A splendid author. The very best of his kind. One that upheld the beauty and purity of language up on a pedestal , wishfully and enviously being marveled at to this very day by scholars of the most esteemed honors.
Born in Dublin, Ireland, Joyce’s passion for language was of youthful origins, where books and magic roamed free along the many residences he occupied. His father was a wealthy man, but slowly lost his fortune as James grew up. When his mother and brother both died when he was a teenager and a young adult, the events became a turning point for his life, one that opened the door to artistic visions. None, however, were as important to Joyce as the day he met Nora Barnacle on a blooming day on June 16th, 1904. Joyce fell madly in love with her, and immediately left with her for continental Europe, never to return to Ireland again. They remained together until his death in 1941. They had two children, Giorgio and Lucia.
During his lifetime, Joyce only published eight books. Three novels, one short story collection, three poetry collections and one play. This bulk was enough to gather him the praise by many scholars around the world as perhaps the greatest author of the 20th Century.
Plenty of thorough and comprehensive praise has been tossed around the name of many of his books, in particular those of Ulysses, Finnegans Wake, Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. The most mesmerizing and legendary of the four books is Ulysses. None of the reverences it has received does the book any justice for the curious reader skeptical of its brilliance. Far from an easy book (quite the polar opposite actually), its originality and scope is beyond anything I’ve read before or since. Not even Infinite Jest — a book filled with similar intricate complexity, stands on its rank. Ulysses is the kind of book that makes you wonder whether Joyce is closer to Einstein than his contemporary writers. This is the kind of praise that is typical of a Joyce fanboy, but it has yet to be proven unwarranted by its detractors. No matter how vociferous Joyce’s critics may be, they all fall short of forming a coherent critique, joining the abysmal ranks of authors filled with cognitive envy for never writing something as good as him.
Joyce has captivated my curiosity unlike any author. When finishing his biography, I was left with the same perspective of uncertainty and awe as to what guided his genius. To think that a man who wrote only four major works throughout his entire life could influence such a magnificent spectrum of literature — from magical realism to postmodernism to every other major literary movement that came after him, mesmerizes me. Much like William Shakespeare paved the way to a different kind of style of story-telling, James Joyce opened the floodgates to a different form of language in story-telling, a new way of experimenting with literature. His influence has stood the test of time, with every new year a new wave of fans from all blocks of life are introduced to the wonderful tales of simplicity and scope that the great master from a street in Dublin came to view as the most honorable expression of elegance and purpose along the river-run.
Thank you very much for reading my work. If you enjoyed, here are more essays:
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