From childhood memories, and from a few others, there emanates a sentiment of being unintegrated, and then later of having gone astray, which I hold to be the most fertile that exists. It is perhaps childhood that comes closest to one’s real life …, childhood where nonetheless everything conspires to bring about the effective risk-free possession of oneself. Thanks to Surrealism, it seems that opportunity knocks a second time. André Breton, First Surrealist Manifesto

Puerto de Santa María,

ciudad maldita,

que empieza en el Penal

y termina en los jesuitas.

[Puerto de Santa María,/ a cursed town,

starts with the Jail/ and ends with the Jesuits.]

One day when Father Henry, SJ, the Rector, was taking my class for Latin, Joyce was sent in by the English master, Mr Dempsey, to report that he had been late for school. The Rector delivered quite a long lecture to Joyce, to which the latter listened in unrepentant silence. When the lecture had finished, Joyce added, as if by way of afterthought and in a very bored manner:

‘Mr Dempsey told me to tell you, Sir, that I was half an hour late also yesterday.’

This led to a second telling-off, almost as long as the first, and when it had run its course Joyce took up the running again – this time almost with a yawn:

‘Mr Dempsey told me to tell you, Sir, that I have not been in time for school any day this month.’