Ulysses anyone? That book induces nausea and dyslexia. Finally gave up 3/4 through it.
I dislike Joyce's style, I have enough of it after a few lines of his maddening stream of consciousness. It's both tiring and confusing to follow.
I tend to imagine and empathise with the books very strongly and as a result I feel like I'm the one going mad and caged in the array of mystifying nonsense that he creates.
I'm never going to read his stuff, there's nothing to learn, enjoy or derive from his babble and it triggers my revulsion.
I think the book has some value as a meta-connective dialogue between modernist writers (or writers and literates in general who know all the allusions and tangents that are being made there), the kind of onanistic circle of adoration and self appreciation of their craft. It also is most likely well written since it's so widely regarded.
Similarly to my criticism to post-modernist mutual admiration societies of art and culture. "Look, look I farted, it is my innermost expression" "Oh what a fart! How free and beautiful."
