Still courtesy of Daniel Smith/Bazmark Film III Pty Limited 
 
 After you've seen The Great Gatsby, come back and listen to our Spoiler Special: 
 
 Dana Stevens Dana Stevens is Slate’s movie critic. 
 
 As Nick Carraway, the mild-mannered but eagle-eyed narrator of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, observes in the book’s early pages, “Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope.” So it was with a Zen mind that I tried to approach Baz Luhrmann’s adaptation of the book, which, intelligent debunkings aside, I really do regard as one of the great American novels of the 20th century—and probably inherently unfilmable. Literary adaptations of books in which the language is all—particularly the work of high-modern prose stylists like Fitzgerald, Proust, Nabokov, Woolf—seem doomed to either plodding literalism or airy insubstantiality. (Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita had a nasty sense of humor all its own, but the script, written by Nabokov himself, dispensed almost entirely with the narrative voice that makes the novel so perversely seductive.) 
 
 Then there was the fact that Baz Luhrmann, the Australian director of such grand-scale entertainments as Romeo + Juliet, Moulin Rouge, and Australia, was the one who would be turning Fitzgerald’s economic tone poem of a novel into a big, glitzy 3-D spectacle. I’ve never been fond of Luhrmann’s films, and have only been able to tolerate a couple. (I think I walked out of Moulin Rouge, back when I wasn’t a film critic and could indulge in such luxuries.) His mania for heaping one visual excess atop another—look at this! No, look at this!— strikes me as a form of directorial ADD, an inability to let himself or the audience rest. And as a member of that winded audience, I sense an implicit condescension in Luhrmann’s tendency to flag and then re-flag a film’s major themes as his films go on—themes that were not introduced subtly the first time around. In Baz Luhrmann movies, ideas arrive with an ensemble. 
 
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 But of course, The Great Gatsby is the story of a supremely unsubtle man given to bold gestures and flashy set pieces, so maybe Luhrmann was born to adapt it. At any rate, his Great Gatsby was nowhere near as terrible as I feared. It is, as I suspected, a gargantuan hunk of over-art-directed kitsch, but it makes for a grandiose, colorful, pleasure-drenched night at the movies. And far from betraying the spirit of Fitzgerald’s novel, Luhrmann (along with his co-screenwriter Craig Pearce) treats the book with a loving mix of straight-ahead reverence and postmodern playfulness. During the huge, highly choreographed party sequences that structure the story (this isn’t a musical, but the recurring music- and dance-heavy sequences make it feel like one), you’re more likely to hear Jay-Z, Kanye West, and Lana Del Rey than you are a tinny vintage recording of “Ain’t We Got Fun?”, the flapper-age standard that figures in a scene in the novel and that played at the end of the stillborn 1974 Robert Redford version. Luhrmann’s use of contemporary pop may spring mainly from a desire to sell soundtrack albums, but the notion of using hip-hop as a backdrop for Jazz Age euphoria makes sense: With his new wealth, loud pink suit, and impossibly sweet crib, Gatsby is a rap star before his time. 
 
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 Dance-floor playlists aside, this Gatsby unfolds in a fairly conventional period setting (though this is the ’20s as seen through a distorting kaleidoscope, everything a little bigger and louder and lusher than life). In a klutzy frame story that’s absent from the novel, we meet Nick Carraway (Tobey Maguire) at a sanatorium where he’s recovering from “morbid alcoholism” and assorted mental maladies. He begins to tell his story to a benevolent, Santa Claus-like shrink, who provides him with a pen and paper with which to write it down. Later Nick will trade these tools in for a typewriter; whatever writing tool he uses, the words will occasionally drift up around him on the screen, then break apart and drift around him in a cloud of floating 3-D letters. It’s a hokey device, but the Nick-as-author conceit gives us an excuse to listen to some choice passages of Fitzgerald’s prose, which Maguire, giving a surprisingly quiet performance at this chaotic movie’s heart, delivers beautifully. Thematically, though, it does seem a mistake to turn The Great Gatsby into a self-referential bildungsroman about a young man’s journey to healing through authorship. When Nick finally pens in “The Great” over his manuscript’s original title Gatsby, we don’t so much feel pride in his accomplishment as annoyance at his smugness—he’s supposed to be telling us this story out of necessity, not ambition. 
 
 The story Nick has to tell is one that anyone who’s graduated high school in the United States surely knows, at least in CliffsNotes form: The mysterious tycoon Jay Gatsby (Leonardo DiCaprio) owns a gaudy estate next door to Nick’s rented cottage in the fictional Long Island village of West Egg. At one of his extravagant all-night flapper blowouts, Gatsby asks Nick to arrange a meeting with Nick’s cousin Daisy (Carey Mulligan), a dazzling former debutante whom Gatsby once loved and lost as a younger, poorer man. Daisy lives directly across the sound in old-money East Egg with her rich brute of a husband, Tom Buchanan (Joel Edgerton), and is constantly flanked by her best friend Jordan Baker (Elizabeth Debicki), an icy-cool golf champion. Over the course of a summer, Nick is drawn into the orbit of these wealthy, powerful, lost people, whom he recognizes as a “rotten crowd” only after their unthinking cruelty has already caused irreparable harm. 
 
 Every image and set piece you remember from the novel—the crumbling oculist’s billboard that looms over the action with judging eyes; Gatsby flinging his collection of custom-made shirts at an overcome, weeping Daisy (and, thanks to the 3-D format, directly at us); the hot afternoon at the Plaza Hotel when the rivalry for Daisy’s affections comes to a head—is rendered in broad, operatic gestures. There were many moments when that broadness made me cringe: Does the CGI-aided camera always have to race at jet-ski speed across the water toward the symbolic green light on Daisy’s dock? Must Gatsby’s face really be seen for the first time against a backdrop of fireworks, as the climax of Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” surges on the soundtrack? And yet for every slab of processed cheese, there’s another moment whose visual inventiveness pays off. In an early scene, Luhrmann turns one image in the novel—Nick looking out the window at a party, “simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life”—into a clever Rear Window-style tableau of a Manhattan apartment building bursting with untold stories. 
 
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 Leonardo DiCaprio makes as good a Jay Gatsby as any living actor I can think of—he captures the character’s fixed-in-time boyishness as well as his innocent hucksterism, and he looks like a (dubiously ethical) million bucks in the splendiferous costumes by Catherine Martin, the director's wife (who also designed the dizzyingly lavish, champagne-and-confetti-drenched production—she must have been one tired woman by the time shooting ended). But DiCaprio’s physical presence seems almost superfluous in some key scenes, as Maguire’s voice-over narrates the idealistic striver’s actions faster than he can complete them. Our first glimpse of Gatsby, before even the Gershwin-accompanied debut described above, is a shot of his be-ringed hand reaching toward that oft-revisited green light as Nick describes watching his enigmatic neighbor … reach for a green light off a dock. Luhrmann doesn’t just gild the lily, he spray-paints it with glow-in-the-dark sparkles. ||||| It’s common to think of great writers as congenital loners -- the iconic isolated genius too egotistical or socially inept to have fulfilling personal relationships. If a writer does have a spouse or partner, we imagine they would choose someone wholly different from themselves, preferably someone entirely uninterested in writing so that the genius can work undisturbed. 
 
 Yet, as The Guardian observed in 2007, despite the competitiveness and jealousy that may arise when two writers fall in love, literary-minded people tend to be drawn to each other. Whether it’s two brilliant authors or an author and an insightful editor/advisor, astute literary minds have always found ways to each other, and these pairings aren’t always disastrous. In fact, sometimes these partnerships result in even greater artistic productivity. 
 
 These 13 couples, though not always personally stable or successful, likely produced even better work due to their unions: 
 
 Vladimir Nabokov and Véra Nabokov: Vladimir Nabokov’s classic works such as Lolita and Pale Fire have entranced generations of readers. While Lolita was met with considerable controversy for its “obscene” and “pornographic” content, Nabokov himself was quite straight-laced and conservative. He was married to Véra for over 50 years, and they were constantly together. Moreover, his wife was a brilliant woman whose significant contributions to his oeuvre are easy to overlook, but ultimately undeniable. She was his first reader, helping to polish and perfect the flawless prose for which Nabokov is famous. She conducted his negotiations with publishers. She occasionally filled in for him as a lecturer at Cornell during his tenure there. Above all, she was an ardent champion of his work, pushing him to publish Lolita rather than consign an early draft to an incinerator, as he threatened to do during a fit of frustration. Without Véra, Vladimir’s authorial career might have looked quite different, and possibly far less distinguished. 
 
 George Eliot and George Henry Lewes: George Eliot’s genius as a novelist has been firmly established over the past century and a half, but one person believed in her well before that -- her partner, George Henry Lewes. An accomplished author himself, Lewes worked as a philosopher and critic as well as publishing some fiction. However, Lewes was no egomaniac; despite his own literary career, he was happy to foster the authorial talents of his partner in a time when women's careers were rarely taken seriously. During the many years they lived together (they were never able to marry due to Lewes’s inability to obtain a divorce from his first wife), he encouraged her to write. She began to compose novels after their relationship began, and during their partnership she wrote such masterpieces as Middlemarch and Silas Marner. His own novels suffered by comparison, but he continued to have a robust career as a philosopher throughout their relationship. At that time, it surely took a very secure man to remain supportive as his literary fame was eclipsed by that of his female partner, but Lewes and Eliot managed to maintain a wonderful relationship that lasted until his death. 
 
 F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald: F. Scott and Zelda’s famously tumultuous relationship dominates the public’s image of Zelda. While F. Scott is fondly remembered for The Great Gatsby and other novels, Zelda’s reputation rests on her struggles with mental illness. Their relationship was troubled by jealousy, bitter fights, and a shared wild lifestyle, but Zelda’s presence did more to fuel Fitzgerald’s writing than to smother it. He frequently lifted excerpts from Zelda’s diary (uncredited) to include in his fiction, and this casual plagiarism eventually led to a deep resentment on her part. However, her support was often valuable to his writing career. Despite festering anger about his theft of her work, she tacitly allowed his drawing on her writing for his celebrated books, insisted on the title The Great Gatsby over some of his dreadful other options (Trimalchio in West Egg?!), and defended his legacy after his early death. The same can’t be said of him, however; Fitzgerald was brutally critical of her novel, Save Me the Waltz, and forced her to rewrite it so he could use shared material in his book Tender Is the Night instead. Despite the volcanic and frequently destructive nature of their marriage, it remains one of the most remarkable literary unions in recent memory. 
 
 Virginia Woolf and Leonard Woolf: Like Lewes, Leonard Woolf was not merely the helpmeet of a brilliant partner. He might more accurately be described as a Renaissance man, dabbling skillfully in writing, editing, politics, and business throughout his life, though none of his work has been well remembered. Virginia’s talent was more concentrated and more uncommon; during their marriage she published modernist classics including To the Lighthouse and Mrs. Dalloway. And while Leonard had his own fine career, he also sustained Virginia through an adulthood that included a bitter struggle with depression and mental illness, providing her with the stability she needed to continue working. The pair founded Hogarth Press, which published not only Virginia’s work but also books by T.S. Eliot and other associates. When Virginia tragically died by suicide, she left a heartwrenching note for Leonard that expresses the great strength she found in their marriage: “What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good... I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.” 
 
 Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne: Though Joan Didion’s star now shines brighter than that of her late husband, both halves of this famous marriage were great literary talents. Both distinguished themselves as novelists and essayists, as well as screenplay composers. Dunne once told The New York Times that he and Didion were each other’s “first reader, absolutely.'' After Dunne’s death, Didion wrote a memoir about her grieving process entitled The Year of Magical Thinking, which quickly attained classic status in the memoir genre and eloquently depicted a shared writing life that sustained both their careers. Didion writes of reading together, sharing honest criticism, and even writing down a note for his current project at dinner because he’d forgotten to bring his usual notecards. Of their complete lack of competitiveness and sense of shared purpose in marriage, she writes: “There was nothing I did not discuss with John... I did not always think he was right nor did he always think I was right but we were each the person the other trusted.” 
 
 Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre: Both were giants in the world of letters, particularly philosophy, and their highly unconventional partnership spanned decades. The later part of their relationship was not sexual and both engaged in many other affairs, yet they maintained a romantic bond that centered around an intellectual and emotional intimacy unmatched by any of their other liaisons. They told each other everything about their other flings -- often in contemptuous and dismissive language -- and developed a pattern of sharing lovers, as Beauvoir began seducing her teenage students and then passing them along to Sartre. Their relationship was often seemingly held together by the cruel, even predatory way they treated other intimates. However, personal faults aside, both published seminal works of philosophy and fiction and shared an intellectually stimulating partnership throughout most of their lives. It’s hard to think of a more equally imposing literary couple than Sartre and Beauvoir. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley and Mary Shelley: Percy and Mary’s marriage was not always stable, but their staunch support of each other’s writing was crucial to both of their accomplishments and enduring prestige. Mary’s most famous work, Frankenstein, was conceived of and largely written while the Shelleys were summering in Geneva with Lord Byron and a party of friends. Her story of a patched-together, reanimated corpse was thought up in response to a challenge from Byron that each member of the party write their own ghost story, and Percy encouraged her to expand Frankenstein into a full novel, and also offered editorial feedback. Wrote Mary in later years, “But for his incitement, it would never have taken the form in which it was presented to the world." After Percy’s early death, Mary promoted his reputation as a poet; she maintained a vibrant writing career and frequently cited his poetry in her own work, and, in addition, edited it and pushed for its publication. 
 
 Stephen King and Tabitha King: Stephen and Tabitha are a literary power couple with a literary power family. The King family is bursting at the seams with successful writers; both of their sons have also published books. The Kings have been married since 1971, and both have published multiple novels. Though Stephen King’s reputation and output has far exceeded his wife’s, her nine novels also garnered positive attention. Moreover, Tabitha has played the often unsung but invaluable role of the supportive spouse. When Stephen first began writing his breakout hit Carrie, he felt he couldn’t write convincingly from a girl’s perspective and threw out the first pages he’d drafted. Tabitha urged him to keep trying, aiding him throughout the process of getting inside the mind of a woman. Without her insight, Stephen’s glorious career as a horror writer might never have taken off. 
 
 Jonathan Safran Foer and Nicole Krauss: The marriage of these all-star novelists inspires jealousy amongst the literati -- and curiosity. These two prefer to keep the details of their union under wraps, but we do know that they live together in Brooklyn, have two children, and publish finely crafted, critically acclaimed, and commercially successful novels. Is there anything they DON’T have going for them? The pair married in 2004, in between the publications of each writer’s first and second novels. Though they rarely speak publicly about their relationship or how much they rely on each other during the writing process, there is a family resemblance between their books that suggests a mutual influence. 
 
 Zadie Smith and Nick Laird: Zadie Smith’s husband has said he “discovered” her, as they met when Nick Laird read and admired her submission for a short story anthology he was editing. Both were in their second year at Cambridge, and they became close friends and, several years later, a couple. The two are now married and have two children. Though she rocketed to literary fame in her 20s, early in their friendship they competed for the same writing prize and were a part of the same crowd of budding student authors, and Laird edited her breakout debut White Teeth. Now Laird may seem to struggle with being in Smith’s shadow, but he’s emerged as a talented novelist and prize-winning poet in his own right. And while being married to such a celebrity can’t always be easy, he and Smith have made it work splendidly, supporting and editing each other’s writing as well as occasionally collaborating. With two such talents pulling for each other, it’s not surprising to see that each has continued to blossom as a writer. 
 
 Michael Chabon and Ayelet Waldman: These two prolific writers have no particular reticence about sharing their personal lives with the public. Both have written books detailing their parenting experiences, and Waldman has stirred up controversy by asserting that she loves her husband more than she loves their children. In her Modern Love column making this claim, Waldman describes the couple as “desperately, ardently in love.” The couple has four children and co-parent equally, but both also have vibrant writing careers. Chabon is famous for his literary fiction, including The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay and Telegraph Avenue, while Waldman has written lighter mystery fare as well as several more literary novels. With Waldman’s Love and Treasure, a novel centered around the looting of Hungarian Jews during the Holocaust, recently released, the Chabon-Waldman juggernaut shows no signs of slowing down. 
 
 Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky: Allen Ginsberg, a celebrated poet and leading member of the Beat Generation, met Peter Orlovsky in 1954. The two fell in love and remained partners until Ginsberg’s death in 1997. Ginsberg rose to fame in the mid-’50s with the publication of his seminal work “Howl,” a poem deemed obscene at the time due to its rough language but also celebrated by critics for its virtuosity. Meanwhile, Ginsberg urged Orlovsky, who had considered himself a poet, to begin writing. While he never became a literary powerhouse on the level of Ginsberg, he went on to publish his work and receive grant money for his poetry projects. These two writers were central to the Beat movement that altered the course of American literature. Their sometimes-rocky relationship was open to allow affairs with other men and women, but their bond to each other held through over 40 years of what both considered to be a “marriage.” 
 
 Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) and Olivia Clemens: Mark Twain, or Samuel Clemens, met Olivia Langdon in 1867. Very early in their courtship, Clemens escorted Langdon to a reading by Charles Dickens, setting an appropriately bookish tone for the rest of their relationship. They married in 1870, and Olivia Clemens became her husband’s editor, assisting him with finishing his books and articles. Though frail and frequently in ill health, Olivia was well-educated and intelligent, making her an ideal spouse for a prominent author. She also offered a strongly moral and female viewpoint, influencing Clemens to tone down the irreverence of his work and add a dash of seriousness and delicacy to his later writing. Her edits contributed to his post-marriage oeuvre garnering even more respect and acclaim, and she continued to give feedback on his work until her death in 1904. ||||| When “The Great Gatsby” was published, on April 10, 1925, F. Scott Fitzgerald, living high in France after his early success, cabled Max Perkins, his editor at Scribners, and demanded to know if the news was good. Mostly, it was not. The book received some reviews that were dismissive (“F. SCOTT FITZGERALD’S LATEST A DUD,” a headline in the New York World ran) and others that were pleasant but patronizing. Fitzgerald later complained to his friend Edmund Wilson that “of all the reviews, even the most enthusiastic, not one had the slightest idea what the book was about.” For a writer of Fitzgerald’s fame, sales were mediocre—about twenty thousand copies by the end of the year. Scribners did a second printing, of three thousand copies, but that was it, and when Fitzgerald died, in 1940, half-forgotten at the age of forty-four, the book was hard to find. 
 
 The tale of Fitzgerald’s woeful stumbles—no great writer ever hit the skids so publicly—is suffused with varying shades of irony, both forlorn and triumphal. Fitzgerald was an alcoholic, and no doubt his health would have declined, whatever the commercial fate of his masterpiece. But he was a writer who needed recognition and money as much as booze, and if “Gatsby” had sold well it would likely have saved him from the lacerating public confessions of failure that he made in the nineteen-thirties, or, at least, would have kept him away from Hollywood. (He did get a fascinating, half-finished novel, “The Last Tycoon,” out of the place, but his talents as a screenwriter were too fine-grained for M-G-M.) At the same time, the initial failure of “Gatsby” has yielded an astounding coda: the U.S. trade-paperback edition of the book currently sells half a million copies a year. Jay Gatsby “sprang from his Platonic conception of himself,” and his exuberant ambitions and his abrupt tragedy have merged with the story of America, in its self-creation and its failures. The strong, delicate, poetically resonant text has become a kind of national scripture, recited happily or mournfully, as the occasion requires. 
 
 In 1925, Fitzgerald sent copies of “Gatsby” to Edith Wharton, Gertrude Stein, and T. S. Eliot, who wrote thank-you notes that served to canonize the book when Wilson reprinted them, in “The Crack-Up” (1945), a miscellany of Fitzgerald’s writing and letters. All three let the young author know that he had done something that defined modernity. Edith Wharton praised the scene early in the novel when the coarsely philandering Tom Buchanan takes Nick Carraway—the shy young man who narrates the story—to an apartment he keeps for his mistress, Myrtle, in Washington Heights. Wharton described the scene as a “seedy orgy.” With its stupid remarks leading nowhere, its noisy, trivial self-dramatization, the little gathering marks a collapse of the standards of social conduct. In its acrid way, the episode is satirical, but an abyss slowly opens. Some small expectation of grace has vanished. 
 
 I thought of Wharton’s phrase when I saw the new, hyperactive 3-D version of “The Great Gatsby,” by the Australian director Baz Luhrmann (“Strictly Ballroom,” “Moulin Rouge!”). Luhrmann whips Fitzgerald’s sordid debauch into a saturnalia—garish and violent, with tangled blasts of music, not all of it redolent of the Jazz Age. (Jay-Z is responsible for the soundtrack; Beyoncé and André 3000 sing.) Fitzgerald’s scene at the apartment gives off a feeling of sinister incoherence; Luhrmann’s version is merely a frantic jumble. The picture is filled with an indiscriminate swirling motion, a thrashing impress of “style” (Art Deco turned to digitized glitz), thrown at us with whooshing camera sweeps and surges and rapid changes of perspective exaggerated by 3-D. Fitzgerald wrote of Jay Gatsby, “He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that—and he must be about His Father’s business, the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty.” Gatsby’s excess—his house, his clothes, his celebrity guests—is designed to win over his beloved Daisy. Luhrmann’s vulgarity is designed to win over the young audience, and it suggests that he’s less a filmmaker than a music-video director with endless resources and a stunning absence of taste. 
 
 The mistakes begin with the narrative framing device. In the book, Nick has gone home to the Midwest after a bruising time in New York; everything he tells us of Gatsby and Daisy and the rest is a wondering recollection. Luhrmann and his frequent collaborator, the screenwriter Craig Pearce, have turned the retreating Nick into an alcoholic drying out at a sanatorium. He pulls himself together and, with hardly any sleep, composes the entire text of “The Great Gatsby.” He types, right on the manuscript, “by Nick Carraway.” (No doubt a manuscript of “Lolita by Humbert Humbert” will show up in future movie adaptations of Nabokov’s novel.) The filmmakers have literalized Fitzgerald’s conceit that Nick wrote the text—unnecessarily, since, for most of the rest of the movie, we readily accept his narration as a simple voice-over. Doubling down on their folly, Pearce and Luhrmann print famous lines from the book as Nick labors at his desk. The words pop onto the screen like escapees from a bowl of alphabet soup. 
 
 When Luhrmann calms down, however, and concentrates on the characters, he demonstrates an ability with actors that he hasn’t shown in the past. Tobey Maguire, with his grainy but distinct voice, his asexual reserve, makes a fine, lonely Nick Carraway. He looks at Leonardo DiCaprio’s Gatsby with amazement and, eventually, admiration. As Nick slowly discovers that his Long Island neighbor is at once a ruthless gangster, a lover of unending dedication, and a man who wears pink suits as a spiritual project, some of the book’s exhilarating complexity comes through. (The love between Nick and Gatsby is the strongest emotional tie in the movie.) DiCaprio, thirty-eight, still has a golden glow: swept-back blond hair, glittering blue-green eyes, smooth tawny skin. The slender, cat-faced boy of “Titanic” now looks solid and substantial, and he speaks with a dominating voice. He’s certainly a more forceful Gatsby than placid Robert Redford was in the tastefully opulent but inert adaptation of the book from 1974. DiCaprio has an appraising stare and he re-creates Fitzgerald’s description of Gatsby’s charm: that he can look at someone for an instant and understand how, ideally, he or she wants to be seen.
– The Great Gatsby is about to get the celluloid treatment again. And while we can only hope that Baz Luhrmann does it justice, a great book does not automatically equal a great film. (The Scarlett Letter much?) The Huffington Post lists 15 novels that it considers "unfilmable": Pale Fire, by Vladamir Nabokov: Truly a riddle, this footnote-ridden book revolves around a 999-line poem. The Waves, by Virginia Woolf: It's basically six monologues, making the book one big monologue. Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon: It's not the book, so much as the author, that's the issue here. A famously private recluse, HuffPo can't imagine him giving anyone the movie rights. Maus by Art Spiegelman: This Holocaust-era biography/graphic novel about Spiegelman's father depicts the Jews as mice and the Nazis as cats ... just too serious for a cartoon. Notes HuffPo, it's tough when your pitch is: "Think Schindler's List, but with dogs and reindeer." Click here for the complete list, which, of course, includes a book by James Joyce.