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102 / A M E S I 1902 JI had been looking over the proof sheets of this book one day in Dublinlately and thinking whether I should send it to the Dublin papers for reviewor not. I thought that I would not, for they would find nothing in itbut a wicked theology, which I had probably never intended, and it maybe found all the review on a single sentence. I was wondering how long Ishould be thought a preacher of reckless opinions and a disturber whocarries in his hand the irresponsible torch of vain youth. I went out intothe street and there a young man came up to me and introduced himself.He told me he had written a book of prose essays or poems, and spoke tome of a common friend.Yes, I recollected his name, for he had been to my friend who leads aneven more reckless rebellion than I do, and kept him up to the grey hoursof the morning discussing philosophy. I asked him to come with me to thesmoking room of a restaurant in O'Connell Street, and read me a beautifulthough immature and eccentric harmony of little prose descriptions andmeditations. He had thrown over metrical form, he said, that he might geta form so fluent that it would respond to the motions of the spirit. I praisedhis work but he said, 'I really don't care whether you like what I am doingf or not. It won't make the least difference to me. Indeed I don't know why1I am reading to you.'Then, putting down his book, he began to explain all his objections toeverything I had ever done. Why had I concerned myself with politics,with folklore, with the historical setting of events, and so on? Above allwhy had I written about ideas, why had I condescended to make generalizations?These things were all the sign of the cooling of the iron, of thefading out of inspiration. I had been puzzled, but now I was confidentagain. He is from the Royal University, I thought, and he thinks thateverything has been settled by Thomas Aquinas, so we need not troubleabout it. I have met so many like KfmT"He would probably review my bookin the newapapers if I sent it there. But the next moment he spoke of afriend of mine [Oscar Wilde] who after a wild life had turned Catholic onhis deathbed. He said that he hoped his conversion was not sincere. Hedid not like to think that he had been untrue to himself at the end. No, Ihad not understood him yet.I had been doing some little plays for our Irish theatre, and had foundedthem all on emotions or stories that I had got out of folklore. He objectedto these particularly and told me that I was deteriorating. I had told himthat I had written these plays quite easily and he said that made it quitecertain; his own little book owed nothing to anything but his own mindwhich was much nearer to God than folklore."but I attach no more importance to your opinion than to anybody one meets in thestreet." Yeats made him some compliments on the verses, which were charming. ButJoyce waved aside the praise. "It is likely both you and I will soon be forgotten." He thenquestioned Yeats about some of his later poetry. Yeats began an elaborate and subtleexplanation the essence of which was that in youth he thought everything should beperfectly beautiful but now he thought one might do many things by way of experiment."Ah," said the boy, "that shows how rapidly you are deteriorating." He parted from Yeatswith a last shaft, "We have met too late. You are too old for me to have any effect onyou.