I've always wanted to read Ulysses. It's a strange thing. On the face of it, it's the kind of book that I should despise. It's been called a masterpiece, in so many ways, by so many people. It's supposed to be dense, and a difficult read. It's supposed to packed with allusions and references that even literary scholars have difficulty getting. And, most importantly, not much happens, there are no murders, no violence, and the sec that shocked people in the 1920s just seems quaint in the context of fauxcest and bukkakes peddled by millions of porn sites online.
Then there's the cultishness of Joyce worship. That, by itself, is not a positive or negative – Casablanca is recognized as the classic it is because it was a cult favourite in Harvard in the 60s. Cult followings are responsible for so many long-lived cultural products – whether its literature or film or music. But the Joyce cult, with it's instagrammable Bloomsday outings in Dublin, the regular posts that appear on social media – all seem to showcase at a sense of achievement: “I read one of the most difficult novels written in the 20th century, and I loved it!” It does, in a way, seem snobbish.
But because I like to read about books, and about authors, as much as I like to read themselves, I know a little about Ulysses. I know that Joyce wrote keys to understanding the book for friends - the so-called Linati and Gilbert schemas, with each chapter allocated its own colour, title, symbol, organ (!) and relevant artform.
(I wonder if Joyce was just taking the piss here)
I've read the Odyssey, of course. Or atleast, I've read an abridged version when I was young, and I read Butler's translation when I was older. I know that there are parallels between the Odyssey and Ulysses, a correspondence between Joyce's chapters and the books that make up Homer's epic – but I thought it was a one-to-one thing, 24 chapters in Joyce, one for each hour of the day, each linked to one of the 24 books that make up the Odyssey, but I was mistaken. There are only 18 chapters in Joyce's book.
But, with all this, there is also the certainty that I'm overthinking this.
So anyway, this was my resolution for 2020, something that I wrote about here, and I have taken my first tentative steps towards the omphalos of Telemachus.
Then there's the cultishness of Joyce worship. That, by itself, is not a positive or negative – Casablanca is recognized as the classic it is because it was a cult favourite in Harvard in the 60s. Cult followings are responsible for so many long-lived cultural products – whether its literature or film or music. But the Joyce cult, with it's instagrammable Bloomsday outings in Dublin, the regular posts that appear on social media – all seem to showcase at a sense of achievement: “I read one of the most difficult novels written in the 20th century, and I loved it!” It does, in a way, seem snobbish.
But because I like to read about books, and about authors, as much as I like to read themselves, I know a little about Ulysses. I know that Joyce wrote keys to understanding the book for friends - the so-called Linati and Gilbert schemas, with each chapter allocated its own colour, title, symbol, organ (!) and relevant artform.
(I wonder if Joyce was just taking the piss here)
I've read the Odyssey, of course. Or atleast, I've read an abridged version when I was young, and I read Butler's translation when I was older. I know that there are parallels between the Odyssey and Ulysses, a correspondence between Joyce's chapters and the books that make up Homer's epic – but I thought it was a one-to-one thing, 24 chapters in Joyce, one for each hour of the day, each linked to one of the 24 books that make up the Odyssey, but I was mistaken. There are only 18 chapters in Joyce's book.
But, with all this, there is also the certainty that I'm overthinking this.
So anyway, this was my resolution for 2020, something that I wrote about here, and I have taken my first tentative steps towards the omphalos of Telemachus.
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