Molly Bloom's Diary

"Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs since the City arms hotel when he used to be pretending to be laid up with a sick voice ..."

And so it begins--and ends--a rambling, lengthy monologue, just going on and on and on and on and ... so this is literature. And so it is. They told us it is and so it must be. It must be, I mean, yes, it must be. Because they told us so and so it is. Yes, I said yes, yes it is ...

Speaking of lengthy, rambling monologues ...

Time Magazine, Jan. 9, 1934:

What is it all about? Trusting readers who plunge in hopefully to a smooth beginning soon find themselves floundering in troubled waters. Arrogant Author Joyce gives them no help, lets them sink or swim.

Arrogant? Such a petty insult. Brilliant, yes. And I'm sure at times insufferable and indeed even perhaps arrogant. As for his intentions--to purposely confuse, confound and frustrate his readers? Possibly. To be positively obtuse and difficult? No doubt. Isn't that the trait of a great author?

I have found that many great works of art require a bit of work. At least on some level, even the most seemingly simplistic work contains hidden context, meaning, juxtaposition, what have you. Take Leonardo's "Last Supper" for example. Art historians have studied this piece for centuries, looking for its studded clues, its subtle reminders of mortality, spirituality and sexuality, only to mention a few themes. And yet hundreds of thousands of visitors flock to Milan each year to view this piece and enjoy it on its most basic level.

So that brings us to enjoying art on its face. Some people read mysteries. Very black and white. Others read Umberto Ecco, a mystery writer in his own right. "Ulysses" hardly seems the candidate for the kind of literature one just breezes through while lounging on the beach. (And I must confess, I've never read the whole thing myself). However, it does have its entertaining passages.

Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyringing.
Imperthnthn thnthnthn.
Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips.
Horrid! And gold flushed more.
A husky fifenote blew.

Our critic from Time (1934 -- when the book finally made its way to American shores) suggests that only the most educated Odyssey scholars can make sense of this. Be that as it may, you had better have more than a familiar passing with Homer to get this book. Joyce weaves at least a dozen languages into this dense novel, plus innumerable puns, parables, allegories and other word tricks. To read it is to be awed. Or bored beyond dead. Take your pick, beach readers.