James Joyce was Irish. Some might argue he was the most influental Irishman that ever lived. He is without a doubt a genius, and I recognize this fact. I just can’t read a damned thing he writes.

After a honeymoon in Ireland, I was smitten with my family’s heritage. I had finally connected visuals with the stories I had been told by my grandparents and parents. The landscape and the people had come alive for me. Understandably, I proceeded to dive into more things Irish as a result. I picked up a copy of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and got reasonably far into it. It was not the easiest read, but certainly easier to digest than Beowolf in it’s native Old English (thanks Doc!). I only abandoned it because it was woefully overdue at the library and my new life with The Wife™ swept me into a period of non-reading. This dry-spell lasted more than six months, at the end of which I had lost interest in it.

Recently, after bemoaning the sad state of my new local library, I decided to try Joyce’s masterpiece. Ulysses is widely considered the most successful 20th century novel and a shining example of modernist literature. Some editions publish at over 1,000 pages with a staggering vocabulary of 30,000 words (250,000 in total). It was a mountain to be climbed, and I (with my newly-found desire to read) had my hiking gear on.

The book is already back on the shelf.

I’m quite embarrassed to admit that Ulysses kicked my ass. Hard. I pushed and plowed through the first howevermany pages. I’m a fast reader, but I was discouraged by my slowed progress. I try not to think of myself as an illiterate halfwit, but after this defeat I’m forced to reassess that evaluation.

Joyce’s genius isn’t in question. Just as I can watch videos of Hendrix play the guitar, devoid of any real knowledge of guitar playing myself, I can see the man doing magical things. I am left awestruck. I can watch The Wife™ solve word puzzles within seconds of looking at them, only to have my mouth agape at the skill with which it took to complete. The presence or lack of genius is not the problem. It’s a difference of stylistic preference, perhaps.

For those that have never indulged, Joyce’s writing employs what is considered the stream-of-consciousness technique. It’s choppy. Incomplete sentences. Verbal dialog—of which there is no shortage—is not denoted by standard quotation marks. Simple m-dahses are used instead. Paragraphs float in and out of English, French, Latin and Gaelic. His humor and wit (which is again quite apparent) is so erudite that I was not privy to one of the best aspects of the novel. And in the middle of 15 pages of ramblings that leave me re-reading everything twice, he’ll plunk down the most coherent, beautiful prose, alluring and intoxicating. The problem is, it’s less than 250 words, and then it’s back to confusing the piss out of me.

I’ve never been bested by a book. I’m ashamed to have been defeated by something that once was required reading for teenagers. But I suppose I’m in a place in my life where conquering a difficult piece of literature means less to me than enjoying what I’m reading. And for the week and half that I spent trying to jumpstart my interest in it, very little of that time was enjoyable. I need to learn to let my pride go in instances like this. It’s a valuable lesson for myself, albeit a sore one.

Who knows, maybe I’ll pick it up again down the road. I really would like to finish it. I just need a more devoted span of attention, something I cannot seem to find at this current point.

His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer’s heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar’s, to God what is God’s. A long look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the church’s looms. Ay.

RIDDLE ME, RIDDLE ME, RANDY RO. MY FATHER GAVE ME SEEDS TO SOW.

Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.