LITERATURE: Joyce’s Portrait – Finale

An interesting technique–or, seeing that this was somewhat biographical I note, honest displaying of thought–in the latter part of the book is revealing of poetical writing as gleaned from the meanderings of the mind rather than concerted effort to write something poetical:

An afterglow deepened within his spirit, whence the white flame had passed, deepening to a rose and ardent light.  That rose and ardent light was her strange wilful heart, strange that no man had known or would know, wilful from before the beginning of the world:  and lured by the ardent roselike glow the choirs of the seraphim were falling from heaven.

Are you not weary of ardent ways,
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days  (p. 217)

The interesting thing, of course, is the language of thinking upon a subject such as Stephen is thinking of a woman, and its translation into verse. 

In the final section of Portrait there is rather a long scenario of discussion among friends and it is well done in Joyce’s writing, although it would be easier and much more exciting if viewed, as in a play or on film.  Stephen’s own growth in questioning his beliefs, his capacity to love beyond desire and his awakening to his place in the world as one set apart from humanity in many ways are what brings the book to a close.

One thing that I needed to get used to with Joyce is his tendency to come out of the blue with something that suddenly seems terribly important, i.e., his lust, his faith, his doubts, his hangup on Emma (I’ve forgotten her name–it was so far back in the book), and most urgently, his interest in becoming a poet.  This kept me reading every single word in the book thinking I was missing something.  It was a bit annoying, but if it is technique, or if indeed I should have been more astute in my reading to admire the trust Joyce puts into his reader, I still do not know.

I am impressed by the novel, and yet it has not made me a wild James Joyce fan.  However, I do intend to pursue his Ulysses some day, out of curiousity and the desire to understand.