APRIL 19 (Evening): Alright. This is insane. It has been almost eighteen, 18 (has more impact) hours since I sat down to scribble something about what is going on in my mind but the right words are still elusive. And this eluding is colluding my mind no bounds. No, I did not mean to create any sense of rhythmic rhyme here. Because life is no rhyme. And far from rhythmic. It is a battle – fierce, dark, compounded with many elements and munitions and machineries and what not. It is a forever raging battle where I always find myself fighting, well, ME. Yes, I am always up against myself. A Present ME vs A Future ME, A Strong ME vs A Weak ME, A Hopeful ME vs A Dejected ME, A Sure ME vs A Doubtful ME. The last one, seems, perennially raging, blazing like the eternal flame of a glorious soul. Ah, n  Souln. Why did I even write that word? While the whole world tells me it is the purest part of a body, the guardian of noble deeds and the first thing to leave a body that has rotten beyond repair, I have seen it the most corrupt. In my case at least. I mean what was the soul doing when I was bartering my innocence for shrewdness in school? What kept the soul busy when I bargained my mother’s love for an empty vessel of ego? And where was the soul snoring when I engaged my skin in disgusting deflowering acts? I don’t believe in soul.

Or...is it just my soul? Tarnished, contaminated, listless, condemned? Does the soul have two doors? That if I enter through one, I would see wistful smoke, pious fragrance and bright lights of goodness and if I enter through the other, the room would turn black, with nauseating stench and coarse rays of sin everywhere? Is it an eternal dilemma of which door shall I push open? The Ever and Never of Soul? Of Life? Oh I don’t know. This is all so maddening.

Mother told me I will get answers in the home of God. And so, I have made a good number of visits to his house. Let me say I like him. Wherever he is, talking to him, makes me feel good. Basically, he always lends an ear, the luxury which none of my friends are willing to extend. So, I talk to him. I believe in him, like I do in a friend. I fight with him, I lie to him, I sing songs with him, I spend many hours of silent confessions with him. But when I am asked to treat him as a superior, rather the most Supreme, I raise my hand in hesitant protest and ask him questions – Why should I delegate you up there? Why should I pray to you? Why should I be religious? What good it is to be a member of your community? I had respect for you and even placed my faith in you. I believed in your assurance under which I dared to offer my loving heart to another beautiful creation of yours. But by letting seep the venomous stream of unrequited love into me, you killed a part of me. Should I not blame you for that? Weren’t you supposed to safeguard my innocent emotions if I were under your refuge? In my hours of adolescent wretchedness, when foul smell of arrogance and vanity emanated from my unabashed openings, why did you not arrest it with a warm blanket of your wisdom? I started losing faith in you and you stood there, watching. Why did you not protect me when atheistic shower was pounding on my vulnerable heart?

Well, I can keep pointing fingers at you because it is easy and requires no preparation. You don't answer and I can throw my missiles at you. But whether it is likely that I went wrong somewhere? No clear answer.

May be I should search. May be I should read. Read more of Aquinas and Aristotle. And other great minds. I am learning anew to swim in their submersible waters. They talk about beauty and sin, glory and pity, truth and myth. Sometimes, I grab a bunch of answers and sometimes, I grapple in nothingness. But mostly, I get navigators. You ask navigate where to? Oh, I need to find answer for that one too! But by deploying the triple weapons of silence, exile and cunning, I have seen the answers are not that obscure. Really. Whether my filial duties and academic tenacities would contribute in this quest is something I don’t know. But this questioning would. And I think I would continue doing that no matter how much worthy mass the process accumulates and how much filth it throws my way. Yeah, it sounds good.

Oh wait! I just wrote a whole page, didn’t I? Not bad for someone who was swimming in a wordless sea just a few minutes back. Good Lord! Alright then. Time to go. I have a walk to take and a few more questions to ask for the day. See you at another junction. And don’t ask me where.

- Anonymous Stephen Dedalus My Alter Ego

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A GARGANTUAN WETWIPE


The James Joyce who wrote this chunk of ghastly autofiction is the same James Joyce who a few years later wrote the stunning, beautiful masterpiece Ulysses; this is like someone playing you Chug-a-Lug, Ten Little Indians and Farmer’s Daughter by the Beach Boys and telling you that three years later they would make Pet Sounds and Smile. You would frankly think they were off their trolley. Not possible.

Jimmy Joyce must have had one of those odd head traumas that change a person’s personality because between this mournful bucket of sloshing emo and Ulysses he developed a canny sense of humour – about his pretentious younger self, for one thing.

So Portrait of the Artist as an Insufferable Plonker is the story of Stephen Dedalus up to age 17/18 and Ulysses picks up his story a few years later and skewers his previous Portrait self mercilessly :

Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? …. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria?

That James Joyce is a funny guy, this Portrait one you would get rats to gnaw your leg off rather than spend a train journey stuck with him in the same compartment.

Well, I am being a little harsh. The first half of this autonovel is not bad at all. There are a couple of strong dramatic scenes, a famous one being a Christmas dinner where a huge political row bursts out between the family’s governess and the loudmouth father. That was great, I was looking forward to more good stuff. But no, then it went south.

SELF-LOVE IN ALL SENSES

Portrait got in big trouble with the censors in 1916 and you can kind of see why because by page 95 young Stephen has discovered the joy of onanism, which is described in the following terms :

He bore cynically with the shameful details of his secret riots in which he exulted to defile with patience whatever image had attracted his eyes. By day and by night he moved among distorted images of the outer world. A figure that had seemed to him by day demure and innocent came towards him by night through the winding darkness of sleep, her face transfigured by a lecherous cunning, her eyes bright with brutish joy. Only the morning pained him with its dim memory of dark orgiastic riot, its keen and humiliating sense of transgression.

Well, it isn’t Henry Miller or Letters to Penthouse but you get the idea. Eventually he decides his solitary habit is not enough so he prowls the street (at this point he is 16). His horniness is described like this –

He felt some dark presence moving irresistibly upon him from the darkness, a presence subtle and murmurous as a flood filling him wholly with itself. Its murmur besieged his ears like the murmur of some multitude in sleep; its subtle streams penetrated his being. His hands clenched convulsively and his teeth set together as he suffered the agony of its penetration.

Steady on, JJ ! Eventually he discovers the delights of Dublin’s hookers and his experiences are drowned in the same euphuistic, euphemistic flowerpot verbals. After that, he gets religion and things take a dark turn.

At his religious school each year there is a Retreat. This is not something I was familiar with. The boys all have to devote themselves to several days of nothing but religious contemplation and prayer. Cue pages of morose I-am-a-doomed-sinner, followed up by a famous hellfire sermon by a priest who has an Evil Dead 2 view of the afterlife –

In earthly prisons the poor captive has at least some liberty of movement, were it only within the four walls of his cell or in the gloomy yard of his prison. Not so in hell. There, by reason of the great number of the damned, the prisoners are heaped together in their awful prison, the walls of which are said to be four thousand miles thick: and the damned are so utterly bound and helpless that, as a blessed saint, saint Anselm, writes in his book on similitudes, they are not even able to remove from the eye a worm that gnaws it.

Plus, it smells really bad, there’s no room service and it’s really hot, and devils come and insult you.

All this drives Stephen slightly doolally :

The snares of the world were its ways of sin. He would fall. He had not yet fallen but he would fall silently, in an instant. Not to fall was too hard, too hard; and he felt the silent lapse of his soul, as it would be at some instant to come, falling, falling, but not yet fallen, still unfallen, but about to fall.

There are pages of tiresome tedious claptrap like this.

NOT JUST ME

In his short and sharp recommended introduction to Joyce, John Gross puts the boot into Stephen Dedalus as follows –

It is hard not to be repelled, or on occasion to be amused, by his posturing and his moist romanticism. He is utterly self-absorbed; his reveries are rendered in the over-exquisite accents of the House Beautiful…How exactly are we to take all this? If we assume that Joyce completely identifies himself with Stephen the final section of the book becomes an exercise in naïve self-glorification

So he says in trying to get Joyce off the hook many critics read the Portrait ironically – A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Insufferable Jerk

But hold on, Gross says

The portrait of the artist turns out to be the dissection of a second-rate aesthete.

If the Portrait was meant to be read as a hatchet job, why spend 300 pages doing it? The game is not worth the candle. The target is too mere. A short story in Dubliners would have done the job. So this makes us suspect JJ wanted us to take Stephen (=himself) seriously. It’s just not possible.

STRANGEST CAREER IN LITERATURE

He started off with the excellent short stories in Dubliners, following that with this mithering giant bore, then spent 7 years creating the magnificent Ulysses, 20th century’s greatest novel, then poured the rest of his life down the drain by taking seventeen (17) years to write the completely unreadable waste of time called Finnegans Wake. You couldn’t make it up.

Shut up James, you had me at 'moo-cow.'

James Joyce is noted for ambiguous narratives and his first novel is no exception, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Quite autobiographical in nature , his moods revealed on the page in stream of conscious words, they flow out perpetually. I grant not the easiest way to communicate to the reader, set in late 19th century Dublin, Ireland. Stephen Dedalus (James Joyce) an awkward boy with few friends from a family of ten children. A timid, lonely soul and his old, intelligent father Simon takes a nip or two of alcoholic beverages just to keep warm on frigid nights, between jobs, there are many chills in Dublin, the suffering mother Mary very religious often scolds her son for missing Mass, but Stephen a bright bookworm has doubts. With a mind full of never ending turmoil, feels rather uncomfortable in British ruled and Catholic dominated land. Politics is frequently spoken about at home, in the streets, the father a nationalist and rumors of another uprising a daily occurrence , however the public just talks. Young Dedalus is more interested in the arts, writing, singing and even in local theater , and acts in plays while attending schools taught by able priests. He often has discourses with the clergy and friends, of Saints, Thomas Aquinas, St. Augustine, Ignatius Loyola and Plato, Aristotle, others who are now obscure writers, poets, powerful humans forgotten today, but famous a century ago in the distant past. Cranly his best friend at the university speaks of many subjects too and conflicts...to be honest arguments mostly about religion, politics, literature, including excuse me, soiled dove women, disagreements unresolved nevertheless, the student always questioning, the now Mr. Stephen Dedalus has growing feelings of unrest also, doesn't belong in his native country anymore. I've devoured a lot of classics but must confess not the most fun read or coherent, quite numerous times was unsure what the author was saying or which part of the story it is in. A stream of conscious is like a man throwing out a bucket full of trash from his house into the street and some poor devil walking by digs down to the bottom to find a few nuggets if possible, not a happy situation. Books I believe should be somewhat entertaining even educational for the audience, otherwise a person could write the greatest book, critics praise it to high heaven and nobody reads ...what good has the author accomplished ?

پیش از این که برای اولین‌بار کتابی از جیمز جویس یعنی «چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی» را بخوانم، عنوان کتاب همیشه با یک شوخی بی‌مزه‌ی پرتکرار در جمع‌های دوستانه، در ذهن من حک شده بود. فکر هم نمی‌کنم این شوخی تنها مختص جمع دوستان من باشد. از زمان رونق فیسبوک یکی از کپشن‌های همیشگی یا دست‌کم یکی از کامنت‌های عکس‌های هنری رفقا از خودشان این بود: چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی. و یا البته ترکیب‌های جدیدتر آن «چهره‌ی مرد کارمند در شرکت» و «چهره زن ورزشکار در باشگاه» و همین‌طور هزاران «فلانی در فلان‌جا».

در این چند وقت اخیر دو سه کتاب با موضوع نقد ادبی خواندم. همه‌ی آن‌ها یکی از لنگرهای سفت‌وسخت و نقاط عطف مهم در تاریخ ادبیات جهان را همین آقای جیمز جویس می‌دانند و البته شاهکارش، اولیس را. اگر گشتی در اینترنت بزنید هم رمان اولیس معمولا در همه‌ی لیست‌های پیشنهادی مختلف وجود دارد. لیست‌هایی چون گاردین، لوموند، آمازون و .. این یعنی اگر شما بخواهید یکی دو درس‌نامه در مورد سبک‌های مختلف ادبی، ساختار رمان، نقد و تاریخ آن بخوانید اگر جویس نخوانده باشید، کمی ضدحال می‌خورید چون گویی بخش مهمی از درس را از دست خواهید داد.
متاسفانه از اولیس در ایران فقط دو ترجمه‌ی ناقص وجود دارد. ترجمه‌ی اکرم پدرام‌نیا و ترجمه‌ای دیگر از فرید قدمی. تقریباً یک سوم از مجموع این رمان ترجمه شده و در بازار کتاب هم می‌شود پیدایشان کرد. منوچهر بدیعی که مترجم چند اثر مختلف از جویس از جمله همین کتاب «چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی» است، در مقدمه‌ی این کتاب می‌نویسد که کار ترجمه اولیس را مدت‌هاست که تمام کرده، اما مسائلی باعث شده است که کتاب به مرحله انتشار نرسد و کسی هم نمی‌داند که چه زمان ممکن است منتشر شود.
به هر حال در مورد خواندن از جویس چند گزینه باقی می‌ماند: یا انگلیسی‌تان خوب است و می‌توانید اولیس را به زبان اصلی بخوانید (با توجه به پیچیدگی سبک جویس در نوشتن و ارجاعات فراوان به متون قرون وسطایی در آثار او تسلط شما بر زبان انگلیسی‌ باید از سطح پیشرفته بالاتر باشد)، یا نقد و بررسی در مورد آن بخوانید که در این مورد کتاب در بازار ایران کم نیست یا این که مشکلی با خواندن ناقص رمان ندارید و به خواندن همان یک سوم فعلاً اکتفا کنید. گزینه‌ی معقول‌تر از نظر من شاید می‌تواند این باشد که فعلاً دو سه اثر دیگر جویس را که به فارسی ترجمه ‌شده‌اند بخوانید تا ببینیم ماجرای ترجمه‌ی اولیس به کجا می‌رسد.
سه عنوان مشخص از جویس که می‌توانید با آنها شروع کنید: «چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی»، «دوبلینی‌ها» و نمایشنامه «تبعیدی‌ها» است. پیشنهاد خیلی از منتقدان ادبیات هم همین است: خواندن دوبلینی‌ها و چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی در ابتدا و بعد سراغ اولیس رفتن. این موضوع زمانی اهمیت ویژه‌ای پیدا می‌کند که بدانیم شخصیت اصلی کتاب «چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی» که ما در این کتاب تا بیست و دو سالگی‌اش را می‌خوانیم، در رمان اولیس نیز یکی از شخصیت‌های اصلی است. از این کتاب چند ترجمه در بازار ایران موجود است که اقبال به ترجمه‌ی منوچهر بدیعی بیشتر بوده است.
چند روز پیش به یکی از کتاب‌فروشی‌های خیابان انقلاب رفتم تا آن دو جلد از اولیسِ پدرام‌نیا را بخرم. این ترجمه در ایران به صورت غیررسمی منتشر شده و باید کمی در بازار بگردید تا پیدایش کنید، اما به راحتی می‌توانید با جستجوی هشتگ اولیس در اینستاگرام، کتابفروشی‌هایی را پیدا کنید که آن را تمیز و مرتب چاپ کرده‌اند و روانه بازار کرده‌اند. به هر صورت من کتاب را پیدا کردم، ترجمه‌ای مفصل با یادداشت‌هایی فراوان که برای فهم ارجاعات و اشارات متن جویس به متون مقدس، اساطیر، فرهنگ و تاریخ ایرلند خواندن آنها بسیار کمک‌کننده و لازم است.
وقتی از فروشنده که یک آقای پنجاه و چند ساله به نظر می‌رسید پرسیدم کتاب اولیس را دارید؟ سری از روی طعنه یا حسرت تکان داد و گفت: بله، دارم. گویی منتظر بود که کسی آن روز از او در مورد جویس سوالی بپرسد و او خطابه‌ای رسا در تایید و نفی جویس بگوید. راستش من خیلی حوصله نداشتم و چیزی نپرسیدم، اما به پذیرا بودن یا نبودن من برای آغاز بحث اعتنایی نکرد و دوباره سرش را تکانی داد و گفت: «آدم کتاب می‌خونه که لذت ببره! من خودم چندین بار اولیس رو شروع کردم و ولش کردم چون چرت و پرت میگه، فقط اولیسم اینجوری نیستا! اون یکی چهره مرد هنرمند و اون یکیش دوبلین هم همینه آخه! کتاب‌های الکی معروف!» برای این که بحث پا نگیرد لبخندی از سر موافقت با او زدم و بی‌خیال خریدن اولیس شدم. از کتاب‌فروشی بیرون آمدم و بعد، از خودم دوباره این سوال او را پرسیدم که آیا هنگام خواندن «چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی» لذت می‌بردم؟ یا فقط چون نوشته‌ای از جویس بود یا مثلا به این دلیل که گفته‌اند خواندنش مهم است به خواندش ادامه می‌دادم؟ پاسخم تقریبا قاطع بود: بله. واقعا خواندن «چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی» لذت بخش بود.
بخشی از این لذت بردن خب قطعا سلیقه‌ی خواننده است و بخش دیگر هنر نویسنده. برای من چهره مرد هنرمند مجموع این دو حالت بود. خواندن نثری شعرگونه، رویایی و بازیگوش با ارجاعاتی غنی به کتب مقدس و اساطیر. فکر می‌کنم در زندگی هر کسی لحظات و تجربیات ویژه‌ای وجود دارد که به خاطر میزان زیاد شخصی و درونی بودن، توصیف و گفتن و در قالب کلمات آوردن آن‌ها بسیار سخت است. مثلاً لحظه‌ای که شما اضطرابی غریب را از یک واقعه ساده تجربه می‌کنید یا مثلاً لحظه‌ای که ناگهان احساس می‌کنید قلب‌تان از هرگونه احساسی در مورد خانواده، رفیقی قدیمی، گذشته یا چیزی که همیشه به آن عشق می‌ورزیدید تهی شده است. تجربه‌های غریب معنوی، حتی یوگا، شهود، کشف کردن، سنگینی غمی مبهم، جدایی، تنهایی، ترس یا هزاران تجربه‌ و احساس شخصی دیگر، خواندن جویس ما را کمک می‌کند که شاید بتوانیم این تجربیات بسیار شخصی، درونی و غریب خودمان را کمی به کلمه نزدیک کنیم.
عنوان کتاب ترجمه‌ای از این عبارت انگلیسی است: ” A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man “. پرتره در فارسی به چهره ترجمه شده و به نظر من هم نزدیک‌ترین معادل در فارسی همین کلمه می‌تواند باشد. اما در انگلیسی پرتره بار معنایی بیشتری از «چهره» دارد. در هنر به طور کلی پرتره یک نقاشی، یک عکس و یا تندیسی از یک شخص است که در آن تاکید بر چهره و حالات آن غالب است. این تعریف را بگذارید کنار تعریف «پرتره» در ادبیات که در آن این اصطلاح به توصیف یا تحلیل مکتوب یک شخص یا یک چیز اشاره دارد.
یک پرتره مکتوب اغلب تحلیلی عمیق از شخصیت و روانشناسی یک فرد در زمینه‌ای وسیع از محیط اطراف، گذشته و شرایط اجتماعی و تاریخی معاصر او ارائه می‌دهد. از این بابت است که می‌گویم ممکن است کلمه‌ی «چهره» در رساندن مراد جویس از «پرتره» کمی نارسا باشد. گویی چاره‌ی دیگری هم نیست و معادل بهتری حداقل به ذهن من نمی‌رسد. به این ترتیب کتاب «چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی» تحلیلی عمیق از تکامل، دگرگونی، رشد و تغییرات استیون ددالوس از دو سالگی تا بیست و دو سالگی او ارائه می‌دهد. ماجرا از خردسالی او شروع می‌شود و تا اواسط دانشگاه ادامه دارد. با این که ماجرا به شکل سوم شخص روایت می‌شود اما به دلیل وفاداری نویسنده به ذهنیت ددالوس از کودکی تا جوانی او، ما تکامل و بزرگ شدن او را حتی در نثر کتاب، کلمه‌ها، جملات و تصاویر مکتوب شده نیز می‌بینیم. به نوعی روند کتاب از سادگی به سوی پیچیدگی حرکت می‌کند. از ذهن یک کودک تا ذهن پریشان یک جوان.

استیون فرزند نخست یک خانواده طبقه متوسط ایرلندی است. این وضعیت خانوادگی و تاریخی یعنی عضویت در یک خانواده‌ی طبقه متوسطی ایرلندی در ابتدای قرن بیستم بر سه چیز مشخص دلالت می‌کند: خانواده، کلیسای کاتولیک و وطن.
ما داستان درگیری، مواجهه، تغییر و تحول روحیات استیون را در مواجهه با این نظم از پیش موجود می‌بینیم. پدری صنعت‌گر و مادری مذهبی که بر ارزش‌های خود تاکید دارند، کلیسای کاتولیک ایرلند که در برابر کلیسای پروتستان انگلستان بر هویت مستقل خود پافشاری می‌کند. همچنین ناسیونالیسم ایرلندی، وطن‌پرستی همه‌گیر و تاکید بر استقلال از پادشاهی انگلیس. ماجرا نبرد استیون جوان است با بندهایی که این شرایط بر ذهن و روح و شخصیت او ایجاد کرده‌اند.
در طول داستان ما لحظه‌های غریبی از پریشانی، اضطراب، ترس، نفرت و آرامش استیون را می‌خوانیم. لحظه‌های نبرد او با خواسته‌های مادر، ترس او از آتش جهنم، گرفتاری‌های او با اخلاقیات کلیسا، بحث او با رفقای ناسیونالیست و هویت‌گرای ایرلندی، جدال او با گذشته و فرهنگ پدری و در آخر توصیفات شگفت‌انگیز از لحظه‌های رهایی: لحظه‌ی اولین گناه و تجربه‌ی هم‌آغوشی، رفتن به دانشگاه به جای کشیش شدن و مهاجرت به اروپا به جای ماندن در دوبلین.
حقیقتاً خواندن گفتگوهای درونی استیون در طی این نبردها، لحظه‌های گسست او از ارزش‌های بزرگی چون خانواده، مذهب و وطن، می‌تواند چیزی را در خواننده تکان دهد. خواننده رنج‌های او را تجریه می‌کند و با استیون همراه می‌شود و حتی برای لحظه‌های کوتاهی رهایی را تجربه کند. در عین حال استیون می‌داند که رها شدن از بندهای پیشینی با رنج همراه خواهد بود. او در صفحات پایانی کتاب به دوستش می‌گوید: «من از تنها بودن یا به خاطر دیگران عقب رانده شدن یا رها کردن آنچه باید رها کنم نمی‌ترسم. از اشتباه کردن هم نمی‌ترسم حتی اگر اشتباه بزرگ باشد، اشتباهی که یک عمر طول بکشد و شاید تا ابد ادامه پیدا کند.»
سبک جویس در نوشتن را یکی از نقاط عطف مهم در تاریخ داستان‌گویی می‌دانند. او از پیشگامان سبک سیال ذهن بود که در داستان‌های خود به جای تمرکز بر وقایع بیرونی و مباحثی چون پیرنگ داستان، بر رویدادها و تحولات ذهن شخصیت‌های داستان تاکید داشت. این یعنی آن چیزی که در جهان بیرونی رخ می‌دهد در برابر درک ذهنی شخصیت داستان از آن، اهمیت ثانوی پیدا می‌کند. وقتی «چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی» را می‌خوانیم ما از وقایع بیرونی تنها از خلال اندیشه‌های درونی استیون باخبر می‌شویم. این که دوبلین چگونه است، خانواده در چه وضعیتی قرار دارد، مدرسه و کلیسا و مردم چطور امور خود را می‌گذرانند را ما آن‌گونه می‌خوانیم و می‌فهمیم که استیون آن‌ها را در ذهن خود می‌فهمد و درک می‌کند. این شیوه روایت را می‌توان کاملاً در برابر سبک نویسندگان دیگری چون بالزاک دانست. واقع‌گرایی کلاسیک در برابر واقعیتی که تنها در ذهن‌ها تجربه و ساخته می‌شود.
بیشتر منتقدان به این باور دارند که «استیون ددالوس» خود جویس است و «چهره مرد هنرمند در جوانی» زندگینامه‌ی خودنوشت او. جویس در جوانی در مدارس مذهبی کلیسای یسوعی آموزش دیده بود، در دوبلین بزرگ شد و در ابتدای دهه‌ی سوم زندگی‌اش برای همیشه از ایرلند به اروپا مهاجرت کرد و دوبلین را ترک گفت. با تدریس زبان انگلیسی و در شرایط سخت مالی زندگی کرد و نوشت، اما حاضر نشد تن به استانداردهای عرفی و ادبی زمان خود بدهد. معروف است که وقتی در بسیاری از کشورها از انتشار قانونی اولیس جلوگیری می‌شد او حاضر نشد که بعضی از بخش‌های کتاب را که با شرایط عرفی آن زمان هماهنگ نبود، حذف کند. او رنج‌های در بند نبودن را به جان خریده بود.

فروردین 1401

Can we just agree to disagree that there are some classics (yeah not just books but *cue gasp* classics) that simply do not click with you, and that not being able to read some or other of these classics specifically for pleasure doesn't automatically make you a philistine? And that the rating one gives here on Goodreads refers to one's personal enjoyment of the book (at least, that's so in my case) and not to some """objective""" value that we're purportedly trying to assign to it? Yes? Great. Thank you very much.

A Portrait of the Artist is an Old Mushroom Face, quips Bohumil Hrabal in Too Loud a Solitude.

I will write something briefly about the book, soon I reckon.

PREVIEW, OR A REVIEW OF THE PREFACE!

I skip long introductory notes to works of fiction and proceed directly to the text. But since the introduction titled "Life & Times: About the Author" was only four-and-a-quarter pages long, I made an exception this time round, and decided to skim through it. After all how much the writer could pack into a small space to influence my reading of Joyce?...I was in for an awful surprise.

On page 1, paragraph 2, line 21, after telling us about Joyce's early difficulties to earn a living and get published the the preface writer says:

It wasn't until he found a wealthy benefactor that he was able to live the life of the creative writer, which he seems to have done without ethical qualms.

Without ethical qualms? Did Joyce steal from his benefactor? Did he deceive his benefactor about his art? Had he bullied others into giving him a stipend to live off? I don't think that would be the case. So what gives?

Had it not been for a system of patronage most - and I mean most - of the art that has come down to us in various shapes and forms would never have been created in the first place. From the earliest Akkadian times down to our university system artists have struggled to earn a living due to the nature of their work. Only when they have found some means of subsistence they have managed to devote their full time to artistic pursuits (exceptions excepted). Does the writer also have ethical qualms when academic institutions hand out public money to writers, or when various private organisatoins give grants, convinced of the artist's talent? I wager not.

This is not it.

Here is the immediate sentence, on page 1, paragraph 2, line 23 (yes, I counted the lines):

It is apparent, from photographic portrait of Joyce, that he rather fancied himself the literary sophisticate. The images are typically overly posed and affected. For a man living on the handouts of another, one might think Joyce would have wished to project a more sincere, modest and grateful countenance. However, perhaps he needed to inflate his ego for fear of revealing a fragile self-esteem.

This is a low jibe. What I hate about this prosaic excrescence is its pretentious pop psychology. Only wannabes who don't have the intelligence to make a meaningful comment will resort to such asinine remarks. Let's not forget we are being introduced to the author's life and times but all we get in the preface is ad hominem after ad hominem. This is in lines 23-25 of page 1.

On page 3 we read:

He felt claustrophobic in Dublin because of the type of personality he happened to possess, so his decision to leave was necessary.

We are not told what "type of personality" did Joyce posses, apart from "overly posed and affected" photographs.

And it continues.

After discussing the autobiographical aspect of the novel and Joyce's difficulties in writing it, we read this on page 4.

Another indication that literature did not come easily to Joyce is his economy of dialogue in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Dialogue is a difficult thing to master for those who are not naturally given to it. It requires close observation of character in choice of word and phrase...." And a few lines later: "It's a curious thing, but nowadays Joyce is celebrated as an important literary genius and influence..."

Look, I have no love lost for Joyce, and that's simply because I have not read him (this is my first and I'm just starting). But the intro almost reads like a badly written blog post by someone who dismisses Joyce in toto. It would be fine if it were an independent opinion piece to appear somewhere, as on GR. But if you see no merit in Joyce at all then you don't have a moral right to write an introduction to a widely circulated edition of Joyce's novel. You just shouldn't be there! Ethical qualms anyone? And shame on Collins Classics series editor for letting this stay on.

April 20, 2015

In terms of entertainment value, this would have to rank somewhere in between a scholastic text on plumbing and your average phone book. Nothing about this book is interesting. Not the cover, not the title, not the obligatory forward hailing the author's genius, nothing. It's the literary equivalent of getting a vasectomy with even less potential for arousal. Think I'm joking? This is your mind on Joyce:

Title Page: Chapter 1. "Once upon a time" -promising enough start- "and a very good time it was" -oh my, I wonder why- "there was a moocow coming down along the road" -a what? does he mean cow?- "and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy" -a what little boy?- "named baby tucktoo..." -baby what? a moocow? a nicens moocow named tucktoo? did I get that straight?- "his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face. He was baby tucktoo." -wait... the father is named baby tucktoo? with a hairy face? and a moocow is involved?- "the moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt." -Lemon what?- "O, the wild rose blossoms On the little green place" -a little green place where Betty sells lemon platt?- "He sang that song. That was his song." -How lovely- "O, the green wothe botheth." -ummm... this might have been a mistake...

But I, ever persistent in my unfounded optimism that books with horrible starts written by supposed icons are bound to get better, read on... and on... regaining consciousness somewhere around page 105.

"'Well now, Ennis, I declare you have a head and so has my stick!'" -oooh, nice one!- "'Do you mean to say that you are not able to tell me what a surd is?'" -Oh, the nerve! my, surely everyone knows what a surd is!- "On the wall of his bedroom hung an illuminated scroll, the certificate of his prefecture in the college of the sodality of the Blessed Virgin Mary." -sodal prefectural virgins in college? Fascinating!- "Quasi cedrus exalta sum in Libanon et quasi cupressus in monte Sion. Quasi palma exaltata sum in Gades et quasi plantatio rosae in Jericho." -oh right, the place where Joshua walked along the wall- Quasi uliva speciosa in campis et quasi platanus exaltata sum juxta aquam in plateis. Sicut cinnamomum et balsamum aromatizans odorem dedi et quasi myrrha electa dedi suavitatem odoris." -oh wait, was that all in Latin? I couldn't even tell! It makes about as much sense as moocows and surds!

Enter 50 pages of a Priest talking about hell. Summary: It's hot. Funny thing is, this was the best part of the book... because the writing was actually comprehensible. Just so you're not confused, I don't mean that this part was good. Just that I understood the concept that hell = hot.

"April 15, April 16th, April 26th" -me oh my, the days are flying!- "Welcome, O life!"-another exclamation point!- "I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race" -this line apparently is important as it is written on the back of my edition. Yes, that was what the publisher deemed the highlight- "April 27th. Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead."-oh, way to end the chapter! real cliffhanger!- "Classic Literature: Adapted Words and Phrases" - wait... you mean that was really the end? That sucks!!! I mean, thank bloody Jesus!

Did I mention this is a riveting read? Sure to enthrall and entertain readers of all ages and abilities, particularly the illiterate and those without the gift of sight.

I could go two ways on this. 1) Fess up that I am clearly not trained in whatever higher powers of tolerance and obtuseness is needed to even pretend enjoyment while reading this or, 2) blame the teachers who shove books by authors like Joyce and Faulkner down the throats of their pupils and then, years later while curled in semi-retirement on the couch with their hair in rollers bemoan the fact that those former pupils and millions like them no longer read but sit their asses in front of a TV screen watching Real Housewives. Is it any wonder? If this was the only shit I'd read in school I'd be an advocate for book burnings.

James Joyce, despite the repeated J which gives his the name of a possible superhero (e.g. Peter Parker, Bruce Banner... i.e. someone INTERESTING) is about as much fun to read on the page as Roman Polanski would be to have photographing your daughter's 13th birthday party. In other words, not much. Funny thing is, Joyce's one-time pupil, Italo Svevo, wrote a very interesting book that I'd highly recommend called 'Zeno's Conscience.' No one gets called on their inability to identify a "surd" in it. Talk about the pupil eclipsing the master.

It's not that I don't like classic literature. Charles Dickens, Alexandre Dumas, Oscar Wilde, etc, are all brilliant and, despite having written their final words before last century manage to still remain interesting and relevant. It's just that the only thing classic about this is how old it is. Sorry to break it to you, JJ, but you're about as relevant as milk delivered fresh to your door from the moocow's teat. A real treat for buzzards and dullards, to use carefully refined, Joyce-ian "prose."

Highly recommended for the narcoleptic masochists out there.

I think I will have a reread of this sometime in the near future. I don't feel I was focused and into the author's story.

I will say there were no connections between narratives so at times I was confused of where Stephen was in his life. There was so much jumping of time sequences that I had to reread the last page in the chapters to make sure I didn't miss something important.

I liked that James Joyce discusses family, religion, the nation at the time, art, and his peers throughout the story.

I liked that there were notes at the back of the book because the references were to slang or Irish history I am very limited on. I learned a lot of the Irish pop culture and history by these annotations.

Therefore, I think it deserves a second chance as I am in Coronavirus lazy, stressed and overwhelmed moments.

5.0 Stars. Wow! Where to even start with James Joyce and this book?

It’s one of those books that I could write a sentence about….or I could write a paper on. But it seems like it will be really hard to write something of normal, sensible length. So maybe I’ll just make some random comments about Joyce and call it good.

First, I think Joyce is genius. Some of the most terrifying and some of the most beautiful prose imaginable can be found in this book. And sometimes that prose can be both terrifying and beautiful at the same time. Sometimes thrilling the heart, sometimes so sad that your heart feels like it will break,
Joyce is indeed the artist he hoped to become.

I will certainly read some of his poetry; it’s bound to be wonderful.

Joyce, I believe, does not particularly care about being accessible. Even laying aside the fact that I am an American reading his work 120 years later, this book was tough going in places, and you have to come to Joyce ready to think hard and do research. I was fortunate in that I have a very strong working knowledge of the Catholic Church and its doctrines, liturgy and language. I can’t imagine what those who do not have this background do. Unfortunately, I do NOT have a very strong background in Irish history and political thought at around the time that Joyce wrote. It certainly would do any reader a great service to own of a rudimentary knowledge of this background material with an emphasis on knowledge of Irish Nationalism and its key players at the time. It also wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of Irish mythology in your background.

Joyce, I think, is going to be an author you either love or hate. He is a LOT of work, as I mentioned. But there was also a lot of religious (specifically, Catholic) references, and this would definitely NOT be a book that lapsed Catholics with PTSD about religious school are going to love. The most terrifying portion of the book is a very long sermon made by a Jesuit priest during Stephen’s boyhood while at a school retreat. Talk about being scared into heaven!

Che si sia artisti o semplici uomini, per poter scoprir la propria strada ed esternar il proprio talento, occorre affrontare e superare un apprendistato che passa attraverso una profonda catarsi: attraverso la piena emancipazione da tutte le sovrastrutture mentali che educazione, scuola, chiesa e pregiudizi vari seguitano a impartire e che, spesso, lungi dal poter rappresentare un plausibile beneficio, conseguono il solo, involontario scopo di soffocare la nostra personale spiritualità. Il Dedalus (che fugge dai labirinti da lui stesso edificati, così come il personaggio del mito) narra proprio, in maniera romanzata e autobiografica, di questa sublime auto-liberazione.

I have listened to A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by Irish writer James Joyce on Audible. It represents a young man living in Ireland. The schooling of young men is very close to religion.