Introduction to 45.3/4

When Richard Ellmann’s James Joyce appeared in 1959, it was acclaimed both for its wealth of information about Joyce’s life and his works and for its graceful style. Reviewers declared it “definitive” and “masterfully” done. During the ensuing years, James Joyce was widely acknowledged as the model for literary critical biography, and when the revised edition appeared in 1982, Ellmann received a new round of applause. Since 1959, his masterpiece has been a boon for Joyce scholars.

But no biography can be definitive. There is always more to learn about an author’s life and milieu as interpretive contexts for the writing. And, of course, Ellmann’s sources, methods, and interpretations have at times been challenged. The eight essays in this volume—all of them presented in earlier versions at the 2007 North American James Joyce Conference held at the University of Texas at Austin—might well be thought of as augmenting, or filling, gaps in James Joyce. All the studies employ biographical methods that enhance our understanding of Joyce the artist, Joyce’s work, or the link between his work and a given cultural/historical moment.

In this special issue’s opening essay, Martin Dowling devotes almost half of “‘Thought-Tormented Music’: Joyce and the Music of the Irish Revival” to what he calls “the situation of music in the Irish literary revival.” He focuses chiefly on 1904, which was both an “intensely productive” period for the revival movement and a year chock-full of crucial events and decisions for Joyce. Drawing on the work of Pierre Bourdieu and Jacques Lacan, Dowling explores the revivalists’ efforts to “de-anglicize” Irish music, to remove foreign influences that distorted the “pure tradition of Irish song,” and to achieve an improbable harmony between the music favored by the disappearing Anglo-Irish aristocracy and the Irish-speaking peasantry. Inevitably, disputes occurred over what constituted “authentic” Irish music. Factions quarreled over whether pristine Irish music existed in the Atlantic seaboard or more inland; whether “authentic” songs were sung with or without instrumental accompaniment; and whether the piano, rather than the traditional harp, was a legitimate instrument of accompaniment.

Having delineated the historical and theoretical context, Dowling offers a richly detailed analysis of Joyce’s story “A Mother.” He reveals how almost every element in the story—from the Eire Abu society to the Antient Concert Rooms, from the conflict between Mrs. Kearney and Hoppy Holohan to the plight of Kathleen Kearney—is charged with meaning by the subtextual conflicts of the revivalists’ agenda. Dowling also explains the “authenticity” in Joyce’s depiction of vocal performances of “The Lass of Aughrim” in “The Dead” and “The Croppy Boy” in “Sirens,” which he calls two “true gems” of authentic Irish music.

The next two essays, by James A. Reppke and Christine van Boheemen-Saaf, shift attention from the short-story form and authenticity in Irish music to Joyce’s work in two nonfiction genres: journalism and letter-writing. Reppke devotes much of “Journalist Joyce: A Portrait” to fleshing out the heretofore sketchy history of Joyce’s engagement with journalism. He shows that Joyce published “at least thirty-six [journalistic pieces] over a thirty-year period,” with Joyce’s most intense times of journalistic activity being 1902–1903 in Paris and 1907–1912 in Trieste. While many of these articles were literary reviews, a surprising number (especially during Joyce’s Trieste years) concerned social and political themes. Where Ellmann’s James Joyce provides only a scanty account of this aspect of Joyce’s life, Reppke offers a full biographical narrative, complete with well-grounded speculation about Joyce’s motives for writing journalism: money, prestige, and certain perks granted to journalists—such as free train tickets. He also speculates insightfully about the sources for some of the journalists portrayed in Joyce’s fiction and about the possibility that some of Bloom’s traits mirror the characteristics and career of one Teodoro Mayer, a Jewish-Hungarian journalist in Trieste. Reppke’s conclusion becomes more theoretical as he contemplates the attraction that newspapers (“at the center of almost everything”) and even the fluid and disjointed layout of the printed page might have exerted on Joyce.

Van Boheemen-Saaf’s essay, “The Nora Letters as a Source of Joyce’s Performativity,” addresses a critical void in Joyce studies. Noting that “[t]here is little scholarship on the Nora letters,” she speculates that it is because they are “exuberantly obscene” and they “violate our cultural training” that “whatever emerges from inside the body . . . is unclean.” She also acknowledges the uneasiness that many feel on reading Joyce’s most intimate statements to Nora about their sex life, sentiments clearly never intended for public exposure. Van Boheemen-Saaf’s approach to the letters is fascinating and revealing. Beginning with the biographical circumstances of Joyce’s writing of the letters—during a time when he was in Dublin without Nora—Van Boheemen-Saaf argues that the 1909 messages “provided a ‘new experience’ [for Joyce as writer] which would result in revolutionary writing.” She notes that the letters shift abruptly in tone, from lyrical tenderness to brutal directness; that they “stand for the body of the beloved”; and that they are, finally, “highly performative” in their enactment of the sexual activity that the author desires. In their performative enactments, she argues, the letters become aesthetic experiments that foreshadow passages in A Portrait, Exiles, Ulysses, and, most notably, Finnegans Wake.

The next two essays, by Ira B. Nadel and Jesse H. McKnight, enter biographical realms that yield less empirical and more speculative circumstantial evidence. Nadel’s “Travesties: Tom Stoppard’s Joyce and Other Dadaist Fantasies, or History in a Hat” “explores the element of integrated identities in the play with particular attention to Joyce.” In large measure, this exploration takes the form of an account of the development of Dada and the extent to which Joyce might have monitored that movement. Nadel reasonably concludes that Joyce himself knew much about Dada and that, like Stoppard’s imagined character in Travesties, “he exhibits a number of Dadaist elements.” Nadel then traces what he regards as Dada elements in Joyce’s work from Giacomo Joyce to the last part of A Portrait, as well as to the whole of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. The most important of these Dadaist characteristics are Joyce’s disjointed and unstable characters, with multiple forms of consciousness and fluid identities that might be exchanged. Nadel’s speculations and arguments illuminate the ways that Stoppard’s characters—Joyce, Tristan Tzara, and Vladimir Lenin—absorb each other’s habits and attitudes, even to the point of exchanging identities.

Just as Nadel imagines Joyce reading Dada manifestoes and Stoppard “creating” this Joyce as his dramatic character, so McKnight imagines Joyce watching Charlie Chaplin movies and then transferring characteristics of Chaplin’s tramp to Bloom. McKnight says at the outset that the “possible connection” between Ulysses and Chaplin is “tenuous and largely uncharted.” Yet, given Joyce’s interest in film and the fact that Chaplin produced a dozen great films for the Mutual Film Company in 1916–1918, the circumstantial evidence for Joyce knowing at least some of the films seems strong. As McKnight puts it, this was “when Joyce was entering the thick of his period of composition when his antennae for new ideas and influences were still extended.” McKnight tracks the sequence of films with considerable skill, explicating film techniques and analyzing the characteristics of Chaplin’s tramp, as revealed in various comic circumstances and situations. About a third of the way through his provocative essay, McKnight again acknowledges that his analysis is based on scant evidence: “Amidst this multiplicity of associations and analogies is there then any real evidence that Joyce the supreme observer was influenced by Chaplin the supremely observed?” The answer may be that, although no documentation proves the influence, McKnight’s heaping up of “associations and analogies” is quite persuasive.

Finn Fordham’s “The Genesis of Multiplicity: From ‘Circe’ to ‘Work in Progress’” shifts the collection’s focus from speculative influence to the hardcore, empirical evidence of textual revisions that Joyce made to the episode in 1920–1921. Fordham’s genetic assessment of these revisions leads him to conclusions about Joyce’s writing of “Circe” that complement Van Boheemen-Saaf’s analysis of Joyce’s writing of the Nora letters. As Fordham, quoting Max Saunders, puts it, “the simultaneous processes of living and writing shape each other in complex and often surprising ways.” Moreover, Fordham’s argument also supports Nadel’s theories about Stoppard’s imagined Joyce and his Dadaist notions of “multiple personalities.” Fordham argues that Joyce “had a sophisticated sense of . . . multiple personality and the destabilization of identity.” Joyce’s complex process of rewriting ultimately results in a re-conception and re-creation of his text, such as his revisions prompted by the concerns of censors or his dramatizing in his text what Fordham calls his “own self-mythicalization as a sacrificial victim.” Here again, we hear an echo of the performativity that Van Boheemen-Saaf identifies in the Nora letters.

Joseph Kelly’s “Joyce in Hollywood in the 1930s: A Biographical Essay” pieces together the history of Joyce’s unsuccessful efforts in 1932 to promote a film of Ulysses. Kelly declares his purposes explicitly: “I am interested here not in questions of narrative technique but in the less subtle issue of biography.” More explicitly still, he adds, “I want to dispute the general impression left by Léon and Ellmann that Joyce scorned the kind of bowdlerizing required by the film industry and scorned the easy profits to be made from Hollywood.” Toward these ends, Kelly documents Joyce’s efforts to engineer a filmed version of Ulysses. Starting in 1932, Joyce, his son Giorgio, Paul Léon, and Ralph Pinker, Joyce’s London agent, discussed the prospect of converting Ulysses to film. They speculated that Joyce might make as much as $100,000 by selling the film rights and that Chaplin might play Bloom. In 1935, Giorgio, then in New York City, conspired with the poet Louis Zukofsky, who was eager to broker the film and who put Giorgio in touch with Jerry Reisman, a writer already at work on a film scenario of Ulysses. But four years of discussion and schemes eventually “amounted,” as Kelly remarks, “to nothing.” Nevertheless, Kelly concludes with some intriguing observations about Reisman’s script and how it compares with the film of Ulysses that Joseph Strick made in 1967.

This special issue concludes with Amanda Sigler’s “Crossing Folkloric Bridges: The Cat, the Devil, and Joyce,” an illuminating history of Joyce’s posthumously published story, The Cat and the Devil. Like Van Boheemen-Saaf’s study of the Nora letters, Sigler’s essay fills a scholarly and biographical void. Her project “traces the story’s development from its roots in folklore to Joyce’s 1936 letter and 1964 children’s book.” She begins with a valuable discussion of the folk-tale type, known as “Devil’s Bridge,” on which Joyce based his 1936 letter to his grandson “Stevie.” She then explains Joyce’s unique treatment of the various elements of the folk tale, such as the way that the cat and the devil are depicted, the setting, and Joyce’s clever allusions to Dublin’s Lord Mayor Alfred Byrne. Sigler also examines the role of Stephen Joyce, the “Stevie” to whom Joyce’s letter was written, in the publication of the letter in book form. She then concludes with an adroit comparative analysis of the interpretations of Joyce’s story implied by three different illustrated editions, with their very different visual representations of Joyce’s text. Sigler’s argument gains added force through the inclusion of several revealing illustrations.

All eight essays gathered in this special issue build on the project undertaken by Ellmann fifty years ago, which he articulated in the opening sentence of James Joyce in 1959: “We are still learning to be James Joyce’s contemporaries, to understand our interpreter” (JJI 1). Each of the authors represented here takes up Ellmann’s implicit challenge, clarifying or extending some aspect of Joyce’s life or work, and thereby helping us learn to become Joyce’s contemporaries.

Hugh Kenner, in “The Impertinence of Being ‘Definitive,’” Mazes (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1989), p. 102 and in passing, and p. 107, dismisses much of Richard Ellmann’s evidence in James Joyce as based on doubtful “Irish Facts,” on spoken interviews that cannot be cross-checked, and on Ellmann’s belief, as Kenner puts it, “that no good story should be rejected.” For a balanced assessment of the sources and reliability of James Joyce, see Joseph Kelly, Our Joyce: From Outcast to Icon (Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1998), pp. 141–79. In addition, recent biographies focused on particular aspects or periods of Joyce’s life yield new information and interpretations—for example, Brenda Maddox’s biography of Nora Joyce, Nora (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1988); Peter Costello’s reinvestigation of Joyce’s early life, James Joyce: The Years of Growth, 1882–1915 (West Cork, Ireland: Roberts Rinehart, 1992); John McCourt’s examination of Joyce’s Trieste stay, The Years of Bloom: James Joyce in Trieste 1904–1920 (Dublin: Lilliput Press, 2000); and Carol Loeb Shloss’s biography of Joyce’s daughter, Lucia Joyce: To Dance in the “Wake” (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2003). Scholars engaged with new critical fields and methods—most notably, cultural studies, feminism, and queer studies—have uncovered facts and patterns in Joyce’s life and works that Ellmann missed or ignored.

	Introduction: 45.3/4
Archive	Introduction to "Biographical Joyce" Charles Rossman and Alan W. Friedman, Guest Editors When Richard Ellmann’s James Joyce appeared in 1959, it was acclaimed both for its wealth of information about Joyce’s life and his works and for its graceful style. Reviewers declared it “definitive” and “masterfully” done. During the ensuing years, James Joyce was widely acknowledged as the model for literary critical biography, and when the revised edition appeared in 1982, Ellmann received a new round of applause. Since 1959, his masterpiece has been a boon for Joyce scholars. But no biography can be definitive. There is always more to learn about an author’s life and milieu as interpretive contexts for the writing. And, of course, Ellmann’s sources, methods, and interpretations have at times been challenged. The eight essays in this volume—all of them presented in earlier versions at the 2007 North American James Joyce Conference held at the University of Texas at Austin—might well be thought of as augmenting, or filling, gaps in James Joyce. All the studies employ biographical methods that enhance our understanding of Joyce the artist, Joyce’s work, or the link between his work and a given cultural/historical moment. In this special issue’s opening essay, Martin Dowling devotes almost half of “‘Thought-Tormented Music’: Joyce and the Music of the Irish Revival” to what he calls “the situation of music in the Irish literary revival.” He focuses chiefly on 1904, which was both an “intensely productive” period for the revival movement and a year chock-full of crucial events and decisions for Joyce. Drawing on the work of Pierre Bourdieu and Jacques Lacan, Dowling explores the revivalists’ efforts to “de-anglicize” Irish music, to remove foreign influences that distorted the “pure tradition of Irish song,” and to achieve an improbable harmony between the music favored by the disappearing Anglo-Irish aristocracy and the Irish-speaking peasantry. Inevitably, disputes occurred over what constituted “authentic” Irish music. Factions quarreled over whether pristine Irish music existed in the Atlantic seaboard or more inland; whether “authentic” songs were sung with or without instrumental accompaniment; and whether the piano, rather than the traditional harp, was a legitimate instrument of accompaniment. Having delineated the historical and theoretical context, Dowling offers a richly detailed analysis of Joyce’s story “A Mother.” He reveals how almost every element in the story—from the Eire Abu society to the Antient Concert Rooms, from the conflict between Mrs. Kearney and Hoppy Holohan to the plight of Kathleen Kearney—is charged with meaning by the subtextual conflicts of the revivalists’ agenda. Dowling also explains the “authenticity” in Joyce’s depiction of vocal performances of “The Lass of Aughrim” in “The Dead” and “The Croppy Boy” in “Sirens,” which he calls two “true gems” of authentic Irish music. The next two essays, by James A. Reppke and Christine van Boheemen-Saaf, shift attention from the short-story form and authenticity in Irish music to Joyce’s work in two nonfiction genres: journalism and letter-writing. Reppke devotes much of “Journalist Joyce: A Portrait” to fleshing out the heretofore sketchy history of Joyce’s engagement with journalism. He shows that Joyce published “at least thirty-six [journalistic pieces] over a thirty-year period,” with Joyce’s most intense times of journalistic activity being 1902–1903 in Paris and 1907–1912 in Trieste. While many of these articles were literary reviews, a surprising number (especially during Joyce’s Trieste years) concerned social and political themes. Where Ellmann’s James Joyce provides only a scanty account of this aspect of Joyce’s life, Reppke offers a full biographical narrative, complete with well-grounded speculation about Joyce’s motives for writing journalism: money, prestige, and certain perks granted to journalists—such as free train tickets. He also speculates insightfully about the sources for some of the journalists portrayed in Joyce’s fiction and about the possibility that some of Bloom’s traits mirror the characteristics and career of one Teodoro Mayer, a Jewish-Hungarian journalist in Trieste. Reppke’s conclusion becomes more theoretical as he contemplates the attraction that newspapers (“at the center of almost everything”) and even the fluid and disjointed layout of the printed page might have exerted on Joyce. Van Boheemen-Saaf’s essay, “The Nora Letters as a Source of Joyce’s Performativity,” addresses a critical void in Joyce studies. Noting that “[t]here is little scholarship on the Nora letters,” she speculates that it is because they are “exuberantly obscene” and they “violate our cultural training” that “whatever emerges from inside the body . . . is unclean.” She also acknowledges the uneasiness that many feel on reading Joyce’s most intimate statements to Nora about their sex life, sentiments clearly never intended for public exposure. Van Boheemen-Saaf’s approach to the letters is fascinating and revealing. Beginning with the biographical circumstances of Joyce’s writing of the letters—during a time when he was in Dublin without Nora—Van Boheemen-Saaf argues that the 1909 messages “provided a ‘new experience’ [for Joyce as writer] which would result in revolutionary writing.” She notes that the letters shift abruptly in tone, from lyrical tenderness to brutal directness; that they “stand for the body of the beloved”; and that they are, finally, “highly performative” in their enactment of the sexual activity that the author desires. In their performative enactments, she argues, the letters become aesthetic experiments that foreshadow passages in A Portrait, Exiles, Ulysses, and, most notably, Finnegans Wake. The next two essays, by Ira B. Nadel and Jesse H. McKnight, enter biographical realms that yield less empirical and more speculative circumstantial evidence. Nadel’s “Travesties: Tom Stoppard’s Joyce and Other Dadaist Fantasies, or History in a Hat” “explores the element of integrated identities in the play with particular attention to Joyce.” In large measure, this exploration takes the form of an account of the development of Dada and the extent to which Joyce might have monitored that movement. Nadel reasonably concludes that Joyce himself knew much about Dada and that, like Stoppard’s imagined character in Travesties, “he exhibits a number of Dadaist elements.” Nadel then traces what he regards as Dada elements in Joyce’s work from Giacomo Joyce to the last part of A Portrait, as well as to the whole of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. The most important of these Dadaist characteristics are Joyce’s disjointed and unstable characters, with multiple forms of consciousness and fluid identities that might be exchanged. Nadel’s speculations and arguments illuminate the ways that Stoppard’s characters—Joyce, Tristan Tzara, and Vladimir Lenin—absorb each other’s habits and attitudes, even to the point of exchanging identities. Just as Nadel imagines Joyce reading Dada manifestoes and Stoppard “creating” this Joyce as his dramatic character, so McKnight imagines Joyce watching Charlie Chaplin movies and then transferring characteristics of Chaplin’s tramp to Bloom. McKnight says at the outset that the “possible connection” between Ulysses and Chaplin is “tenuous and largely uncharted.” Yet, given Joyce’s interest in film and the fact that Chaplin produced a dozen great films for the Mutual Film Company in 1916–1918, the circumstantial evidence for Joyce knowing at least some of the films seems strong. As McKnight puts it, this was “when Joyce was entering the thick of his period of composition when his antennae for new ideas and influences were still extended.” McKnight tracks the sequence of films with considerable skill, explicating film techniques and analyzing the characteristics of Chaplin’s tramp, as revealed in various comic circumstances and situations. About a third of the way through his provocative essay, McKnight again acknowledges that his analysis is based on scant evidence: “Amidst this multiplicity of associations and analogies is there then any real evidence that Joyce the supreme observer was influenced by Chaplin the supremely observed?” The answer may be that, although no documentation proves the influence, McKnight’s heaping up of “associations and analogies” is quite persuasive. Finn Fordham’s “The Genesis of Multiplicity: From ‘Circe’ to ‘Work in Progress’” shifts the collection’s focus from speculative influence to the hardcore, empirical evidence of textual revisions that Joyce made to the episode in 1920–1921. Fordham’s genetic assessment of these revisions leads him to conclusions about Joyce’s writing of “Circe” that complement Van Boheemen-Saaf’s analysis of Joyce’s writing of the Nora letters. As Fordham, quoting Max Saunders, puts it, “the simultaneous processes of living and writing shape each other in complex and often surprising ways.” Moreover, Fordham’s argument also supports Nadel’s theories about Stoppard’s imagined Joyce and his Dadaist notions of “multiple personalities.” Fordham argues that Joyce “had a sophisticated sense of . . . multiple personality and the destabilization of identity.” Joyce’s complex process of rewriting ultimately results in a re-conception and re-creation of his text, such as his revisions prompted by the concerns of censors or his dramatizing in his text what Fordham calls his “own self-mythicalization as a sacrificial victim.” Here again, we hear an echo of the performativity that Van Boheemen-Saaf identifies in the Nora letters. Joseph Kelly’s “Joyce in Hollywood in the 1930s: A Biographical Essay” pieces together the history of Joyce’s unsuccessful efforts in 1932 to promote a film of Ulysses. Kelly declares his purposes explicitly: “I am interested here not in questions of narrative technique but in the less subtle issue of biography.” More explicitly still, he adds, “I want to dispute the general impression left by Léon and Ellmann that Joyce scorned the kind of bowdlerizing required by the film industry and scorned the easy profits to be made from Hollywood.” Toward these ends, Kelly documents Joyce’s efforts to engineer a filmed version of Ulysses. Starting in 1932, Joyce, his son Giorgio, Paul Léon, and Ralph Pinker, Joyce’s London agent, discussed the prospect of converting Ulysses to film. They speculated that Joyce might make as much as $100,000 by selling the film rights and that Chaplin might play Bloom. In 1935, Giorgio, then in New York City, conspired with the poet Louis Zukofsky, who was eager to broker the film and who put Giorgio in touch with Jerry Reisman, a writer already at work on a film scenario of Ulysses. But four years of discussion and schemes eventually “amounted,” as Kelly remarks, “to nothing.” Nevertheless, Kelly concludes with some intriguing observations about Reisman’s script and how it compares with the film of Ulysses that Joseph Strick made in 1967. This special issue concludes with Amanda Sigler’s “Crossing Folkloric Bridges: The Cat, the Devil, and Joyce,” an illuminating history of Joyce’s posthumously published story, The Cat and the Devil. Like Van Boheemen-Saaf’s study of the Nora letters, Sigler’s essay fills a scholarly and biographical void. Her project “traces the story’s development from its roots in folklore to Joyce’s 1936 letter and 1964 children’s book.” She begins with a valuable discussion of the folk-tale type, known as “Devil’s Bridge,” on which Joyce based his 1936 letter to his grandson “Stevie.” She then explains Joyce’s unique treatment of the various elements of the folk tale, such as the way that the cat and the devil are depicted, the setting, and Joyce’s clever allusions to Dublin’s Lord Mayor Alfred Byrne. Sigler also examines the role of Stephen Joyce, the “Stevie” to whom Joyce’s letter was written, in the publication of the letter in book form. She then concludes with an adroit comparative analysis of the interpretations of Joyce’s story implied by three different illustrated editions, with their very different visual representations of Joyce’s text. Sigler’s argument gains added force through the inclusion of several revealing illustrations. All eight essays gathered in this special issue build on the project undertaken by Ellmann fifty years ago, which he articulated in the opening sentence of James Joyce in 1959: “We are still learning to be James Joyce’s contemporaries, to understand our interpreter” (JJI 1). Each of the authors represented here takes up Ellmann’s implicit challenge, clarifying or extending some aspect of Joyce’s life or work, and thereby helping us learn to become Joyce’s contemporaries. Charles Rossman and Alan W. Friedman University of Texas Note Hugh Kenner, in “The Impertinence of Being ‘Definitive,’” Mazes (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1989), p. 102 and in passing, and p. 107, dismisses much of Richard Ellmann’s evidence in James Joyce as based on doubtful “Irish Facts,” on spoken interviews that cannot be cross-checked, and on Ellmann’s belief, as Kenner puts it, “that no good story should be rejected.” For a balanced assessment of the sources and reliability of James Joyce, see Joseph Kelly, Our Joyce: From Outcast to Icon (Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1998), pp. 141–79. In addition, recent biographies focused on particular aspects or periods of Joyce’s life yield new information and interpretations—for example, Brenda Maddox’s biography of Nora Joyce, Nora (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1988); Peter Costello’s reinvestigation of Joyce’s early life, James Joyce: The Years of Growth, 1882–1915 (West Cork, Ireland: Roberts Rinehart, 1992); John McCourt’s examination of Joyce’s Trieste stay, The Years of Bloom: James Joyce in Trieste 1904–1920 (Dublin: Lilliput Press, 2000); and Carol Loeb Shloss’s biography of Joyce’s daughter, Lucia Joyce: To Dance in the “Wake” (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2003). Scholars engaged with new critical fields and methods—most notably, cultural studies, feminism, and queer studies—have uncovered facts and patterns in Joyce’s life and works that Ellmann missed or ignored.
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