And here we go

Like so many books, Ulysses has been sitting on my shelf for some time, collecting dust. I suspect that –  in one of the few exceptions to the rule parents often dictate to young children: that the things of which you're frightened are more frightened of you – Joyce's magnum opus is significantly less apprehensive about meeting me than I meeting it. But, hey, how am I to know how my books feel?

Regardless, I've taken the view that it's best, when a book is so often associated with difficulty and complexity, to simply throw oneself into it; understanding will come to me eventually, for sure. In the meantime, however, it might be a difficult journey, particularly in the tempestuous throes of the scholastic examination system. Wish me luck.