ABSTRACT
The last of my rebels is James Joyce, a man who has done great stuff. I have referred before in these columns to his ‘unfinished work,’ and to the fragment of it entitled Anna Livia Plurabelle. This fragment has been published by Crosby Gaige, of New York, in a beautifully printed and produced volume as thin as a biscuit. Edition of 800 signed copies. A collector’s morsel. A genuine curiosity. I am charmed to have it. But I cannot comprehend a page of it. For it is written in James Joyce’s new language, invented by himself. Here are a few words from one page: limpopo, sar, icis, seints, zezere, hamble, blackburry, dwyergray, meanam, meyne, draves, pharphar, uyar. It ought to be published with a Joyce dictionary.
