It Commences

In the library, she sits, staring at a book on a table. It shows no sign of staring back.

This is because it is a book.  Books do not have eyes to stare. However, there is a tension in the air that seems to imply that if it did happen to be graced with those particular organs, there would be an electrically charged who-blinks-first contest of wills going on the likes of which are the stuff of schoolyard legend. 

Somewhere in the apartment, there is music playing, accompanied by sung lyrics that in no way, shape or form follow those originally written. Outside, a beautiful spring day is beginning to wane. It has gone utterly unappreciated by those ensconced within. This is not entirely unusual for early spring; the inhabitants have grown accustomed to the cold and wet of winter keeping them indoors, and have allowed the bad habit of spending entire days without once venturing out-of-doors to become the standard.

She narrows her eyes at the book, then finally unfolds to pick it up. "Streams of consciousness, hmh?" she inquires of it. 

It has no reply. 

"Considered one of the greatest works of Modernist literature ever written. On all sorts of must-read lists, I hear." 

Flattery gets her nowhere.

"Well. You don't look so bad to me. Think you're tough? You're not tough." 

The music in the background is lowered. "Honey, are you talking to Ulysses again?" Her husband has been hearing Joycean muttering for days now. 

She doesn't look away from her steady regard of the cover. "Yes."

"Why don't you just read it?!"

"I'm trying to psych it out," she calls back. 

It should be mentioned that the only reason her husband is telling her to read it is because he's been on her to read Les Miserables for years now, and she has only recently agreed to the undertaking. After I get done with Ulysses, she said, then went back into the library to stare at it some more. He is beginning to lose patience. "Just read it, will you?"

She wrinkles her nose, at the book, at the husband, at the cartoon of her hugging James Joyce that she drew in a moment of Dubliners-inspired glee. Then, sighed, "Fiiiine."

And she opens the book.