But Joyce.  He is misjudged, misunderstood.  His vaunted invention is a fragile fog.  His method escapes him. He has not the slightest notion what he is about.  He is a priest, a roysterer of the spirit.  He is an epicurean of romance.  His true genius flickers and fails: there's the peak, there in the trees.  For God's sake can't you see it!  Not that tree but the mass of rocks, that reddish mass of rocks, granite, with the sun on it between that oak and the maple.  That is not an oak.  Hell take it what's the use of arguing with a botanist. —William Carlos Williams, The Great American Novel