ABSTRACT
. . . Certainly James Joyce presents criticism with a problem. If Finnegans Wake was his sole work it would be easy to dismiss it as the vapouring humbug of a man who could not write and so pretended to be doing something better by using a language of his own making, a language of larger range and subtlety than that which was enough for all Shakespeare's purpose. But it was not his only contribution. His early poetry and prose may not be on the high level claimed for them, but they have distinction, dignity, strong individuality and clarity; his poetry, particularly, written within the tradition of English verse, has charm and an unexpected sweetness; Ulysses may not be—we think it is not—the marvellous manifestation of genius acclaimed by the devotees, for occasional flashes of lightning, even such strange new flashes, are not sufficient reward for the weary reader's plod through acres of boredom and brain-sick words.
