Session: 123456789101112131415161718192021         Page 243244245246247248249250251252253254255256257258259260261262263264265266267268269270271272273274275276277278279280281282283284285286287 of 1029

bandages, he was quite a vigorous fellow. And his wife, Nora, was a typical, garrulous, friendly Irish lady. We had a couple of dinners together. The last one we had was the funniest because Joyce got potted.

Did he usually do this?

Well, he always had quite a lot to drink, but this time he really got potted. We went up to his apartment after dinner, and he decided he was going to sing me some Irish ballads, and Mrs. Joyce decided he was not going to sing me some Irish ballads. And so a great fight started, as Joyce went over to the piano. They had a bench in front of the piano, not a stool--you know, one of these long benches. And the fight developed with Nora grabbing one end of the bench and Joyce grabbing the other--both pulling in opposite directions. Suddenly she deliberately let go, and Joyce went staggering back and landed in a heap on his behind on the floor against the wall with the piano bench on top of him. Here was the great James Joyce sprawled out on the floor with this piano bench pinning him down! Nora said, “Maybe this will teach you a lesson, you drunken--" I thought the time had come for me to retreat, and so we left Joyce still sitting on the floor, quite happy. I mean he was in no pain. She took me downstairs and put me into a taxi cab and apologized for this vulgar display, but of course we were both laughing--it was so ridiculous. The last thing I heard from her as I got into the taxi cab was,