There is a line of argument that institutional archives are ‘structurally spectral’, to use Verne Harris’ phrase, that their function is deconstructive and hauntological. That 'Lucia' is not a biography of Lucia Joyce is stated at the start. It’s all fiction, deduction, adduction, supposition—with no access to evidence, what else could it be? Arguably, Lucia is a manuscript within ‘Lucia’s’ archives. The uncovering of ‘Lucia’s’ sarcophagus—and the writing of the book—is presented in a series of excavation passages, and in one, the narrator performs ‘what I could of the ceremony of the opening of the mouth’. This is an encapsulation of an aim of the book, a search for the voice of a dead person. Herein, though, lies a complication. Every archive contains the absences of the disenfranchised. Even if Lucia seeks to symbolically ‘open the mouth’ of the dead ‘Lucia’, there are no words of hers there, only what has been said of her. Had she been able to haunt, to disrupt, would she have presented herself in the same light? returnreturnLucia has unrelenting grimness. ‘Lucia’ as the passive subject of ritual is a keynote—we start with her funeral, where she is almost invisible. There is close, even mesmerizing, focus on rituals to which she is subject, and in this there can be seen an abstract of the sort of brutal and dehumanising world where such rituals could have a religion or doubtful science as a patina: slapping at the menarche, near-fatal water treatments for mental health, a number of options for abortifacients. Some episodes are hinted at but not described, like encounters with various men with their scratchy stubble and their hurried response to a step on the stairs. Some, like the terrible episode with the rabbit, are compellingly detailed. returnreturnIt is a matter of record that Lucia was placed in an institution when her mental health had collapsed. It is a matter of rumour that she was sexually abused. Had she not been ground to dust before and after death, would Lucia, a creative person, a talented dancer, have chosen these graveclothes? Would she have elected to present herself so exclusively in the shattered and shattering prism of abuse? In fact, there is a recurring sense that, in fact, it is the men of the Joycean milieu that are the focus of this uncomfortable, twisted, and inspired paean to brutality discreetly indulged. returnreturnAt the same time, Lucia is a work of great assurance and brio. If silencing a voice with much to say creates a vacuum, chimeras are born. Pheby presents these impressively well, often as existentialist riffs, using fairytales, or questions framed (a la Cruiskeen Lawn) as catechisms. One or two might not quite swing, but most are excellent, some inspired. In one excavation passage, the narrator states that ‘Lucia’ ‘has gone to the next life friendless and I will be her friend.’ This brings to the foreground a tone that dominates the novel: indignation that Lucia endured such things. This echoes the scene of the opening of the mouth ceremony which includes the blessing ‘may you emerge vindicated’. returnreturnTo create a monument of words, however nuanced, to relentless dehumanisation places its victim in explicit postures. It degrades the perpetrators by criticism, but without restoring dignity to their victim. But the contribution of dignity, and fulfillment of the statement of intent—‘I will be her friend’—is arguably achieved by ‘Lucia’ being the inspiration for and focus of a work of such exceptional and striking creativity.