Portrait of the Artist as a Deceased Dubliner

Yes, I've decided to tackle James Joyce's Ulysses. 700 pages of impenetrable, often un-punctuated, prose. That's my idea of a great winter afternoon. To be honest, I'd have less reservations about Tarantula – if only for its friendlier size. But anyway, let's see what all the fuss is about. And, more importantly, let's see if I can finish it.

Since its release, readers the world over have struggled to make it through the whole thing – even stopping after the first chapter. But now, I think, it would be an easier task for those of us accustomed to mobile phones (which doesn't include me). The language, particularly the sections told from Mary's perspective, strongly resembles a typical SMS message – if that message exceeded 700 pages and plumbed the depths of human psyche (an assumption, since I haven't read it yet).

Of all the classics, Ulysses is the most inaccessible. Indeed I was briefly tempted to chronicle my attempt by way of a diary parody ("day 1. It took me three hours to comprehend the first sentence") but, in the interests of good taste, decided against it. Some say Joyce is asking too much of his reader and I tend to agree. I'm certainly not going to bother reading up on Homer for added insight. And the whole thing does beg the question: is there any point upsetting the grammarians?