by Unknown
James Joyce Paris, 10 février 1928.
Letter on Svevo
1929
Dear Colleague:
I thank you very much for the kindness of including me in Solano’s tribute to the memory of my old friend Italo Svevo.
And I willingly consent, although I believe that now his literary fate should be entrusted entirely to his books, and that passing judgment on them should be the concern especially of the critics of his own country.
The thought will always please me that chance gave me an opportunity to have a part, no matter how small, in the recognition that his own country and an international public accorded Svevo in the last years of his life. I retain the memory of a lovable person, and an admiration of long standing that matures, rather than weakens, with the years. Paris, 31-V-
1929
James Joyce
From a Banned Writer to a Banned Singer
1932
He strides, booted with anger, along the spurs of Monte Rossini, accompanied solely by Fidelion, his mastiff’s voice. They quarrel consonantly about the vocality of the wind, calling each and its other clamant names.
* * * *
Just out of kerryosity howlike is a Sullivan? It has the fortefaccia of a Markus Brutas, the wingthud of a spread-eagle, the body uniformed of a metropoliceman with the brass feet of a collared grand. It cresces up in Aquilone but diminuends austrowards. It was last seen and heard of by some macgillic- cuddies above a lonely valley of their reeks, duskening the grev- light as it flew, its cry echechohoing among the anfractuosities: pour la dernière fois,’ The blackbulled ones, stampeding, drew in their horns, all appailed and much upset, which explaints the guttermilk on their overcoats.
* * * *
A pugilant gang theirs, per Bantry! Don Philip, Jay Hell, Big O’Barry of the Bornstorms, Arthur, siruraganist who loosed that chor. Damnen.7 And tramp, tramp, tramp. And T. Deum sullivamus Faust of all, of curse, damnation. But given Parigofs Trocadéro for his drawingroom with Ballaclavier in charge at the pianone the voice becomes suburban, sweethearted and subdued. The heat today was really too much of a hot thing and even Impressario is glad to walk his garden in the cool of the
evening, fanning his furnaceface with his sweltertails. Merci, doux crépuscule.’
* * * *
Who is this that advances in maresblood caftan, like Hiesous in Finisterre, his eyeholes phyllistained, his jewbones of a cross- backed? A little child shall lead him. Why, it’s Strongman Simpson, Timothy Nathan, now of Simpson’s on the Grill! Say, Tim Nat, bald winepresser, hast not one air left? But yeth he hath. Regard! Auscult! He upbraces for supremacy to the potence of Mosthigh and calls upon his baiters and their templum: You daggones, be flat!
* * * *
What was in that long long note he just delivered? For the laib of me I cannot tell. More twopenny tosh and luxus languor about I singabob you? No such thing, O son of an envelope. Dr to J. S. Just a pennyplain loafletter from Braun and Brotmann and it will take no rebutter. You may bark Mrs Liebfraumich as long as you love but you must not burk the baker. Pay us disday our daily bread. And oblige.
* * * *
On his native heath. Speech! Speech! cry the godlets. We are in land of Dan. But their words of Muskerry are harsh after that song of Othello. Orateur ne peut, charlatan ne daigne, Sullivan est.
* * * *
11.59 p.m Durch diese hohle Gasse muss er kommen, Guillaume’s shot telled, sure enough. But will that labour member for Melckthal be able to bring off his coo for the odd and twentieth
supererogatory time? Wartemal! That stagesquall has passed over like water off a Helvetian’s back. And there they are, yodelling yokels, none the worse for their ducking and gewittermassen as free as you fancy to quit their homeseek heimat and leave the ritzprinz of their chyberschwitzerhoofs all over the worlds, cisalpic and transatlantine. And how confederate of gay old Gioacchino to have composed this finale so that Kamerad Wagner might be saved the annoyance of finding flauts for his FeuerzauberP Pass auf!s Only four bars more! He draws the breathbow: that arrownote’s coming. Aim well, Arnold, and mind puur blind Jemmy in the stalls! But, great Scott, whas is thas for a larm! Half a ton of brass in the band, ten thousand throats from Thalwyl: Libertay. libertay lauded over the land (Tay!) And pap goes the Calville!
* * * *
Saving is believing but can thus be? Is this our model vicar of Saint Wartburgh’s, the reverend Mr Townhouser, Mus.Bac., discovered flagrant in a montagne de passed She is obvious and is on her threelegged sofa in a half yard of casheselks, Madame de la Pierreuse. How duetonically she hands him his harp that once, bitting him, whom caught is willing: do blease to, fickar! She’s as only roman as any puttana maddonna but the trouble is that the reverend T is reformed. She, simplicissima, wants her little present from the reverend since she was wirk worklike never so nice with him. But he harps along about Salve Regina Terrace and Liza, mine Liza, and sweet Marie. Till she cries: bilk! And he calls: blak! O.u.t. spells out!
* * * *
Since we are bound for a change of supper, was that really in faith the reverend Townhouser for he seemed so verdamnably like? Ecco trovoto! Father Lucullus Ballytheacker, the parish priest of Tarbert. He was a songful soul at the keyboard and could achieve his Château Kirwan with cigar thuriferant, without ministrance from platform or pulpit, chase or church. Nor used he to deny his Mary neither. Nullo modo. Up to maughty London came a muftimummed P.P. Censored.
* * * *
Have you got your knife handy? asks the bellman Saint Andy. Here he is and brandnew, answers Bartholomew. Get ready, get ready, scream the bells of Our Lady. And make sure they’re quite killed, adds the gentle Clotilde. Your attention, sirs, please, bawls big Brother Supplice. Pour la foi! Pour la foi! booms the great Auxerrois.
* * * *
Grand spectacular exposition of gorge cutting, mortarfiring and general martyrification, bigleighted up with erst classed instrumental music. Pardie,’ There’s more sang in that Sceine than mayer’s beer at the Guildhall. Is he a beleaper in Irisk luck? Can he swhipstake his valentine off to Dublin and weave her a frock of true blue poplin to be neat for the time Hugenut Cromwell comes over, gentlest lovejesus as ever slit weasand? Their cause is well sainted and they are centain to won. Still I’ll pointe half my crown on Raoul de Nangis, doublet mauve and cuffs of buff. Attagirl! Ah ah ah ah ah ah viens! Piffpaff, but he’s done it, the bully mastiff again. And woops with him through the window tallyhoed by those friers pecheurs who are self- barked. Dominie’s canes. Can you beat that, you papish yelpers? To howl with the pups!
* * * *
Enrico, Giacomo and Giovanni, three dulcetest of our songsters, in liontamers overcoats, holy communion ties and cliqueclaquehats, are met them at a gaslamp. It is kaputt and throws no light at all on the trio’s tussletusculums. Rico is for carousel and Giaco for luring volupy but Nino, the sweetly dulcetest, tuningfork among tenors, for the best of all; after hunger and sex comes dear old somnium, brought on by prayer. Their lays, blent of feastings, June roses and ether, link languidly in the unlit air. Arrives a type in readymade, dicky and bowler hat, manufactured by Common Sense and Co. Ltd., carrying a bag of tools. Preludingly he conspews a portugaese into the gutter, recitativing: now then, gents, by your leave! And, to his job. Who is this hardworking guy? No one but Geoge, Geoge who shifts the garbage can, Geoge who stokes in the engine room, Geoge who has something to say to the gas (tes gueules!) and mills the wheel go right go round and makes the world grow lighter. Lux! The aforesung Henry. James and John stand mouthshut. Wot did I say? Hats off, primi assoluti,’ Send himmayer’s beer at the Guildhall. Is he a beleaper in Irisk luck? Can he swhipstake his valentine off to Dublin and weave her a frock of true blue poplin to be neat for the time Hugenut Cromwell comes over, gentlest lovejesus as ever slit weasand? Their cause is well sainted and they are centain to won. Still Til pointe half my crown on Raoul de Nangis, doublet mauve and cuffs of buff. Attagirl! Ah ah ah ah ah ah viens! Piffpaff
, but he’s done it, the bully mastiff again. And woops with him through the window tallyhoed by those friers pecheurs who are self- barked. Dominie’s canes. Can you beat that, you papish yelpers? To howl with the pups!
* * * *
Enrico, Giacomo and Giovanni, three dulcetest of our songsters, in liontamers overcoats, holy communion ties and cliqueclaquehats, are met them at a gaslamp. It is kaputt and throws no light at all on the trio’s tussletusculums. Rico is for carousel and Giaco for luring volupy but Nino, the sweetly dulcetest, tuningfork among tenors, for the best of all; after hunger and sex comes dear old somnium, brought on by prayer. Their lays, blent of feastings, June roses and ether, link languidly in the unlit air. Arrives a type in readymade, dicky and bowler hat, manufactured by Common Sense and Co. Ltd., carrying a bag of tools. Preludingly he conspews a portugaese into the gutter, recitativing: now then, gents, by your leave! And, to his job. Who is this hardworking guy? No one but Geoge, Geoge who shifts the garbage can, Geoge who stokes in the engine room, Geoge who has something to say to the gas (tes gueules!) and mills the wheel go right go round and makes the world grow lighter. Lux! The aforesung Henry. James and John stand mouthshut. Wot did I say? Hats off, primi assoluti! Send him canorious, long to lung over us, high topseasoarious! Guard safe our Geoge!
Ad-Writer
1932
(on the front of the jacket) a coloured picture by a Royal Academician representing two young ladies, one fair and the other dark but both distinctly nice-looking, seated in a graceful though of course not unbecoming posture at a table on which a book stands upright, with title visible, and underneath the picture three lines of simple dialogue, for example:
Ethel: Does Cyril spend too much on cigarettes?
Doris: Far too much.
Ethel: So didPercy (points) — till I gave him zeno.
Sincerely yours, 22-5-1932 James Joyce
Epilogue to Ibsen’s ‘Ghosts’
1934
Dear quick, whose conscience buried deep
The grim old grouser has been salving,
Permit one spectre more to peep.
I am the ghost of Captain Alving.
Silenced and smothered by my past
Like the lewd knight in dirty linen
I struggle forth to swell the cast
And air a long-suppressed opinion.
For muddling weddings into wakes
No fool could vie with Parson Manders.
I, though a dab at ducks and drakes,
Let gooseys serve or sauce their ganders.
My spouse borgne a blighted boy,
Our slavey pupped a bouncing bitch.
Paternity, thy name is joy
When the wise sire knows which is which.
Both swear I am that self-same man
By whom their infants were begotten.
Explain, fate, if you care and can
Why one is sound and one is rotten.
Olaf may plod his stony path
And live as chastely as Susanna
Yet pick up in some Turkish bath
His quantum est of Pox Romana.
While Haakon hikes up primrose way,
Spreeing and gleeing while he goes,
To smirk upon his latter day
Without a pimple on his nose.
I gave it up I am afraid
But if I loafed and found it fun
Remember how a coyclad maid
Knows how to take it out of one.
The more I dither on and drink
My midnight bowl of spirit punch
The firmlier I feel and think
Friend Manders came too oft to lunch.
Since scuttling ship Vikings like me
Reck not to whom the blame is laid,
Y.M.C.A., V.D., T.B.
Or Harbourmaster of Port-Said.
Blame all and none and take to task
The harlot’s lure, the swain’s desire.
Heal by all means but hardly ask
Did this man sin or did his sire.
The shack’s ablaze. That canting scamp,
The carpenter, has dished the parson.
Now had they kept their powder damp
Like me there would have been no arson.
Nay more, were I not all I was,
Weak, wanton, waster out and out,
There would have been no world’s applause
And damn all to write home about.
Communication de M. James Joyce sur le Droit Moral des Ecrivains
1937
M. James Joyce (Irlande). — - Il me paraît intéressant et curieux de signaler un point particulier de l’histoire de la publication d’Ulysse aux Etats-Unis qui précise un aspect de droit de l’auteur sur son oeuvre qui n’avait pas été jusqu’ici mis en lumière. L’importation d’Ulysse aux Etats-Unis fut interdite dès 1922 et cette interdiction ne fut levée qu’en 1934. Dans ces conditions, impossible de prendre un copyright pour les Etats-Unis. Or en 1925, un éditeur américain sans scrupules mit en circulation une édition tronquée d’Ulysse, dont l’auteur n’était pas maître, n’ayant pu prendre le copyright. Une protestation internationale signée par 167 écrivains fut publiée et des poursuites engagées. Le résultat de ces poursuites fut l’arrêt rendu par une Chambre de la Cour Suprême de New-York le 27 décembre 1928, arrêt qui interdisait aux défenseurs (les éditeurs) ‘d’utiliser le nom du demandeur (Joyce) 1°, dans aucune revue, périodique ou autre publication publiée par eux; 2°, au sujet d’aucun livre, écrit, manuscrit, y compris l’ouvrage intitulé Ulysse.’ (Joyce contre Two Worlds Monthly and Samuel Roth, II Dep. Supreme Court New York, 27 dec. 1928).
Il est, je crois, possible de tirer une conclusion juridique de cet arrêt dans le sens que, sans être protégée par la loi écrite du copyright et même si elle est interdite, une oeuvre appartient à son auteur en vertu d’un droit naturel et qu’ainsi les tribunaux peuvent protéger un auteur contre la mutilation et la publication de son ouvrage comme il est protégé contre le mauvais usage qu’on pourrait faire de son nom. (Vifs applaudissements.)
Subjugation
(Please note: The first half page of the manuscript is missing.)
— both questions of moment and difficult to answer. And although it is, in the main, evident that the conquest gained in a righteous war, is itself righteous, yet it will not be necessary to digress into the regions of political economy, etc, but it will be as well to bear in mind, that all subjugation by force, if carried out and prosecuted by force is only so far successful in breaking mens’ [sic] spirits and aspirations. Also that it is, in the extreme, productive of ill-will and rebellion, that it is, again, from its beginning in unholy war, stamped with the stamp of ultimate conflict. But indeed it seems barbaric to only consider subjugation, in the light of an oppressing force, since we shall see that more often is it an influence rather than a positive power, and find it better used than for the vain shedding of blood.
In the various grades of life there are many homely illustrations of its practice — none the truer, that they are without blaze or notoriety, and in the humblest places. The tiller who guides the plough through the ground, and breaks the ‘stubborn glebe’ is one. The gardener who prunes the wayward vine or compels the wild hedge into decent level, subjugating the savage element in ‘trim gardens’, is another. Both of these represent subjugation by force; but the sailor’s method is more diplomatic. He has no plough to furrow the resisting wind, nor no knife to check the rude violence of storm. He cannot, with his partial skill, get the better of its unruliness. When Aeolus has pronounced his fiat, there is no direct countermanding his order. That way the sailor cannot overcome him; but by veering, and patient trial, sometimes using the strength of the Wind, sometimes avoiding it, now advancing and now retreating, at last the shifting sails are set for a straight course, and amid the succeeding calm the vessel steers for port. The miller’s wheel which although it restrains the stream yet allows it to proceed on its own way, when it has performed the re
quired service, is an useful example. The water rushing in swift stream, is on the higher mountains a fierce power both to excite emotion and to flood the fields. But the magic miller changes its humour, and it proceeds on its course, with all its tangled locks in orderly crease, and laps its waves, in placid resignation, on the banks that slope soberly down from suburban villas. And more, its strength has been utilised for commercial ends, and it helps to feed, with fine flour and bread, no longer the poetical but the hungry.
After these subjugations of the elements, we come to the subjugation of animals. Long ago in Eden responsible Adam had a good time. The birds of the air and the beasts of the field, ministered to his comfort. At his feet slept the docile lion, and every animal was his willing servant. But when sin arose in Adam — before only a latent evil — and his great nature was corrupted and broken, there were stirred up also among beasts the unknown dregs of ferocity. A similar revolt took place among them against man, and they were no longer to be friendly servants but bitter foes to him. From that hour, in greater or less degree, more in one land than another, they have struggled against him and refused him service. Aided often by great strength they fought successfully. But at length by superior power, and because he was man and they were but brutes, they, at least to a great extent, were overcome. Some of them, as the dog, he made the guardians of his house; others, as the horses and oxen, the helpmates of his toils. Others again he could not conquer but merely guard against, but one race in particular threatened by its number and power, to conquer him; and here it may be as well to follow the fate of it and see how a superior power intervened to preserve for man his title, not in derision, of lord of the creation and to keep him safe from the fear of mammoth and of mastodon. The Zoo elephants are sorry descendants of those mighty monsters who once traversed the sites of smoky cities; who roamed in hordes, tameless and fearless, proud in their power, through fruitful regions and forests, where now are the signs of busy men and the monuments of their skill and toil; who spread themselves over whole continents and carried their terror to the north and south, bidding defiance to man that he could not subjugate them; and finally in the wane of their day, though they knew it not, trooped up to the higher regions of the Pole, to the doom that was decreed for them. There what man could not subdue, was subdued, for they could not withstand the awful changes that came upon the earth. Lands of bright bloom, by degrees, lost all beauty and promise. Luxuriance of trees and fulness of fruit gradually departed, and were not, and stunted growth of shrub and shrivelled berries that no suns would ripen, were found in their room. The tribes of the Mammoth were huddled together, in strange wonder, and this devastation huddled them still closer. From oases, yet left them, they peered at the advancing waves, that locked them in their barren homes. Amid the gradual ice and waters, they eked out the days of the life of their vanity and when nothing remained for them but death, the wretched animals died in the unkind cold of enduring winter, and to-day their colossal tusks and ivory bones, are piled in memorial mounds, on the New Siberian Islands. This is all of them that is left, that man may have good by their death, whom he was not able to make his slaves when they lived, to tempt his greed across the perilous, Polar seas, to those feasts of the wealth of bygone times, that are strewn and bleaching beneath the desolate sky, white and silent through the song of the changeless waves, and on the verge of the eternal fathoms. What a subjugation has this been — how awful and how complete! Scarce the remembrance of the mammoth remains and no more is there the fear of the great woolly elephant but contempt of his bulk and advantage of his unweildiness [sic].
