ABSTRACT
Although the new book by Sinclair Lewis is the event of the week, the free publication of James Joyce's Ulysses in America has to be noted as the event of the year. I have written perhaps too much about this book; there is certainly no need for me to review it now. But I am appalled to see that on the jacket of the very handsome volume, beautifully designed and printed and bound (Random House), I am quoted—from a review written about ten years ago. I am not appalled by an excuse of enthusiasm expressed at the time; the reverse. Like Warren Hastings, I am astonished at my own moderation. ‘To my mind,’ I wrote, Ulysses is one of the most significant and beautiful works of our time.’ Mealy-mouthed words, weasel words, little, timid words introduced by an apologetic ‘to my mind.’ I am sure I said other, better, bolder things about Ulysses. I must have given the impression at least that for weeks I had lived in that book as I had lived in no other since I read War and Peace; I remember definitely saying that every page in the book is a tribute to the grandeur and beauty of the language in which all of our deepest thoughts and highest aspirations had been recorded. I denied that the book was ugly or black pessimism. I felt it to be a great affirmation to everything in life—the good and the evil. I still feel so. . . .
