The idea of finishing this book seems daunting sometimes, but then I look at the size of the chunk of book I've already read. It's like an inch thick. Maybe. I'm bad at judging inches. I think I will get through this, even if it takes me all summer. (This is one of those quotes I'm going to look back on in three years and think, "Wow, what an ass.")
I see that I was wrong about who's funeral it was. Dignam's, apparently. An old friend of Bloom's. And because he died quite suddenly, it can't have been Stephen Deadalus's mom.
When this is all over and done with, I'm not sure I'll be able to say I've read Ulysses. I may have to go over it again with a guide. But I will, without question, be able to say that I've looked at every word on every page of the book.
It's quite brutal, listening to another person think.