Still circling around Joyce
James Joyce is said to write from a stream of consciousness, which I sometimes find very irritating, sometimes really fascinating. For years I have avoided getting deeper into the texts, but apparently now is the time. Encouraged by the reading group, I jumped on the wagon mid february, and there is now a pile of books at my bedside (very good for insomnia!) Whether I like it or not, James Joyce's life and work is on my mind. I should have known better than opening the boxes of books by and about this great but complex author that reside in my library, as a reminder from my father's passion.
Circling around the author makes me feel like a detective trying to uncover a riddle, and one book that has now captured my attention, is written by his younger brother, Stanislaus - "My brothers' keeper", sharing with readers how life really was in their childhood and adolescence. James, older by three years, was a prodigy author with many talents, ready to work hard for winning competitions in school but, like the rest of his family of nine sisters and brothers, were suffering from the impredictable life with a father, John Joyce, whose social and economical situation was getting worse year after year, moving his family around in Dublin and addicted to heavy drinking.
A census from 1901 shows that their mother, May must have been constantly pregnant for many years, with a child every year or so, nine survived out of 14. Once she was bed ridden with scarlatina, together with the youngest brother, and they were isolated in a bedroom upstairs. As Stanislaus writes: "I do not remember that any special precautions were taken during the dangerous period of convalescence, the undeclared principle of large patriarchal families being that there shall be an ample margin to allow for losses while the tougher or the luckier will survive".(p 72).
This made such deep impression on me, because it seem like a symptomatic message conveying the little care given to a woman whose purpose of life appears to bring as many children to life as can be, no matter how it may affect her health or energy.
I cannot go into detail now about the colourful picture painted about this interesting but difficult family. What strikes me is that I like the way he narrates, perhaps at times jealous of his genial brother but a very good observer, and registrant as he kept a diary which James did not. What also strikes me is that this is a kind of biographical literature easy to read, which I much prefer, over the difficulty of getting into the impressionistic style of the famous author himself...
Circling around the author makes me feel like a detective trying to uncover a riddle, and one book that has now captured my attention, is written by his younger brother, Stanislaus - "My brothers' keeper", sharing with readers how life really was in their childhood and adolescence. James, older by three years, was a prodigy author with many talents, ready to work hard for winning competitions in school but, like the rest of his family of nine sisters and brothers, were suffering from the impredictable life with a father, John Joyce, whose social and economical situation was getting worse year after year, moving his family around in Dublin and addicted to heavy drinking.
A census from 1901 shows that their mother, May must have been constantly pregnant for many years, with a child every year or so, nine survived out of 14. Once she was bed ridden with scarlatina, together with the youngest brother, and they were isolated in a bedroom upstairs. As Stanislaus writes: "I do not remember that any special precautions were taken during the dangerous period of convalescence, the undeclared principle of large patriarchal families being that there shall be an ample margin to allow for losses while the tougher or the luckier will survive".(p 72).
This made such deep impression on me, because it seem like a symptomatic message conveying the little care given to a woman whose purpose of life appears to bring as many children to life as can be, no matter how it may affect her health or energy.
I cannot go into detail now about the colourful picture painted about this interesting but difficult family. What strikes me is that I like the way he narrates, perhaps at times jealous of his genial brother but a very good observer, and registrant as he kept a diary which James did not. What also strikes me is that this is a kind of biographical literature easy to read, which I much prefer, over the difficulty of getting into the impressionistic style of the famous author himself...
Labels: Joyce
posted by Sus Nyrop at 3/25/2010
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