8/9/1935

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

Miss Costello said to me: “You haven’t a good word to say for anyone but the failures”. I thought that was quite the nicest thing anyone had said to me for a long time.

9/10/1933

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

Chatto's took a short book of short stories called More Pricks Than Kicks, and paid me 25 pounds less 25% advance on royalties, which cheered me up for a time.

13/5/1933

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

This writing is a bloody awful grind. I did two more 'short stories'…because one has to do something or perish with ennui. Now I have five. But I don't think I could possibly invite a publisher to wipe his arse with less than a dozen.

5/10/1933

Dear Tom (McGreevy),

I applied for a job in Milan, but nothing doing. I am being borne in mind.

4/11/1932

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

I nearly applied for a job as teacher of French in Technical School in Bulawayo, S. Rhodesia, but a few minutes consideration equipoised so perfectly the pros & cons that as usual I found myself constrained to do nothing.

8/10/1932

Dear Reavey,

The novel doesn’t go. Shatton & Windup thought it was wonderful but they couldn’t they simply could not. The Hogarth Private Lunatic Asylum rejected it the way Punch would.
Grayson has lost it or cleaned himself with it. Kick his balls off.

4/8/1932

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

I wonder would Father take me into his office. That is what Frank did. He went home after 3 years in India and went into the office. And now look at him. With a car and a bowler-hat.

22/9/1931

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

I have done nothing but booze my heart quiet and gal(l)op through Bérard’s Odyssey.

25/1/1931

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

You know I can’t write at all. The simplest sentence is a torture. I wish we could meet and talk - before I become inarticulate or elegantly suave.

3/12/1930

Dear Mr Prentice,

I have added nothing to Proust. I can’t do anything here - neither read nor think nor write.
I must apologise for the absurdity of the entire proceeding. I expected more generous rifts in the paralysis.

5/10/1930

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don’t understand how it can be endured.

9/9/1930

Dear Putnam,

I am working all day & most of the night to get this fucking Proust finished.

25/8/1930

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

I started writing this morning, worked like one inspired for 2 1/2 hours, then tore everything up and made a present of it to the panier.

17/7/1930

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

The light has collapsed again & they won’t come & mend. The room is full of candles.

April/May 1930

My dear Tom (McGreevy),

The McKs. arrived last night laden down with Poe & Goethe for him to sign. Aren’t people shits? Signed photographs, signed books, signed menus. I suppose the Gilberts & Carduccis would feel honoured if Joyce signed a piece of his used toilet paper.

1/3/1930

Dear Friend (Thomas McGreevy),

Russel(l) sent back the pome, with a note to the effect that I might save myself the trouble of sending him anything further.

Summer, 1929

My dear McGreevy,

The abominable old bap Russel(l) duly returned my MSS with an economic note in the 3rd person, the whole in a considerably understamped envelope. I feel slightly paralysed by the courtesy of this gesture.

23/3/1929

Dear Mr Joyce,

Here is the latest insertion.