ABSTRACT
. . . One cannot read far in Mr. Joyce's new book without discovering that its whole method is based on dreams. The characters are at the same time persons and landmarks of Dublin; every scene is played on a revolving stage; and the individual words of Mr. Joyce's prose convey two or more simultaneous meanings, which strike the imagination at different levels. He plays on our sub-consciousness in a multitude of ways, now echoing a forgotten passage, now half-suggesting a thought while our attention is directed elsewhere. The fact that no single meaning can be extracted from any paragraph has probably disturbed readers more than the actual difficulty of his verbal inventions. There is only one way of reading the later Joyce, and that is to go by the sound and the rhythm, which are simple enough, and let the meanings look after themselves. We must read passively, but at the same time Mr. Joyce expects of his reader the sort of acuteness which will spot a double entendre. If a music-hall audience can appreciate sexual jokes in this way, there is no reason why educated readers should not be capable of catching the allusions, historical and topical, which are embedded in Work in Progress. We may miss a good deal—Mr. Joyce's fondness for Dublin and modern languages may baffle the outsider—but what emerges is slapstick raised to the status of art; and, indeed, as a master of ribald poetry, Mr. Joyce has few equals in literature.
