The First International James Joyce Symposium: A Personal Account

The First International James Joyce Symposium: A Personal Account AUSTIN BRIGGS The extracts that follow are from the journal I typed up and edited shortly after returning home in the summer of 1967 from the First International James Joyce Symposium. Reading over pages written thirty-five years ago, I sometimes feel that I recall the author less clearly than the events he describes. Who is this fellow who calls women “ladies” and “girls,” refers to my late friend Berni Benstock as “Bernard,” and—with a straight face—reports “gay parties” on Bloomsday? With horror, I find that he drinks too much and smokes cigarettes; with chagrin, I find his knowledge of Joyce generally shallow and sometimes in error, as you will discover if you read on. Well, the journal is his, not mine, so I pass on a text considerably reduced but otherwise essentially as written those many years ago. Tuesday, June 13 Drive down with Stewart Parker from Belfast to a hot and muggy Dublin. Gogarty’s line: “It isn’t this time of year at all.” Return MiniMinor to O’Hertz and head for drink at Moony’s. Odd couple we must appear—the poet Ulsterman and the sentimental American. Stewart piratical in long hair, blue wash trousers, and mod-Edwardian pea jacket; artificial leg gives nautical roll to his gait; I the fool, carrying ivy from Coole Park that languishes in murky water of Galway City Dairy and Tea Cozy bottle. Excited to be back in Dublin, Stewart expands on play he’s been commissioned to write for Swift Tercentenary. His Belfast accent becomes even flatter each time he asks for another double-x at Neary’s Select Bar, where we have settled down in earnest. Cook up Joyce Studies Annual, Volume 13, Summer 2002© 2002 by the University of Texas Press, P.O. Box 7819, Austin, Texas 78713-7819 01-T2429 9/13/02 12:07 PM Page 5 story about ivy for the nosy: “It’s from me grandmither’s grave.” Fortunately , no one shows any interest whatever in it or us. Still don’t know where to find my symposium, but curator at Thoor Ballylee said she thought Gresham Hotel had something to do with it. On way to Moony’s, noticed information booth on O’Connell Street for Congress of Behavioral Psychologists; what’s the difference between a congress and a symposium? Gresham connects me with David Ward, University of Tulsa, who has something to do with James Joyce Quarterly, one of Symposium sponsors. Have corresponded with Ward for months, working up a grudge against him for several bad and sufficient reasons. For one, his smudgy, badly-typed mimeographed first announcement of the Symposium back in early February spoke of plans not yet “finalized”; for another, finalized plans still hadn’t reached me by time I flew from U.S. June 6th. Have enjoyed tiny fits of antic rage against Ward ever since arrival in Ireland, savoring fantasy that Symposium would be called off, like special charter flights Ward promised he’d organize, leaving me to invent a symposium when it comes time to account to Hamilton College for my travel funding. Is Ward Lucky Jim, or am I? Finally get Ward on phone at Gresham. Do I want to sign on for Joyce tour planned for tomorrow? Yes. And would I be free to join him and others at the Bailey on Duke Street at 8:30? Perhaps, I say, explaining my plans not yet—resist saying “finalized.” Back at hotel , wash out shirt in sink, change water in City Dairy and Tea Cozy bottle, review chapter of Ellmann’s biography. Arrive Bailey 8:45 PM. No symposiasts. Unhappy half hour of half pints, with periodic trips to case lounge bar. Nobody answers to “David Ward?” One customer, a Cyclops if I ever saw one, froth of Guinness in his tobacco-stained tweed beard, positively offended by query. Bailey used to be known as one of the best, but—recently redecorated —much too modern to drink comfortably in. Wonder why Ward didn’t plan to meet at Davy Byrne’s, just across street. As tarted up as Bailey, but Joyce...