I re-read
Dubliners every every time I see the year's first snowflake
(Araby in particular still gets me misty and blubbering), and as you
couldn't give less of a shit about remember from reading about the pandybat incident I've read
Portrait of the Artist as Young Man several times and prolly will again, but
Ulysses is another matter altogether. Like
Finnegan's Wake
I've never even bothered trying to understand it when reading, but from
time to time I pick it up and flip to a random page to read just for
that smooth rhythm of Joyce's. I can think of no other author for whom I
do such a thing. I don't know what the hell's going on and I don't
give a shit; it's like loving a song when you don't really know or care
what the words mean.
Speaking of which, is
A Walk with Xmastime as a Young Buck still the greatest post ever?
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