Nichole Pennybacker

I gave this book a few tries and in the end I don’t think that I am supposed to understand it, reread it, or seek help deciphering it. My theory is that this book is a giant guffaw aimed at literary snobs and Joyce wrote this to secretly chuckle at the mentally elite who claimed to grip its cosmic symbology. It reads like the meditative state obtained in pints of Irish whiskey laced with wormwood night terrors and late night lascivious solitary soul searching. It reads like the point of a bet aimed at the artistic reality- it’s not what it is but how you package and sell it.