Getting out can open new horizons, sometimes ones we didn’t even know existed.  A while back, my family and I were wrapping up a vacation to Ireland, and we stopped into Hodges Figgis, one of Dublin’s largest independent bookstores, to load up on reading material for the long flight back.  The five of us have diverse reading requirements, so we scattered in different directions to browse.  I moved quickly past the section sporting the current best sellers, which depressingly were the same books popular in the United States at that time.  In search of more local fare, I turned to a salesman for a recommendation.

“What do you have that is the most representative of Ireland?” I asked.

Without saying a word he raised an eyebrow, smiled, and then motioned with his head to follow.  We walked a bit, and he stopped in front of a section that was labeled simply, “James Joyce.”

I gawked at the impressive collection of books, which spanned a good ten feet of aisle space and rose at least six feet high with various shapes, sizes, and colors of what seemed to be every work ever produced by Ireland’s favorite literary son.

The salesman looked at me and said, “You’ll be wanting Ulysses.”

He handed me a copy and walked away.  I immediately broke into a cold sweat.

According to my understanding, Ulysses is the undisputed number one English-language novel, at least according to numerous surveys and polls of the literary-minded.  But, if I understood the novel’s reputation properly, its complete and total respect within the bookish community is rivaled only by its dense, wildly experimental, and to be blunt, utterly incomprehensible prose.  Standing in that Dublin bookstore, which I would later find out was mentioned by name in chapter three of Ulysses, I knew that I couldn’t walk away from this challenge.  I bought the book for a little over eleven Euros.

Eager to capitalize on my wave of enthusiasm for all things Irish, on the plane ride home I worked my way through the first chapter.  However, upon landing, I felt more Joyce-lagged than jet-lagged: I had less understanding about the plot and its characters that I had on take-off.

It was clear that I could not do this alone.  A few days later, I went to the local bookstore and picked up CliffsNotes’ On Joyce’s Ulysses. 

I settled into a routine after that.  First I would read the CliffsNotes chapter, then read the chapter in the book—most often slowly and with many fits and starts—then re-read the CliffsNotes, and then search the Internet for any additional insights.  Finally, when needed, I would re-read the Joyce chapter.  Sometimes I was deeply disturbed how much I had missed in my reading, and sometimes I was amazed by how much I thought there was to say that others didn’t mention at all.

It took me about two months to finish the book, and when I was done, I felt that I had accomplished something.  But in truth, the effort left me unsettled and with more questions than answers.

1) How was it possible that for a book that everyone knows about, I have not met anyone who has actually read it?  My efforts to start up a discussion both during and after reading this book is universally met with blank stares.  More interesting is that no one even bothers to fake it, but all blithely announce that they have not read the book and that frankly they have no intentions of ever doing so.

2) Why was it that in all the writings and analysis about Ulysses I come across on the internet, the same two or three examples always show up in the so-called literature and those are nit-picked to death, while vast sections of the book seem to be completely ignored?  This lead me to conclude that many people who have claimed to have read the book have only really read small portions of it, or perhaps even did nothing more than write up their insights after reading other people’s insights (or maybe even CliffsNotes).

3) Perhaps, most important, in the face of these truths, why was this book so popular among the literati?  It’s decidedly not easy to read—don’t let anyone tell you different—and after my experience, it’s clear that one cannot simply sit down and read it cover to cover and still expect to get much out of it.  There’s too much detail and inside information that was only known in a single place at a single time to a limited group of people.  In reality, it takes work, study, and a commitment to understand the words on the pages within the context of when it was created and by whom.

With Ulysses enthusiastically completed, I have stored it away in the bookshelf downstairs, but I like to think that I carry a piece of it with me.  Maybe, I’ve learned a bit about what makes a novel great: it’s not just strong characters or action-packed plots, it’s about good ideas, and understanding those ideas requires a commitment by the reader to respect the passion and urgency with which the author set down the words.  I hope I can keep that in mind as I read other books that one day may deserve to be considered classics.