James Joyce

Irish writer, James Joyce set many of his works in the city of Dublin but nature was never far away. His descriptions of nature are as vivid as his urban scenes. Her is one of my favourites.

James Joyce 

(2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941)

James Joyce was born on this day in 1882. A fellow Dubliner, he is one of my favourite writers since studying him at school. I didn't tackle the hefty Ulysses until a few years ago when I doggedly ploughed through it. It is hard work but worth the effort. On the other hand, Dubliners and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man are short but don't be fooled. Though concise, their characters are vivid and complex. Joyce, as he does so well, presents us with real people,full of contradictions,confusions, and troubles that are all recognisably human. Though set in a Dublin before my time, he conjures up the unique  spirit of the place and of the timeless issues that face human beings.  Joyce takes the reader on a journey into a story but also into language. His characters are city dwellers but nature is never far away in his narrations. 

To celebrate Joyce's birthday, I offer you a slice of his beautiful writing.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Wintry churchyard, Cumbria

“A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”

 (extract from Dubliners)