So What's, Uh, the Deal?

Welcome to my blog on James Joyce’s Ulysses. Yeah, I'm actually serious. Over the next four months I plan to finally read all of James Joyce’s Ulysses and blog about it in every way possible. Why? Because I have always wanted to read this much hyped and heralded book. Why not do so with the added support of a blog? Also, it could turn out to be kind of fun, right? RIGHT?

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Time Machine

Back in 11th grade we once did an exercise where we discussed the idea of a time capsule and what to put into it. We went around the room and everyone was asked to suggest one thing that they felt needed to be included. It was kind of interesting. First off, if you can only include one item then you have to sit back and think about what single thing best represents us, best tells our story, what kind of thing says the most about who we are. There were typical items like newspapers, books, pictures, and music (I think I said a Beatles album or all Beatles albums or something. I was really into the Beatles in 11th grade). There were also some interesting suggestions, like world currencies (check out a US dollar bill sometime, like really check it out, there’s a lot going on there), a supermarket receipt, a restaurant menu, or a concert ticket stub.

It was cool to see the variety of things that people suggested. Everyone has their own ideas about what defines us, and each one kind of goes together to form a whole reality, a bigger picture of the world at a given point in time, which brings me to Ulysses. This book is a lot of things of course, but one thing I am starting to realize more and more is that it is essentially a time capsule, a literary time capsule, attempting to completely capture the life and times of Dublin, Ireland, on June 16th, 1904. And it does so, as much if not more than any other book I have ever read, capturing a specific point in time on a page. A view of the world, through human eyes, through human experience, reality according to Stephen, Leo, and Molly (and the at-large population of Dublin), Joyce tries like hell to paint a picture of what exactly life was like back then, every particular nuance, every attitude, every image, every thought, everything, which of course bring us back to Realism, but a really real realism, the realest of realisms (okay, I’ll stop). Anyway, I think this is one of the more interesting things about the book and is something I will certainly be looking out for in the weeks to come.

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