If I am to write anything fine or noble in the future I shall do so only by listening at the doors of your heart.
You may gather from my article what Ulysses has done to a supposedly balanced psychologist.
We always keep the dearest things to ourselves.
If I am to write anything fine or noble in the future I shall do so only by listening at the doors of your heart.
We always keep the dearest things to ourselves.
You may gather from my article what Ulysses has done to a supposedly balanced psychologist.
He turned to quill and paper, for so he could arrange, in the necessary silence, the abundant inadequacies of life, as a laying-out of jewels — jewels with a will to decay.
The pity is, the public will demand and find a moral in my book — or worse, they may take it in some more serious way, and on the honor of a gentleman, there is not one single serious line in it.
For
James Joyce’s birthday,
his most revealing interview – conducted by Djuna Barnes, no less.
Ulysses, the book in question, was also published on Joyce’s birthday – his fortieth.
The Cat and the Devil – for James Joyce’s birthday, his little-known children’s book written in letters to his grandson. See more here.
The stream beings in the void and ends in the void… As far as my glance reaches, there are in those seven hundred and thirty-five pages no obvious repetitions and not a single hallowed island where the long-suffering reader may come to rest. There is not a single place where he can seat himself, drunk with memories, and from which he can happily consider the stretch of the road he has covered, be it one hundred pages or even less… But no! The pitiless and uninterrupted stream rolls by, and its velocity or precipitation grows in the last forty pages till it sweeps away even the marks of punctuation.
