“He doesn’t even know me,” Joyce said to Dr. Daniel Brody, the owner and manager of the Rhein-Verlag in Zurich who asked Jung to write a preface for the third edition of the German translation of Ulysses.
“People want to put me out of the church to which I don’t belong. I have nothing to do with psychoanalysis.”
Brody replied, “There can only be one explanation. Translate your name into German.” (641-2)
What a zinger, since Joyce in German is Freud.
Last weekend I found Chester G. Anderson’s illustrated James Joyce (Thames and Hudson, 1967) at the Strand for $5. The first time I ever purchased a book for its pictures.
From the NYT:
This ”outstanding” pictorial biography of James Joyce has ”a good text, careful, accurate and perceptive,” reviewers said in 1968. Its profuse illustrations, they added, ”have in many cases an almost magical power” to evoke the Dublin of 1904.
James Joyce with Ezra Pound, Ford Madox Ford, and John Quinn, ca. 1923.
Gelatin silver print photograph
Courtesy of The Poetry Collection, SUNY At Buffalo
Ezra: “I will have another go at it, but up to present I make nothing of it whatever. Nothing, so far as I can make out, nothing short of divine vision or a new cure for the clapp, can possibly be worth all the circumambient peripherization.” (145)
Stanislaus: “With the best will in the world I cannot read your work in progress. The vague support you get from certain French and American critics, I set down as pure snobbery. What is the meaning of that rout of drunken words?” (216)
Harold: “I try very hard to understand that book but fail completely. It is almost impossible to decipher, and when one or two lines of understanding emerge like telephone poles above a flood, they are at once countered by other poles going in the opposite direction….I truly believe that Joyce has this time gone too far in breaking all communication between himself and his reader. It is a very selfish book. (34)