Ulysses by James Joyce

The Summer of Difficult Books

Book 1 – Ulysses by James Joyce

1922

783 pgs. (Vintage edition)

Difficulty Index:
Length: 8/10
Diction / Syntax: 10/10
Stylistic Features: 10/10
Background Knowledge Required: 10/10
Era: Modernist

Parts 1-3: Telemachus, Nestor & Proteus

It has been 22 years since I first tried to tackle this behemoth novel. At that time, having just graduated from college, I was eager to test my newly christened reading skills by heading for the most difficult of waters. I was working at a bookstore, and, having changed my major from pre-Med studies to English due to the effect of Joyce’s autobiographical romp, The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and the feeling of being robbed by not being allowed to enroll in a college class that focused solely on this much more difficult book, I picked up a copy (with employee discount) and lifted anchor. I got 150 pages in and suddenly realized that I was at sea. I had no idea what I was reading, what it meant, and how I could discover its hidden treasures. I put the book back on the shelf, vowing to myself that I would attempt another reading, with a self-imposed deadline of turning 50. What I would come to realize over those ensuing years is that Ulysses is not a book that one can merely “read.”

I am now 44 years old, twice the age when I first attempted that fateful voyage into this celebrated tome. There were six years left in my own reading timeline (not that I really felt the need to stick to it). With age came wisdom and experience. In essence, I became a man who could look back at the mistakes that young Terrance made and try to steer him in the right direction. I became a symbolic father to myself. And now, as a teacher of English, I also became a symbolic father figure and mentor to hundreds of children who struggle with reading and writing. Watching my charges struggle with multiple meanings of words, regional dialects, stream of consciousness, complex sentence structures, and other difficult aspects of literary texts, I was brought back to my own struggles, and felt that I was perhaps ready to try again.

A final impetus for embarking upon this journey anew was that I would have companions on the trek, a crew, if you will. Having heard of my goal of reading difficult books this summer, the father of one of my students, a teacher himself at another nearby school, invited me to join him and a few of his colleagues to a Ulysses book club they were planning. As of this writing, we have not yet met to discuss the book. I could have waited to post this essay after our meetings, but instead decided that this writing should address my experiences on the journey alone. What I found, which will be a surprise to very few people, that the book is simply out of reach for me, and likely for the majority of readers in this era. At times it may have seemed like a lush spit of land on the horizon as my arms, legs, eyes, and spirit were giving out, but I would ultimately be pulled out with the riptide, losing hope, stamina, and time in the process.

Part 4: Calypso

I am a lover of books. I’ve heeded the sirens’ call of literature for as long as I can remember. And, as mentioned earlier, it was one of Joyce’s own works that forever altered the course of my own story. Upon reading Portrait, if you’ll forgive the Hollywood-like single word abbreviation, I realized that books were far more than mere entertainment. They could be read again and again, yielding more reward with each return trip, opening up new vistas and lanes to other books, myths, and lore that lay embedded in allusions and jokes. I “got” Joyce, and I felt as if I were in a small and elite group of people who could make that claim. Since that time, I have read many difficult books. I’ve read and adored the stream of consciousness masterpiece of The Sound and the Fury. I’ve gladly immersed myself in the vast waters of the epic Underworld. I’ve been shaken to my very core by One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’ve maneuvered the dream-like state of The Unconsoled. I’ve lived the many lives of The Brothers Karamazov. I’ve made a significant dent, at least more substantial than most people I know, in the “canon,” the almighty list that exists in its varied forms of “the books one should read.” In fact, I’ve read 35 of the Modern Library’s “Best Books of the 20^th Century” list. And before you call that a failing grade, look at the list yourself and see if you fare better. By the way, #1 on the list is, you guessed it, Ulysses.

Part 5: The Lotus-Eaters

Having made the decision to set sail, I became intoxicated with the idea of the journey. My intoxication was only deepened by the fact that my journey was serendipitously beginning on June 16, the day in which all of the events of the novel take place, a day now known the world over as “Bloomsday.” My first goal was clear: I wanted to at least eclipse the page count I had once reached at half my age. Due to my fevered rush to make some headway, I ventured in without the measured expertise that another score and two years of reading experience had brought me. Luckily, for the first three sections, I experienced mostly glassy seas. The first three books that make up the “Telemachus” section, focusing on Stephen Dedalus, the main character of the “book that changed my life,” were, comparatively as I would soon learn, navigable. Because of this, I was lulled into a sense of overconfidence.

Part 6: Hades

At this point, I should back up and give some larger overview on the novel itself, if one can even call it by that too limited name. Ulysses is the story of one day in the lives of two men, Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus. The latter character bridges the gap between novels by our intrepid Irish author, while the former is the Odysseus analogue. To further explain that allusion, Joyce specifically set out to create a sprawling and difficult book, one that echoed Homer’s Odyssey in structure, changed style and structure in each section, and intentionally conflated the everyday events of one day in Dublin with the epic voyages of Odysseus and his son, Telemachus. Joyce was even quoted as saying, about the difficulty of the book, that he "put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant." In other words, Joyce was a bit devilish in nature, creating a novel that was intentionally difficult, meant to confound and challenge its readers, as well as remain inaccessible to all but a very small percentage of those who spent the time and effort to decode it.

Part 7: Aelous

As I progressed, I realized that my limited knowledge, as inflated as I thought it was, was not enough to keep me afloat. Here are a few of the things that I realized I needed knowledge of in order to get a full experience of the book: Latin, French, Gaelic, Hebrew, Catholic orthodoxy (a lot more than I was brought up with), an understanding of the “Classics,” an understanding of classical music in turn of the century Ireland, an understanding of Irish history, an understanding of Irish life at the turn of the century, an understanding of the styles and history of British literature, and an understanding of the literary landscape at that particular time and place. There was no way, in one summer, that I could have met all of these requirements. I had to make other plans. I had to course correct, and quickly.

Part 8: The Lestrygonians

I was starting to doubt my ability to complete the journey. I’ve done this before, with books as well as with life. I remember driving cross-country by myself to take a new job on another coast. I was terrified. A little over halfway through with my expedition, I succumbed to doubt, loneliness, and insecurities. This reading journey was similar. I became lost in my thoughts (which became annoying at times as it meant I would have to either go back and reread certain paragraphs or just chalk up those lost sections to being casualties in the process of great art). Questions began to fill my brain. Does great art have to be complex? Just because many don’t understand a work, whether a book, a film, a song, a painting, or anything else, does that inaccessibility make it great? I had decided long ago in my own life, and ultimately became what I teach to my students, that judgments could not be made until the effort was put forth.

 

Part 9: Scylla and Charybdis

I made a hasty retreat. Or, at least, a quick shoring up of my resources and available guides. I had a literary criticism book, considered to be one of the most expert on the subject, by Stuart Gilbert. That book was at one time invaluable, providing me with the skeletal structure of the book (pictured) and overall analysis. Mostly, it provided me with a needed connection to The Odyssey. I decided to catch up in the literary criticism guide and then subsequently read each corresponding analysis after having read the chapter in the main tome. Additionally, I decided to reread The Odyssey. I tried to match the books section for section and pair corresponding sections in each with further reading. Finally, I found a website that provided annotations for the book (Found Here), which mostly turned out to be translations of the different languages in the book, but not much more. Armed with these provisions, I set out once again, buoyed in confidence, at least for the time being.

Part 10: The Wandering Rocks

Overall, what I ended up clinging onto the most throughout my reading of Ulysses were its characters and the language. Mostly I enjoyed the way the characters would weave in and out of each other’s lives, from a bar to a funeral procession, from a newspaper office to a brothel. I got the sense, as I did when reading Portrait, that these were real people, fully characterized and with distinct personalities, even if simply supplied with a name and dialogue (albeit sans quotation marks). Another aspect of Ulysses I enjoyed was Joyce’s humor. It is said that one can read the novel as one long joke. I didn’t understand it to that depth, but I did enjoy his many puns and turns of humorous phrase such as, “Once you are dead you are dead. That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come forth, Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job” (105). Additionally, “Sandwich? Ham and his descendants mustered and bred there. Potted meats” (171). More than I anything, I tried to appreciate the broader view of the novel, instead of becoming caught up in the minutiae. I appreciated the spiritual father and son nature of Bloom and Dedalus. I enjoyed the idea of exaggerating the importance of one day in the lives of a couple of punters to the scope of an epic, heroic journey. The idea in itself is majestic, even if I could not understand the parts broken down of the sum.

Part 11: The Sirens

At a certain point, particular sections (Cyclops, Oxen of the Sun, etc.) became too unwieldy, too oppressive in their scope, and too daunting in their scope for me to continue without respite. So, as often happens when taking on a project that takes up a majority of my time, other pleasures of life began to call to me: records that needed to be played, crosswords that needed completing, walks that needed to be taken, other books that demanded my attention. And so, I listened. I had recently picked up a copy of Richard Price’s The Whites as part of a podcast book club and was eager to read it. The book ended up being the perfect respite from an arduous task. It was easy to read, and yet at the same time stylistically rewarding. I needed to somehow feed my starving sense of accomplishment, and this book provided that nourishment, giving me the strength to carry on as before, to make the last few efforts necessary in order to reach the intended goal. I have never before run a marathon, but I have heard others speak of the last few miles and how they can almost seem alternately the strongest and the most unconscious parts of the run.

Part 12: The Cyclops

I had come too far. At this point, I had to finish simply to finish. It didn’t matter that I didn’t get Joyce’s oh so precise parodies of Malory, the King James Bible, Bunyan, Defoe, Sterne, Walpole, Gibbon, Dickens, and Carlyle. I wasn’t about to go back and read their collected works, become so utterly familiar that I could spot their styles anywhere, only to likely get a subtle nod of recognition and a “Well played, James” in response to his genius. In other words, I knew I was licked. I knew that I was likely never going to be in a place in my life in which I was going to ever fully comprehend this book. All I could do to save my bruised and broken ego, dashed up on the rocks of each harbor, was to simply read it until its conclusion, understanding or no understanding, and the latter was the safest bet. Sometimes, in the absence of finishing well, there is only to finish, and this was my choice.

Part 13 & 14: Nausicaa / The Oxen of the Sun

My mind started to wander again. I began to think of the other times in my life in which a long period of time had been spent in vain. My mind continued to wander, thinking of the times I had consumed something, whether a book or a movie, that I knew I could only visit once, never to return again, whether because I knew that a second visit would yield less fruitful results, or that my psyche simply couldn’t take another trip. I wondered why I had failed. While I had ultimately succeeded in completing the book, I certainly hadn’t succeeded in understanding it in the way that Joyce and scholars had meant for it to be understood. What more could I have done? I suppose I could have found a class and audited it or registered for it. I suppose I could have extended my deadline and started to reread Joyce’s other works, mining for meaning. I suppose I could have read more of the “canon.” After letting my mind wander in this way, I realized that I could never do it all. Is my understanding of the book within the realm of human possibility? Yes, most assuredly. Is it within the realm of human possibility without sacrificing the other pleasures in life that I enjoy? Other books? Music? Films? Crosswords? Coffee with friends? Exercise? No, most assuredly not.

Part 15: Circe

In anticipation of my teaching of The Great Gatsby this past year, I revisited T.S. Eliot’s epic poem, “The Waste Land.” It is a masterpiece of a poem, and if not in length and scope, at least in intellectual depth as challenging as Joyce’s works. The poem itself is a scathing criticism of the lack of culture and education in his contemporary climate. The avalanche of allusions was meant to leave on thinking, “If I don’t get this, there is likely something wrong with my education.” Eliot and Joyce were brothers from different mothers. About Ulysses, Eliot is quoted as saying, "The next generation is responsible for its own soul; a man of genius is responsible to his peers, not to a studio full of uneducated and undisciplined coxcombs." Well then, call me a coxcomb because I just couldn’t spend the time needed to fully understand it. I will never have the education that Joyce or Eliot had. However, I refute Eliot’s claim that I am a “coxcomb,” which is essentially a vain and conceited man. I did not come in to this project vain and conceited. I knew my limitations. I sought help. I looked for guidance. I waited for the years of experience that age could bring, and yet, I still failed. So, I come to the shores of Ithaca, hat in hand, ready to receive Just punishment, just not berating from a place of arrogance and privilege. So, up yours, Eliot! I don’t need to take that from a man whose name is an anagram and a near exact reversal of “toilets.” And frankly, I think Joyce would have really enjoyed that wordplay, you piece of shit.

Parts 16-18: Ithaca & Penelope

So, what did I learn? I learned that books that are dubbed challenging are indeed challenging. I learned also that I have my limitations and that I am accepting of them. I learned to cling to the things I did understand and not worry so much about what I did not understand. (Usually, those things were fairly inconsequential). I learned that sometimes people equate complexity with genius, but that doesn’t mean the work is enjoyable. I suppose I knew this going in, but I needed to experience it for myself in order to fully comprehend. Not every journey is fulfilling. Not every journey is rewarding. But every journey is an accomplishment, but sometimes the accomplishment is merely finishing, returning home having lived through the difficulty.

Coming up next: Moby Dick by Herman Melville