Books: Shantih, Shantih, Shantih

Has the Reader Any Rights Before the Bar of Literature?

There is a new kind of literature abroad in the land, whose only obvious fault is that no one can understand if. Last year there appeared a gigantic volume entitled Ulysses, by James Joyce. To the uninitiated it appeared that Mr. Joyce had taken some half million assorted words— many such as are not ordinarily heard in reputable circles—shaken them up in a colossal hat, laid them end to end. To those in on the secret the result represented the greatest achievement of modern letters—a new idea...

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