Ulysses (n.) is, in Joyce, no wily hero but a passive, merely perceiving consciousness — a sensory nerve exposed without check to the lunatic cataract of happenings.
Ulysses (n.) can be read backwards as well as forwards: every sentence is a gag but together they make no point — a worm cut in half that grows a new head or tail as required.
Ulysses (n.) draws abuse that proves its worth: the abuse is the resentment of the unmodern man who would rather not see what the gods have kindly veiled.
Ulysses (n.) and its kind are drastic purgatives, effective only against an equally obstinate resistance — like Freud's theory, they undermine with fanatical one-sidedness values already beginning to crumble.
Ulysses (n.) is shattering because behind the thousand veils nothing lies hidden: cold as the moon, it leaves the comedy of genesis and decay to pursue its course.
Ulysses (n.) has a cynicism that hides a great compassion for a world neither beautiful nor good, which drags consciousness in an idiot dance through the hours, months, years.
Ulysses (n.) is a devotional book for the object-besotted white man — eighteen alchemical alembics in which the homunculus of a new universal consciousness is distilled.
Ulysses (n.) was for Jung a three-year ordeal of boredom, grumbling, cursing and admiration, ending in forty non-stop pages that were "a string of veritable psychological peaches."