[In the following essay, Fitch traces the events that led up to Beach sponsoring and managing the publication of James Joyce's Ulysses under the auspices of Shakespeare and Company.]

The letter is dated 1 April 1921—its letterhead reads Shakespeare and Company, rue Dupuytren—the tone is the cultivated one of a breathless, youthful daughter to her “Dearest Little Mother,” first benefactor of the bookshop and lending library called Shakespeare and Company:

I've been trying to finish up a letter to you for such a long time but there have been so many to write every day to publishers and books to order and send and you must forgive me mother dear. It isn't that I ever forget you for a minute and I know you've done everything for me and my shop. And getting Cousin Mary to contribute ＄50 a month—!!!! it's almost like a dream! I wrote a letter to Cousin Mary describing all the doings of Shakespeare and Company and its developments. Mother dear it's more of a success every day and soon you may hear of us as a regular Publisher and of the most important book of the age—shhh—it's a secret, all to be revealed to you in my next letter and it's going to make us famous rah rah!

I'm putting by Cousin Mary's money for the day when a shop in the rue de l'Odéon is free. … Even in the rue Dupuytren which is so unfrequented and so unknown I do a surprisingly good business and just when everybody complains of affairs being so bad everywhere. What could I not do in the rue de l'Odéon and with the exchange as improved as it will be some day.

… What I need very much now is a typewriter. I think I had better invest in one. A Corona I suppose is the cheapest and perhaps you could manage to bring it with your hand luggage and you wouldn't have to pay duty on it. … What if you kept Cousin Mary's next cheque to help pay for it. … Meanwhile very much love from your loving child

Sylvia

P.S. It's decided. I'm going to publish “Ulysses” of James Joyce in October … !!! Subscriptions to be sent to Shakespeare and Company at once. Don't spend any of Cousin Mary's money on a typewriter.

In the margin beside the “loving child” signature, Sylvia Beach adds, for the benefit of the woman who had not only given the seed money, but had borrowed for Shakespeare and Company: “Ulysses means thousands of dollars of publicity for me.”¹

Buried in a postscript at the close of this prattling letter is the publishing decision of the century, news of an event that would alter the course of modern literature. The postscript status of this decision indicates its timing, not its importance. Only the day before, when she had informed Joyce of the conviction of Jane Heap and Margaret Anderson in New York, had they discussed—for the first time—their publishing adventure. When Heap and Anderson, who had been publishing a preliminary version of Ulysses serially in their Little Review, were convicted 21 February 1921 on obscenity charges—specifically, for publishing a description of Gerty MacDowell's nainsook knickers—the law closed both America and England to Ulysses. Naughty France now seemed the only option for publication, and Beach was willing, even eager, to undertake the task. The evening before she and Joyce were to meet to confirm the arrangement, Beach consulted her neighbor and mentor Adrienne Monnier, the owner of the nearby bookshop and library, La Maison des Amis des Livres. Monnier, who in addition to being a bookseller was also an experienced publisher and so could advise her during the coming years, suggested that Beach use her own printer (Maurice Darantiere) and publish a thousand copies in three price ranges, with one hundred to be signed by the author.²

The Beach/Joyce partnership struck that 1 April is a study of genius entangled in tedium: the genius of Joyce's creative masterpiece as well as Beach's genius with people had become almost fatally entangled in the tedium of business. The union of this brisk daughter of an American Presbyterian minister and this homeless, brooding Irish ex-Catholic was as unlikely as it was timely. Beach, who had opened her English-language bookshop and lending library in November of 1919, met Joyce on 11 July of the following year, not long after he arrived in Paris—returned, I should say—to “Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets” (U, 43).³ During the nine months between that first meeting and the agreement in April, he frequently dropped into the shop to cash checks, borrow books, chat about his family, and keep her informed of his writing of Ulysses. She was reading portions of the novel in the Little Review, which she sold in the shop, and asking him questions about it. She was also introducing him to her French friends, in particular the man who would become his most valuable literary ally: Valery Larbaud. It was Beach who had the idea of introducing Joyce and his work to Larbaud. A few months after she met Joyce, she gave Larbaud A Portrait of the Artist; then she arranged a formal introduction in Shakespeare and Company; and, when Larbaud was ill several weeks later, she took him flowers and copies of the Little Review containing portions of Ulysses. In a pneumatique on 15 February 1921, he exclaimed that he was “raving mad over Ulysses” and, shortly after, asked her if she would inquire of Joyce permission to translate a few pages.⁴

Thus, by April of 1921, Beach had demonstrated her loyalty and interest in Joyce. He had just sent the Eumaeus episode to the typist and was facing the writing of the last two portions of his novel when the news of the trial hit him. With U.S. and British publication blocked, he saw in this American business woman a loyal friend whose own friend was an experienced publisher. He also sensed the pluck and nerve that, eighteen years later, led Herbert Gorman to call her enthusiasm contagious: “to think with her was to act, for she was and is an extremely vital personality with great courage and definite convictions.”⁵ Though many French businesses were facing bankruptcy that spring, Beach was sanguine and optimistic. She was also ignorant of impending perils.

The plans were, that April, to publish the novel in October: this would allow more than six months for Beach to send out a prospectus and to gather subscriptions and money, and for Joyce to complete the novel. In fact, they would publish not in October of 1921 but in February of 1922. During the ten months between April of 1921 and February of 1922, Joyce added layers to his manuscript while Beach found typists, solicited subscriptions, took care of the Joyce family finances, moved her shop to the rue de l'Odéon, and prepared the French literary world for Ulysses—by arranging with Monnier for a reading in the latter's bookshop. She had time to write only one family letter during these ten months and that, tellingly, to her sister to plead for money to pay Darantiere.⁶ What Beach lacked in publishing experience she made up for in pluck, nerve, and brains.

Two factors aggravated the ten-month publishing process for Beach. The first was poverty. Lack of funds necessitated collecting subscriptions well in advance of publication. She also saved every centime of profit from the shop to make the first payment to Darantiere. Collecting some subscriptions was easy, especially among the literary circle of the two libraries: Anderson and Hemingway gathered some, Gide signed up, and Robert McAlmon (who was lending Joyce ＄150 a month until publication date) collected unsteady signatures during his nightly round of the bars. Obtaining others took letters. Beach did not win them all. Shaw, for example, in his irascible letter of 11 June 1921, called her a “young barbarian beglamoured by the excitement and enthusiasms that Art stirs up in passionate material” and added a spiteful note on her understanding of the Irish: “If you imagine that any Irishman, much less an elderly one, would pay 150 francs for such a book, you little know my countrymen.” But if Shaw was irascible, Churchill and Lawrence of Arabia were eager.⁷ They signed.

A second factor was the eccentricity of the book and its author. Joyce's handwriting confounded typists. Even when a chapter had been previously typed, as were the earlier ones, there were many scrawled additions from Joyce. Moreover, long sweeping lines cut across the pages to notes in the margin. In his memoirs, McAlmon confesses with hyperbole that, during one typing stint, he gave up trying to follow Joyce's color-coded notes and long arrows and inserted Joyce's additional words for Molly at random as he typed. And if McAlmon was impatient, other typists were faint-hearted. Some refused to type the Circe section; one even rang Joyce's doorbell and tossed the section on the floor at Joyce's feet. When the husband of one typist threw several offensive pages into his fire, Beach had to write to America to beg and badger John Quinn—even offering her mother as courier—for his fair copy of the pages. Quinn finally agreed to have the needed pages photographed and brought over by Mrs. Beach.

The Joycean style had begun about 1919 to change from the compression of Dubliners and Portrait to an expansive and layered technique that Joyce called “all-including” but that others have called “embroidery.” The words and lists and phrases seemed to grow from the printed paragraphs like random, crooked bean sprouts. After the pages had been typed, Joyce had added words, phrases, lines, and paragraphs. And even after the proofs arrived at Shakespeare and Company,⁸ Joyce—using blue, green, and red pencils—expanded the novel. He made some substitutions, but almost no deletions.⁹ Darantiere patiently printed new proofs when Beach requested them. The text grew. And the various versions of the typed and proof copies circulated between author and typist, publisher and printer, in confusing drafts and crosswinds. Though harried, Joyce seemed creatively stimulated by his own words printed on proof pages. He was determined to make Ulysses encyclopedic—indeed, epic. Some sections had to be hand-set eight or nine times in galley and page proof stages. Lotuseaters, Circe, and Ithaca were massively expanded, the last 300 percent.¹⁰ Initially, Darantiere had warned Beach that she would have a lot of added expense; then he wrote to inquire, “are the corrections necessary?”¹¹ She remained steadfast: the Joycean appetite for proofs must be sated.

Joyce was sowing everyday impressions into his story. These were not fill-in words of the general, clichéd, or adjectival variety. Rather, they were concrete words, lists of examples to enrich the historical layers, names to swell the music—until language itself became a character in the novel. Anthony Burgess reminds us that Joyce hated “pure fill-in words, aquacities; he presses every drop of water out of his cooked cabbage.”¹² We might say “Irish stew.” To his stew (or was it “thick giblet soup”?) Joyce added the turnips and onions of everyday experiences, and the herbs and spices of his cetum languages.

These additions came from the notebooks he had assembled in Trieste and Zurich as well as from his recent Paris experiences. He even used the names and characteristics of people around the bookshop, including some of the friends of Beach who typed the manuscript, and each member of her family. All the Beach women appear in Cyclops, in a list of the “fashionable international world” attending the wedding of “the chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chief ranger of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Conifer of Pine Valley” (U, 321). Lady Sylvester Elmshade is Mrs. Sylvester (Eleanor) Beach; Mrs. Holly Hazeleyes is the eldest sister, Holly; Mrs. Lianna Forrest is the youngest sister, Cyprian (who could have appeared under her own name); and Miss Gladys Beech—the name is spelled like that of the tree—is Sylvia, whom her parents had considered naming Gladys (U, 321). It is understandable that there should be a place for the Beaches among all the trees—maple, fir, birch, myrtle, and cedar—at the forester's wedding.¹³ Sylvester Beach appears earlier in the chapter as the “very reverend Dr. Forrest, Dean of Worcester” who performs one of the weddings reported in The Irish Independent (U, 293). But the name may also refer to Joseph Forrester, the assistant district attorney who prosecuted Heap and Anderson, whose wrath Quinn underscored to illustrate that Ulysses typically provoked not a prurient but an angry response.

It is little wonder, with all the scribbled additions on numerous proofs, that the published edition contained over 5,000 errors, transpositions, false additions of commas, and misinterpretations. Beach would insert in the book a slip of paper apologizing for the errors, “unavoidable under the circumstances.”¹⁴

Joyce could have continued indefinitely his expansion of names and allusions in the text. Even after the last chapter (Ithaca) was set in type, he continued to add to the proofs through January of 1922. He was halted only by his own sense of omens: his fortieth birthday was coming on 2 February. Dates and numbers and corresponding actions, if not conjoined by occult laws, at least seemed to confirm some purpose in occurrences. He resolved that his publication date would correspond to his birthdate. And so Beach made his determination hers.

These two complemented each other. He was a man who looked to the support of women; she was a woman who had learned from her missionary heritage to respond to need. He saw in her the essential virtues of women; she was practical, loyal, and forgiving. She saw in him an heroic writer, one who would transform modern literature. He seemed to be facing the promise of world fame; she would link The Company to his new novel and the two would succeed together. She wrote Holly in the month of her publishing agreement with Joyce: “Ulysses is going to make my place famous … if all goes well I hope to make money out of it, not only for Joyce but for me.”¹⁵ He saw in Shakespeare and Company a center of international literature: her best friends were Monnier, Larbaud, Léon-Paul Fargue, and other leading French writers; she sold the little magazines and books published by the small presses; she had a business with the best literary contacts. As if to illustrate this influence, she had managed, before the month of their agreement had passed, to place two publicity articles for the publication of Ulysses—one by Margorie Reed in the New York Sunday Herald and another by Sisley Huddleston in the London Observer. She was creating in Shakespeare and Company—and she believed this was her unique creation—the quintessential literary salon and library where all factions were welcome until seven P.M. six days a week. Her family described it as her “missionary endeavor”; she called it her “literary welfare work.”¹⁶ She served tea, sold the latest little poetry magazines, placed manuscripts with translators and little publishers, and could (if she thought one worthy) introduce one to leading writers of the day. In short, her world offered Joyce nearly everything he needed at this stage of his career.

The relationship of Beach and Joyce can also be explained on a more personal level. Both were foreigners in Paris, in exile from home. Both had fled lands in which they—like Bloom and Earwicker—had felt estranged. Both longed to be European, yet had the wisdom and pride to remain Irish and American. He had replaced Catholicism with a religion of art; similarly, she had replaced religious service (the nine generations of ministers and missionaries ended with her father) with a service to art. Young Nancy, who had changed her name to Sylvia in her teens, had left the pious world of her namesake missionary grandmother Nancy Orbison to go to Europe. Thus she could understand young Dedalus at Belvedere College leaving the Jesuits to follow his true calling as a high priest of art. Accordingly, in ironic salute, she nicknamed the creator of Dedalus “crooked Jesus.”¹⁷ She had herself threaded her way out of the maze of middle-class Presbyterian Princeton. In Paris, she would be the acolyte to the high priest of imagination.

Beach and Joyce shared values other than their commitment to literature. They shared a sense of social discretion and of the importance of privacy. The minister's daughter had learned to keep silent about the parish scandals and had learned to protect her father from their importunities. (Forty years of weekends and holidays in provincial France would only heighten her sense of discretion.) Similarly, Joyce, who at first felt painfully out of place in literary Paris, had what Nino Frank calls a “fanatic desire for mental privacy” that made him recoil from contact with new persons and situations.¹⁸ Beach protected him.

Beach was discreet yet sociable, could handle herself with strangers and crowds, and had a talent for making the right public gesture. She hung out the Greek flag during the ten-month preparation for Ulysses, and took it down only to try and match the blue for the cover—a task that eventually became so taxing that she claimed she got a headache every time she looked at the flag. While this flag rallied the private troops—Joyce, herself, and Myrsine, her Greek shop assistant—her public campaign focused on subscriptions, letter writing, and, finally and most important, the séance on 7 December to introduce Joyce to the French literary world. She and Adrienne Monnier planned a grand evening of lectures by Monnier and Larbaud, readings in English by Jimmy Light, an American actor from Greenwich Village, and readings in French by Larbaud. The translation of the portions of Ulysses read there, since lost, was done by Jacques Benoïst-Méchin, a member of both libraries. The response of their friends to this evening was enthusiastic: amid the applause, Larbaud kissed Joyce (who was blushing and confused) on both cheeks. This evening launched the international reception of Joyce.¹⁹ Thus buoyed, Sylvia heightened her efforts to promote Ulysses. Her private campaigning was also direct and aggressive—note her pursuit of Shaw and her conversion in 1930 of Louis Gillet, once a harsh critic of Ulysses. Beach courted as well Joyce's most important French allies: Monnier, Larbaud, Gillet. She could be subtle as well, as, for example, in her 1922 letters to Miss Harriet Weaver, in which she elicits a major gift for Joyce.²⁰ From her life in the parsonage, Beach had learned how to solicit and distribute money.

Beach also served as an important member of Joyce's audience. She was not one of those academics Joyce occasionally chuckled over to his friends: “My immortality,” he told his first Ulysses translator, “does not go through the reader but through generations of professors.”²¹ He had, he added, “put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant.”²² If decades are an index, the prophecy will be confirmed.

Nor was Beach a common reader. Although Joyce acknowledged the generations of professors who would be explicating his text, he also occasionally talked about the common reader. On publication day he remarked, as the son of Sylvia's concierge brushed by him, that here was a future reader. Beach was not a concierge's daughter: she offered Joyce an open and ardent mind. Nor was she like some of his devotees of the thirties—those of the “coterie canonisation”²³—who listened to Joycean passages with the serious nods and knowing chuckles of the privileged. She was not, that is, one of those, who, on one occasion, made McAlmon feign nausea; indeed, she was naively open. Though she had been reading voraciously since childhood, she was untutored—by choice and sometimes, I think, proudly so. Her words from an unpublished draft of her memoirs, typically self-deprecatory, reveal her as a rapt reader of Joyce's work:

I was ignorant as a carp, but maybe it was just as well not to be too much cluttered up with learning when you approach Ulysses. I've seen people whose intellectual over-training prevented them from getting any fun out of such a book at all. There were readers with intellectual as well as puritan inhibitions and it was almost worse; their understanding was hopelessly jammed. I'm sure Joyce preferred hearty readers with an appetite for big dishes to the prudent, reluctant kind, scared to take the plunge, sparing in praise.

I was never ashamed to ask Joyce to explain difficult passages and he was always very patient in doing so. Sometimes, in discussing Ulysses with others my erudition must have quite impressed them. I learned it all from Joyce.²⁴

She was also his representative of America. He loved the rhythms and idioms of her speech. He knew the nasal twang of Pound and the flat midwestern sound of McAlmon, but spent less and less time with them after their first year of meeting. The American with whom he spent the most time for a decade was Sylvia Beach, its publisher, regarded by Larbaud and Monnier as quintessentially American. According to Monnier, “words never failed her; on occasion she deliberately invented them, she proceeded then by an adaptation of English, by a mixture or extension of French vocables, all that with an exquisite sense of our language. Her finds were generally so happy, so charmingly funny, that they at once came into usage—our usage—as if they had always existed; one could not keep from repeating them, and one tried to imitate them. To sum it up, this young American had a great deal of humor, let us say more: she was humor itself.”²⁵

Her word play attracted the French, particularly Fargue. It was Beach who coined the expression “Bloomsday” for their 16 June 1922 celebration, and the expression immediately caught on. According to Jackson Mathews, Paul Valéry dropped in at Shakespeare and Company chiefly to hear Beach talk. He, reports Mathews, “loved the completely American way she had of speaking the surest idiomatic French. Speech and character in her were the same thing. Any remark she made was likely to have the turn and force of epigram or folklore.”²⁶ Joyce, the collector of languages and the master of word play, listened.

This representative of America and of its idioms allowed Joyce to make Paris his longest stay in exile. If Pound brought him there, Beach helped him stay. He came to Paris—“Dublin's antithesis”—to stay a week. He remained for twenty years.²⁷ His anchor was dual: the bookshop and the city. If he loved the city, he did not, fashionably, adopt its language in Ulysses. Of the 202 French words or phrases in the book, many, as Albert Sonnenfeld notes, denigrate the language: from the cliché-ridden puns in Proteus (35) to the language of the old men in Eumaeus (32).²⁸ He chose life in “Paris” because he thought it “the last of the human cities.”

What united Beach and Joyce is what preserved their union. During the twenties, Beach published numerous editions of Ulysses, as well as Pomes Penyeach and Our Exagmination Round his Factification for Incamination of Work in Progress. Publication was always in progress. She also negotiated all his contracts for translations of Ulysses and excerpts of Work in Progress. Periodically during this decade, tensions and resentments flared, aggravated by his eye problems and her migraines. But even during tense periods they maintained a civilized formality: they called each other always “Mr. Joyce” and “Miss Beach.”²⁹ An unpublished portion of her memoirs confirms their relationship:

[Joyce] was sensitive to a degree I have never seen in anyone else. Anything violent made him shrink: a clap of thunder made him tremble; disrespect for God or the Devil displeased him—also [disrespect] for “ladies” with whom he had a very old fashioned courtesy: a bad word said in his presence made him blush scarlet. Though the wit and Rabelaisian stories of Léon Paul Fargue amused him, he was visibly shocked at so much freedom in the presence of “ladies”. … I was anything but a lady, I hope, but Joyce passed this over and we got on like old friends.³⁰

With him she was a proper minister's daughter, and for his part Joyce was elaborately courteous—and never more so than when there was tension between author and publisher.

The courtesy and formality of their personal relationship preserved it during times of anger and resentment. Their letters reveal that each was aware when the other was angry. Despite comments in the memoirs of her old age, she was not a victim of hero worship. Nor can civility alone account for the endurance of their relationship. There was a mutual, practical consideration: when Ulysses was published, their professional lives united. Shakespeare and Company became the Joyce center—a Parisian port of call for a growing number of international writers, students, and professors. The smooth sailing of Ulysses and of the Company depended upon harmony between those at the helms.

In studying the lives of heroic figures, one is often struck by how the common and uncommon are juxtaposed in them. Both Joyce and Beach illustrate this juxtaposition. Beach had an uncommon spark for igniting and fueling friendship. Her genius lay in nourishing genius; her creativity lay in furnishing, both physically and spiritually, a work of art called Shakespeare and Company. Yet she was without literary creativity in a literary world, the keeper of finance books and library cards. By ironic contrast, Joyce was the imaginative genius with the mentality of a common shopkeeper. Indeed, he once confessed that he had the mind of a grocery clerk.³¹ While writing a novel in the vein (if not in the magnitude) of Rabelais, Cervantes, and Sterne, he was fretting over bills to the occulist and counting the number of words in reviews. Though he rejected conventions, he stuck like a bourgeois provincial to the fundamentals of social relationships and the routines of domestic life. Joyce's obsession with the ordinary was a habit of life. It was so in his choice of a mate, in the furniture of his apartment, in the tedium of his correspondence. And it is true in his art. Ulysses celebrates common humanity. Or, as Anthony Burgess puts it, Ulysses is the “solemnisation of drab days and the sanctification of the ordinary.”³² One thinks of Wordsworth's power of lending the charm of novelty to the things of everyday.

The last corrected proofs were sent to Darantiere on Monday, 30 January and received Tuesday, 31 January 1922. Two days and nights later, on 2 February, Joyce's 40th birthday, the Dijon train carried two published books to Paris. Beach rang the doorbell of 9 rue de l'Université and handed Joyce the first copy of Ulysses. Returning to Shakespeare and Company, she placed the second copy in the window. That day, claims Djuna Barnes, “all expatriate pens stood still.” All but Joyce's. He wrote Beach the following: “I cannot let today pass without thanking you for all the trouble and worry you have given yourself about my book during the last year. All I can hope is that the result of its publication may be some satisfaction to you.”³³

Notes

1. Princeton University Library, unpublished letters of Sylvia Beach.

2. Sylvia Beach, Shakespeare and Company (New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1959), 48. These thousand copies would comprise 750 numbered copies on ordinary paper at 150 francs (＄12) each, 150 on vergé d'arches at 250 francs (＄20) each, and 100 signed copies on Hollande paper at 350 francs (＄28) each. Monnier had recently published volumes by Paul Claudel, Valery Larbaud, and Paul Valéry, called Les Cahiers des Amis des Livres. See Adrienne Monnier, “Memorial de la Rue de l'Odéon,” in The Very Rich Hours of Adrienne Monnier, trans. and ed. Richard McDougall (New York: Scribners, 1976).

3. James Joyce, Ulysses (New York: Random House, 1946). Unless otherwise indicated all references to Ulysses are to this edition.

4. Noel Riley Fitch, Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generation: A History of Literary Paris in the Twenties and Thirties (New York: W. W. Norton, 1983), 93-94.

5. Herbert Gorman, James Joyce (New York: Rinehart and Co., 1948), 286.

6. Sylvia Beach to Holly Beach, 22 September 1921 (Princeton University Library).

7. Beach, Shakespeare and Company, 52. Lawrence turned belligerent when his copy did not arrive by the promised October date. She did not have time, however, to answer him from her own battlefield.

8. The first proofs arrived 10 June 1921 (63 years ago from this symposium). They were called placards (equivalent to galley proofs); most of them are now at Harvard University. The “page proofs” followed the placards; most of them are at the State University of New York at Buffalo and the University of Texas at Austin.

9. Michael Groden, “Editing Joyce's Ulysses: An International Effort,” Scholarly Publishing (October 1980), 42. See also pages 37-54.

10. A. Walton Litz, “The Last Adventure of Ulysses,” The Princeton University Library Chronicle, 28 (Winter 1967). See also 63-65.

11. Maurice Darantiere to Sylvia Beach, 21 September 1921, Sylvia Beach Papers, Princeton University Library.

12. Anthony Burgess, ReJoyce (New York: W. W. Norton, 1965), 20.

13. References to Sylvia Beach would be numerous in his Work in Progress during the thirties.

14. Insert in James Joyce, Ulysses (Paris: Shakespeare and Company, 1922).

15. Sylvia Beach to Holly Beach, 23 April 1921, quoted in Fitch, Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generations, 78.

16. Sylvia Beach papers, Princeton University Library.

17. Ibid.

18. Nino Frank, “The Shadow That Had Lost Its Man,” in Portraits of the Artist in Exile: Recollections of James Joyce by Europeans, ed. Willard Potts (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1979), 76.

19. Fitch, Sylvia Beach and the Lost Generation, 109-12.

20. Bonnie Kime Scott, Joyce and Feminism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984), 173.

21. Jacques Benoïst-Méchin, interview with author, 10 June 1978.

22. Richard Ellmann, James Joyce, new and revised edition (New York: Oxford University Press, 1982), 521.

23. Burgess, ReJoyce, 20.

24. Sylvia Beach papers, Princeton University Library.

25. Monnier, “Memorial,” 40.

26. Jackson Mathews, “My Sylvia Beach,” in Sylvia Beach (1887-1962) (Paris: Mercure de France, 1963), 25.

27. Ellmann, James Joyce, 482.

28. Albert Sonnenfeld, “The French Metrollops: Ulysses and the French Connection,” Paper delivered at the Modern Language Association, San Francisco, 29 December 1979, 4-5. Sonnenfeld finds only five phrases from French literature.

29. Ellmann, James Joyce, 508.

30. Sylvia Beach Papers, Princeton University Library.

31. James Joyce to Frank Budgen, 2 May 1934 in Letters of James Joyce, ed. Richard Ellmann (New York: Viking Press, 1966), 3:304.

32. Burgess, ReJoyce, 25.

33. James Joyce to Sylvia Beach, 2 February 1922, quoted in Sylvia Beach, Shakespeare and Company, 85.