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Modern Library ranks Ulysses and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man as number one and three on their list of Best Novels of the 20^th Century; though in reality they are perhaps the least read and most attempted. 

It’s easy to see why. Just casually browse through pages of Ulysses and Finnegan’s wake and feel the frustration and disinterest bursting in reaction to convoluted sentences, dense wordplay, stream of consciousness and whatever it is appearing in Finnegan’s Wake (though I would strongly recommend first-time readers his more approachable (and remarkable) collection of short stories, Dubliners).

Joyce did not write for universal appeal. Such a broad approach in life—not just literature—usually expels a bland product. The reader of Joyce is forced to absorb at a different pace, and even after finishing his works I feel as though I’ve only skimmed the surface of his irrefutable albeit at times, unnecessary, genius. But on the other hand, a lack of praise or interest in his work does not equate a lack of ability or forward thinking.

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H.G Wells on Finnegan’s Wake

“Who the hell is Joyce to demand so many waking hours of the few thousand I have still to live for a proper appreciation of his quirks and fancies and flashes of rendering?”

Virginia Woolf on Ulysses

“I finished Ulysses and think it is a misfire. Genius it has, I think; but of the inferior water. A first rate writer; I mean, respects writing too much to be tricky; startling; doing stunts.”

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But I wonder… a scene forms. A work mirroring the magnitude of Ulysses appears at the twilight of my career, when words have been defined, when prose can be spotlessly polished and structured but not reassessed and reinvented—how would I react to such a massive middle finger pointed right at my painfully cultivated foundation?

I don’t know.

Joyce shared with all great writers a common principle—that one must write with the assumption that a mind of equal intellect could extract adequate compensation. It stands the main motor for innovation and its disregard can thoroughly explain the lack of it.

But what of Hemingway, Chekov and Elmore Leonard? Are they mediocre because their prose is too lucid and bare? Of course not. Chekov and writers of his ilk produced such work as a reflection of their literary philosophies. To them it was innovation, the more clean and concise the prose the closer they felt to the ideal, to perfection!

It's common to hear that a person of true genius can make the vast and infinite easily digestible, but this approach to artistry often shackles the artist. As philosophers seek to find answers, it is their fate to only add further webs of confusion, a nuance to be used in second rate undergraduate essays comparing hypothetical points of view. The fate of the writer on the other hand, is one I refuse to explore (or accept).

But there are no answers to be found in literature—only labyrinths of mind unpuzzled by prose. This is why the act of reading is truly a collaborative effort. Moments of intense clarity and terror and bliss can only be discovered through life and things seen but not adequately processed.

James Joyce understood this perhaps more than anyone and used it to wildly push the pillars of prose--adding untold layers of complexity to further intensify the prospect of self-discovery. But some say he pushed too far, and that vast portions of his prose meant more to infuriate than illuminate. I still cannot say. His great shadow still looms over art. Much like Homer or Shakespeare before him; there is Joyce, and there is everyone else.

Imagine the painter at an art gallery—The musician in a concert crowd—The writer between pages of a book.

What to they see? What do they hear? What do they feel?

It would be logical to assume they all have some deeper insight to each experience and in turn, procure more information than say, the casual fan.

Art of course is subjective, so the objective is not to tell you what to see, but for you to see the most you can. ​

Pondering on my own growth as a writer, I was inspired to make a short list of tips to possibly help you on your literary journey 🙂

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1. Read with your spine, dwell on the unimportant.

In preparation for this site, I had to re-haul my writing style. Online readers are merciless, and understandably so; for there are many other sites one could be—sites that gnaw louder and louder every time a second is ripped away from that gleaming abyss of… online productivity.

However, having faith in my soon to be beloved readers, I kept somewhat true to my style but structured the site in order to merge with the nature of an online reader. This made sense.

But the exact opposite consideration should be placed when entering the world of a literary artist.

One must approach this world with the wide eyes of a child. Of course, this also depends on the quality of writing, but always leave room to be surprised.

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2. Don’t read with the primary goal of finishing

Years back when reading became a fixture of my daily routine, I slowly became aware the endless mounds of literature that required my attention. Considering the long-term profit, I purchased an e-reader and acquired all my books at once.

As you can imagine, a tremendous sense of relief flickered right before the flood, the kind familiar to those times you manage to gather all the tools necessary for an impressive task, but keep the task itself as a faint reality far far away.

But as soon I started to actually read, I noticed a change in my absorption. I was beginning to treat each book as an item on a checklist, a golden star of achievement—as if by finishing quickly I would speed up the process of creating my artistic identity.

This mistake robs the reader of growth and the writer of proper appreciation. To read one book as if there is no other; doing this for one book is much better than speed reading through ten. 

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3. Re-read

Few books are worth reading. Harsh. But refreshing… isn’t it?

It’s become quite a chore, that first step into a commercial bookstore, bludgeoned by regurgitated and repackaged plots, factory-fresh best sellers and… self-help.

Think of them as top fifty radio hits. A tried and true formula, catchy and periodically useful for those times the mind wishes to cap stimulation to the first layer. There is a place in the world for such works, like the paintings of a hotel hallway met with a pleasant gaze of passing--I only say this place should be secondary.

Fewer books are worth re-reading. Re-reading? I know. That first lap seems straight towards sunset hill.

But to find a book worth re-reading… ahh! I have shadows of the first shiver just thinking about it! This is the peak. Few reach it, and even fewer get realized.

Think of those times in the midst of reading, utterly enamored, when you said to yourself, “wow, I’m definitely reading this again,” but fail to do so simply because life gets in the way, or the allure of a book you don’t know proves too strong.

Imagine listening to that great song just once, would that be enough?

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4. Write

They say that to better understand, you must do.

So do.

By writing you become a writer, and a writer—even a bad writer—can understand literature in ways a non-writer never will.

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So what does the painter see? The musician hear? The writer feel?

Their own brushstrokes.