![]() Psycho-analysis is, I believe, very strong about this. I detect a certain sleekness here and there, as is inevitable in a hook of such length but I think that the craftsman will, forgetful altogether of the ethics of this book, its amazing a-morality, and completely careless of the content, best appreciate the sheer power of craftsmanship.Īs for the matter, I think I can best convey some idea of Ulysses by reminding the reader how odd is the association of ideas when one allows all kinds of what are called thoughts, but which have nothing to do with thinking, to pass in higgledy-piggledy procession through one’s mind – one’s subconscious mind, I suppose it is called in present-day jargon. A piece of out-of-the-way book knowledge or two lines of a silly jingle which we heard when we were boys – they fall wonderfully into their place. Here is erudition transfigured by imagination. There is a point of light which gives life in the world as the lamp-lighter gives sudden life to the street. There is a spot of colour which sets the page aglow. There are fine ellipses in which a great sweep of meaning is concentrated into a single just-right sentence. There are phrases in which the words are packed tightly, as trim, as taut, as perfect as these things can be. “We are mighty fine fellows nowadays,” cried Stevenson, “but we cannot write like Hazlitt!” and many of us have felt like that about Joyce. Those who have read the earlier books of Mr Joyce have realised that here is a man who can write. The expectation that these difficulties and the belief in the exceptional genius of Mr Joyce aroused in the restricted circles of literary craftsmen is, in my experience, unprecedented. The story of his difficulties has been told the prosecution of the Little Review of America, which printed some chapters the stony stare of commercial publishers the largely accidental meeting with private persons willing to take the risk of having this gigantic volume of over 700 pages printed in France for uncertain subscribers. But Mr Joyce, unable to obtain publication, would certainly have grown indignant at the idea of the blue pencil. If it is desirable he will employ the blue pencil. Surely it is not necessary to say that his purpose is not pornographic? The pornographic writer can always get his books published. He would be untrue to himself and to his subject were he to tone down and leave out. If I understand him aright be sets out to depict not merely the fair show of things but the inner truth, and whether it is dubbed ugly or beautiful, or is a heart-wracking inextricable mixture and mystery of ugliness and beauty, has nothing to do with him as artist. This may not be your view or mine, but if it is Mr Joyce’s he has no option but to fulfil his mission as a writer. ![]() If the thoughts of men and women are such as may be properly described as obscene then how can you show what life is unless you put in the obscenity. This is undoubtedly an obscene book but that, says Mr Joyce, is not his fault. He makes the painter who plumes himself on putting in the warts exceedingly foolish and outmoded, for he paints not from the outside but from the inside. Undated picture shows James Joyce (R) and Sylvia Beach, owner of the Paris bookshop, Shakespeare and Company. This is what he feels about the human comedy. You may like or you may dislike Ulysses, and you are entitled to express your opinion of its merits or demerits, but you are not entitled to demand that it should be other than it is you are not entitled to dictate to Mr Joyce what he should do. Whatever virtue there is in Mr Joyce, whatever value in his work, is there because he will listen to no advice and brook no impertinent discussions. But one does not, one must not, argue with authors. ![]() Personally I may consider him misguided personally I might find much to write about the folly of a fixed idea. An expurgated edition? Not if his labour were to be entirely lost would he consent to cancel half a line! He would rather that nothing were printed than that all were not printed. I suppose he wants readers, but he is perfectly prepared to do without readers. Of his sincerity – the sincerity of an artist –there can be no doubt. It is enough to know that Mr Joyce felt that he had to write Ulysses, and that accordingly, he wrote Ulysses. ![]() What, it will be asked, is the good of a book which must be carefully locked up, which only a handful of people will read, and which will be found unspeakably shocking even by that little handful? But one must not talk about the utility, the wisdom, the necessity, of a work of art.
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