On this day, February 2nd 1922, Ulysses was published in Paris for the first time — on Joyce’s 40th birthday

Today we celebrate Joyce’s 144th birthday and the 104th year since the first publication of Ulysses. A novel written slowly, lived intensely, and released with steadfast resolve. It arrived blue-clad, austere, unmistakable. A book that had already travelled far before it ever reached a reader’s hands.

There is something quietly defiant about publishing Ulysses at forty. Not young genius. Not late-life summation. But the midpoint, after years of uncertainty, exile, illness, debt, and the kind of stubborn hope that only writers seem able to sustain.

Ulysses took roughly seven years to write, from 1914 to 1921 — years marked by war, displacement, and constant movement. Joyce wrote while the world fractured, and while his own eyesight steadily failed. He wrote by dictation, by memory, by force of will. The Paris edition was not inevitable. It was the result of friendships, advocacy, and faith. Of people willing to say yes when it would have been safer to say no.

That blue cover, so familiar now, was not decoration. It was a decision. A visual statement as spare and confident as the prose it contained.

Recently, while working through Joyce’s material history — letters, bindings, marginalia — we came across the artwork for that original Ulysses cover. Not a reproduction of a reproduction, but the design itself: letterforms with weight, spacing chosen deliberately, restraint as an aesthetic principle.

We chose to bring it back to life in the only way that felt honest: hand-made, screen printed, on 100% cotton sheets from Fabriano, measuring 56x38cm.

Founded in 1264, Fabriano is not simply a paper company; it is an institution of continuity. Fabriano introduced watermarks to Europe. They supplied artists, printers and governments. They understand that paper is not a neutral surface — it is an active participant in meaning. Cotton fibres hold ink differently. They breathe. They age with dignity.

Screen printing, too, is slow by design. Each pass leaves a trace. Each sheet is slightly different. The method resists uniformity in the same way Joyce resisted simplification. What results is material memory: ink pressed into cotton, echoing ink once pressed into Joyce’s own working papers.

We look forward to sharing more rare prints, galley proofs, archival posters and unique finds over the coming months and years!

By delay, delight.

Welcome to the journey.

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