... , years before he died, was hidden from most of us in the mist of his own method. - Gerald Gould

I was one of the first in this country—I rather think I was quite the first—to hail in print the genius of Mr. Joyce, when, many years ago, he put forth a quiet little volume of short stories called " ." I saw in his bleak and bitter realism a reading of life.

Whereas so many writers who are " different " seem to be merely straining away from the conventional in their originality, Mrs. Woolf transcends it easily: she has a running lyric strain that lifts the heart. The fairies showered gifts on Mr. Forster; sympathy, wit, knowledge, charm; but an impudent fairy came at the end and made him whimsical. Lovely as his work is, it remains at one remove from life.

They kept a bird— Poor bird !—in a cage ;
Till—so I have heard— Without need, without rage,
Cheerfully, coldly, They let it flit,
And more than boldly Murdered it. Since the law of nature Is danger and pain,
The obedient creature Did not complain,
But left as token to everybody
The wing broken And the breast bloody.