Woolf vs Joyce: should the novel drift or explode?

The mind receives a myriad impressions, Mr. Joyce; my task is to trace them like light on water, not to bludgeon the reader with everything at once.

Everything at once is precisely the truth, Mrs. Woolf; one ordinary Dublin day contains all of Homer, if you have the nerve to write it down.

I read your Ulysses and found it the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples, brilliance drowning in its own excess.

And I glide through your rooms and gardens admiring the wallpaper while wondering when someone will finally dare to think a whole, indecent human thought.