J'aime Joyce..

Of all the minds I have come across, this special one never ceases to amaze me. I know , I gush a Ganges of unconditional love for the man at every possible instance. But heavens what a mind!! He makes me feel like a boy, well, a boy throwing a handful of peanuts into air in the street of life.

Today, in a conversation in Liverpool I learnt that the journalish entries at the end of Portrait of an Artist was meant to depict not only juvenilia but also Stephen’s insight that he doesn’t feel the need anymore to converse with anyone.. ie...exile. Yes, to forge in the smithy of his soul the uncreated conscience of his race.