I am the Second Incarnation of James Joyce. He was raised in a small town in Ireland, I was raised in a small town in Kansas. Both towns are religiously conservative, and both have a problem with alcohol. James and I were both raised in our family religions, and both of us became prominent followers, both considering the priesthood. And yes, we both lost our faith after being recognized as one of the more spiritual youths in our respective churches. Both of us grew to dislike our religious families and long to live our native homes.
Before I knew of Joyce, I mused about writing a manuscript, a novel lovely, about one day. The entire novel would take place in the space of one day. The book I was going to write is none other than Ulysses. (Although my book would most likey fall far short.)

Another manuscript I considered writing was going to be about the inner and outer conflicts of a boy, prominent in his church, who decided he no longer believes. It would chronicle his spiritual growth and later his spiritual demise. The latter manuscript would most definitely employ stream of consciousness (which I did not know existed but Joyce pioneered) to show all of the conflicts between what I believed and what I came to believe, and why. However, once again I learn that Joyce has beaten me to it with A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. That bastard! Now I dare not even attempt such an endeavor lest all my shortcomings as a writer be revealed! (Oh, wait, that would have happened even if James Joyce had never written A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.)

Later, I was commissioned to write a short story in my creative writing class. After given time to think of central themes, one of the most prominent and promising that I had scribbled was that despite all our attempts to understand and to be understood, to truly know people, we cannot. I did not write this story, partly because it was already written by James Joyce (and partly because my skills as a writer lack). It goes by the name of "The Dead" and you can find it in Dubliners. Damn him to Judecca!
Similarites do not end here. James Joyce's birthday is February 2, 1882. My birthday is February 5, 1982. 100 years, three days. It is entirely possible(and probable, at least in my warped sense of reality) that there has been a fluke somewhere and that I was born on the same day as he was. No matter, it's close enough.
The only connection that I can find I have with Joyce's last book, Finnegans Wake, is that people often find what I am saying nothing more than nonsense and gobbledygook.

(Of course this could all be random coincidence, but we would need a Grand Outcome Equation to decide that.)

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