ABSTRACT
One man of at least far bulkier stature buttresses this dull synthesis of despair: James Joyce-though an occasional vividly precise phrase redeems him from the dullness of the pure Intellectualists. A depressed Irishman, a very fine realist of minutiæ-in one vast neurotic upheaval he vomited up all the spattering material of an existence on earth. Not that the plentiful lavatory epigraphs thrown up define a condition of frank self-revelation….
