What pisses me off about James Joyce’s Ulysses is that it makes me feel dumbassthick. For 13 years it has stuck its tongue out at me from the ‘Top 100 books of the century’ list. Having now thrice tried to pagewade Ulysses I wave a white flag, roll over in defeat. This time committed to reach pg 50, at times almost thought that I could squint through the words like looking at one of those 80’s patterned pages and seeing a 3D image leap forth, there was no forwardleaping.
The photo of Marilyn Monroe reading Ulysses taunted me, “So you think you’re a reader, writer, candlestickmaker. If I can do it why can’t you?” Actually I’ve never made a candle stick and I suck at sultry too, so she’s got me licked. Mmmmm ice cream melting faster than the tongue can contain, sticky rivulets deconstruct the cone in warm drippy destruction, the centre cannot hold.
I failed to find a story in the maze of words. Smart, clever descriptive words, poetic words which cast into my mental waters caught nothing. I failed to gain any understanding of any character failed to give halfashit about them, half the time I didn’t know whatthefuck was going on or whothefuck was on stage, all I saw was a drunken actor strutting and fretting, ad-libbing his arse off.
I’ve bailed at page 50, I can’tdothis, call me shitforbrains I’ll deal with it. Life is short and books stand in patient lines waiting to invite me in for a nice cup of tea and conversation that doesn’t make me feel like Aliceinfuckingwonderland. Call me a quitter but I can’t, I just can’t, not without hard drugs, and that’s not the way I roll.