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 20th 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
