Self, of course, is a bit of a joke. A rather self-conscious joke, but a joke none the less. He writes books in much the same way that Ernie Wise wrote plays, and appears to be puzzled why nobody is keen to take him at his own estimation. A one-man modernist army, he is determined to march all the way back to 1922, where he hopes Joyce will be waiting to receive him. He’s in for a disappointment.