I just finished Dark Souls.
For those people who are not videogame inclined, Dark Souls is the first of a genre of fiendishly difficult games that require boundless patience, close observation, and agility of mind and response (and fingers) to get through - at least on the first playthrough.
It’s almost an exercise in masochism - but, as you get better at understanding the games rhythms and patterns, you get better at dealing with the challenges it throws at you - and overcoming those challenges leads to a such a satisfying payoff.
I first started the game - when it came out in 2011. It received rave reviews from people in the industry I respected, so I bought it.
I played it for four hours - and was unable to progress beyond the tutorial. I switched to something less demanding.
Yesterday, I finished the game. And it left me thrilled, satisfied - and drained.
And I have to decide whether to play it again - or start on its even harder sequel.
Which brings me to Joyce.
Many years back, I tried reading Ulysses. I got half-way through the first chapter, but found it tough going. I gave up. It was in some ways, reinforcement of my own snobbery. This was all “literary stuff”, and it was for pseuds and self-proclaimed “intellectuals”, I told myself - and went back to my Wodehouses,my Clubland heroes and James Bond.
But over time, at various times in the past couple of decades, I have been seeing so much more of people writing why Joyce was special. And this year - pushed by book Twitter - I’ve made a resolution.
I’m going to finish Ulysses.
It maybe, like Dark Souls, there may be times when I think I can’t handle it anymore. There may be times I want to throw the book across the room. But then, there’s also the possibility that I will get the books patterns and rhythms - and find the same kind of exhilaration that I did from the game that I abandoned nine years ago.
When I was a child, my mother used to tell me “Some books are like grapes, you just consume them as they are. Some are like bananas. You have to peel the skin off, before you get to the tasty part. Still others are like coconuts. You have to break the outer shell, strip the intermediate fibre, and then get through the inner shell, before you get to the juice and the sweetness of the kernel”.
So that’s my resolution. To crack open Ulysses and get to the kernel. Whether I find it tasty or not is another matter, but hello again, stately, plump Buck Mulligan.
For those people who are not videogame inclined, Dark Souls is the first of a genre of fiendishly difficult games that require boundless patience, close observation, and agility of mind and response (and fingers) to get through - at least on the first playthrough.
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| Such stuff as nightmares are made on: The big guy grinds you to pulp with that hammer - and the little guy(who is three feet taller than you are, skewers you with his spear - which shoots lightning |
I first started the game - when it came out in 2011. It received rave reviews from people in the industry I respected, so I bought it.
I played it for four hours - and was unable to progress beyond the tutorial. I switched to something less demanding.
Yesterday, I finished the game. And it left me thrilled, satisfied - and drained.
And I have to decide whether to play it again - or start on its even harder sequel.
Which brings me to Joyce.
Many years back, I tried reading Ulysses. I got half-way through the first chapter, but found it tough going. I gave up. It was in some ways, reinforcement of my own snobbery. This was all “literary stuff”, and it was for pseuds and self-proclaimed “intellectuals”, I told myself - and went back to my Wodehouses,my Clubland heroes and James Bond.
But over time, at various times in the past couple of decades, I have been seeing so much more of people writing why Joyce was special. And this year - pushed by book Twitter - I’ve made a resolution.
I’m going to finish Ulysses.
It maybe, like Dark Souls, there may be times when I think I can’t handle it anymore. There may be times I want to throw the book across the room. But then, there’s also the possibility that I will get the books patterns and rhythms - and find the same kind of exhilaration that I did from the game that I abandoned nine years ago.
When I was a child, my mother used to tell me “Some books are like grapes, you just consume them as they are. Some are like bananas. You have to peel the skin off, before you get to the tasty part. Still others are like coconuts. You have to break the outer shell, strip the intermediate fibre, and then get through the inner shell, before you get to the juice and the sweetness of the kernel”.
So that’s my resolution. To crack open Ulysses and get to the kernel. Whether I find it tasty or not is another matter, but hello again, stately, plump Buck Mulligan.
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