I have spent most of my adult life doing two things in particular; reading and writing. As far as reading is concerned, I've taken on them all rather successfully; from the Bible to Hemingway to Kerouac and down into Shakespearean territory. Now granted, I have run into fits of despair and may have destroyed a copy or two of Naked Lunch - it all comes down to the following story. A colleague of mine in Galway, Ireland, sent along a book to another travelling colleague of mine, with the sole purpose of it arriving in my hands safe and sound. I was unaware of what book I was to receive. I simply knew that a book was crossing the pond; something unexpected, perhaps something with a greater amount of substance than anything I've ever encountered.
James Joyce.
Yes, James frigging Joyce. I've never read anything from an Irish author in the past, and as fate would have it, James Joyce will be my first rendezvous. In particular, James Joyce's Finnegans Wake. A rather complicated work of fiction known as one of the most difficult in the English language. It arrived Monday, and as of yesterday, colleagues at work were calling me a dork, for even attempting to comprehend it. Finnegans Wake, from word of mouth, defies regular storytelling. Its approach is strictly stream of concsiousness; a never ending loop.
Perhaps I'm biting off more than I can chew, but this is a legit challenge unlike any other. No cliff notes or abbreviated summaries will be employed. I will commit myself to this book and no other, for the next few months. 628 pages, to be dissected; my own notes scrawled upon scraps of paper, napkins, whatever is close. It may drive me crazy, I may lose whatever I have left of hair... I will report back with my findings. James, we have a date.
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