Given that 'Ulysses' is the Roman name for Odysseus, I think we might've worked it out :p
It’s interesting to speculate on the most efficient argument that Ulysses takes “The Odyssey” as its primary source material purely founded on the text minus the title.
Last year, I found Volume 2 of the 1932 edition from The Odyssey Press in a charity shop for just €0.50 [1]. At home I discovered a round paper sticker with the words 'Buning' and 'Djokja'. It seems it either was sold in Yogyakarta are belonged to someone who lived there [2].
The best find yet was from oxfam in Winchester - Arabian Nights, numbered and signed by Dulac, 1914 edition - £2, as the spine was (had it restored) damaged.
Oh, and a rather nice Moxon Idylls of the King, same shop a few months later, which I think was £25.
Both are worth a fair bit, but I’ve no intention of parting with them.
Non-literary works… a tiny watercolour by Nolde, gallery stamped and all, for £5. That, I sold at auction as I’m not much of a fan of his, and it paid for the renovation of a cottage.
I think these days they’ve largely wised up, but I still can’t resist a delve whenever I go by a charity shop.
Winchester’s second oxfam was a goldmine, as was their municipal dump - got a lovely set of late 18th c. Anglo-Indian rosewood dining chairs for a nominal sum at the latter, which took me all of an afternoon to bring back to life. Broadstairs in Kent I also had some great finds.
It’s to do with the local populace - elderly, wealthy, and often lacking inheritors - and then they staff in the shops being just parochial enough to have no idea what they have.
Big cities, forget about it, you’re more likely to win the lottery.
For example: Rot a peck of pa's malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface.
becomes: There was no sign of Jhem or Shen brewing a measure of their father's malt using artificial light, and the end of the ridge was not visible in the water's reflection.
For anyone who hasn't read it, it's worth saying, the first three chapters are considerably more abstruse and intimidating than the next half dozen or more, because they follow the consciousness of an anxious and precocious intellectual young man, preoccupied with Ideas, wandering through some awkward social moments and having overly intellectual reactions to them.
But then you switch to following a middle class businessman with a lot "earthier" of interests, and things clear up a lot.
The language can still be "challenging" in a way modern readers are not used to, but, it's meant to be enjoyed.
Much of it is actually best heard, as a lot of the "play" is in the sound of the language—there is a lot of pun and allusion in the way words sound like other words.
Later in the book the two principle characters meet up and go drinking in the sketchy part of town and things can intentionally surreal as they get inebriated, but, a couple of those later chapters are actually among the most straightforward to read.
All said it is however true that we're now well over 100 years distant from the world presented, so we increasingly need notes on things that were in no way meant to be obscure.
There are some excellent books around that serve as guidebooks, which can illuminate both those details and the allusions—and give you frank advice on which chapters you can skip through.
As to why one would read this, that is just one version of, why get a broad liberal arts education at all? The default answer remains as true or false as it ever was, it's because that is how you become familiar with the assumed fabric of our civilization, and become able to understand and participate in the discourse of today. There is no end of "issues" with the historic canon, but it remains the lingua franca of "serious high culture." If you don't have any familiarity with it does not mean you aren't living a full life; but it does mean that there is a sizable territory of shared public life that is closed to you, which might provide a rich set of tools for understanding issues that appear permanently part of the human condition.
Whatever else is true, the canons we have represent the collective curated coursework we have produced which recapitulates the intellectual underpinnings of contemporary society in most of its aspects, and provide historical perspective on the hows and whys of where we are. It is from this stuff that contemporary politics, science, religion, art, and moral reasoning emerged, for example. We are a lot more savvy now but all the deep serious mistakes and flaws of the classical canon—but it remains even in this, a common territory and a common point of reference.
Anyway, if you want to read just one bit? The "Sirens" chapter read aloud is amaze-balls.
Catch 22 is a foundational (practically definitional) postmodern work, 40 years separated from Ulysses. I'm not sure what you mean here.
The teacher had been teaching that book since the early 70s. We had a guidebook to help us through it. We all had a particular edition, so the teacher could say "on page 341" and we all could go there. Whatever else you can say, this was about as ideal an environment as you could wish for.
Meh. I can see it was groundbreaking in its time, but now? Outlived its shelf life. Stream-of-consciousness was revolutionary, I give him credit, but now it's routine.
Even at the time, Einstein, Freud, and Darwin were revolutionizing modern thought, and Joyce was resolutely ignorant of them.
People say, "What about all the symbolism? What about all the word play?" Again, I say, meh.
Anna Karenina -- now that's a great novel.
It's not just stream of consciousness; it's the way each chapter is structured differently, has different themes and different form. The stream of consciousness comes and goes--some sections are easy, and some are incomprehensible. One chapter is a play; one chapter is a series of pastiches of different English styles throughout the past millennium; one chapter is an absurdly over-erudite lecture on Shakespeare; one chapter is an orgasm. I learned a lot about Irish history.
The language is absolutely exquisite with endless onomatopoeia. I kept switch back and forth between listening to and reading it, or doing both simultaneously.
It was incredibly hard to get through and absolutely amazing.
Impressive and I'm sure it was difficult as hell to write, but what do you, the reader, get out of it? Some deeper understanding of the human condition? Please.
Certainly there are some chapters/styles where he's playing for the critics. But I thought it did a brilliant job of creating a modernist hero (e.g Bloom snuggling his wife's butt and her farting in his face). For me, the most impactful part was showing Bloom from so many different perspectives. Seeing him in less heroic settings (like what he does on the beach) or from his wife's perspective gives him depth you rarely see in literature. It's ultimately a story about nothing, so if you're not into a hyper-stylized prose based exploration of Bloom, then it won't be for you. I think the challenging aspects can work to force a reader to think more critically about some parts (just so they can make it through and understand what they're reading) and connect with things in a way most books won't ever engage a reader. Lots of readers do find some deeper understanding of the human condition, but it won't be for everyone, especially someone who cares more for a plot than an experiment in narrative structure exploring a flawed modernist hero.
My point exactly. It was difficult, it was an impressive feat, it was ground-breaking, but in the end what do you get out of reading it?
I general I agree with you, but to me Anna Karenina was sooo boring. Maybe I just wasn't ready for it. David Copperfield or anything by Dostoevsky are more for me.
I have a different book by John Gardner.
Why is Anna Karenina a great novel?
Ironically (intentionally?), Joyce simultaneously wrote wonderfully for the spoken word form, but insisted on typography that makes who’s saying what often obscure.
https://www.rte.ie/culture/2022/0610/1146705-listen-ulysses-...
frank delaney did short podcasts every week where he went through a few lines at a time. he never got to finish the full book unfortunately but its what i usually recommend to people because its very casual and easy to listen to
Honestly, he intended the work to be read aloud publicly, in the same vein of epic storytelling as The Odyssey. There's even a recording of him reading a few pages, it's absolutely mesmerizing: https://youtu.be/ZhW0TrzWGmI
I've always disagreed with this idea that you need a "guide" to read some books. Guided reading inspires a specific reading of the book, which may not always be the reading that speaks most to the reader. To me it's equivalent to taking a walk with a geologist, or a biologist, through a natural park. While you will certainly see aspects you would not have picked up without them, you may expend so much absorbing these specifics that you neglect the aspects that speak most to you.
In university, I remember many professors dismissing some of my favorite books as "requiring guidance" to read. The thinly veiled implication was that they were lost on me. Which is rather silly. Instead of looking for the specific academic aspects of the books (which were indeed lost on me, and still are), the aspects of the books which I took the most away from were non-academic.
Thanks, the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice.
In total, Benoist-Méchin was interned for 10 years: arrested in Sept. 44, sentenced in June 47 and released in Nov. 54. He went on to write well-respected history books; I have read a couple of them. I knew about his conduct during WWII but never knew he was friends with Joyce.