Ulysses is a difficult book. It’s a tremendously difficult book. It’s so difficult that I find myself wondering why I’m persevering with page after page of supposedly life-changing, otherworldly literature. I think about Joyce, how he must have been sitting at his desk, giggling like a little child as he writes what he’s telling everyone as his magnum opus, but really writing whatever it is he was thinking at that time, over a laughably sparse summary which he calls the book’s ‘plot.’
It’s a prank of epic proportions.