Can someone here explain how joyce is NOT, in fact a talentless hack? I read this waste of wood pulp two years ago and I still cannot remember it without seething
The man scours thesauri for the most obscure possible synonym for every word and if he can't find one to his liking he makes it up. He seems to think that meaning can only come from big words and the whole world nods in agreement
The themes he works into his books are hardly complex or subversive. Steinbeck and Twain tell more engaging and thoughtful stories in a witty common tongue, while Fitzgerald weaves more layers of metaphor into vivid descriptions than any writer I've ever read.
Joyce isn't vivid, he isn't complicated, and the only thing he made me think when I read this book was how far up their own asses most fans of his books are
Bill Waterson could say more about society in three panels than Joyce could in an entire shelf of novels
Joyce is pretty amazing if you put the effort into it, anon. His works are not easy, but they're worthwhile. The closest American comparison (since you mention Steinbeck and Twain) is probably Faulkner, though Faulkner gets much more tied up in race and generational injustice than Joyce does.
(FWIW, I like Calvin and Hobbes too, but it's an entirely different genre)
>Bill Waterson could say more about society in three panels than Joyce could in an entire shelf of novels
Just because you aren't easily understanding his ideas doesn't mean that he isn't conveying them appropriately. Not all ideas *can* be conveyed through approachable and easily understandable prose.
i think bill might be disappointed in you. why attack a writer people clearly enjoy because you dislike it? of course you are certainly entitled to your opinion, but why be so hostile about it? you gotta grow up some time, you know?
There is no idea so complex that it can't be explained simply. I could explain to you the intricacies of quantum chromodynamics using a rubber band and a five character equation, or explain why electron valence shells take certain shapes using a drawing of a squiggly line.
If joyce can't express his ideas in a comprehensible way, he either sucks as a writer or doesn't understand a damn thing
because joyce could paint with words and inspire wonder just like watterson could draw and inspire wonder.
Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably. I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'.
Redeeming qualities? He is able to capture moments of life very well, for me.
The dinner scene where Irish nationalism is being debated.
His anxiety around his schoolmates. His bliss to be accepted and having fun with his schoolmates.
His shame and anger from being bullied.
His embarrassing narcissism when hitting puberty.
His later reflection that he was an embarrassing narcissist, and his over reaction to become a jesuit to compensate for this.
His lust when hitting puberty.
His reaction to his lust by wanting to become a jesuit as overcompensation.
His naivete when first recognizing that hell is a possibility to his immediate life.
I could keep going.
There are parts that can drag in the story but overall it is a very good portrait of the artist as a young man.
We can disagree about the presentation.
Finnegan's Wake wasn't next level shit. It was 100 years ahead of everyone though because he wrote it as a joke and knew it would become a meme. No, I'm not joking. He's quoted as saying it (not the word "meme" of course, but the similar idea of a meme).
Finnegans Wake is a joke. Like, for real.
he's walking along cliffs, closing his eyes, tapping along with a stick, relying on his hearing, listening to the shells crackle under his feet, while he hears those familiar voices in his head, the one of reason, warning him of the danger of the cliffs, all the while coming back to the sound of the seashells, which he can trade for money to Deasy
but he does convey them. the bird girl scene is one of the most beautifully composed passages in the history of written English, and it's a parody of youthful purple prose. Joyce's idea of bad, childish writing is eons ahead of anything before or after him.
>No, I'm not joking. He's quoted as saying it (not the word "meme" of course, but the similar idea of a meme).
so he predicted memes too? tell ya he was exactly 100 years ahead of his time. FW is a joke but it's also a super-myth for the post-literate man
besides, if i painted a complex picture, with shades and exquisite lines, every detail matching reality, or whatever i'm painting, be it from memory, or fantasy, would it be better if i just sketched it with as few lines as possible? would it be better if i used simple shapes, just enough to convey an idea? or is it more beautiful when you can appreciate all the intricacies? remember some of the detail and care that it took to craft watterson's pictures, his landscapes were amazing, and he even took care to outline little seemingly insignificant pebbles. if it's all about simplicity, then why appreciate him?
nebeneinander means side by side, if he fell off the cliff, he'd go tumbling off the side forever, his two feet are side by side. nacheinander means one after another, his footsteps..
yeah, it'd have been better if he had rendered this as simply as possible, taken out all the color, left out the details.
the main problem with Portrait is its romanticism; Stephen's life is not romantic, precisely because he is a romantic poet (as Keats said, the poet is the least poetic subject). Dicken's Copperfield is a much more romantic character precisely because he's an ordinary boy and not a self-conscious literary prodigy.
Right, because that's an apt comparison.
If Joyce was a visual artist this would be a tangle of clumped meaningless scribbles made up of over 15 primary colors, 12 of which are only visible only to peacock shrimp
who else loved this from portrait of an artist?
This progress you will see easily in that old English ballad Turpin Hero,nl which begins in the first person and ends in the third person. The dramatic form is reached when the vitality which has flowed and eddied round each person fills every person with such vital force that he or she assumes a proper and intangible esthetic life. The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid and lambent narrative, finally refines itself out of existence, impersonalizes itself, so to speak. The esthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of esthetic like that of material creation is accomplished. The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
—Trying to refine them also out of existence, said Lynch.
it is indeed an apt comparison. you're attacking complexity, and i am asking to what end would you demand simplicity? at what point would you say a work is too common, too plain, too dull? complexity enriches for those who seek it, and yes, you may not appreciate it, but that does not dissolve the fact that it is there.
but it's not opaque. here, i'll give you my favorite excerpt from ulysses. you'll probably scoff, and you really don't deserve it, but here it is. it's simple, it isn't confusing, and it's amazing to me. if you don't like it, that's fine. but don't pretend like it's just impossible to understand.
Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there? Must have felt it. See things in their foreheads perhaps. Kind of sense of volume. Weight. Would he feel it if something was removed? Feel a gap. Queer idea of Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk in a beeline if he.hadn’t that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow going in to be a priest.
what? you can criticize whatever the fuck you want. you can also enjoy whatever the fuck you want. it doesn't set art back one damn bit. if you don't like critical relativism and believe in objective artistic beauty, that's fine, but really, it's just an inconvenient truth that you don't want to deal with.
So what this snippet tells me is that Joyce IS perfectly capable of expressing himself in a vivid, reasonable way, it's just that he chooses not to because stumping people with a verbal gordian knot strokes his ego and he wants to see if he can make it ejaculate
But what makes that pretentious and not just artistic? How can you say that Joyce was blowing smoke or posturing himself instead of just expressing himself and his view of the world in an arguably masterful depiction of human consciousness.
In my experience, the word pretentious implies that the person takes themselves too seriously, is uninspired, or cannot deliver the goods they purport to be able to. But how has Joyce done any of these things in that passage?
Words carry connotations. Emotional, cultural, historical.
A good author weaves prose that synthesizes these connotations in the mind in intangible yet beautiful ways which are more than the language itself.
Often, failure to appreciate this is a failure to connect with the connotation of the language. Thus, read more, and read hermeneutically.
he'd rather just have him say
"he closed his eyes and walked on some seashells. he used a stick to guide him. the shells made noises when he stepped on them".
there you go, OP. is that the book you want to read?
Well for one, it's deliberately over complicated, just like OP said. The whole idea could have been expressed with just as much detail using half as many words. This is the epitome of complexity for it's own sake.
If you read closely you'll understand Joyce is quite literally making music with his words which aids in his characterization and other ideas he wants to convey
Stop thinking of prose as merely basic description, theres layers to this shit
Maybe I'm looking at this in the wrong way.
Maybe the point of Joyce's work isn't a story or a meaning so much as it is a puzzle.
The prose doesn't obscure meaning because its bad, it obscures meaning because its not supposed to tell a story. it's supposed to encrypt one
You don't read Joyce because it has any more meaning or vividity than any other book, but because it has those qualities despite its convoluted medium. It's like if someone tried to write a two-page story in a one-page crossword puzzle that only makes sense when you read the whole thing left to right and then turn it sideways and read it again.
No. Now you're describing Pynchon. PRO-TIP: The crossword puzzle was made by a secret underground chinese organization that are experts in mind control.
Joyce is telling you about the time he tried to write a two page story in a one-page crossword puzzle that only makes sense when you read the whole thing left to right and then turn it sideways and read it again because you just had the best handjob of your life and you're piss drunk.
I think you're partially right.
Joyce was a huge figure in the Modernist movement, and one of the modernists' favorite devices was fragmentation. Life is fragmented, the brain is hopelessly unable to hold onto a thought longer than a few moments and flies without control or warning to myriad places and sensations, creating an internal world that is very different from how most non-modernist/pre-modernists wrote internal monologue.
Joyce is not being complicated purely for the sake of being complicated, but rather he is complicated because what he was trying to convey is complicated. Yes it makes for a difficult read at times, but its complexity yields fulfilling rereads and discovery and, if you can get into the groove of it, a real and believable exploration of the mind and experience.
Okay, I think I understand now. it's not a puzzle, it's a projection.
He is writing human thought process which are 6-dimensional, but trying to project them onto a 1-dimensional medium.
It's like trying to draw a cube. The cube itself has length, width and height, but the paper only has height and width. Elements are lost compressing three dimensions into two and the resulting side view doesn't look like a square with an extra dimension it looks like three parallelograms.
Am I on the money?
Ah, well... I find that valid then. An audience deserves to know when a character couples or uncouples his body.
I just spent the last few hours painting, and I know how important the darker, unglanced tones are. It seems like Joyce uses odd words in much the same way that a painter would use shading or fog (to make a character more rooted, or present in the foreground).
That is to say, when you find a character who performs these common everyday actions under a different word, it becomes far more intimate, and the action can either come forward, or recede.
He might even use odd words to 'frame' a paragraph (?).
Joyce stated numerous times he wasted alot of hours and spiritual effort in the writing and editing of Finnegans wake. He also stated that there is a literal meaning to every word he had written there.
Comin with my crew up to Dublin Here Comes Everybody. Get ya pistols ready or I'll see you at Finnegan's Wake. Finna take a dip in ya girl ALP off some LSD. A B C prose spinnin, pennin like I was Shemmin.
that's how i did it. Ulysses is a universal experience, and when I read dubliners after, i was even more confused, it felt like reading chekhov, until i read the portrait and came across that excerpt i posted from it, the one about the artist removing himself from the text, it seemed like he was delving further and further into even the psyche of the man, while doing his best to erase himself from the whole process, it all be came clear, I even identified with it, as a lot of my early work unconsciously shifted from first person to third, and I understood that he had noticed the same thing in some fevered writing process. The thing about the moment with the ash sword, is that it felt different from just a moment captured in time like dubliners, it felt like Joyce was breaking through the boundaries of communication, and giving me a pure dose of foreign experience, and fooling me into seeing it as my own, making it so natural that the words were almost an afterthought.
an example, "My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander." there's the shift, it's subtle and I didn't notice it the first time around, but it's there. the shift from first person to third person, midsentence.
That's pretty much how I think of it, yes. The modernists also tended to disparage language and criticize its inability to express the breadth of human experience, so yeah the idea that Joyce was trying to express something far beyond his medium is accurate, and it is why it can be difficult to read. (see also: The Sound and the Fury).
>Joyce isn't complicated
Fuck, man. If you think this, you haven't put any effort into understanding him on your own at all. Why should anyone expect you'd even bother reading their posts if you won't bother to browse a fucking wikipedia article?
Joyce is an author you usually have to read about before you can actually read his books themselves, if you're serious about 'getting' them. And I was unaware of any memes in my post, are you talking about the reaction image? Have another. And don't bother responding to me if you value your time. I'll just meme at you poorly since I'm too tired to bother with anything else, if I'm even awake long enough to respond.
If that all were true, I would be successful.
wew lad eight minutes and no response. You've been out memed, redditard. Goodnight.
sorry, i was jerking it to feminist tears. miss delaware is p. hot. anyway, you're a meme author. take pride in it. the fact that you are successful at any memeing only gives credence to my claim of your being a mere meme author.
This isn't quite right. For starters, he isn't walking along cliffs, he is on the beach. Secondly, he can't trade the shells for money lol. That's is ridiculous. The shells remind him of the exchange he had with Mr. Deasy earlier in the novel, of seeing the shells in his office, and of thinking of them as "dead treasure" due to their history as some from of money.
>Pic is Sandymount
heh, well thanks, i guess that's just how i took it. I didn't really have a study guide or anything when I read it, and that's just what I took from it. thanks for clearing it up though, why did he mention cliffs then?
He's a genius OP. I am currently writing a novel inspired by his style. It's called "Ulysses" because it mirrors the structure of Ulysses, kind of like how Ulysses is called Ulysses as a reference to the ancient poem about Ulysses. It's very deep like that. Here's an excerpt:
"Scritch scratch scrolls the wheel of the mouse down a pageful of posts. He stops in a daze: there all in grayscale is Joyce's face. Achtung! yell the eyes to the brain. Click says the mouse as it enters its hole like a cyberspace mole. My mouse, my house, my room, my broom, the dust it gathers in corners and waits for its doom. No time, no space, my eyes they starve for the light of the screen and the words of the plebs. Felix per omnes Dei plebs: Felix and Franz put their hands to their keys and type terrible texts with the teetering toes they term fingers. Manuscript, pediscript, peniscript. Oh, oh! No, no! Sniff snuff, puff puff goes the pulmonary prancing of his petulant pectus."
I'm, like, painting with words, or creating music rather that literature, if you get what I mean. It's more like a sculpture than a book, really. Or like a gourmet meal... the words are not really words, they're more like potatoes with some nice gravy, you know? If gravy was self-referential, that is. You have to, like, SMELL the words while simultaneously analyzing them intellectually to unravel their genetic spiral as it were, and if you don't get it it's probably just because you aren't reading it through the necessary lens of olfactory hermeneutics.
You keep using words such as 'trying' or 'attempting'. He succeeded. This is the typical reaction of a utilitarian when he faces someone with a deeper spirit than he will ever hope to have. I say this without irony, but you would be better suited to reading genre fiction because you have no imagination. Also, that is only one element of his writing, please go back to /sci/.
D. H. Lawrence agrees with you:
>What a stupid olla podrida of the Bible and so forth James Joyce is: just stewed-up fragments of quotation in the sauce of a would-be-dirty mind.
>"Did I feel a twinge in my little toe, or didn’t I?" asks every character of Mr. Joyce or of Miss Richardson or M. Proust. . . . Through thousands and thousands of pages Mr. Joyce and Miss Richardson tear themselves to pieces, strip their smallest emotions to the finest threads, till you feel you are sewed inside a wool mattress that is being slowly shaken up, and you are turning to wool along with the rest of the woolliness. It’s awful. And it’s childish. It really is childish, after a certain age, to be absorbedly self-conscious.
>I am sorry, but I am one of the people who can't read Ulysses. Only bits. But I am glad I have seen the book, since in Europe they usually mention us together--James Joyce and D.H. Lawrence--and I feel I ought to know in what company I creep to immortality. I guess Joyce would look as much askance on me as I on him. We make a choice of Paola and Francesca floating down the winds of hell.
this is p interesting
>Lawrence ceased being a chapel-going orthodox Christian in his late teens; but there persisted in his emotional makeup much of the Calvinist division of mankind into the elect and the preterite (those who are without grace and rejected by God). Not unlike Joyce, Lawrence dares to be a heretic, by making sexual union the center of his heterodox religion. But Joyce makes all sex sacramental in some degree‹even, and especially, such stigmatized practices as prostitution or masturbation; Lawrence makes distinctions and excludes. In Lawrence’s neo-Calvinist morality, sex becomes the predominant means and sign of grace; but, by the same token, the wrong kind of sex is the mark of preterition. From this comes Lawrence’s preoccupation with the signs of sexual grace, such as the proper correspondence between the man’s and the woman’s desire. And just as in the orthodox Calvinist tradition, determining the exact degree of grace in the soul becomes an esoteric art. There is also a Calvinist anxiety about salvation, though now associated with sexual instead of explicitly religious consciousness.
>My general point here is that sexuality in both authors demonstrates the subtle complicity between Modernism and religion; Modernism might even be considered a religious revival, challenging the Victorian idea that religion would wither away and be replaced by science. Yet Joyce and Lawrence are firmly heterodox; it almost seems that they preserve religion because it enables heresy, perversion, and sacrilege.
Why would you select a word from another language to describe something that's easily describable? For the sake of confusing your own syntax? If it's for the sake of sound within the sentence, that's more or less an admission of defeat - co-opting something to fill a space rather than rewriting the sentence.
This is beautiful. But I think reading nacheniander and such really can nudge someone out of the flow of the book. Of course this is excusable given the rest, especially if the anon gives the Proteus context.
>anon said this is beautiful
>reread 10 times still totally no clue why it is beautiful
I guess not being a native english speaker really hurts
A flush came into the sky, the wan moon, half-way down the west, sank into insignificance. On the shadowy land things began to take life, plants with great leaves became distinct. They came through a pass in the big, cold sandhills on to the beach. The long waste of foreshore lay moaning under the dawn and the sea; the ocean was a flat dark strip with a white edge. Over the gloomy sea the sky grew red. Quickly the fire spread among the clouds and scattered them. Crimson burned to orange, orange to dull gold, and in a golden glitter the sun came up, dribbling fierily over the waves in little splashes, as if someone had gone along and the light had spilled from her pail as she walked.
The breakers ran down the shore in long, hoarse strokes. Tiny seagulls, like specks of spray, wheeled above the line of surf. Their crying seemed larger than they. Far away the coast reached out, and melted into the morning, the tussocky sandhills seemed to sink to a level with the beach. Mablethorpe was tiny on their right. They had alone the space of all this level shore, the sea, and the upcoming sun, the faint noise of the waters, the sharp crying of the gulls.
They had a warm hollow in the sandhills where the wind did not come. He stood looking out to sea.
"It's very fine," he said.
"Now don't get sentimental," she said.
It irritated her to see him standing gazing at the sea, like a solitary and poetic person. He laughed. She quickly undressed.
"There are some fine waves this morning," she said triumphantly.
She was a better swimmer than he; he stood idly watching her.
"Aren't you coming?" she said.
"In a minute," he answered.
She was white and velvet skinned, with heavy shoulders. A little wind, coming from the sea, blew across her body and ruffled her hair.
The morning was of a lovely limpid gold colour. Veils of shadow seemed to be drifting away on the north and the south. Clara stood shrinking slightly from the touch of the wind, twisting her hair. The sea-grass rose behind the white stripped woman. She glanced at the sea, then looked at him. He was watching her with dark eyes which she loved and could not understand. She hugged her breasts between her arms, cringing, laughing:
"Oo, it will be so cold!" she said.
He bent forward and kissed her, held her suddenly close, and kissed her again. She stood waiting. He looked into her eyes, then away at the pale sands.
"Go, then!" he said quietly.
She flung her arms round his neck, drew him against her, kissed him passionately, and went, saying:
"But you'll come in?"
"In a minute."
She went plodding heavily over the sand that was soft as velvet. He, on the sandhills, watched the great pale coast envelop her. She grew smaller, lost proportion, seemed only like a large white bird toiling forward.
don't you duodecimally quadrant me, you vitiate mordant horripilator. it is inimical of you to be so rebarbative until your pulchritudinous ordure suffers my locution. the scrivener is inchoate, and my incarnadine and tenebrous integument is quotidian at the very last. my afflatus makes you obsequious and tumescent, but i laugh at your serried and beatific dudgeon. the vicissitude with which my stentorian and pugnacious perfidiousness is diaphonous to one so sardonic as yourself. it's pretty much excrescence what you're burgeoning right now. I'll give you a frisson with my embrocation and leave you with a simulacrum of desuetude after you inveigle my balls.
Almost requires annotation with a kind of metre.
"I AM, a STRIDE at A tiiime..."
Kind of makes you choke up a little.
Jesus Christ speaking to Joyce (in a brogue):
>Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes.
James Joyce speaking to Christ:
>No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably.
> I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand?
Stream of Consciousness is essentially first person writing without the attempt to write anything properly. It is a first draft which uses big words, but from a reader's perspective is shit. It's post modernist shit before post modernist shit existed. It's basically saying "LOOK! THIS IS WHAT THE AUTHOR WROTE WITHOUT THOSE EDITORS TOUCHING HIS WRITING! IT'S SO PURE!!!"
In reality, it's just lazy. It's also vague, as anyone could write it, and have a chance of success based on how smug their agent was feeling that day. James Joyce is the Pollock of literature, not only in that it's pretentious garbage, but in that its pretentiousness has encouraged other pseudo-intellectuals to write poorly in hopes of being deemed avant-garde geniuses.
>Bill Waterson could say more about society in three panels than Joyce could in an entire shelf of novels
I think Waterson could say more about society in three panels than most authors actually.
>Joyce isn't vivid, he isn't complicated, and the only thing he made me think when I read this book was how far up their own asses most fans of his books are
You do realize the point of reading literature is to become superior to others by having read and understood difficult authors, right?
>the closest art has come to imitating pure mathematical systems
The man scours thesauri for the most obscure possible synonym for every word and if he can't find one to his liking he makes it up
>clearly consulted a thesaurus before writing this post