James Joyce going nowhere beautifully

In the years around world war one so much of human life changed for ever. On the one hand that war provoked physical invention on a scale previously unimaginable and on the other it signalled the dying of the light for western religion. Whichever side you were on, when in your cold and muddy trench you first saw and heard warplanes and tanks, shot and shell, in the name of God Save The King / Kaiser, you could I think be forgiven if there did not seem a great deal of point or truth in an Almighty.

The history shows how our lives and the ways in which we behaved were so very different before and after WW1. To me it seems that 'ordinary' folk had looked into the mirror and no longer liked what they saw there. The pride had gone along with that indefinable sense of spirituality. Understandably so, for if you had engaged over the past x years in acts of calculated killing, or supported those who did, you could hardly pray for your God to deliver you from evil. He had failed to do so.

Art changed, (Picasso & Co) music changed, (jazz and pop) Dance changed (ragtime and jive); so why did writing not change? Why should I think writing didn't change? Because I'm reading Joyce's Ulysses, such a bold attempt to change storytelling and the act of narration, but one that led nowhere. Nobody followed, nobody did it or does it today like Joyce. Worse luck.

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