Over the last few weeks I've been trying to adapt my mind to James Joyce's modernist (mentalist?) way of thinking. A moment after I feel I've caught hold of what he's saying, I lose it again. However, in my persistent ways I shall never give up with him!
Having read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, which I found satisfactory, I moved onto Dubliners. Sadly that did not deliver so much. Nevertheless, I'm now tackling Ulysses: 49 pages in and I find the concept of whacking Joyce over the head with the brick of a book most desirable! I just don't understand how "...wayawayawayawayawayaway. Paper." can comprehend for a good read! A few pages later he talks about wiping his nose-mess onto a rock...
Joyce, I shall never give up on you. If you fail to amuse me with Ulysses, then I shall move onto Finnegan's Wake. Indeed, I shall tackle the latter regardless of the outcome of the former. Your words are bizarre, but your peculiar mind is somewhat admirable. With around 650 pages left of this piece of..., we only (a long) time will tell.
Oh, and I didn't appreciate the fact that I was forced to dream about Stephen Dedalus last night. In C21st surroundings, he doesn't cope too well! Thanks for that, Joyce.