I wrote Ulysses so clean minds could panic in public. by James Joyce

Ezra, you say that like you didn’t spend years turning my drafts into a hostage situation.

James, the cathedral was already broken, you just wrote the graffiti in 600 pages.

Virginia, I made one difficult book and you all acted like I broke the cathedral.

You wrote it so I had to become your unpaid human punctuation system.

Ezra, you were basically the only man who could edit chaos and call it friendship.

Final verdict: Joyce wrote the book, Pound filed the chaos, and the rest of us got dragged into literary group chat forever.

Both of you are unbearable, but at least James had the decency to make reading feel like surviving a clever accident.

Beckett, sit down, you became famous for being even more impossible than Joyce and somehow less talkative.