Martin Amis on Don Quixote: “Reading Don Quixote can be compared to an indefinite visit from your most impossible senior relative, with all his pranks, dirty habits, unstoppable reminiscences, and terrible cronies. When the experience is over, and the old boy checks out at last (on page 846 — the prose wedged tight, with no breaks for dialogue), you will shed tears all right; not tears of relief or regret but tears of pride. You made it, despite all that Don Quixote could do.”
And seeing as it was Bloomsday last week, here’s Virginia Woolf on Joyce’s novel: “[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.”