Can't remember where I nicked this, but I've always found it amusing and trenchant.
A friend came to visit James Joyce one day and found the great man sprawled across his writing desk in a posture of utter despair. "James, what's wrong?" the friend asked. "Is it the work?" Joyce indicated assent without even lifting his head to look at the friend. Of course it was the work; isn't it always? "How many words did you get today?" the friend pursued. Joyce (still in despair, still sprawled face down on his desk): "Seven." "Seven? But James . . . that's good, at least for you!" "Yes," Joyce said, finally looking up. "I suppose it is . . . but I don't know what order they go in!"
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Date: 2005-03-23 07:33 am (UTC)A friend came to visit James Joyce one day and found the great man sprawled across his writing desk in a posture of utter despair.
"James, what's wrong?" the friend asked. "Is it the work?"
Joyce indicated assent without even lifting his head to look at the friend. Of course it was the work; isn't it always?
"How many words did you get today?" the friend pursued.
Joyce (still in despair, still sprawled face down on his desk): "Seven."
"Seven? But James . . . that's good, at least for you!"
"Yes," Joyce said, finally looking up. "I suppose it is . . . but I don't know what order they go in!"