A Fancy Way of Saying Not Much or 'David Tries Being a Third Year'

Well internet, I'm annoyed.

And I'll tell you for why. I'd call him JJ, but that unfortunately makes him sound cool, and in my opinion, so far, he is not. I am talking about the so-called master wordsmith James Joyce.

I'll be honest, I'm 40 pages into the 900 page leviathan confuse-athon and so far I am just that. Confused isn't the word, I may be confuzzled to say the least. My lecturer said to me in a meeting with him, that it was his personal opinion that Modernism (and James Joyce is the main flag-bearer for that particular critical theory) was a fancy way of saying not much at all. And I'm inclined to agree.

I understand modernism, I understand the movement to create new ways to tell stories. Without modernism we wouldn't have Catcher in the Rye, or Dracula, two stories told in ways which were previously unheard of. Catcher in the Rye, like Ulysses, the book I am struggling through, written in a stream of consciousness way, Dracula written as a series of letters and diary entries. A style which I found gripping and interesting, and it's why these are two of my favourite books.

Ulysses though. It makes me angry! Joyce makes so many claims as though they're gospel truth. And I understand why he writes, as in to get people to think about things, namely irish home rule and British imperialism at its time of writing, but this is hidden amongst so many other subplots and asides it's almost impossible to keep up with. In the first page alone I was confronted with three different ideals and preachy statements concerning religion, a quest for paternity and something else which my brain can't even start to remember. The only way these themes were brought to my attention was by consulting the notes.

'Stately, plumb Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and razor lay crossed. A yellow dressing gown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: - Introibo ad altare Dei'

Would anyone like to guess what you're supposed to get from those opening lines to this book? Just a man having a leisurely stroll down the stairs to have a shave. Why he's so lazy he hasn't even done up his dressing gown? That crazy mo-fo.

While this is happening in the story, I am suppose to ignore this point, i.e. what is actually happening. Instead I'm supposed to remark on the crossed mirror and razor which makes a mockery of the Catholic church and the catholic mass as he creates a mock worship in his shaving routine. Therefore there's a distinct anti-religion theme. I'm supposed to take his ungirdled dressing down as to meaning that he's walking down the stairs naked, as in, displaying his penis. His ease with which he displays his penis is mean to represent his affinity with Neitzsche's Superman, the übermensch. The ideal representation of how a man should be. This is meant to lead me to the two main character's quest for their paternity, though Stephen Dedalus has not even been introduced to us yet. Then there's something else of importance about the fact that he used Latin frivilously. I can't remember because I can't fit anything else in my head.

That was six lines!

And sure, you can say 'but David, you're an English student, you're supposed to do this to any book.' And I'd agree, and I love doing it, but not to every single line, to a series of completely unrelated preachy points. I disagree with preachiness on all levels. My dissertation is centred mainly around this point. I dislike being told what to believe and what is good literature. I don't think this is good literature. I don't think good literature should include a vital notes section without which you miss the point of the book. And the notes are extensive. As in about 300 pages worth. 300 pages explaining the incomprehensible words in this stupid book!

I like finding the meaning in things, and I think it's impressive that so much can be put into a book. But is any of it necessary? Did I need to have all of this shoved down my throat by James Joyce? I don't think so. I think you get much much more from books written by John Green. I mention John Green a lot in my blogs and in life in general and there's a reason for that. His skill is to create a fantastic story with gripping characters which you can read in a day because you literally can't put his books down. You feel like any moment you're not reading his book is a moment wasted. When I pick up Ulysses, with a veritable groan I feel my heart sinking as I know that in about half an hour's time I'm going to have a headache and then find that I've only progressed 3 pages.

Interesting characters are vitally important to literature. I personally find it interesting to see the author through his characters. And what I see through the high and mighty, douchebag that is Buck Mulligan, and the reserved 'perfect man' that is Stephen Dedalus is the two sides of James Joyce, neither of which I like. Both of them preaching in their own ways.

It's an interesting story that books used to be sealed, and you had to break each new page as you progressed through the book. The vast majority of copies of Ulysses which have been found from it's time of publication were not broken in beyond page 50. As in no one could get through it. Did they miss out? I don't think so. They probably went and read Dracula, had a thumping good read, and then if  they wanted they learnt some really interesting and vital points about feminism and other things contained importantly within pages, which, insultingly at the time was seen as 'Tesco's Top Ten' literature. The 50 Shades of Grey of its day. And yes, times change, but really, 50 Shades of Grey is a steaming pile of horse manure. Dracula is a really good book. And yes that's my opinion. However I wouldn't be high and mighty enough to say without doubt that every person in the world must read Dracula. I highly recommend you give it a try but I don't think anything is vital literature. Least of all Ulysses.

So now I struggle on, because I must read about why James Joyce believes that boys playing sports and learning Classics in England led to World War One.

I shit you not. Page 41, here I come. *waves flag of sarcasm*