Since I last wrote I have read:
Monsieur Pain by Roberto Bolano.
Ulysses by James Joyce.
Zeitoun by Dave Eggers
The Slaves of Solitude by Patrick Hamilton
Antwerp by Roberto Bolano
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
and I am currently reading Ficciones by Jorge Luis Borges.
I devoured Monsieur Pain in a day and the attacked Ulysses with all the zeal of a yet to be disenchanted college student. I kept meaning to come back and discuss Ulysses but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. As I read the book I always had a pen in hand, taking notes, underlining names, places, bits of Latin, French, slang that I did not understand. I went back after every chapter and researched by notes. I wanted so badly to understand this book. I needed to. If I was going to read Ulysses, I was going to do it right. I cross-referenced each chapter with its corresponding chapter in The Odyssey. And the result?
I think I get it. Sort of.
Ulysses is one of those books that I imagine I’ll revisit several times before my death. Is it a favorite? No. Did I enjoy the experience? Yes. By and large I appreciated what Joyce was trying to do (Faulkner was really trying to do the same thing [playing with narrative styles, changing voice, using the stream of consciousness narration] but I feel at times Faulkner had more substance behind his words) with his varying narrative styles. I feel very proud and accomplished that I have actually read this book but at the same time, slightly embarrassed. You can’t really casually drop “Yeah, I just finished Ulysses last month…” without people thinking you are a dick or a liar. Yes, I have read Ulysses but this is just the beginning of my relationship with the novel and certainly with Joyce. Hell, I still own Portrait and The Dubliners and haven’t read those yet.
The other day at work I was asked the age-old desert-island book question. I chose Ulysses not because it is one of my favorite books but because if it was the only book I ever got to read for the rest of my life, I would finally understand it.
So next up, Borges, I suppose…
