i started rereading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man a few days ago. there were 5 shorter books i pulled off the shelf to try and finish before the end of the year. i quit reading the Satyricon because i dunno it being in translation and also incomplete, i couldn’t really get into it. and Portrait was the title i chose for a reread, since i haven’t read it in probably 12 years and i don’t really remember it at all. which is a shame, because it could have been something i drew on as a model and inspiration for my often cipher-like and minimal protagonists; especially in the first 60 pages or so, stephen takes up such little space in the narrative that the reader often wonders what he’s even doing in the story at all. this is a problem i have with some of my protagonists, and it’s reflective of how i tend to want to minimize myself in fiction despite the fact that i’m the creative force and therefor it’s not possible to avoid my influence and perspective. what joyce does with stephen in the first part of Portrait is an effective way to balance the character’s vague sense of self against the structural necessity of filtering everything through that character’s impressions.
my desire to keep myself out of the work is two-fold, one fold well-meaning the other detrimental to the task at hand. i do think that it’s better to strive to use literature to dissolve the ego and direct attention outward into the world that creates the creator: it’s for this reason i often disdain overly self-involved novels like those labeled “autofiction.” i’ve mentioned elsewhere that this disdain is complicated by the fact that i do appreciate many novels that are, very explicitly, depictions of the life of the author, ie Henry Miller, Anais Nin, or even Kerouac. leaving that aside, it’s nonetheless true that I find it more admirable if I’m not distracted reading a novel by figuring out which aspects are reflections of the author’s personal life. I also personally have resolved to not write novels about writers, something I appreciate about the novels of Pynchon, or DeLillo.
that all being said, I think this is one of those intellectualized alibis that masquerades as an aesthetic principle. if I think it’s necessary to keep myself out of the work as much as possible, that tends to prevent me from digging into my soul for the sake of artistic creation, even though there’s no other place for me to dig. even if i want my art to engage with society at large, or to cast light on those who tend to be excluded from the gaze of bourgeois art, i still ultimately can only write from my “experience” in the jamesian sense of the word. and reading Portrait is helping me come to terms with that necessity, because it’s impressive how Joyce uses his stand-in Stephen as filter and center while still casting attention at the world around him.
another thing Portrait has me thinking a lot about is how lonely it feels to be an artist. Stephen is an extremely isolated figure. he rarely has dialogue, and a lot of scenes, while by definition being reported from his perspective, apparently don’t involve him at all. this is a major theme of the work as i understand it. it’s because Stephen is sensitive, contemplative, and withdrawn that he grows to be the titular “artist,” ie Joyce himself. i read fifteen or so pages of the novel with a beer at the pizza place/beer garden down the street from me as the sun set. people around me laughed and chatted with their friends. couples walked by. when i finished my beer, i strolled down Main Street, which I’ve strolled down many many times. I felt nostalgic for the time a few years ago when I had more opportunity to wander around the little downtown area where I’ve lived for 8 years. in all that wandering i’ve encountered many people, made acquaintances and friends, but none of which i would call up today to spend time with, or even check in on. this afternoon after yoga class, i stopped in a newish wine shop and chatted with the guys working there. they’re nice and generous. if i saw them around town i’d stop to say hello. but would i call them my friends? at the yoga studio some of the people recognize me, mostly the staff. i try to introduce myself to other yogis when the opportunity presents itself. but do i make conversation? do i ask people to grab coffee? i usually leave, politely thank the staff, and walk to my car. a friendly ghost, easily recognized, but easily forgotten.
my girlfriend says i’m more personable than she is. i sometimes laugh thinking that i’m a personable person, but it is true. it’s easy for me to make conversation with most people, even if when i think about it in the abstract i have no idea what i’m supposed to say to anyone. sometimes i think i’m not even really real, because so much of my life i’ve tried to make myself small, i’ve tried to pass through situations unnoticed, even though i know how big i can be, i know i can command attention and make people comfortable and blah blah blah. but then why don’t i seem to keep friends around? is it because i think i’m above people, that no one can really match my intensity, which has me tamping myself down, closing myself off, and people pick up on that sort of thing? sometimes. sometimes the people i end up making friends with turn out to be flaky vampires who don’t deserve my efforts, or else cut me out because of their own psychotic self-involvment. but even those people, i find myself wanting to reach out to them and say please let’s be friends again.
lest this become a self-pity fest, i recognize that the only thing for me to do is keep trying, keep doing what i’m doing here, namely being vulnerable and open to letting someone see me for who i am, and trusting that i can attract like minded or at least interested people only by remaining open to that possibility.
(if i were writing a story it would be important to dramatize that above sentiment, maybe even ironize it by having it not work out exactly, rather than bail out with a “telling” instead of a “showing”, but this isn’t fiction and here i’m practicing being vulnerable)
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