French Translations of Ulysses


 le grand livre de ~

James Joyce, Ulysse, Gallimard 2004 "Dans les mots des mots pour les mots, palabras" p252 "C'est une époque où la putasserie à bout de souffle cherche à tâtons son dieu." p 260 "Allons, semons le bordel." p263

"Après Dieu, c'est Shakespeare qui a le plus créé". p268 Tu cite une phrase célèbre que moi meme je cite
de temps en temps en conversation

-- And what a character is Iago! undaunted John Eglinton exclaimed. When all is said Dumas fils (or is it Dumas père?) is right. After God Shakespeare has created most."

Je cite l'edition sur le internet ... j'ai pas mon édition avec moi.

Voila quelques notes j'ai trouve

pour toi sur les traductions

en francais de Ulysse


Translations of Ulysses

86. James Joyce, Ulysse, 1929 (first edition of the French translation).

JAMES JOYCE | ULYSSE | Translated from the English by | M. AUGUSTE MOREL | assisted by STUART GILBERT | Translation entirely reviewed by M. VALERY LARBAUD | in collaboration with THE AUTHOR | LA MAISON DES AMIS DES LIVRES | Adrienne Monnier | 7, RUE DE L'ODÉON, 7 | PARIS | MCMXXIX

The success of Larbaud's lecture on Joyce in 1921 (item 38, case IV) prompted Joyce's interest in a French translation. Larbaud was reluctant to undertake this task himself and so he suggested Auguste Morel, a young writer from Breton who had experience translating English works into French. Adrienne Monnier, Beach's companion who ran the store La Maison des Amis des Livres, was approached to be the publisher. She agreed but only if Joyce and Larbaud would review Morel's work. Morel proceeded very slowly and over the years portions of his translation were published in various French journals. In 1927 Joyce added Stuart Gilbert to the team after he had spotted some discrepancies in a typescript copy of the translation that Beach had on display in the window of Shakespeare and Company (item 67, case VIII). The three translators did not get along and Joyce was forced to intervene. The arrangement and description of the translators' names on the title-page was suggested by Joyce in order to assuage his translators' egos. Ulysse," Mercure de France, (May 1, 1950): 30-37.', CAPTION,'ENDNOTE', CENTER, WIDTH, 300, BORDER, 2);" onmouseout="return nd();">[59] Monnier finally published Ulysse in 1929 and it was received with much adulation and felicitation. The large and prestigious French publishing firm Gallimard took over publication of Ulysse from Monnier later in October 1930. Joyce's involvement in this translation has meant that its influence extends beyond the hexagonal borders of France.

The copy on display is copy F of the ten copies printed on Hollande van Gelder paper and was printed specially for Beach. Joyce inscribed it: "To | Sylvia Beach | this trophy of her Seven Years' War 1921-1929 | James Joyce | Paris | Independence Day 1929."

87. Advertisement for the French translation of Ulysses, 1928.

ULYSSE | BY | JAMES JOYCE | Complete French translation by | MM. AUGUSTE MOREL and STUART-GILBERT | entirely reviewed by | M. VALERY LARBAUD | in collaboration with THE AUTHOR | TO APPEAR IN JANUARY 1929 | at LA MAISON DES AMIS DES LIVRES | — Adrienne Monnier — | 7, RUE DE L'ODƒON — PARIS, VIe

88. Menu card for the "Déjeuner Ulysse," June 27, 1929.

DÉJEUNER " ULYSSE " | Jeudi 27 Juin 1929 | Hotel Léopold | Les Vaux de Cernay

To celebrate the publication of the French translation of Ulysses, Adrienne Monnier organized a luncheon at the Léopold Restaurant in Les Vaux de Cernay, a small village near Versailles. The menu lists such delicacies as "Le Paté Léopold."

89. Photograph of the "Déjeuner Ulysse," June 27, 1929.

Among the guests at Monnier's "Déjeuner Ulysse" were some of the most prominent figures in French literature at that time: Léon-Paul Fargue, Eduard Dujardin, Paul Valéry, Jules Romains, and Philippe Soupault. Also in attendance was Samuel Beckett (he is not in the photograph; the rumor is that he got excessively drunk at lunch). None of the translators were in attendance; apparently by this time relations between them had become exceedingly rancorous. As the lunch took place eleven days after June 16, it could be considered as the first Bloomsday celebration. (Buffalo owns the original of this photograph, with Monnier's penned-in names for some of the guests; this is currently on loan to the National Library of Ireland and so a reproduction is displayed.)
___________________________________________________________________ A lors je pense que vous lis la nouvelle traduction parce ce que tu
l'edition Gallimard 2004 ~ le voila
l'edition Gallimard 2004 ~ le voila
Ulysse, nouvelle traduction Une nouvelle traduction de l'œuvre de l'écrivain dublinois paraît dans la collection « Du Monde entier » le 10 juin, précédant de quelques jours le centenaire de la journée où se déroule le roman. Cette nouvelle traduction de Ulysse de James Joyce est proposée par les Éditions Gallimard à l'instigation de Stephen James Joyce, le petit fils de l'écrivain, de Solange Joyce, son épouse et d'Antoine Gallimard. Elle succède à la seule traduction française existant à ce jour, celle d'Auguste Morel, « assisté par M. Stuart Gilbert, entièrement revue par M. Valery Larbaud avec la collaboration de l'auteur ».



' mais un besoin de croire ....'

Nous avons besoin d'une éthique ou d'une foi, ce qui fait rire les idiots ; ce n'est pas un besoin de croire à autre chose, mais un besoin de croire à ce monde-ci, dont les idiots font partie.

   L'Image-temps. Cinéma 2, Gilles Deleuze, éd. de Minuit, coll. « Critique », 1985, p. 225



the crying of lot 49

'I came,' she said, 'hoping you could talk me out of a fantasy.'

'Cherish it!' cried Hilarious, fiercely. 'What else do any of you have? Hold it tightly by it's little tentacle, don't let the Freudians coax it away or the pharmacists poison it out of you. Whatever it is, hold it dear, for when you lose it you go over by that much to the others. You begin to cease to be.'”

—  Thomas Pynchon (via




Iam thinkin of the pretence of pianos and jazz. and the death of boredom.




the moment of creation is not the same as the one of criticism. no matter what they tell you they ain't identical.
there's none of that in criticism and the true ones , the critical ones, know that. they know as much.

its confusing the two that fucks things up & leaves it all messy


that is a sickness




everyone's getting ready for a crucifixion
it's cooking like juliet was
on that porch pitching her ghoul talk
under the impression she's being self saving
but its really just self-serving

 but a cook with a gule (not glue)
won't know the difference between a mountain
or a lover twisted by her wanting
hankering for an unrequited love

wants the kings at her knees
not cause she's wrong but because
she won't move her ego
a t the speed of light
imaging persecutions brought on by amnesia's
american foil a lady cooking her juliet stove

not her romeo jewels or clasping verses
from the boy's heart afar

pretending there's no pretence in the conceit
of being sore an' in pain
but it ain't no rain to say that
standing at a faked difference
that's really just the same

as everybody's pain

and not the aphasia she once had
it's not a poetic condition
but a way to beat yourself
selling off her curls

to public saying Poor me! poor me!

is that anyway to treat  a lover letter
with lighter fluid?

go light the barn 
& kick yr ass out


(bad poetry writes itself sister)




&who are my mother and father
  &who's about my father's business
   and she a sister didn't even acknowledge that day?

  or was that a remissive second
    in tha'hour of time
    sounded by the war of things
& wondering who you are


'it's cold tea


it's cold tea and crackers w ithout y  r  ' love an'
  the night is longer
 than it normally is
  but touche! roun' and round we  go not fooled by the big announcements &

 I hear a  comment 'you wouldn't last an hour in the real world' everyone's nice and there's
nothing in the world nicer than being someone else
  there are harder things

 yeah it's like being brown and black and blue the way the most people are
   & the sun comes down like cake dusting or something transpires

a train blowing up at Lake Megantic and the ones that died might be forgotten
  and  a big singer shoots his head off but her mouth is without report

for the design of the night  this awareness of pain causes anger to pout her mouth
   and disdain but the sight of language pouring its hate out on the avenue

 the lights might change as  i hear this voice crowding the stage whats goin on &
its that language again makes me sick quietening the weird sound of shuffle and death

stay underground orpheus you're better off that way stems and root hidden across
the wide expanse&

nothing's more vivid than this

  as I write for the future the prophet    ~



draft at half-time

I started working on a  poem a  couple of days ago that won't be as indirect as the usual poems or fictions than I 've written .At least I am thinking of it that way, but one doesn't really 'control' the muse however one wants to characterize the function, of the', deus ex machina  ' the unconscious, or secret behind the writer!

One remembers that in 'olden' times it was a god that inspired the writing . The old artificer, as Joyce invoked him _Thoth  the god-man, tutelary protector?  of writers

The world is, itself, a strange writer!
It writes daily its weird, unknown paths of love and darkness. Meeting at the cusp of things and time.

                     CP: yr repeating/ yr re-edting yourself Mister Duffy?

 Repeat after me
Meanwhile I've begun work on a more direct type of poem. Along the lines of those I wrote in the mid-eighties.  (the years of dedication, birthday poems , presents, talisman, amulets? prayers of peace among the mad gang, Eddie and the others in those early days...
 I don't find those easy to write. Not because of the technique but because the emotions inspired or brought  about  by such verse tend to appear non-fictional when in fact as soon as one writes  'I' it has become fictional. Nearly everything I've written in the last ten years has gone in the other direction.


she lived

she lived in denial though she
could not see it she blamed the
other for her    contempt  the weight
of her probing blustering   fate

    her self aggrandizement to blame the 
other was easier than undoing the denial the river
of her banks swept  with the detritus of her 
self love loathing to admit she was wrong in
wronging another who loved her who 

knew tenderness was tame 
compared to the wild anger of the world
 and her hands clutched the fair flower  of remembrance
hungering for the hour of its once feared touch

his lips were faraway he was trapped in his own guitly shame
crying for no one and the future slipping away 
with each guilty day and he paid
the slippery past its high cost

between those moments he clutched the hour's song
her smile like ruth and a swan fair bearing to be near here
a poet and  a strong galleon tossed storm
not better than the great but not worst than the best

he was west with his ringing herald to  (the)dawn


'from ireland'

Meanwhile I've begun work on a more direct type of poem. Along the lines of those I wrote in the mid-eighties.
 I don't find those easy to write. Not because of the technique but because the emotions inspired or brought up by such verse tend to appear non-fictional when in fact as soon as one writes  'I' it has become fictional. Nearly everything I've written in the last ten years has gone in the other direction.

Returned from Ireland  and those  'other' spooky spectres
 off the coast of Eastern Canada    ~ the french islands not far from the Rock ....
   the mad winds there which  whip  it (pretty much day & night)
   flick at juniper and  yew  'timbering' the flaky soil
                                                  (eerie st Pierre & Miq)   a nd that't freezing at the end of time     

~  reading in Dublin after the death of Heaney was 'heavy'! to say the least
    heavy with atmosphere
       the air fraught with thunder
                                     that thunder  (and sorrow) at his passing swept over the rococo room
                      seizing the instant,    creating the gloom
                      cracking men's faces   reddening women's' eyes

 but the waves tossed up lions curls of the dead  (?)
   our ? their silhouettes shunting us down to the office 

cranking chains pulling downstairs there's no
  meadow to see
as you  arrive the bower  is dark
                 and frightening  the old man bats around his stick
          looking you over
sniffsyour shirt
snuffing your soul

(to be continued )          (or discontinued as this work's govered by  break cut)DadaDavinci                       



'Que vois tu?


Que vois tu?  Que sens-tu?
Est-ce de souffrance ou de félicité
que tu restes ainsi élevé dans l'espace
P.K. Bahh. VI.141.



re___ prevent (encore

Re prevent

You wrote that twenty years ago? yes, she saying it swaying aCrOss the rift of her skirt and her breasts were my mouth /right off the top

not like  a phoney intending to be 'sick' when sick's only a matrimony t o hate
   the latest form of Ism and its various unsplendid diseases
   like Jacky and the clown Halloween party

vent the night and its shade its gob swathed by a n outrage crying from the bridge



_________re:___________  prevent

Much as like that guy he gets my suspicions up times
 he gets my gander up

  you know something about the jokes, the back slapping
the holy humour

something about a  cross a path a ricochet shadow swirling on the sunset

   and at--------- I've noticed we don't share  an  Anglo-Irish sense of humour
          that's fading away of its accord for other reasons anyhow 

   but what's shared is that other humor
    (not unlike the rancour , 'the' collective (at least one stream of the) rancor in Quebec an ever under-riding rancour that's not quite settled of a people that felt inferior  , that essential hate that burns nationalism and turns it into the ever undertone groaning of resentment it pervades the very physiology of a people! it's here!  i SEE I grew up with it.  it's not natural either it's their obsession to blame others and everywhere other for their misère__ there are other provinces in Canada, which remain poorer ( think of parts of New Brunswick)  have had a  harder, or had a worser time in the history

So the Brooklyn boy can shout about hunger! this and hunger that! ( I mean , Miller)

                       that's easy to say after the fact writing your dumb ass book in a Paris sleaze bag hotel
or a  Paris cafe with pretentious black wrought steel chairs 
 and all the rest of the Parisian

               nah I don't think it's where it's at

   and where is it at anyhow? anyway?

I think 'phony American german' and realize I don't trust 'German' (again it's a qualified remark) (sense or stream of its inheritance that comes over with some writers, and some communities)
               and it might just be I don't believe German
            i t might i 'm uneasy with their larceny and big wheels
                   their capable capables make me uneasy

         _____________________ and none of this might change as I meet you naked as snow
                                                         those pearl white smiles bland as death
                    in  a camp full of dead soldiers skeletons

                                   wasting their soup on the Oxford book of blandishment
                           and humankind

Re: prevent

Re: prevent