Achter het grijze ijs op de sloot
ligt weiland eindeloos, op een
beperkte einder na.
Bestoft velour, versleten rijp, niet
ongelijk aan hoe in vroegere treinen
de banken waren bekleed.
Nevel en schemering doen wie
het eerste er is, negeren
de voortijlende Thalys.
Men zou wel schilder willen zijn
om dit gevoel aan kleur
op linnen te bewaren.
Maar ook zo kan de forens het
in zijn vlietend beeldarchief
opslaan voor later.
Die dan weer weet: het was genoeg,
heel deze overvloed
Handgeschreven op geschept papier door Jan Eijkelboom, voor het Liber Amicorum van Hans van den Bos op 24 augustus 1997, ter gelegenheid van de definitieve sluiting van Boekhandel J. van den Bos, Rotterdam.
24 June 2017
15 January 2017
|E. du Perron|
|Menno ter Braak|
I will bring with me for you: Les lauriers sont coupés by Ed. Dujardin, a charming little book, and the first example of the monoloque intérieur (stream of consciousness); to which ànd Joyce ànd Larbaud owe a great deal...............
04 August 2016
James Joyce and Italo Svevo: The Story of a friendship
By Stanly Price
Somerville Press 276 pp £14
A review by Jan Morris in today's Literary Review
This fascinating work of scholarship concerns the association between two great 20th-century writers and the city that brought them together. The writers were the Italian Italo Svevo (1861–1928) and the Irishman James Joyce (1882–1941). The city was Trieste (45˚38’N 13˚46’E).
All three – the two men and the city – were almost equally complex in status, origin, style, condition and intention. To my dilettante mind the governing presence of the triad, binding it together in a kind of posthumous trinity, was the city, standing as it did upon an ethnic and historical fault line, and notorious for its genius loci, a gale-force wind called the bora.
The three of them are properly matched, and for me perhaps the most telling passage in the book (which is essentially a work of advanced cultural reportage) describes the two writers walking together in the city when the bora blew in one day. An eyewitness reported that they clung like mountain climbers to the safety ropes fixed in the downtown streets, but never stopped talking as the genius howled around them.
They met in Trieste in 1907: Joyce was scraping a living teaching English to Italian residents and Svevo came to him for lessons. Nothing in the tale, though, is as simple as that. Svevo, who was born Ettore Schmitz, was twenty years older that his teacher. He was a prominent local businessman whose family had enriched itself by making a unique kind of underwater paint, and he was not yet a writer at all. His only vice, it seems, was chain-smoking. Joyce, on the other hand, was already writing books of startling originality, was nearly always in debt and was a notorious drunkard. Yet the two, it seems, recognised the genius in each other, however latent, and were to remain friends and colleagues for life.
To read more go to: The Little Review
15 January 2016
...he was absolutely without an equal.
The New Republic's obituary for James Joyce, 1882-1941
by The New Republic
January 20, 1941
|Detail of a photo by Gisèlle Freund|
Literature as a pure art approaches the nature of pure science. And Joyce was also the great research scientist of letters, handling words with the same freedom and originality that Einstein handles mathematical symbols. The sounds, patterns, roots, and connotations of words interested him much more than their definite meanings. One might say that he invented a non-Euclidean geometry of language; and that he worked over it with doggedness and devotion, as if in a laboratory far removed from the noises of the street. This does not mean that he neglected to present human beings in his novels. Stephen Dedalus and his father, Leopold and Molly Bloom, even H. C. Earwicker of Finnegans Wake, are figures that will not be forgotten. But they are figures that are analyzed exhaustively in repose rather than being presented in action. And the side of them that held Joyce’s interest was their subconscious—that is, the side that medical scientists like to deal with. Moreover, even the strongest of his characters seem dwarfed by the great apparatus of learning that he brings to bear on them. They are almost like atoms being smashed by a 250-ton cyclotron.
These are some of the reasons why Joyce was not a writer of the same magnitude as Tolstoy or Stendhal or Dickens or any of the great men whose subject was human actions in their social background. In his own field, however, he was absolutely without an equal. There are very few serious novels of the last twenty years that do not show traces of his influence, even if only at third hand. The writers of the world owe him an enormous debt for making discoveries that have opened new horizons even to those who completely disagree with Joyce’s idea of literature. They will miss him all the more because, in the hard years that lie ahead of us, it is doubtful whether any great scientist of letters will have the opportunity to carry on his work. Perhaps there will not even be neutral countries to which they can escape.