What inhibited Joyce was perhaps introversion. A failure of love for the reader. John Updike is surely right when he says that Nabokov's is essentially an amorous style – it longs to hold diaphanous reality in its hairy arms. But Nabokov wants to embrace his readers too. He comes across as this snorting wizard of hauteur, but he is the dream host, always giving us on our visits his best chair and his best wine. What would Joyce do? Let's think, he would call out vaguely from the kitchen, asking you to wait a couple of hours for the final fermentation of a home-brewed punch made out of grenadine, conger eels and sheep dip.
martin amis, celebrating VN's 100th birthday.
(I love you martin!!)