Divided into three parts, of which cover a series of episodes depicted in Homer’s Odyssey, Joyce’s opus alternates time, perspective, and prose; sometimes these differentiations are spaced apart, and even make up whole episodes, though at others, they integrate themselves seamlessly in the course of a sentence.
A novel that may take you a couple of runs to fully understand and grasp, but one worth the struggle and endurance required; it is 750 pounds, which could be quite the endurance for any reader, let alone a non-seasoned one.
But, without sounding too bourgeois, the work itself, which is to say Joyce, is really enjoyable and funny; both esoterically delivered; he makes you earn that laugh – the sort of laugh that has you saying “I get it,” as you lightly chuckle to yourself.
Though I wouldn’t recommending this book if your intention is to laugh. Anyone reading this knows they are doing so, either because they are forty and have read Dubliners and Portrait and there’s nothing else to read or because their ego isn’t inflated enough: nothing looks better on a reading resume than Ulysses.