"Mr Leopold Bloom . . .

 . . . ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls."

I've decided to tackle Ulysses. I cannot say why. Mere days ago, I looked up on my bookshelf, and there was James Joyce, stuck between Erica Jong and Richard Kadrey. I still have the copy of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man that I read in high school. I remember the book bewildered me at seventeen, but bedazzled me at twenty-seven. So far, I've met "Stately, plump Buck Mulligan" and been re-acquainted with Stephen Dedalus. Every page is sprinkled with Latin and Greek and allusions to things I think I should know about. Much seems like nonsense, but it is interspersed with much I want to leap up and write down and recite out loud, over and over again. Perhaps the "ineluctable modality of the audible" is at work.

I'll keep you posted. This might take a while.