...for all of you out there who are interested in reading "Ulysses" but are intimidated by all of the rest of you out there who say it's unreadable, take my advice. Read this book. It's absolutely ridiculous to say this book can't be read. I can't say you're going to find it interesting or enjoyable, but you can read it.

There are people who would have you believe you have to wage a massive campaign of pre-"Ulysses" study before delving into Joyce's novel. I've heard it's necessary to read biographies of Joyce, read all of his other literature, read about the history of Dublin, read Greek mythology...even study Dublin city maps!!! Don't you believe any of this. "Ulysses" is perfectly approachable having read none of the above. I admit that reading "Portrait of the Artist" first is helpful, and at least having some passing knowledge of "The Odyssey" won't hurt, but being familiar with these other works will only help you appreciate some of Joyce's nuances. Being unfamiliar with them will not prevent you from digesting "Ulysses."

Now, for the book itself. Is "Ulysses" good? That's become an almost irrelevant question to ask. Do you have to like "Ulysses?" No. Do you have to admit that it is the greatest novel ever written? No. Anyone denying that the book was influential in altering the course of literature would just be foolish. However, I don't think "Ulysses" is the be-all and end-all of 20th Century literature, and the new ground that Joyce broke would have been broken anyway had he not done it first. He was certainly an innovator, but other authors (Faulkner comes to mind) use Joyce's modernist approach to fiction and do it better.

For ultimately, Joyce is a lousy storyteller. Notice I did not say he is a lousy writer. One can't deny the absolute mastery of language apparent in "Ulysses." But Joyce is almost completely unable to connect with his reader. Parts of this novel come close to doing just that, but in between there are vast numbers of pages of dull, dull prose that set out to be as incomprehensible as possible. What was Joyce afraid of? Was he scared that what he actually had to say wasn't either particulary interesting or profound, so he had to bury it underneath layer after layer of obscure allusions and writing styles? I didn't understand every part of "Ulysses," and I don't believe all of these so-called Joyce experts do either, despite the massive amount of critical study done about it. However, understanding every single part of the novel and understanding the novel are two different things, and I believe I understood "Ulysses." And what I found is that it's not the beast everyone's made it out to be, but neither is it particulary interesting or profound.

In short, I would recommend that everyone read "Ulysses," if for no other reason than that you can have an opinion on it. I won't be reading it again, so I guess I'll have to just live in ignorance of all the hidden delights Joyce offers his readers. I neither loved it or hated it---there are many books I've enjoyed reading less and many more books I've enjoyed reading much more. Before reading "Ulysses" I was reluctant to state that I didn't like Joyce's writing, feeling that any opinion about Joyce without having read his masterwork would be uneducated. Well, I've read the damn thing now, and I can state with a very educated opinion: "I do not like Joyce's writing."

I have listened in the past to the taped rendition of Ulysses, and I pushed my way through it for the bragging rights. This new version is just so superb and so amazing in its vitality.

While at times Ulysses is still a challenge to grasp, I can guarantee that the whole book is much more comprehensible, and wonderful, to hear it read so well. It suddenly makes sense.

As a by-the-way, the Naxos packaging is second only to Apple's iPod in the pleasure I got from handling it and opening it.

I had heard about Ulysses all through my literature-loving youth. When I was 16 or so, I tried to find Ulysses in the St. Cloud Technical High School Library. It was listed in the card catalog, but it was never on the shelves. Finally, I asked the prim-and-proper old biddy librarian where the book was. She fairly shuddered and asked me with a cockeyed combination of excitement and accusation "why" I wanted to read it. I told her I'd heard it was a great book and so please hand it over. Sure enough, it was in a back room and the old battleaxe crept forth with the book, jacketed in a beautiful red. At home I opened it and tried to make sense out of the first page. I dipped around in it and finally threw it hard as I could against the wall of my bedroom. "This is gibberish junk!" I said to myself. Later, I kept hearing more about the book and thought, "well, maybe I'm just dumb," which really teed me off. One day I found a book called "Re-Joyce" by Anthony Burgess (of Clockwork Orange fame). He was a Joyce fanatic and wrote a book about how to read Ulysses. And so I read Re-Joyce as I read Ulysses and, wonder of wonders, what an experience! That was back in 1965. I still read Ulysses. It's the one book I re-read more than any other. Oh, and when I look back, way back to my high school library, I know now how Joyce would have roared with merriment at that biddy librarian. He would have been honored in his sly way to see his naughty book kept behind that bun-haired spinster's iron petticoats. Don't give up on Ulysses! Get the Burgess book as a guide, or the Gilbert guide. But don't give up. Riches, great riches, await you!

You ever hear that old adage about "what don't kill you, makes you stronger"? Well, struggling through Ulysses is kinda like that. If you haven't taken a bottle of pain relievers mid-point through the book or perhaps just sprained your wrists trying to hold aloft the 768 page tome, you might just start to understand the methods behind Joyce's madness. But understanding doesn't equal enjoyment.
Ulysses, one of the most celebrated and challenging books in the English language has been reduced to one of two things: to the general public, a curiosity, a book of importance that no one would really read or: to Lit majors: the equivalent of a double-dog dare among the Lit-Crit crowd; a book professors assign in order to weed out the weak, who more than likely change majors to something less demanding, like quantum physics. Inevitably, in both circles it has become a book to be endured, not enjoyed.

What is the book about? Joyce, a master of the written word *does* appear to have a lot to say about everything, including, but not limited to, religion, politics, sex, and literature. But if there is a flaw in the book (and indeed, it could be argued that the flaw lies with the reader, not the author), it's that Joyce seems more preoccupied with how his story is told, losing sight of the actual subjects. Ulysses is really about WRITING, it seems, and in particular, how well Joyce can do it. The skill involved in the writing often attains that genius status, but too often it feels strangely hollow, a series of breathlessly staged feats of writing skill. In other words, he's showboating.

Still, despite Joyce's blatant shouts of "look at me!", many moments of passion do leak through. Particularly impressive is the final 40 pages or so which takes on a confessional tone that at last attempts to engage the reader emotionally, instead of keeping them at a distance.

Reading Ulysses is difficult, to be sure. Joyce drops more obscure references than Dennis Miller after three highballs. Joyce assumes you've read The Odyssey, Dante's The Divine Comedy, the Bible, Hamlet, and, of course the dictionary. He also assumes that you have a passing knowledge of about 6 or 7 languages. But, even if you do have prior knowledge of said works and you know Latin, it cannot help make Ulysses as a whole, an engaging, vital work. It is a towering achievement, yes, but much more of a textbook on writing, which just happens to use the characters of Stephen Daedalus and Leopold Bloom as examples of the styles that Joyce writes in.

All said and done though, I would recommend this book as it is unique and it is one of those titles that, like childbirth, has to be experienced to be understood.

I would also recommend Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man as a superior work of art. It's just as inventive, it's moving and passionate, and it says what it has to say before wearing out it's welcome.

At the end of one of "Ulysses" most unpleasantly challenging chapters, "Oxen Of The Sun," Joyce throws out an offhand comment which might read as a sort of gauntlet to anyone who fancies him or herself as a capable reader: "Just you try it on."

People have been "trying on" "Ulysses" ever since, and if my experience is any indication, the result is an infuriating and intoxicating read, not always both at once however. Sometimes it's great, and sometimes it's terribly self-conscious and clever, serving no purpose except allowing self-aggrandizing deconstructionists and post-modernists a chance to strut their stuff and feel like they have something over the rest of us.

I want to be clear in saying I regard "Ulysses" as a supreme example of craft and literary brilliance, but I don't think it is the great English-language novel, only maybe the most important. J.D. Wombacher said it very well in one of the earlier reviews: "My own view is that Ulysses is an example of a writer not doing his job." If a writer's job is to create a novel in such a way as to let the reader in, this is not only a valid sentiment, but a boldly honest one.

You start out thinking this isn't going to be as bad as every says. We watch an awkward young man named Stephen deal with his supersmug semi-friend and an annoying British interloper high atop the city of Dublin, in Martello Tower. Stephen is aware of the fact his "pal" Buck is really a bit of a user, and patronizing as hell, and in subtle, clever, and often funny ways, Joyce lets the reader see how. Then we watch poor Stephen alternately try to instruct a bunch of Anglo-Irish brats and deal with a supercilious headmaster, who fancies himself an expert on everything from livestock to why the sun will never set on the British empire.

Then Stephen goes to the beach, and what follows in the third chapter, "Proteus," is something that would make any good editor cry out for a rewrite. Joyce noted that his writing skills by the time he got to "Ulysses" were of such an advanced degree that he could do anything he wanted to with the English language, but there's ample evidence in the finished work that such absolute power can corrupt absolutely.

At least Joyce seems to realize this, too, somewhat. He shifts the focus to another social outcast, a Jewish advertising salesman named Leo Bloom who busies himself with the stream of life around the fair city of Dublin so as to avoid going home, where he knows his fat wife is about to carry on an affair with a callow bounder.

The results are some of the most affecting chapters ever written, each one slightly askew from the next, but forming a kind of whole that takes into account the whole history of literature, while advancing that history into unexplored territory with stream-of-consciousness narratives and multiple perspectives. Chapters like "Wandering Rocks," "Sirens," and especially "Cyclops" work on so many levels they make the head spin, and Joyce the humorist (he claimed one of his principal goals in writing "Ulysses" was to make the reader laugh) rivals Twain in his humanistic humorousness. Witness this sardonic exchange in "Cyclops," my favorite chapter.

"Dead?" says Alf. "He is no more dead than you are!"

"Maybe so," says Joe. "They took the liberty of burying him this morning anyhow."

But do we really need the mindgames of "Oxen Of The Sun," or the play-form phantasmagoria of "Circe," which lead us into blind alleys and throw enough red herrings to kill us with mercury poisoning? People say you need to read the Greek legend this all is based on, and I didn't, but I don't think I'm alone in finding this tangent strained. When Stephen finally ditches his false friend, he does so off-stage as it were, and it is never explained what transpired. Critics have their ideas why the connection between Stephen and Bloom, once made, is so vital, but it eluded me, even with all the supplemental reading I did.

The end result is a writer writing essentially for himself, and for those who will play his games. That leaves out the rest of us.

I'm glad I read this book, and hope God grants me the time to read it again someday. But don't believe the hype. Read "Ulysses," but don't sweat what you don't get. Many of those who say they do "get" it are kidding themselves. Better to be honestly perplexed, and humbled by the experience. Humility has its virtues, and Joyce might have benefited from it more in writing this, creating a real masterpiece for the masses rather than an ivory tower to which only he held the key.