The point it that all art involves illusion; as the great Danish philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard wrote, the striving for truth represents the consciousness of being an existing individual and the constant yearning is the product of the nature of existence. I like to think that it is therefore the artist’s single most important duty to show that truth is never at any one moment complete. It is also clear to me that the artist must explore the effects of the oral poetry and the storytelling which have shaped all of our literature and mythology. Every teller of a tale, every translator of a poem, has altered it to his purposes and his understanding of his forebears, so that, as T.S. Eliot said, no poet, no artist of any sort, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation, is the appreciation of the dead poets and artists. Probably for this reason, Joyce has Dedalus advocate cutting yourself off from the past.

He’s aiming high. The dead poets and artists are not traditional subject matter for Hollywood. But Joyce and Bloomsday have a certain mythical stature that Hollywood will like. He sees a trend towards myth in their animated films that could make the film very popular with the youth of the world who regard so many of the institutions and artifices of society as a kind of tyranny.

And this is the joy of being a creative artist – you might say the responsibility too – that you don’t live within the constraints of the conventional and the restrictive: in fact it is your duty to challenge this idea of a single reality.

The phone rings as he’s preparing to go out to catch the bus, so that he can send his script, revised, and marked boldly, FINAL DRAFT.

‘Yuh,’ he says, distracted by the enormity of the delusion of the single reality.

‘Hello, Artair, it’s Fleur.’

‘Fleur, good God. How are you, darling girl? I am so sorry about Harry.’

‘Thank you. Your note was wonderful, it touched me.’

‘Well, that’s the least I could do.’

‘Artair, I would love to see you again.’

He recognises that little mewling, coquettish note so clearly. Strange – voices, songs, scents – all seem embedded for ever in your brain.

‘I would love to see you too, darling Fleur.’

‘I wondered if you could come up to London. As you can imagine there are all sorts of things to think about, so I’m a little tied to home at the moment.’

‘London. I would love to come up.’

‘Could you come tomorrow, perhaps? That’s my best day this week. Come for lunch at the house and we can catch up. Come first class.’

‘I’m just sending off some rewrites on a screenplay, so I will have a little space in my diary. And my heart, of course.’