Ter Conatus

Someone said that all of us Irish writers toil in the shadow of . I prefer to think of myself as basking in its radiance, but seeing those words written now, I feel embarrassed by them. The verb looks wrong. The whole phrase is glib and trite. It looks rote and unconsidered. I feel this way much of the time while reading Joyce. As much as I love him, he makes me feel that any attempt of mine to wield language is ham-fisted and juvenile. But then, my reading