Essay on “Ulysses”
Of course it is in any case not a review. To criticize Joyce must possess great civil courage, something to brag about, I can not. This is a continuation heading, open Tatyana Fedorova, “As I read Joyce.” I have read and I can honestly say, I was thrilled. But that’s unlikely to be impressed by Joyce’s my amateur enthusiasm, because obviously my brain is crude at best mastered 45% percent of what Joyce wanted to convey to the world. (Although at times it seemed to me that the world, and some stranger unauthorized reader it somehow did not really meant and wrote Joyce mostly for themselves – well, he could obviously afford such a luxury) For the remaining 55% requires a thorough knowledge of Shakespeare , Bible stories, Dublin cards, and the life and work of Joyce finally. Some disheartened I felt after reading the comment that the reader himself must delve into the sources and decide for yourself which of the wars of Pyrrhus has in mind Joyce. Sneaking suspicion that Joyce and the author of the comments still have in mind some other readers.
But! Very surprising effect of reading. I had never read a sensory things. “Ulysses” affects all the possible senses, smells, color, sound, texture. It’s a trap, in which you find yourself, not knowing how. You do not comprehend the text, and incorporates it into itself. This is a separate world, accumulating during the reading. Here only you stumbled over driftwood that well, too much on every square centimeter of the novel, cursing the day you got behind the wheel of this vacuum cleaner, and suddenly – again and you are in this world. This wonderful reception – inner speech heroes. You try to follow the delightful jumps and swings thoughts, thoughts that stray invasions impressions from the outside, fragmentary and irrelevant memories, allusions and very organic in the way of thinking of the character imperceptibly woven into their own, because the mechanism of their formation is really the same as it sees Joyce. p>
Many people do not like the physiological details of life of Joyce’s characters, but this technique, it seems to me, he gives the reader an opportunity to approach as close as possible to the character, plus the internal re s. And between you and such touching Leopold Bloom have no secrets, and here you are with him (or it is already you) bredesh, not knowing why, inwardly lost on the streets of Dublin.