I was really, really hoping that once James Joyce's
über-litigious grandson died we would be treated to a treasure trove of embarrassing stuff about the author of
Finnegan's Wake and other less nonsensical pieces of overrated literature. (Ever read the filthy letters Joyce wrote to Nora Barnacle?
Here are some excerpts.)
But no. Not yet, anyway. All we've been granted in exchange for our patience so far is
news that Joyce complained to his son about being "hounded" paparazzi (read: newspaper reporters without cameras)
in 1931.
I'm too lazy to even comment on how silly this seems post-Princess Diana.
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