Ulysses, James Joyce

The paperback edition of this work is 1000 pages long. It is a stream of consciousness experience of a day (June 16, 1904) of life of Leopold Bloom in Dublin, Ireland. It is also the number one rated work of fiction of the 20th century by the Random House editors. 

The book barely even takes place in the 20th century. Thus the pretext of the best book of the twentieth century is barely plausible. 

Not only is the ranking pretext pretentious, the prose itself is pretentious. No plot, no climax, very little in the way of linearity - absolutely not a novel. Filled with obscure references, divergent and wildly varying styles. Often ponderous, sometimes spellbinding, sometimes built of ingenious prose. Very difficult to read. Very difficult to follow.

The two main characters are Leopold Bloom and Steven Daedalus. Both of these characters, while significantly different in personality, appear to be autobiographical. Bloom is of the age that Joyce was when he wrote Ulysses. Daedalus was of the age of Joyce when his mother died. Both men are loners and outcasts. Stephen is dirty of body, Leopold is dirty of mind. Stephen has bad teeth as did Joyce. Bloom is a wondering Jew outside his country as was Joyce, who lived the majority of his life outside Ireland.

A catharsis occurs during Molly's thought-phase in her realization of her love for Leopold. A climax of sorts occurs during Leopold and Stephen's time together - contrasting the old vs. the young character of Joyce.

Ulysses sometimes reminds me of the work in process of the thousand monkeys in the typewriter room on the way to War and Peace. Ponderous and irritating. Apparently pointless. But, in the end, after the reading is finally over with - the book is there in your mind - a part of you - and a better you for having stuck it through. 

Is this the best fiction of the 20th century? I surely hope not. Have I read anything that qualifies better? Not yet, but I'll let you know for sure after I've read every single work of fiction written in the 20th century - because I'm surely not going to admit it until then.