I’ve known Joyce for about 12 years, but what I didn’t know is she has a all black cat the size of a small lion for a pet.  

On 16^th June 2004 I was at a bar in Dublin explaining Joyce.  The sceptical local who faced me was convinced all the surrounding Bloomsday anniversary fuss was, like Joyce’s novel, ‘a load of bollix’.  I told him reading novels at least twice to get the point was not crazy but like listening to your favourite album more than once; he told me he was a bookmaker with no time for that nonsense.  I told him that, as it had been one hundred years before, this Thursday was the Ascot Gold Cup, and proceeded to give him the prices of 1904, explaining how all drinking Dublin considered the Jewish advertising agent Leopold Bloom ‘cute as a shithouse rat’ for tipping (successfully though inadvertently) the long-odds outsider Throwaway (100-5) to win ahead of the favourite (and following year’s winner) Zinfandel (5-4) – and then not standing any drinks.  This story impressed for just a moment, if it would never entirely convince; but it well illustrates the problem David Pierce’s new book intends in some way to resolve.  Despite an ever-expanding and grossly prolix critical industry Joyce generates many fewer enthusiastic readers than he should.  Reading Joyce is personal account of the problems and pleasures of encountering Joyce written by a distinguished Irish literature scholar explicitly in hopes of finding and guiding new readers to Joyce.  It is in many ways a brave book: that it does not succeed is not to spurn the many pleasures to be had by the way.

Taking as a starting point Joyce’s apparently personal plea in Finnegans Wake ‘Is there one who understands me?’ Pierce sets forth his sense that the word ‘delay’ better encapsulates the reflective attitude Joyce should inspire than that obstructive word ‘difficulty’.  The suggestion is that if the reader will just wait a little the books tend to explain themselves, and if such homespun wisdom as ‘Joyce was extraordinarily reluctant to say what he means’ initially jars, Pierce saves himself by elucidating what he calls the Modernist ‘resistance to paraphrase’, and we understand that Joyce was extraordinarily keen to say not what others meant to say but exactly what they said, nuggets which gather then their own meanings.  The text is framed in eleven chapters and a brief afterword: following a revealing introductory piece we encounter a thoughtful probe into Joyce and his city in 1904; four further chapters on aspects of Dubliners; only one, regrettably, on A Portrait of the Artist; three further chapters concerning Ulysses and student responses; and a final chapter on ‘Figuring out Finnegans Wake’.  It might be deduced from this that Pierce takes a material attitude to Joyce’s texts: he imagines them built from the ground up, from fragments and cityplans in fact, and thus helps us to become familiar with all of Joyce’s cities and their surviving extrusions.  He has less time for Stephen Dedalus’s ethereal wordplay and this commonsense approach is not without compensating subtleties, although as his comments on A Portrait are particularly enlightening, and his heroic unearthing of Sussex Earwickers abundantly fascinating, one might wish for more on these less tangible texts – to take as sample an insight that evidently draws on the author’s own experience: ‘interior monologue […] began long before Dujardin, Joyce and the Modernist novel.  It was known in the Church as mental prayer and, crucially, it included the distractions that accompany mental prayer.’

Such insight represents the best side of what is the most striking characteristic of the book, and this is a narrative threaded with autobiographical reminiscence.  I began with an anecdote for a reason: Pierce’s book is littered with them.  If this is liable to irritate I would suggest reading something else, or only looking at the pictures, which is not as silly as it sounds.  In fact as a Joycean pictorial miscellany this book has few equals, and the treasures Pierce has unearthed will be of inestimable interest to thoughtful scholars, teachers, and students.  Many photographs and images (including maps, bookcovers, and music) I had not seen before, and the author’s musings in the proximate captions on Joyce (‘a boxy sort of mind’) provide entertaining reading.  Yet as we observe Pierce reading or teaching Joyce, visiting his family or revisiting his upbringing the personal stories produced seriously run the risk of banality.  His occasional and unconvincing ventriloquism of Joyce-the-writer (or the voice of Irish nationalism) ignores exactly that resistance to paraphrase he elsewhere commends, while his inclusion of reliably imprecise excerpts from student essays is not always the revelation that was evidently expected.  This is frustrating, as it gets in the way of some real gems of local insight, especially in the latter half of the book.  Pierce evidently believes in the luminous detail, and at his best will take the unfinished sentences of ‘The Sisters’ or words from St John’s gospel and in a few deft touches allow their gleams to illuminate the whole.

All of which suggests that in the flesh Pierce is a very fine teacher, with a gift for the communication of complexities without patronizing his listeners: many handouts and tips are passed on here.  But outside the classroom it is much harder to get the feel of one’s audience: books are not reciprocal events, however much we pretend them to be.  Too often on the point of discovery the narrative lapses into discursive asides, which appear on the page only as strained attempts at ‘relevance’.  Worse, the book seems to miss its intended readership.  Many details are luminous only after much polishing and thus appeal only to those steeped in Joyce, without providing the overall shape a general reader might desire.  In the new reader the book on occasion assumes too much Joycean knowledge; more significantly it is hard to imagine that time-pressed students would not be frustrated by the intrusion of so much circular and frankly unilluminating autobiographical tales.  Pierce does not have Joyce’s gift for concision and resonance in autobiography: well, few do.  But to take on an author with such propensity for transmuting the base metal of personal experience into gold is, however faintly, to set oneself up in competition: tired phrases like ‘then he had to face a different kind of music’ reveal who is the better storyteller.

It is only just to note that in this pervasive spirit of openness Pierce recounts how he was pestered to write the book by his publisher.  Given ‘the demise of critical monographs’ there was, it seemed, a need to make criticism ‘attractive’, especially for Joyce, the great unread.  Pierce responds by attempting to fill a perceived lack: a book that says ‘not “this means that” but “Why should I read this at all?” and “How does any of this connect with my life” and “Please tell me things but make it interesting.”’  In Ezra Pound’s view ‘the critic who doesn’t make a personal statement, in re measurements he himself has made, is merely an unreliable critic’.  Pound though is arguing the critic should not pretend to impersonal objectivity when it comes to questions of value; it is his reasoning, not his biography that should be adduced.  Criticism should perhaps be enjoyable but above all it must be concise and get out of the way, leaving the thing itself to communicate.  So although Reading Joyce marks a noble effort to fulfil the whims of educational publishers, and contains much of value, one can only hope (or pray in that interior space Pierce so well describes) that it does not represent the ‘attractive’ future of academic criticism.  Joyce was a teacher too, we remember; assuming effort but not our overwhelming intelligence, his books knew that only direct contact with us readers ensured they were news that stayed news.

David Pierce, Reading Joyce. Harlow: Pearson Longman, 2008. xviii + 366pp. £14.99 (softback). ISBN 978-1-4058-4061-3.

[To see this article in print see Irish Studies Review, 17:2 (May 2009)]

Some greater purpose had come about in the form of educating himself in the ways of those whom had arrived after him, and the dim light in the hallway accented this philosophy in a way only rave parties had in the undistant past. It’s the occasion to play catch up on the theories he had accrued and used to his benefit in arguments with ministers and scholars up to then, time to make them more significant, more than the original ideas that first presented themselves to the writer – before the publisher took hold, before the professors and critics – all failures in their fields – laid foundations of doubt in place of concrete, deconstructive asceticism where the temples would be tombs, and with this persistence their failures were less prodigal.

The manuscripts that populated the desk, the kitchen counters, the bookshelves were icefalls he would never attempt to climb, even as his eyeglasses shifted light from one side of the page to the other when the sun distastefully entered the room where he stood, leaned over the billiard table, elbows dusted blue, or sitting on the floor, back against the intricately carved to be dreadfully uncomfortable cabinets and shelves that dominated three walls. Late afternoon, the bleakest era of any calendar, when neither day or night are promised to arrive or remain, and the entire world appears to be a dream of Midas, and all that is precious is cheapened to the likes of bumper stickers and foul-smelling candlesticks.

And it was in this light the spirit of God flourished, its braggadocio a collage  highlighting man’s hypocrisies, magazine cutouts crayola-d to innocent perfection, photographs of Ferris wheels and correction pen marks drawing Valentine hearts with practiced hands. No moral man could question the good He had on us, and only the Wicked would appeal his judgment.

And it is with this conviction that ‘free will’ is incarcerated by a judge and jury that both have insurmountable issues of masochism, galloping around the concrete jungles built for them to find a power to submit to, after dark, when the world is not watching because it is partaking in its own self-torture, having shrunk to the demands of the Day, cozy in their blankets and chains, behind locked doors for the moment some stranger might wish to seize the Things that have been acquired, and no fear is greater than losing the Things we have worked for, deserve because we bought them, and Own them. It would be a crime to take them away, and often is.

And we enjoyed every bit of it. We began our morning with church as usual, then lunch. After lunch we thought it was just too beautiful (warm and overcast) of a day to not be out playing in it. So what did we do? We went hiking. We hiked 2 hours up  but Jax wasn’t up for more, so we chose to turn around as we probably had another half hour to hour hike left to get to the top. We were almost to the top!  The hike down was much faster   Jax enjoyed the hike, exploring and talking. We all had lots of fun and played around the river nearby as well. On the way back home we picked out our Christmas tree and the boys laughed at us while we tied it to the roof. It was really an awesome day.

The miracle in question was only performed to hasten the operation, under circumstances of present necessity, which required it. -Ben Franklin

Finished that belated, beloved, beleaguering NaNoWriMo contest at 50,267 words. What can I say: thanks to the divine. Amen to my mom and dad. Blessings to the organisers. Yiiipppeeehs and Yaya-cries to the other writers and GoGoGoGo to those who’re still slaving away at it! Exclamation mark time! Now I need to shake it all off and wipe my boots clean. A winner all the same.

Actually, I can’t believe I am writing again already! Worse: I am already thinking about the next novel! It happened in the car as I was listening to the intoxicating Jim Norton reading Ulysses…and I have plans for video and podcasts – on the last day, I even managed to record a novel excerpt as a podcast – you know how much I like La Voce. Divas. Verdi. La Callas. Aww.

What it meant: I am now estranged from Ms Flawnt. Fortunate for me, she is the forgiving type (though she doesn’t know it – that’s even better). Our daughter has begun to call me ‘mummy’ because, evidently, she has suppressed all memory that she has a father (that used to be me before nano). I haven’t been around much in SecondLife®…the chat’s too good there, too many distractions, and, as Mark Twain says, only swiftness in banging the keys counts. Hence, not much remains of this writer’s virtuality…one of the many things to be picked up again in December, and also, there is Black Friday to consider (less of a tragic, torturous event on the Old Continent, but still, who are we without regular, life-affirming, mind-numbing consumption).

Banging builds muscle, but...

‘Banging’ was my original title for this piece, but it’s perhaps not as relevant as its current title, ‘manifesting’. In previous reviews of my path through NaNoWriMo jungle, machete in hand, rubber boots on my feet, a turban slung around my head (aching from plot twisters), I have discussed gathering yer wits, digesting yer innards, listening to yerself…in the last week, I found that the hour of manifestion had come: I see manifestation as the ability to make something happen by drawing on all your resources, not just that clever little brain of ours, caffeine and nicotine drenched as it is in my case.

...only manifestation can make miracles happen.

On that last day, I needed a small miracle to finish: word count was good, but my characters were fighting with each other for my attention, besides my original heroine, another one, her opposite in every way, had appeared and captured the heart of my main character (MC), and even the MC’s lofty priority position was threatened by a character, who, in the course of several chapters, had shown staying power and an uncanny ability to hold the story together by its very presence. Even the location was in serious jeopardy: I had started in London, but about half way through the novel, my main cast relocated to a castle in the Scottish Highlands – should I lure them away from there for the grand finish (which I always imagined in a trendy city venue, or trust them? To put it shortly: I did not count on miracles though I felt I needed one. I was planning a major military operation dominated by me as field marshal, and I envisioned myself on a hill, leaning on a cannon, mumbling phyrrically: „Another victory like this and we’re done for.”

OK. Lemme put all this behind me. Rumour has it, that I’m being missed under Milk Wood, which is where I live. It’s time to return for timeless chat, banter and a small, measured amount of words every day, but not 1,667 (the required daily amount for NaNoWriMo). I have vowed to put the manuscript in a drawer for at least one month while I rebuild relationships with Ms Flawnt and with Little Miss Flawnt. I am daunted by the task of editing the beast. If you do, too, write to me and we shall whine side by side.

Virtually yours,
Flawnt Alchemi

November 23rd 7:15am,My oldest sister went to be with Jesus.My sister’s life was full of battles as we all face.During her time in the hospital, she had a sweet spirit that seemed a little different,it wasn’t the same person who usually would have asked why and been angry about her condition.She always gave humble soft spoken answers when asked if she was in pain,she would answer, no honey.I believe the Lord Jesus was in this from the start preparing her for her journey home to Heaven.A few days later,after all the tests,the doctors told us she had mass on the brain with a class called “mass effect” and she also had cancer all through her lungs,kidney and liver.Covenant Hospice was called in to take over care for sis.Sis was terminally ill and her time with us was ticking away.Joyce Goldenberg Hospice impatient care was going to be in charge of keeping sis comfortable and prepare her for her Journey Home to Jesus.The picture came to my mind,a picture of Angels taking care of sis suffering,comforting her and preparing her to see Jesus.The peace that surpasses all understanding came to me and gave me the strength i needed to get through this.Bro. Greg Robards of Hickory Hammock Baptist Church of Milton,Fl. came by to talk and pray with sis to be sure sis was ready to see Jesus.I give Jesus all the Glory for answering prayer for sis to be ready when her time came and now i can celebrate that sis is with Jesus and she is in Peaceful arms of Jesus.

KEY POINTS:

• We have to build spiritual muscles just like we have to build natural muscles
• We wouldn’t just wish for muscles to grow,we need to work out to get them.
• We will be amazed at the progress that we can make if we just be willing to start doing what is not easy but we know its right!

KEY POINTS:

• GOD doesn’t want us to run from things but to face them and not be afraid.

ISAIAH : 40-31 ‘those who wait upon the Lord shall mount up with wings like EAGLES.

• Iti s God’s will that all of us reach our full potential in life.

• Let’s not  be anything less than what God wants us to be .

• Let’s be all what God wants us to be.Do all what God wants us to do .Have all what God wants us to have.Some of us like the last one more than the others.;0)

• The Eagle reaches its full potential by how he handles the adversity that comes its way.The Eagle has no fear at all of adversity.

• We need to get to the point where we live with a Conquering spirit.

• We ve got to see ourselves as overcomers as opposed to people always overcome by situations.

• We have to see ourselves as more than a conqueror,not being afraid of adversity.

• We are gonna go through things in life,but we will find out that, it is the things that we go through that eventually will turn us into an Eagle.

• We really don’t grow all that much in just good times.We enjoy the good times but we grow when we have adversity when we  adopt a good attitude in it!

• When we do what’s right when it feels wrong that’s when we grow.

• Sometimes we gonna have to do right a longgggg time before seeing any results.

Hebrews 12-11 No discipline for the present seems joyous,nevertheless..

• we will go through things

Isaiah 43-2 When you pass through the waters, I will be with you…

• The good news is,we will go through and come out on the other side a stronger /better person

• In the furnace,even when heated 7* over,there is always the 4th man standing in there with us -JESUS

• We usually go in the furnace bound and come out loose.

• It is in the furnace that God changes us,in those times of trouble,loneliness,misunderstanding,trials,rejection,it is in those times that we find that 4th Man.

• Resist the devil doesn’t mean to resist the Trouble!

• We need to use the storms of life rather than running from them!

• Whatever we run from ,we will have to go back and face it some other time in our life.

Moses ran FROM Egypt-God send him back TO Egypt

• The Eagle has 2 enemies :The storm and the Serpent

• The Eagle embraces the storm and destroy the Serpent!

KEY POINTS:

• EVERYBODY needs time of renewal,refreshing and restoration.

• There is nobody that doesn’t get weary.As we go in life we get wearried,as we have disappointment we get wearried.

• Wearried people start to do stupid things if they don’t get restored.

• A lot of us make bad decisions because we get worn out from all the mess in the world and we don’t take the time to draw close to God and wait on Him,so we can get that Restoration in our life.
• If we don’t spend time with God,we are bound to do dumb stuffs.

• When we want different results we cannot keep doing the same things.

• When we have problems,worrying is the most useless thing we can do.

• Worrying is like a rocking chair: it gives you something to do, but doesn’t get you anywhere.

 

being stuck doesn’t always mean you’re “stuck”, sometimes it means you’re right where you need to be, regardless of whether you like it or not. -WillowJoyce

And thus we reach the end of Ulysses. In my last post, I discussed the function of gifts as representing the various offerings (lifestyle, future) Boylan and Bloom both exhibit for/give to Molly and what she ultimately decides, represented by her acquiescence to make breakfast for Bloom (a gift in it’s own right, with a cherry on top) and the gradual phasing out of Boylan despite his propensity to give many, many gifts. This structuring of gifts in the last episode brings up a continuous theme of opposition and elaboration used by Joyce throughout Ulysses – namely, a structuring of several extreme (in my case, gifts) at the beginning and end of each chapter that the main character must navigate through. Molly does this in Penelope, when she slowly shifts from Boylan, the material-giver, to Bloom, the family/love-giver (commercial/surface pleasure vs emotional). The other times gifts reprise as a structuring device is in Lestrygonians (the birds and the meal), Cyclops (the not-giving) and Nausicaa (the giving respite), and elements of Episodes 1, 2, and 4 (probably more than that).

The structuring aspects of gifts often relate to their ability to characterize, as with Boylan and Bloom in Penelope. Certain exchanges are surface-gifts and reflect negatively on the giver, while some are heart-felt and reflect positively, and some are social, reflecting neither here nor there, but highlighting important expectations the characters of Ulysses’ Dublin operate with. Bad transactions are commercial, with little thought for coming out ahead or being respected in any manner. Characters that adhere to this lifestyle are Mulligan, Boylan, Simon Dedalus, while others engage in this “giving” simply because they have to. Good giving, without thought for the repercussions on oneself or means, is exhibited by Bloom and Stephen (who are both capable of the other giving, as well), though Stephen’s dispensing of money for his “friends” shows how he is casting pearls before swine. Bloom mainly indulges in giving to animals, though Stephen and Molly both feature in his thoughts. Social giving, where it isn’t quite commercial but there is an expectation that the favor given will be repaid at a later date, is utilized by every character encountered in Dublin, with some being more reliable than others in keeping their word.

Aside from this, there are several anomaly gifts. There are “bad” gifts such as diseases and bribes, that come with pain and/or strings attached. An example of these would be the narrator of “Cyclops” suffering from disease and Boylan buying Molly a basket of potted meats while lying about his intentions. There is one example of a consciously ungiven gift that I can think of (there may be others, wasn’t looking for this, it just leaped out since we talked about it): Molly’s gift coat for Rudy. Undelivered to Rudy (while alive), Molly makes a conscious decision (or thinks about it afterwards) to not give the coat to some other child who might need it, but rather uses it to wrap her son’s body up. This tinges of selfishness at first scant scant glance, yet Molly’s dedication to her son heralds ideas of making gifts to the dead – something Stephen is incapable of doing for his mother. Unpack that!

Adoro TER a revista em papel para segurar, folhear, marcar…e adoro a revista JP (Joyce Pascovitch).

De uns 2 meses para cá ela está disponível online integralmente…Lado bom: ler já sem precisar comprar, lado ruim, digital não é tão legal de ver.

Link: http://revistajoycepascowitch.uol.com.br/

Was half price being Paknsave’s Cheap as Tuesday.

Births:

Freddy a brother for Lily

Deaths:

Bruce Douglas

Alexander Robert

Stanley Joseph

Bruce

Geoffrey

James Ritchie

Leo Ward

John James Patrick

Paul Frank

Charles Robert

Gordon Francis

Trent Cody

Quentin

Noel Joseph

Christopher

Janet Ida

Hilda May

Margaret May

Margaret Joyce

Joyce Lillian

Patricia Irene

Margaret

Winifred Jean

May

Patricia Maud

Joy Myrtle

Yvonne Margaret

Dora Winifred

Mary Evelyn

Hazel Isobel Florence

Doris Margaret

Examination of gifts and giving in Ulysses has revealed a regular path: a certain theme gets introduced in one episode to be elaborated upon in subsequent chapters. Evidenced in the first ten chapters is the characterization of gifts and giving, from crass commercial exchange to sympathetic giving. In this phase, gifts fall under the garb of personal to social, usually with an eye toward some kind of return. This range in turn sheds light on (or underscores) the various characters populating the streets of Dublin. In the second phase, chapters eleven through fifteen, extremes of the earlier types of gifts are realized, both in literary form, character, and situation. In the third phase, episodes sixteen through seventeen, the father-son relationship of giving is explored in-depth. Episode Eighteen, Penelope, explores another facet of family exchanges – the husband-wife association, as well as recapping and transforming previous ideals concerning gifts in the prior chapters.

Within Molly Bloom’s rushing interior monologue we find a multitude of gift-forms scrutinized. The episode begins with Molly’s chafing thoughts on Bloom’s request for breakfast in bed. The husband-wife dynamic is highlighted immediately and ranges throughout the episode, and as guilt and social obligation seem to have little to do with whether the requests (from either party) are adhered to, other reasons must be found. There could be a sense of filial duty involved, and this possibility manifests itself, in Molly’s thoughts, in the put-upon woman form to the fleeting wish of a petticoat government, but these irate thoughts of duty are immediately followed by thoughts infused with feeling, or love, which constantly jumbles sense in a non-extreme way. The gift-giving in this dichotomy, then rests in how much the characters love each other, or are aware of their love for each other (mainly speaking about Molly, but some of Bloom’s actions can be traced throughout the day to have similar motivations). Realize that Molly has to work herself into this loving mood for Bloom throughout the chapter, but it ends with her deciding to adhere to his request for breakfast (she’s decided to put a spin on what “breakfast” might entail, which only proves my point).

Of course, wishes for commercial gifts are rife in this chapter, as Molly fantasizes over the myriad items she can dig out of Boylan’s gold-lined pockets. In the rest of the novel, this desire for the material would place a character into the “bad” category, or at the least unsavory. Boylan the Rich and Mulligan are the poster boys for this culture of giving, something for something. Molly’s place beside these two, however, is complicated. She indulges fleeting desires of clothes and jewels and attention, but the underlying problem resides again in her pauper-like relationship with Bloom, where the filial duty is going unfulfilled. This means more than simply adhering to or indulging the wishes of your spouse. As Molly points out, she sees herself as a good catch for Bloom yet notes that he is squandering her and aiding their poverty by being unable to hold a job down and constantly moving from one house to another. Interestingly, as the “sentences” continue, this commercial concern starts falling away to be replaced by the greater concerns of living with her spouse. Indeed, Molly herself sneers at the thought of riches and fame in the later sentences even as she craves them in the earlier ones.

Think I just, whilst having my 30th cigarette of the day down below my office *, broke the back of the last and hardest part of my book-in-revision. In mind if not yet on paper. It’s an analysis of one of my favorite scenes in literature, and just happens to be a scene about masturbation.  What’s there is based on an ancient piece I wrote, my first good publication, and I just now, ten years later and in an instant figured out how to make it fit properly.

Making it fit properly, by the way, involves an interesting expansion upon the text that gave this blog its name. **

How about a little help, though, to get me rolling. Scenes from modern literature – preferably say 1850 – 1940 – that feature signficant chance encounters. Baudelaire’s “A une passante,” Bouvard and Pécuchet on their parkbench, Leonard Bast and his umbrella and the Schlegel girls in Howards End, Peter Walsh seeing Septimus and Rezia on the parkbench in Regent’s Park (ah Regent’s Park) in Dalloway.

Now your turn, go on….

* I’ve been working too much (12 hour days, eight days in a row, in my office) and smoking too much while I do. Yesterday, a colleague knocked to chat, entered, and said in a knowing tone: ADS! You’ve been smoking in your office during reading week! I responded that it was just my disgustingly nicotine-inundated jacket hanging on the door. Embarrassing. Today I wore the only other light jacket I own, a sporty Adidas windbreaker, that just looks wrong in an academic setting and has been drawing wtf? stares from everyone all day. But I can’t worry about these things! I have a book to finish!

** UPDATE: Ha! I’d forgotten that I sneak my blogname into this chapter. Just came across this:

In the section of The Coming Community entitled “Without Classes,” Georgio Agamben, compares the life of “single planetary bourgeoisie,” who have inherited the world in the wake of the rise of capitalist modernity and the arrival of secular nihilism, to an ad without products. With the dissolution of diversity, social identity, and meaning, they are brought face to face with the “phantasmagorical vacuousness” of inauthenticity without end:

[T]he absurdity of individual existence, inherited from the subbase of nihilism, has become in the meantime so senseless that it has lost all pathos and been transformed, brought out into the open, into an everyday exhibition: Nothing resembles the life of this new humanity more than advertising footage from which every trace of the advertised product has been wiped out. The contradiction of the petty bourgeois, however, is obstinately trying, against all odds, to make their own an identity that has become in reality absolutely improper and insignificant to them. Shame and arrogance, conformity and marginality remain thus the poles of all their emotional registers. (62-3)

Just as Agamben’s post-historical actors go through the motion of acting out the ad, whistfully staring at the car in the garage (except there’s no car), ravenously devouring the entrée (except there’s no food on the plate), going to see the latest Hollywood blockbuster (except there’s nothing on the screen)…

…and then back to the lit text at hand. How tricky am I!

10. 1984
George Orwell

Orwell’s dystopian novel of a world controlled by Big Brother has become the quintessential cautionary tale for the far-reaching arm of government and the dangers of totalitarianism. Orwell has designed every corner of this futuristic world and transports us to a place where we may not want to be, yet cannot tear ourselves away from. It is a strong message about uniformity vs. individualism and makes us question what freedom really means while at the same time frightening us by showing that freedom may be slipping away from us as we speak.

9. To Kill A Mockingbird
Harper Lee

To Kill a Mockingbird is a tale of racism and bigotry seen through the eyes of a child. At first, the novel works as a story of what it is to be young and free. Then the novel moves into issues of social justice as Scout and Jem have their eyes open to the larger world. Atticus Finch is a hero of morals and values who fights to do what is right even when he knows he will lose. The novel is rich with themes and characters which are almost impossible to forget once you have read it.

8. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
James Joyce

James Joyce is one of the greatest writers of this century, and this semi-autobiography led Joyce’s movement into modernist literature. This novel outlines the main characters journey to grow in his intellect, philosophy and spirituality. Joyce’s style here is inventive and thought-provoking and has made this one of the best novels of the last one hundred years.

7. The Sound and the Fury
William Faulkner

A tale told from the viewpoint of multiple characters, The Sound and the Fury is a masterpiece at describing the thought processes of humans. Faulkner damn-near perfected the stream-of-consciousness thinking. Faulkner moves us with his tale of the decline of a southern family and their struggle to maintain honour.

6. The Catcher in the Rye
J.D. Salinger

Teen angst has never been so literary. Catcher in the Rye is one of the most popular books in the world. Its biting satire and well-constructed anti-hero have made this an exceptionally brilliant novel, definitely worthy in its inclusion as one of the greatest ever written.

5. The Grapes of Wrath
John Steinbeck

There may be no better written recording of the Great Depression than Steinbeck’s classic The Grapes of Wrath. It tells the tale of the Joad family on a quest for a better life in California and it is a tale of adversity and perseverance on a scale which sets the bar for all other American novels.

4. The Lord of the Rings
J. R. R. Tolkien

The Lord of the Rings has become a cultural phenomenon in the latter half of the twentieth century, a masterpiece of high fantasy on an epic scale in both scope and depth. Lord of the Rings is not a simple fantasy tale but is in fact a story rich in themes; loyalty, friendship, fate, duty, corruption, etc. Tolkien has created a world so full and complex you are immediately transported into it and become engrossed with every detail. Literary critics often dismiss The Lord of the Rings because of its genre, not able to look further to see that it is the masterpiece of its genre and is a work of genius.

3. Gravity’s Rainbow
Thomas Pynchon

Perhaps the greatest piece of post-modern literature, Pynchon’s masterpiece is a story about post-war Europe and the production of the V2 rocket. Pynchon’s novel is complex in its plot and structure. Gravity’s Rainbow also uses a lot of science and mathematics in its story, adding a level of sophistication and even greater complexity. Many critics argue that this may be the greatest literary work on the last one hundred years, while other claim it is far too difficult to be read. Nonetheless it is a massive achievement in writing and storytelling.

2. The Great Gatsby
F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby is often called “the great American novel”. Jay Gatsby is living the dream; riches, women, high society lifestyle. Everything seems to be going his way. Fitzgerald uses this character and situation to explore they areas of morality, materialism, and what it means to have wealth and worth. It is a true classic that was never recognized in its time, but grew into one of the most acclaimed novels of the modern era.

1. Ulysses
James Joyce

As almost any literary scholar what the work of the century is and you will almost get a unanimous decision: Ulysses. It seems to almost be a given that Ulysses is the best novel of the 20th century. Ulysses has strong characters, humour, technique, style; it is perhaps the most important piece of modernist literature. James Joyce is one of the greatest writers of the modern age and he has given us the greatest novel of the century.

My blog today will focus on Weldon Thornton’s Voices and Values in Joyce’s Ulysses. The book in general focuses on Joyce’s narrative and literary forms, their connotations, historical underpinnings, and whether or not Joyce is promoting certain narrative/literary modes over others. The general argument given is that Joyce was not “in-line” with the modernist themes of the “realist” novel or the contemporary perspective that the omniscient third-person narrative was archaic in novel writing.

In particular, I focus on chapter 5 “Voices and Values in Later Episodes,” as each of the episodes after 6 (excluding 8 and the last half of “Nausicaa”) are related in that they exhibit literary and narrative forms that Joyce disapproves of for one reason or another. In the section “Penelope,” the feminine interior monologue creates “the only moment in the novel where a figural voice totally obliterates the authorial narrative voice throughout the entire chapter.” Thornton claims that Joyce’s use of the monologue is to exhibit both its strengths and short-comings, and that he has set up the episode for the best possible scenario, having it come at the end (i.e., letting us get acquainted with Molly’s relationships with others and her general situation for an entire book before dropping us in) and allowing zero interactions to occur with the outside world during the monologue. For Ulysses, the form is deftly handled.

There are, however, obvious problems with it. The lack of punctuation makes sense when depicting the wandering un-punctuated thoughts of Molly, but the speaker (thinker?) surely has pauses of thought, changes in inflection, that cannot be conveyed without punctuation. Moreover, this absence of punctuation highlights puzzles and confusion, and actually makes the reader more aware of the author. As Thornton quotes one E. R. Steinberg: “Constantly feeling for the ends of the sentences as he progresses, the reader is continually aware of the difficulty of the reading and conscious of the fact not only that he is reading but that he is solving a puzzle. This awareness, of course, keeps him aware of the author, who presented the difficulty. As well, by completely effacing the narrator the ability to build a “world” examining self and society, Ulysses’ Dublin, breaks down.

I’m not entirely sure I agree with Thornton, in terms of this chapter at least. Afetr reading the chapter, I can agree that occasionally I despised Joyce for putting me into this puzzle, but a lot of the time I was lost in Molly’s thoughts, and keenly aware of only the “Molly” part of that phrase.

In episodul doi al reportajului din Dublin, am descoperit urmele remizelor Irlandei cu Italia pe afise inramate pe ziduri de toalete, incercand sa descifrez gesticulatiile portretului robot al jucatorului peninsular, si anticipand duelurile cu Franta, inaintea carora selectionerul Raymond Domenech a stiut exact ce vrea sa spuna cand s-a referit la “verzi” drept “Angleterre bis”.

(Episodul I il gasiti acum cateva postari, cu o saptamana inainte: <Capitan si spectatori impuscati in 1916 pe “Croker”, gazda barajului Irlanda – Franta>)

In zona central vestica a Dublinului, portile fabricii Guinness, avand drept simbol harpa, se deschid puhoiului de turisti descinsi la muzeul pe 6 etaje, cu un restaurant panoramic Gravity pe vechea cladire

Cateva simboluri sunt sacre pentru irlandezi. Saint Patrick, patronul lor spiritual. Verdele trifoi. Harpa. Jameson, whiskey cu e, si Guinness, berea neagra. Si nu in ultimul rand hurlingul si Gaelic football, pastorite de Gaelic Athletic Association.

Statuia lui James Joyce, autor al lui Ulysses ori Dublinezi, este la un sfert de ora de mers pe jos de arena Croke Park, unde Irlanda va primi sambata pe Franta

Dar oricat de popular a ramas traditionalul joc cu crosa in randul maselor, cand vine vorba sa-si improspateze recunoasterea sportiva internationala Republica Irlanda apeleaza mai ales la fotbal. Iar explozia demografica generata de acel succes la penaltyuri cu Daniel Timofte ghicit de Pat Bonner, in chiar prima aparitie a Insulei de Smarald pe scena mondiala, a fost inceputul veritabilei povesti de dragoste a “verzilor” cu balonul rotund. Imbratisat de pustani de la Sligo pana la Cork si din Limerick la Dublin. Nu doar capitala e nebuna dupa fotbal.

Prin centru, agentii de turism au expuse in vitrina nu numai tipice descinderi in Goa, ci si pachete de o noapte cazare, transbordare cu feribotul si bilete de meci la – se putea oare altfel!? – Manchester United, Liverpool, Chelsea si Arsenal. Excursii fotbalistice de pe-o insula pe alta, la fisticul din Premier League. 20 martie, Man Utd – Liverpool, 499 euro.

Oferte turistice cu nemiluita pentru fani irlandezi dornici de jocuri ale fruntaselor din Premier League...

Pe colt, in pub, n-ai unde sa arunci un ac si doar numele sponsorilor delimiteaza taberele rosii ale razboiului de peste Marea Irlandei. Carlsberg respectiv AIG. E pasiune incrancenata, e larma. Iar Torres si Ngog fac sa curga berea. Nu daneza ci neagra, irlandeza. Putin conta ca in cele doua garnituri figura un unic “verde”, John O’Shea, numarul 22 la United.

Indemnul imensei fabrici de bere de la St. James’ Gate e “sa ridici paharul pentru Arthur”. Arthur Guinness, pionierul acestui brand mondial. In pub, rosiii cu Liverpool au inaltat un pint iar pe pult am ochit un ziar de sport deschis la pagina cu rezultate, completata cu o consistenta rubrica mentionand evolutia pana si a celui mai nestiut fotbalist irlandez pentru cel mai obscur club englez. Si-atunci de ce pachete turistice doar la cele patru “mari”!?

Explicatia am gasit-o la toaleta. Pentru ca “verzilor” le place sa se bata de la egal la egal doar cu cei mai tari. Ardeau Anglia la primul lor turneu final, Euro ’88, cu golul lui Ray Houghton din primul sfert de ora, acelasi mijlocas al lui Liverpool repetand scenariul si contra Italiei, la New York, in ’94, peste ani si tinand in sah Germania, pe taram asiatic. Doar ca generatiile ’90 si 2002 n-au mai avut urmas…

Croke Park, cu tribuna I Michael Hogan si peluza "Dealul 16", vazute din gura tunelului de acces Muhammad Ali, pe unde vor iesi O'Shea si Henry...

La care Football Association of Ireland a incercat marea cu degetul, investindu-l pe regretatul Sir Bobby Robson drept tutore al noului selectioner, recordmanul de aparitii in “verde” Steve Staunton. N-a mers dar federalii au insistat sa apeleze la experienta.

Cand catedrala St. Patrick’s se darapana peste simbolul religios al celtilor, sambure al catolicismului lor, atunci baronetul parlamentar Sir Benjamin Lee Guinness a intins o mana de ajutor dintre butoaie de bere, lacasul sfant reconsolidandu-se. In fotbalul modern, FAI a cautat salvarea peste mari si tari, in persoana unui nins Giovanni Trapattoni.

La intrarea in Catedrala St. Patrick, cel mai important lacas sfant al catolicilor irlandezi, e statuia restauratorului Sir Benjamin Lee Guinness, membru al familiei nobiliare ce a dat lumii celebra marca de bere

Care uns italian a lecturat aceeasi rubrica reunind toti potentialii selectionabili si a cotrobait dupa sange proaspat prin toate ungherele fotbalului insular. Rasplata? Un 1-1 acasa la campioana mondiala. La Bari. Grupa inca se juca…

Atat curaj au prins insularii lui Trap, incat pisoarele barurilor au afisat campania de publicitate la www.soccerrepublic.ie sub titlul “Italian Gestures Explained”. O figurina squadra azzurra, brunet cu barbison, gesticuland expresiv… Arbitre, esti plecat de-acasa!? Ori… Ce rau am facut? O, Doamne! Dar nu se poate!!! Chiar nu vezi!? Degetul la tampla. Mainile rasfirate. Sau in semnul rugaciunii. Ori degetele stranse manunchi. Degetul la ochi… Posturi rastalmacite dedesubt in cel mai pur umor negru irlandez. Asadar “verzii” erau suficient de increzatori pentru a-i lua in balon pe campionii lumii.

O pagina web de fotbal si-a facut reclama pe timpul preliminariilor cu afise in toalete ale puburilor luand la misto gesticulatia tipica fotbalistilor latini. In colimator au fost italienii, cu care Irlanda lui... Trap a facut 1-1 si 2-2

Iar in retur, pe Croke Park din Dublin, un sfant modern, Sean St. Ledger, trecut de la ilustra Preston la sclipitoarea Middlesbrough, facea 2-1 in minutul 87. Gilardino a frant imediat visul, amutind “Croker”, dar recrutii lui Trap tot s-au calificat la baraj.

Dupa campioana Italia, vicecampioana Franta. O aliata geopolitica de secole. Dar Irlanda vrea acum sa rescrie istoria, cu destinatia Africa de Sud. Si “verzii” sunt si mai intaratati, de Domenech, pe care l-a scapat ca “L’Irlande, c’est l’Angleterre bis”. Cu totii au inteles ca selectionerul francez s-ar fi referit la irlandezi ca la niste rude sarace ale Angliei. Pana ce a venit un filolog sa limpezeasca apele, clarificand ca, in nonsalanta sa, Raymond a folosit bis cu gandul la “echivalent”. Adica o alta trupa de Premier League, Irlanda, aidoma Angliei…

Oare chiar la acest bis s-a referit Domenech? Ei bine, in generatiile trecute, “verzii” aliniau alde Irwin si Keane, de la Man United, sau Staunton, Babb si Houghton, de la Liverpool. Acum, Trap are nu neaparat un titular la United, O’Shea. Atat din “careul celor mari”. Atunci, pe Giants din NY, Italia era batuta de Irlanda capitanului Townsend, abia plecat de la Chelsea la Villa. Iar Lung era eliminat de O’Leary, fundasul lui Arsenal. 

Acum? In lot, trei si cate doi de la recent promovatele Hull, Stoke si Wolves, alti doi de la Coventry si Reading, plus baieti de la Scunthorpe, Preston ori Boro. Iar perechea lui Hibernian vine din Scotia. Angleterre? E drept, Kevin Kilbane, fie si de la codasa Hull, ar putea ajunge la doar o selectie distanta de recordmanul Staunton, ca de altfel si portarul Given. 101. Doar cei doi, laolalta cu Robbie Keane si Damien Duff, sunt liantul cu precedenta generatie de mondial. Dar tocmai bisul cu gandul mai degraba la “ruda saraca” decat la “echivalent” s-ar putea sa devina regretul francezului. Italianul ii pregateste ceva demn de postat pe faianta toaletei. Thierry implorand sfintii.

Va curge oare Guinnessul sambata seara la Dublin? Sau daca nu, dupa returul parizian de miercuri 18 noiembrie? Sticlele din diverse... generatii te intampina la intrarea in muzeul fabricii de bere din St. James' Gate