In 1994, when naked cellists and what-not graced the stages of Moscow night clubs, the last thing Russians wanted was adult supervision, least of all the hectoring pieties of a bearded old crank by the name of Solzhenitsyn. They didn't want to hear about abuses in Chechnya, kick-backs and corruption, or repentance and salvation. What they really wanted was better telenovellas and more Ace of Base.
To read “Ulysses” is a slow-burning migraine, a torture of gratuitous tangents, narrative dead-ends, and self-celebratory wordplay. It’s also considered one of the greatest novels of the 20th century