|James Joyces Ulysses is the book I most admire. Yet I dont believe I have read it straight through.
I have listened dozens of times to unabridged audio versions to relish the rich Irish dialogue.
You have heard it is an original masterpiece of language. That its a comic tragedy of Greek epic proportions. (I dont blame if you skip the stream of consciousness last third of the book.)
What is it about?
A normal 24-hour-day, June 16th, 1904 in Dublin, Ireland. All my grandparents came from Ireland so I feel a wee bit o kinship.
It concerns defecating, shaving, eating, shopping, coveting, whoring. Theres a funeral. And, of course, drinking.
Its wonderful to compare the dark, savvy worldview of Stephen Dedalus with that of cheerful Leo Bloom.
I read all his books & rank him as one of the most original writers of all time.
Come back with a warrant., read the doormat at the entrance to Gonzo writer Hunter S. Thompson’s farm near Apsen, Colorado.
On August 20th, 2005 Thompson’s ashes were blasted from a giant cannon as he had requested. The nut had committed messy suicide, emulating Hemmingway, an author he admired. He waited until after the Superbowl, football being his favourite sport, before dispatching himself.
The Woody Creek Tavern, where Thompson often had sat beneath the shaggy head of a stuffed buffalo, did good business that day.
Thompson’s longtime sidekick Johnny Depp underwrote the $2.5 million celebration. Among those paying tribute were Bill Murray, Rob Reiner, Rolling Stone’s Jann Wenner & Thompson’s artist-collaborator, Ralph Steadman.
The writer’s wretched persona embodied a manic, macho, paranoid, inflamed sense of outrage at the failings of his age.
He was insane. But I will miss him, one of the great characters of the last century.