How not to choose a book

During my first year of college I developed a significant interest in an older student who was writing his thesis on the works of Virginia Woolf and James Joyce. I had not yet read anything by Woolf, but I had liked Dubliners and read, if not exactly enjoyed, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, so I figured we had some common ground. To catch his attention, I decided to read Ulysses. I planted myself at the opposite end of the library table where he spent each evening at work, and I read. Every evening, for days on end, I read. I made sure to angle the cover of the book so that the title was clearly visible. After more than a week, my diligence was finally rewarded. He looked up. His eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up.

"You're reading Ulysses," he said.

"Yeah, I'm really into Joyce," said I, all nonchalant.

"Which commentary are you reading it with?" he inquired with great interest.

"Oh, I'm... ah, I'm just reading it for fun," I offered, still hopeful.

There was a bemused quirking of the eyebrows.

"You're reading Ulysses without commentary? You can't possibly understand a word of it." He dove back into his books.

Momentarily crushed, I soon rallied and, determined to prove to someone (myself??) that I really was just reading the book for its own sake, I doggedly read on and on and on until finally I reached the end. I didn't understand a word of it. But, by golly, I had read them all!

I still like to imagine that someday I will re-read it -- with commentary -- but like relationships, proper appreciation of books has much to do with timing, and to date it has never been quite the right time for Ulysses and me.