ABSTRACT
Probably no book of the last decade has been so widely discussed, and none so misunderstood, as James Joyce's Ulysses. Certainly I know of none that has provoked so much bilge and blather. Solemn asses have written learned treatises on it; others have written ‘interpretations.’ Literary societies have used it for debate; reading circles for whispered innuendo. It has been hailed as ‘the greatest novel in English.’ It has been condemned as ‘a filthy book, unfit for print.’ And I have an idea that all the while Joyce was secretly laughing at all of them.
