When 16 pages out of a 246 page book are dedicated to a description of hell, this is not going to be a book for me. In addition to its cringe-inducing descriptions of Stephen's
sudden piety after his frequent frolicking with prostitutes, this book tries to make a few hints at political commentary that just make it feel like Joyce is trying to make his book relevant to the time without actually addressing any issues at all. This yawning mess of stream-of-consciousness prose made me feel like I was listening to the ramblings of a stoned teenager.