He often thought of a story—probably apocryphal—he had read about James Joyce. A friend had come into Joyce’s house and found the famous writer at his desk with his head in his arms, a picture of abject despair. When the friend asked what was wrong, Joyce told him he’d only managed seven words all morning. “Ah, but James, that’s good for you,” the friend said. To which Joyce replied, “Perhaps, but I don’t know what order they go in!”
