Ooh there seems to be a fair amount of "signposting" to do today. Again, I should have mentioned this earlier but, y'know, I was probably drunk. Anyway, Waggish has just read Joyce's Finnegans Wake (nice post on Sunday on The Books on the (Finnegans) Wake) which is the one Joyce book, like many other folks, that I've not read. And, for now, despite Waggish's enthusiasm ("What did I get from it? Among other things, a sense of limitless possibility. Was it worth it? Yes. But I have only invested a couple months, not the decades that others have.") I can't see myself jumping in. It is the limpid, yet depthless, writing of a Beckett or an Appelfeld that most attracts me at the moment. Joyce's difficulty seems like a perverse game. And I don't want to play.