From the Lacan-Joyce Correspondence

of sense, that is a kind of aspiration, not towards the real, but by the real Jacques Lacan Mors aut honorabilis vita James Joyce On the one hundredth anniversary of Bloomsday I gave in Melbourne the reasons for, as well as my thoughts on, my debt to Joyce.[2] Following on from that, in the land of Ire,[3] and in Dublin, his city, I wonder if we can miss the irony that it is only over Joyce's dead body that we are today here as analysts.…