You're viewing a single thread.
You know how when you're studying literature you're generally supposed to assume that everything is intenional and there's nothing just thrown in for no reason ... Well when you read Joyce, it's really really hard not to feel like he's just doing things for the sake of being pretentious and obtuse.
He's probably being pretentious and obtuse intentionally and for a reason.
Sometimes the reason is because the author is pretentious.
Sometimes the curtains are just fucking blue.
... But not when Joyce writes them. Don't worry he'll reference it again in 200 pages and if you haven't figured out what theme they represent you'll miss the fifth layer of context that actually inverts the meaning of the current paragraph.
(Ok he's not that obtuse but I wouldn't ever use death of the author/blue curtains on Joyce)
Joyce writes about how he wishes the curtains were blue, instead of dingy gray.
never found Joyce to be pretentious (the man knew what he was doing, and definitely succeeded in doing so) or obtuse (I mean, how many writers you can think of that could pull out the mastery of language and human sensibility out of nowhere like he does). I might be biased because I believe Ulysses saved my life: it's definitely one of the funniest, most touching, humane books I have ever had the pleasure to read. I'd push Ogre to keep up with the good work.
The thing i always think about is that qoute from Virginia Wolfe where she likens the writing to a schoolboy doing stunts for the sake of getting attention. I remember thinking that was exactly how it felt while I was reading Ulysses, it felt like a highschool creative writer mashing things together without considering whether it was actually good or not.
However im not going to sit here and pretend im an objective critic. The book is obviously famous and important for a reason. I'm interested to know how it saved your life, if you feel like sharing
taught me once and for all that while death might be always near, a fear that's constantly devouring our lives and paralysing them to the point where it feels like our deepest, inner self is a husk shell of what we once were, we can still find the reason of our existence in the joys of living a life that's devoted in equal part to mystery, sensuality, knowledge and wonder. And it says this in the most democratic way you could think: everyone is entitled and deserving of the complexity of life. Oh, and also: it's an absolutely hilarious book to read through.
Very well said, did you ever read the sort-of-prequel portrait of the artist as a young man?