"Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought." Emily Dickinson
A few weeks ago I was intent on finding a public reading of Leaves of Grass for Walt Whitman's birthday. I was disappointed not to find a celebration closer than Brooklyn. The calendar rolled over to Bloomsday today, and though I'm not looking for them I imagine I could easily find a reading of Ulysses. My thoughts on James Joyce—he may well have written the finest English novel in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man—are more in line with Virginia Woolf's. Of Ulysses she said
Never did any book so bore me.
Open Culture reports "This private critical opinion Woolf recorded after reading only 200 pages of the novel. Heffernan makes the case that she read no more thereafter. " Good for her for making it to page 200. I don't think I did.