You know, I often meant to find someone
who’d draw me a horoscope
of the stars the night that Joyce was born.
Does someone with a telescope
view unusual constellations,
see cosmic abnormalities,
that would explain this genius birth?
No, there were no formalities,
no comets crashed,
no planets fell.
And yet,
some force was present,
some flashing light,
some brilliant flame
from some uncharted heavens
that shot to earth
and on this baby’s formulated finger,
giving gifts of passion
and compassion that would linger
and consolidate until this master knew that he had seen us,
as an artist should,
then wrote it down
and that’s what was his genius.
He wasn’t born into a house
of artistry and intellect,
his father was a bombast
who found it hard to get respect
Yet Jim, from the time he went to school and then to college,
astounded all around him
by the way he soaked up knowledge.
These are well-known facts
about his brain, his great capacity
but the fact is:
he’s remembered chiefly for his great opacity.
That’s not why I’m drawn to him,
and let me use this day of his
to summarize his power for me,
the reasons why he always is the writer I return to,
the novelist of primary choice.
To begin with,
it’s the sound he makes:
the gliding brilliance of his voice.
It’s as clear as any bell
with the bright led light of crystal.
Every word he used inspires me.
He’s the writer’s starting pistol,
and he’s fearless in his concepts.
I mean, just look at the degree
to which he stretched his framework
to fit on Homer’s Odyssey.
And next, just think of how he can describe
a street, a house, a man,
without ever giving details;
can you do that?
Who can?
In a sentence, you’re there with him,
embracing all his references,
and in that same damn sentence there might be 30 references,
and all of them relevant,
with teams of meanings towering.
Come on, now.
Name another writer whose gift is as empowering,
and the concept and execution...
That’s what makes Joyce shattering:
he’ll have this big idea,
(and I say this not to flatter him)
he’d then find the way - the perfect way - to write it.
That’s why we need to warm to Ulysses and not to fight it;
the writer seen in all his power,
the literary artist without peer.
For me, it’s finally that one gift of bringing to us here
all human life put on the page
in language rich and creamy.
He’s the man who showed us
that a character can be dreaming
while living out his real life
and often so precariously
so that every page of Ulysses is “to be, or not to be.”
And so, when live assuaults you,
and your spirits start to plummet,
to raise your own morale
and find a way back to your summit,
go to art;
yes, to sculpture, or a painting, or a movie,
or a favourite piece of music,
be it classic and old movie.
But most of all, start reading,
because literature's the greatest art;
and the writers whom we reverence,
they're the ones we take to heart,
and Joyce is chief of all of them,
except perhaps ol' Shake the Spear.
Because Joyce, well, he's so total, so amazing,
yet so warm and dear.
You just have to settle down
and maybe read his work aloud.
When you do, you'll find
that he stands out from all the crowd,
because he's so inventive
and so warm and so affirming
and so tricky and engaging and rewarding;
you'll be squirming in fun and admiration
and amazement and delight,
and you'll close the book still smiling...
and, oh boy, you'll sleep that night.
