ABSTRACT
James Joyce today is in the position of a man who sits quietly contemplating the monument his followers have erected over his still-unoccupied grave. His famous ‘stream-of-consciousness’ style of writing has had a greater attraction for aspiring novelists than perhaps any other. He is the foremost experimenter in prose technique of his time, and in spite of imitators and rival experimenters he is still the master. He has, nevertheless, ceased to be an important force in modern literature. Literature now is turning outward and upward, and Joyce, who still looks inward, probing among the Freudian shadows of Humphrey Earwicker’s subconscious, has become a name with a purely closet prestige. He has been left so far behind that this book of his poems. . . has received virtually no notice from the metropolitan reviewers, although it adds a new angle to the portrait of the man that is already known to the public.
