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Reading











1. For your Bloomsday enjoyment: comic strip artist Robert Berry is visualizing James Joyce's Ulysses. This project appears to be off to a great start.

2. More Bloomsday action: Dovegreyreader on a new book called Ulysses and Us by Declan Kibberd.





(Peggy Nelson, a new media artist and blogger, tells us about her Kindle. -- Levi).







I've been suffering from a debilitating attack of literary boredom, manifesting itself most recently in a sudden inability to do a good job of reviewing the New York Times Book Review. A couple of weeks ago Bill Ectric stepped in to handle the weekly duties, and I'm happy to announce that another special guest will take the spot tomorrow. This guest reviewer is a good friend who often, like me, has strong feelings about the NYTBR. I hope you'll enjoy the report. I will certainly enjoy my break.




I began reading Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace around October 2008. I had ordered the book from Amazon.com after hearing of David Foster Wallace’s death. I was in France at the time, and when I got back to the U.S. there was this big, fat book waiting for me. A thousand-pager. Not too many people write thousand-pagers, much less read them. Undaunted, I picked up the book and was immediately captivated.




1. Isn't it somebody's job to say clever things like "Jenny Holzer is the patron saint of twitter"? I guess it falls to me if nobody else wants to. Anyway, noted 90s-era electric sign artist Jenny Holzer has a new show at the Whitney Museum in New York City.



1. I love it when people disagree with me about something and explain why, and even if offense is sometimes intended, I make it a point never to take it. Daniel Pritchard is sick of me "beating the expensive drum" via my endless complaints about book pricing, and this is what he says:




(Please enjoy the LitKicks debut of Jay Diamond, whose credits include Heeb Magazine and his own Hex Ed Journal)

"If you're not with me tomorrow, that would be the worst."
-Bonnie "Prince" Billy.



It took me a little over a year of stops and starts and deliberately reading other books that were not written by James Joyce, but I have finished Ulysses. And now, what to say? This is one of those books, you know? You either have read it or will read it or you have no interest in reading it or you’ll read ten (or 90 or 500) pages and think whythefuck and move on with your life. Whatever works for you, really.