1n6xZiV

512 / A M E S [1921-1922]You have already one proof of my intense stupidity. Here now is an exampleof my emptiness. I have not read a work of literature for severalyears. My head is full of pebbles and rubbish and broken matches and bitsof glass picked up 'most everywhere. The task I set myself technically inwriting a book from eighteen different points of view and in as many styles,all apparently unknown or undiscovered by my fellow tradesmen, that andthe nature of the legend chosen would be enough to upset anyone's mentalbalance. I want to finish the book and try to settle on my entangled materialaffairs definitely one way or the other (somebody here said of me'They call him a poet. He appears to be interested chiefly in mattresses').And in fact, I was. After that I want a good long rest in which to forgetUlysses completely.I forgot to tell you another thing. I don't even know Greek though I amspoken of as erudite. My father wanted me to take Greek as third language,my mother German and my friends Irish. Result, I took Italian. I spoke orused to speak modern Greek not too badly (I speak four or five languagesfluently enough) and have spent a great deal of time with Greeks of allkinds from noblemen down to onionsellers, chiefly the latter. I am superstitiousabout them. They bring me luck.I now end this long rambling shambling speech, having said nothing ofthe darker aspects of my detestable character. I suppose the law should takeits course with me because it must now seem to you a waste of rope toaccomplish the dissolution of a person who has now dissolved visibly andpossesses scarcely as much 'pendibility' as an uninhabited dressing gown.With kindest regards gratefully and sincerely yoursJames Joyce 57After such a letter, which at once denied and admitted all charges,and countered legend with fact and fact with legend, Miss Weaver couldhardly say more. The stories about Joyce grew more extraordinary as hislife became outwardly more domestic. Journalists indulged their fancyfreely, and mentioned his daily swim in the Seine, the mirrors with whichhe surrounded himself while he worked, the black gloves he wore whenhe went to bed. These rumors he at once resented and enjoyed. Longago he had written Lady Gregory that he would make his own legendand stick to it. Tippling was beside the point.Late in May he suffered a mild attack of iritis, but shook it off withoutmuch discomfort. His lease was about to expire, however, and he wasbeginning to feel anguished about that again when Valery Larbaud, whowas going to Italy, offered him rent-free his small but handsome flatat71 rue du Cardinal Lemoine, a ten-minute walk from the Jardin duLuxembourg. This was a most unusual favor for Larbaud, who livedreticently and never received at home. 58The Joyces moved in on June3, and were delighted with the new surroundings. 59 He wrote to Francinion June 7, is it possible that I am worth something? Who would havesaid so after my last experience in Trieste?' He quoted to Francini thecompliment of Larbaud, 'The Circe episode alone would make the rep-