An Absurdly Short Post on (Not) Reviewing Ulysses

A draft of "Circe." I can
understand why, in theory at
least, Joyce's work may have proved
 a challenge to copy-edit.

As reader(s) of this blog will know, I recently bought a copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses—a reproduction of the 1922 copy, to be exact. Riddled with dramatic errors in punctuation and spelling, this edition nonetheless seems nearest to Joyce’s original vision, freed of the flaws and bowdlerized “corrections” later versions imposed. It’s almost 1000 pages long, contains several hundred pages of annotations, and has monstrously small type—all superficial complaints, I’m aware, though I’ve never understood why publishing houses are able to produce such poorly made editions of so-called “modern classics”– possibly because the only people who read them are broke students.

I have a much, much more to say about Ulysses. Possibly, this blog might even begin alternating between Proust-related posts and Joyce-related posts, at least until I’m able to purchase the next three volumes of À la rechere du temps perdu. However, I'll reserve my opinions on Ulysses until a later date, when I’m able to offer the book the sort of scrutiny it deserves. As of yet, I’ve only read up through the third episode, although I have read other bits out of order—Molly Bloom’s soliloquy, the Oxen and the Sun, &c.

I was hoping to finish the rest on vacation—there’s a lovely BBC broadcast, released last year, which would have enabled me to simutaneously endulge my growing obsession and avoid interacting with my family during an eight hour long car ride. Here's a short clip, with Andrew Scott as Stephen Dedalus:



 

 

 

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find the full broadcast online. By the time this post is uploaded, I'll be on my way to the Smoky Mountains, constantly paging through Ulysses, re-reading it, endeavoring to behave as though  relatives' petty interruptions don't feel like intentionally malicious attacks.