Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things - pg. 215

There is more profit in an hour's talk with Billy Graham than in a reading of Joyce. Graham might conceivably make you sick, so that you might move, go somewhere to get well. But Joyce just sends you out into the street, where the world goes on, solid as a bus. If you met Joyce and said "Help me," he'd hand you a copy of Finnegan's Wake. You could both cry. Why is it that this should be? It is because fiction is real.