. . . I am reading James Joyce, skippily. The fellow has a great deal of talent, but much of it is misdirected. I should not be surprised if one day he began to write books that he and his country will be proud of. . . .
Incidentally I admire his ruthless suppression of capitals and am interested in his ditto ditto of hyphens. . . .
On Christmas Eve, he writes:
Forgive us our Christmases as we forgive them that Christmas against us.
What I want to know by your next letter and what you have not told me, though you may think that you have, is how you propose to travel home from the west coast of South America. . . .
And on 27. 12. 20:
I was asked to "recite" yesterday! I refused. I was asked to take part in a hypnotic experiment: would I rather be the professor or the subject?
"The subject," I replied. "But I would even rather be dead."
And on 29. 12. 20:
. . . This is the last letter but one or two
