This book irritates me. As I read, I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier. It's a self-indulgent, stream of consciousness mess. There is no story, it's just the nonsensical internal ramblings from a group of people that should have been edited out. For years I've heard how incredible this book is, but no one had read it themselves, not surprising. I've never not finished a book once I've started it (except Dune, but that's for a different reason), but I don't want to waste any more time on this one. This type of writing is like being good at Hacky Sack ™. It's great you're enjoying yourself, but no one cares. It seemed as though Joyce was obsessed with his own thoughts as he was writing. The kind of person that screams out their own name while having sex. I think he must have been stoned at the time, and if you've been kissed by the green fairy as well, you'll probably enjoy it.
I won't give up on Joyce yet. I'm going to read the Dubliners, but it's going to have to be really good to make up for this book. Oh Brother Where Art Thou (2000) is a retelling of Homer's The Odyssey as well, but done much better.
Someone explain to me why this book is so revered. It tops the list as the greatest book of the modern era. There is no way this book would make it past an editor's desk today. I'm baffled.
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