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Sarah Jeanne Peters



Grant Richards, Esquire

8 St. Martin’s Street

Leicester Square, W.C.


Dear Mr. Grant Richards,


Perhaps you may recall me from some business, nine years past, and the subsequent legal matters, with regard to your contracted agreement to publish a collection of stories: Dubliners, about some of my kinsmen who when met with the ordinary conflicts of their daily lives have rare moment of insight into themselves and those around them, and perhaps even glimpse the divine. Something with which I expect you have not had much experience.


Upon the publishing of these little masterpieces, your hired printer was offended by some of the rougher colloquialism my characters of the lower-middle classes bandy about. He also took great exception to the nod toward the plague in my homeland of priests when not receiving our children direct from their parents to generally tamper with, exploit, molest, what have you, they then roam the countryside engaging misguided and lonely truants in interviews about their Willys. (Take note, ignoring this phenomenon may become a bit of a problem later in this century.) The aforementioned accounting of the requested editorial changes, not that I, the writer, wanted, not changes the editor wanted, but because of the ass-backward system, changes the chap with the ink and the printing press deemed immoral and potentially illegal--the printer!—refusing to set the type. Well since our partnership went to the devil--even though I agreed to all kinds of vulgar slashing at my work of genius--you know it and I know it, why then should I pretend any differently.


By the by, nine years later, and I've dealt with a baker’s dozen idjits from your rank trade who suggest to me no one cares to read about the lower-middle classes. And strangely, a publishing house of Éirinn was concerned that certain off-hand comments made by characters in dialogue might offend the tender sensibilities of the Royal Family. I inquired directly if the section would bother the House of Windsor. To which, they replied: they do not trouble themselves with such matters. And yet, it is nine years later, and the stories are not published. It occurred to me that you may appreciate another chance to include your name on the right side of this critical moment in literary history?



James (Fucking) Joyce,

Trieste, Austria


P.S. I have gained proficiency in the Finnish language in the last few weeks. I am also teaching myself Romansh, which I speak not too badly. So, I would like to add those two tongues to the languages I prefer in which to translate my own work, as well as: Norwegian, Triestino, Russian, German, French and Italian. Although, I am thought to be erudite in modern Greek, I only have a passable grasp of it. It would in all probability be wise to consider finding a Greek to do that work.