Happy birthday, James Joyce!

You’re one hundred and twenty today, on the second day of the second month of the second year of the new millennium, which makes this day also the eightieth anniversary of the publication of your Ulysses. A fine, fine anniversary.

Katy writes [3.2.2002]: I think he’d have enjoyed the almost palindromic date. Did you know he insisted on publishing Ulysses on his 40th birthday, hence the cackhanded and corrupt 1922 edition? And then, he was too flushed with success and booze to ever get round to correcting a second edition? Fine man.

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