Woolf vs Joyce: should the novel whisper the mind or flood it?

I trace consciousness like light on water, Mr. Joyce - one luminous day, one delicate mind, not a torrent that drowns the reader.

Delicate? Life is not delicate, Mrs. Woolf - Ulysses gives you a whole city breathing, belching, and dreaming in a single unbroken day.

I read your Ulysses, and found it the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples - genius, perhaps, but genius that forgets to close a sentence.

And I write the sentence that never closes because the mind never does - your waves are lovely, but mine is the ocean itself.