Last weekend, I finished a book that I have been reading since January. Ulysses, by James Joyce. The paperback copy I have is the one depicted in the photo below, it's a reprint of the complete unabridged 1934 American edition of the book which was originally published in 1922.I chose to read the book because I had always seen it on lists of "books every man should read" and I have also been trying to digest more lengthy material ... "longreads" I've heard them called. I finished it. And I mean every word, cover-to-cover. It wasn't worth it. Where was my "I can't believe I didn't read this years ago!" moment?
Reading should never be that tedious. And no one should ever read anything just to check it of their bucket list.
Here's my review of Ulysses by James Joyce: don't bother.
Joyce's daughter was a diagnosed schizophrenic. It has often been wondered if Joyce suffered from schizophrenia himself. I don't know what the official verdict is, but here's mine: yes, he was either mentally ill or a substance abuser. Or both. It is truly astonishing that a mind could create that work ... but one thing I'm sure of: I'm damned glad that mind isn't my own. :-)