It’s 91F/33C out and I’m a bit wilty. It isn’t supposed to be this hot in June; the end of July it is allowed but not early June. But no one ever seems to care about my opinion.
I recently began reading Portrait of a Lady by Henry James along with Danielle. I’m really enjoying the book. Today, however, I am not going to talk about that. Instead I am going to reveal how silly it gets at my house sometimes.
Bookman asked me the other day what I was reading on my Kobo. I told him I had just started Portrait of a Lady.
That’s by James Joyce, right?
No, Henry James. I replied
Well didn’t James Joyce write something with portrait in the title?
Yes, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
And then things got goofy.
Bookman insisted that Henry James and James Joyce were actually the same person, after all, had anyone ever seen them at a party together? The true name of the man is Henry James Joyce.
Oh yes, I exclaimed and the real title of the book is Portrait of the Lady as a Young Man, it’s one of the first transgender novels ever written.
We’ve finally set the literary record straight, so to speak.
Our work here is done.