Sacred Cow, a la Joyce

James Joyce is acclaimed as a great author, the greatest, perhaps, that the English language has produced. But I think Joyce is boring—OMG! His conversation may have taken flight at dinner, or afterwards over a snifter of brandy or port and a good cigar. But as for his writing—no thanks.

James Joyce died in 1941 and promptly ascended into Literati Heaven. To this day, he is deified by  Academia, especially on the Emerald Island Tribal members scramble to fit in and stand out, as they gush his name— Joyce, Joyce, Joyce—Oh, rejoice! To my ear, though—I don’t have perfect pitch, —Joyce’s literary efforts are highly intelligent, but overrated.

As an adult, Joyce endured multiple operations in an ongoing effort to improve his eyesight. On the bright side—an unusually unforgivable pun—having one of the lenses of his glasses blacked-out lent Joyce panache that may have fueled his notoriety. (According to reliable sources, a famous rock guitarist and a ruthless pirate tried to get him. to join their crew.)

Sometimes admiration for Joyce’s writing gets confused with admiration for the man, as Joyce helped 16 people escape the Nazis. On a less dangerous note, Joyce was, by all accounts, a sensitive and kind husband. And his literary innovations have influenced many a novel. However, coping with bad eyesight, being a brave humanitarian, loving spouse, and a pioneering literary stylist are attributes and accomplishments that may have made James Joyce one helluva guy, but said attributes did not qualify him as fun-to-read. Joyce’s Academic influences were no help, either—in my not-so humble opinion.   

 “ULYSSES,” is touted as a masterpiece.  “FINNEGAN’S WAKE” and “PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN” are “masterpieces,” too—allegedly. But as you may have gathered, I’m not a fan. Despite their reputation, and my once-upon-a-time expectations, James Joyce’s novels fail to entertain. (Whoops, there goes my contrary opinion—again.)

Somber and self-important in their black robes, the Tribal Elders of Academia maintain that, when it comes to Joyce, the reader should be willing to put in the work. I strongly disagree. Call me a feverish radical, or whatever, because I don’t think that reading fiction should be work. Reading fiction, I believe, should be the opposite of digging a ditch, washing dishes, or fixing a carburetor. In short, reading should be easy and fun! 

Also—hear ye, hear ye—an entertaining novel employs a story. A story that, hopefully, involves interesting characters doing interesting things, despite any obstacles that may present. This stratagem is known as having a plot. (a plot typically revolves around characters with an ambition. This ambition is often the basis of the plot.

In some circles, there is an unofficial admiration for fiction that has no plot, but I generally find these books to wander about aimless, in lazy confusion. Occasionally, though, I encounter a plot-less novel that holds my interest and keeps me engaged. (Colorful characters are hard to resist, even if the thrust of their stories are unfocused or non-existent.) Often a colorful character exhibits a sense of humor to charm the reader. (The writings of-Henry Miller or Leonard Cohen come to mind.).

But in addition to lacking a plot, I found attraction and wit to be in short supply in “ULYSSES.” The opening 50 pages consist of a meticulous recounting of a humdrum day in the life of a professor, who shaves, eats breakfasts and then continues to do nothing special in excruciating detail at the beginning of the 20th Century. While plodding through the opening pages of “ULYSSES,” I was bombarded with a ton of this means that trivia.. And although Academia relentlessly hounds heretics, who fail to worship metaphors and symbolism in the Church of Joyce, I will go on record stating that I did not enjoy ‘ULYSSES.”

James Joyce’s part time Parisian wing-man, Ernest Hemingway, proclaimed—proudly, I bet—that he understood “ULYSSES.” There is a difference, of course, between understanding and being entertained. I understood “ULYSSES” too, but no one paid me to read it. And after laboring along for about 50 pages, I realized that I’m not a person who likes sifting phrases for their meaning. When I read fiction, I do not require constant conflict, a complex narrative, steamy sex scenes, or choreographed violence. What I want is emotional engagement. I want to feel, not translate, to be invested, not intellectualized. In short, I want a story, not a crossword puzzle.

One of my favorite novels, “The Ginger Man,” by J.P. Donleavy, also occurs in the Emerald Isle. Set some 40 years after “ULYSSES,” I found Donleavy’s tale to be personable, lyrical, and juicy. “THE GINGER MAN,” is ranked at #99 on the list of The Modern Library’s Top 100 novels of the 20th Century. Crowning that list, lo, and behold, is “ULYSSES.” A rating that makes me wonder, briefly, just who are these appraisers of novels, these self-anointed “experts” who comprise The Modern Library? (Reportedly thousands of readers were polled to aid the evaluations of The Modern Library. How the opinions of these readers factored into The Modern Library’s judgements is not clear. Why certain readers were polled and others were not is also vague and non-forthcoming. The adjectives subjective, and groveling come to mind.

In extending my audacity, I would elevate “THE GINGER MAN” near the top of my list.  Then I would add titles The Modern Library omitted from its compilation of the best 100 novels of the 20th Century. The writings of James Joyce and many other authors would be discarded entirely, I fear—-hand to brow—alas, poor infidel—-me!

Ironically, “THE GINGER MAN” utilizes several literary innovations, first introduced in “ULYSSES.”  But in contrast to the interest and sympathy that Stephan Dedalus & Co. fail to inspire. Whereas the characters of Sebastian Dangerfield and Kenneth O’ Keefe struck me as very personable.  But my tastes are outranked by The Modern Library, outranked by anybody with a degree in the liberal arts—in their opinion. (They say everybody has one.)

In addition to an opinion, I have a theory, as well: I believe that the Academic Tribe champions Joyce primarily because of his scholarly background and intellectual presentation.. And it doesn’t hurt that James Joyce is an euphonious name. Also, I suspect that peer pressure factors into Academia’s relentless praise. (Say, isn’t the Emperor’s eye patch resplendent this evening? I just wish he would wear some clothes.to go with it.)

Of course, a person does not have to be a certified member of Academia to praise Joyce’s novels. Once upon a time, a singer at the zenith of fame, wrote a song celebrating Joyce. The song was included on an album that a rock band released decades ago. I never cared for the song, but it made me wonder if I had missed the proverbial boat. Willing to be more mature and receptive, I re-read the beginning of “ULYSSES,” when I was about 35. Once again, the book failed to provide traction. At least, I didn’t encounter any. I then made an aborted pass at “FINNEGAN’S WAKE,” but I found #77 on The Modern Library’s List of Golden Oldies exceedingly cryptic, tiresome, and . In a word, disappointing. The book, for me, is unreadable.

In that regard, “FINNEGAN’S WAKE” is similar to the yawn-ful stories that have become so prevalent in the pages of today’s pompous literary magazines. (Oh, my God, Aunt Aggie, there’s that ax grinding again!) I often think that the editors of pompous literary magazines and their contributors should enroll in law school, or some other profession that prizes an ability to obscure and entangle natural language. Then again, writers published in today’s prestigious and—to me—infinitely boring literary magazines, have either gaudy credentials, or impeachable mascot status. And they have the numbers, because they are in the majority. And while it may not make them right, it does make for the safety of the herd and the illusion of infallibility.

But, hey, if ever I’m trapped in an elevator some unlucky weekend, I wouldn’t say no to borrowing a copy of a James Joyce “masterpiece” from a fellow detainee. (What are the odds?) And although I doubt that reading a Joycean novel will press any buttons for me—floor please—a prolonged confinement might furnish their venerated pages with practical use.