ABSTRACT
With Joyce an entirely new novel is born. Up until now, even in Marcel Proust, the novel was situated almost outside of man in his effort of projection on the world. In Joyce it is entirely in man’s head; he has almost no issue with the universe. Such a phenomenon happens for the first time in the history of literature; it is full of incalculable consequences. A single individual in the infinite labyrinth of his little life conducts a formidable epic which resounds uniquely between the walls of his skull. This is the logical outcome, the supreme flower, of this secret anarchy of the solitary which I spoke of earlier. Morally, Ulysses is Robinson Crusoe, but Robinson Crusoe dedicated to his deserted island in the midst of the crowd and becoming intoxicated with his abandonment.
