I’m still between the covers of Ulysses, swimming somewhere in his savory soup of words. He tends to spike my happiness meter with non words and clever phrases, causing me to break abruptly. It’s not the thickness of the book that slows me, it’s the density of thought and emotion he spurs. I’m drawn in like a magnet so strong I can’t breathe. It’s a disease I’m happy to oblige.
Write on, imaginative friend. I eat it up.
“Arrow” is great, and I particularly like the backwardly written suicide. But “Cat” is still my favorite.
Funny how you don’t like Joyce and write like you do in your wonderfully weird way.