There was a time, maybe fifteen years ago, when we would build sophisticated semantic search. Query parsing, intent classification, embedding precursors, everything needed to handle natural English questions. And to our dismay, users actual queries were “movie showtimes” and “porn”.
Ulysses is a great vibe. I feel like I’m day drinking in the sun while reading it. I just wish there was a bit more character or plot or story for me to latch onto, to orient me. Feels like a missed opportunity to be honest. imagine the vibe of Ulysses plus a great story. But it is the same argument we can make against Infinite Jest and similar. I guess I just prefer novels to be easy page turners that carry me along.
It is not at all far fetched to assume different cultures perceive color differently. One need look no further than modern Japanese vs English speaking along the blue-green spectrum. Because these cultures categorize and name this range of colors differently, their perception, measured by sensitivity to small differences, differs too.
To settle a troublesome discourse, I have provided here the most faithful and poetic possible translation of the beginning of the Odyssey.
We male sex. We
complex. We
fake horse. We
off course. We
sail long. We
hear song. We
pig crew. We
home soon.
That 25 page rumination on the color white. And I believe there is a chunk where Melville wants to experience the boredom of the sailors’ watch in the crows nest. I actually never made it through Moby Dick. The first few dozen pages, before they set to sea, are genuinely fantastic though.
Ulysses is objectively not a good novel. It isn’t really a novel at all. It is some other thing. Some sort of performance art stream of conscious ironic self-aware edgy obscene f u to conventional literature. I hate it as a novel. But as a sort of vibe or meditation, I get it. Reading it does make feel like I’m day drinking in old Ireland living through the eyes of some chaotic horny dudes. I’ve been reading it a few pages at a time for years. I very much get the vibe. I just wish there was some notion of character or story arc or any point at all to latch onto and keep me reading. I’ll finish it eventually. But the whole thing feels like a joke at my expense.
Not surprised that Rushdie ranks this and In Search of Lost Time at the top. Both are “great” books maybe, but they certainly are not enjoyable reads.