Ulysses, voted the premiere novel of the 20th century, has been called “one of the most beautiful pieces of writing of all time.” Multifarious and composed of sovereign sections, one of which is a play within the novel, another of which is an extended session of structureless stream-of-conscious narrative, it boasts sentences which zoom along like Honda CRX racers, wielding a sense of urgency and at the same time a street vernacular, or what qualified in early last century as such. This is the case in favor of James Joyce.
The case against him? Well, he’s dorky. He’s a big dorkus-forkus after third period chemistry class. He’d never make it with Zach Morris and Kelly Kapowski. I mean, have you seen what he wears? That bow-tie? Huh-huh. And the hills are alive with the sound of laughter.
The case in favor of James Joyce? Well, he’s got multiple other fictional publications which are taught in high schools, prep schools and universities the world over, like the short stories in Dubliners and the similarly prolix and vanguard novel Finnegan’s Wake. He’s got a potent knack for conveying affective images of unique characters, such as the shy, introverted kid in school in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man who prefers Lord Byron to all the more conventional poets, also named “Lord.”
The case against him? Well, the owner of the Keltic bookstore in downtown South Bend, Indiana, which is home of the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, has never heard of him, and he’s got a hot ass daughter he puts out there in short shorts, so he must do something right. That’s right, do not adjust your computer screen: it’s not that he didn’t carry James Joyce, it’s not that he wasn’t sure if he carried your title off the top of his head… he actually did not know who James Joyce was. And yes, this is the KELTIC bookstore, mind you. That should just show, pretty definitely, that said author is now irrelevant.
As for Christianity? Well, we got the Mexicans hooked, for sure, and they hate the gays. To all… a lot of luck.