Isola dei Santi e dei Savi

Joyce became known, for amongst other things, being a perennial exile from his home country of Ireland, an island that served as his greatest nemesis and mentor at the the same time. He could not have been who he was if it were not for Ireland, but because of Ireland, he felt that he could not be what he was meant to be. He was at an impasse and decided to leave his home country, and except for very brief returns early on, he never returned, though he also claimed to have "never left" the Emerald Isle.

One of the places that was a second home for Joyce, was Italy, though a very different Italy than most imagine, thinking usually of being pampered under a Tuscan sun or on Vespa-riddled Roman holidays.

Joyce was in Rome for a spell, working as a bank teller, and had a miserable time, never cottoning to the Roman way, leaving with a very bad taste in his mouth for Rome and Romans. It, unlike Paris and Zürich, would never really become his home.

However, the Austro-Hungarian bastion of Trieste would be where the young artist forged in the smithy of his soul his Irish story, and would remain an inextricable part of Joyce, leading him to name both of his children with Italian names, Giorgio and Lucia, and with whom he communicated in Italian for much of their lives, even when in Paris and environs.

Italian was part of Joyce, leading him to use his own Italianate name of Giacomo Joyce for the only "auto-biographical" work of sorts that shed some insight into the troubled soul of the artist as a young man.

When in Trieste, as a young man, working as an English-language teacher, Joyce gave lectures to a lifelong learning-type of seminar series, highlighting the political, religious, and literary history of Ireland that would both haunt him and be a perpetual fountain of inspiration for the rest of his life. Ireland, as Joyce called it for his Trieste audience, was the "Isola die Santi e dei Savi," (The Isle of Saints and Sages).

For me, what is interesting is the effect of exile, whether imposed externally or by choice, that it has on one's perception of a home country. For me, I have had a love-hate relationship with my own home country, at times never wanted to live there again, at other times realizing that for some things, America really is the greatest country on Earth. Strange how that push and pull can become so strong for some and not others.

One of the biggest reasons that I ended up in Italy, was in fact, James Joyce and the legacy he left there. I was invited by Rosa Maria Bollettieri Bosinelli at the time to be a visiting professor at the center for the Studi Interdisciplinari su Traduzione, Lingue e Cutlure. Many years ago Bernard Benstock donated an amazing library to the department there as a good friend of Rosa Maria, and since then, with her influence as well as the presence of Umberto Eco, also a prominent Joycean, Bologna and Forlì have been Italian strongholds of Joycean studies over the years.

While in Forlì, I did teach a class on the literature of exile to Italian students and then the following year I taught one to American students studying in Italy as an autobiographical "self-exile" examination. In both instances it was fascinating to see the Italians becoming more "Italian," while many of the Americans embraced Italy as a new home to a certain extent. However, when all was said and done, most people will revert to their home country, even if they have not been there. It is an amazing psychological pull that has caused much discomfort and troubled Souls over the millennia.

Like Joyce (and that is about as far as I can compare myself with him), I have found an interesting dilemma with living in various countries, at times regaling America, at times being repulsed by it. I went to a Fulbright reception here in Brussels on Bloomsday, which was indirectly and directly responsible for me being in yet another country as a result of Joyce, and it was interesting to hear about stories from foreigners who had gone to the States and those from the States being here in Belgium as a result of the Fulbright program, which stressed that intercultural ties were paramount to better understanding of cultures with the aid of so-called cultural ambassadors. Joyce was one such cultural ambassador as he delivered his lectures in Italian no less, (incidentally one of the reasons I began Italian, that is, to read his lectures in the original), and he painted a picture of Ireland that would be come the backdrop to all of his consequent works as an exiled Irishman.

Italy and Joyce and now Belgium and India have helped shaped and refine, sculpt and revise my visions of America and being American, so for this Joycean moment this year, I am reminded of what it means to be of and from a place, even when one is no longer there.

Oral Hygiene

One of the biggest surprises, and ultimately disappointing factors of teaching in Italy was the undue emphasis placed upon the oral component of the student's exam, and consequent passing or lack thereof.

What was most troubling, and it was rehearsed again while teaching in Belgium some years later, is that this aspect is so hard to criticize and therefor feels almost watertight, yet is so porous and disastrous to actually learning. But, as I learned myself, if you are going to teach in Europe, you better be prepared for the ritual of the orals.

Hmmm...it sounded kinky at best, perverted at worst. As an educational tool, this is one of the most controversial in my mind, but the Italian system is absolutely grounded upon it. The problem? They are all so well coached that they can make you believe that they actually are answering the question.

I taught in Forli for the most part, a sub-section of the University of Bologna, and every day that I would walk from the train station to the the campus building, I would pass several buildings from the Fascist era, and which were hardly veiled or re-configured because Forlì was a place where Mussolini was still highly revered with black t-shirt clad youths going to his grave every Sunday in the nearby cemetery to mourn Italy's loss. It goes on today.

So,  I would walk the mile or so from the train station and pass at least three of four major Fascist works of architecture and then go teach. The strange part of it is that the Oral, to me, at least, was the remnant of such times because you are encouraged to reproduce a coded (linguistically charged) message that is congruent with your comrades, in this case, your fellow students.

This, as an a American, was weird for me to say the least. In a very short time, I became both pariah and savior because of my approach to the orals. After the spiel that was delivered that every student had memorized, I then asked a different question to each student, in order to "go further" with the conversation. About a third just met me with a blank stare and left. Another third seemed offended that their perfectly rehearsed answer about Hemingway's time in Paris or Eliot's poetry was not acceptable to me for granting them the laurel wreaths of literature, and then there was the final third, of which was likewise broken down to thirds, more or less.

One third was offended and pissed off and threatened me with going to the "higher powers" to make sure there were no deviations from the norm.

Another third was intrigued, but sadly, soon enough exposed themselves to know so very little beyond their rehearsed answers that it was painful to give them lower marks, though I did, to merely say, thanks for playing the game.

The final third, which can always be rarefied into another tri-fold division ad infinitum, were the kids that realized, okay, I passed by the simpleton American that I can memorize, but then they were intrigued and we actually had a good conversation about the works, or about their own station in life, or whatnot. As I say, fractally speaking, we can always take it a further step, to break it down one more level. The coast of Britain shall never be measured if you take each stone and pebble and grain of sand, one by one, but you will get a good approximation. For me, taking those kids to a level beyond mere regurgitation was the key.

I Miss the Details

I miss Italy.

I have a rather stock answer to the question of "What did you love about Italy the most?"

My answer, "The details."

This was before living in India, where details are likewise what I miss most, but with Italy, it was the first time that I had been exposed to such minutiae of detail. It rocked my world, to be crude.

I miss the details of everyday life being important.

Now, is Italy the only place on the planet where this is possible, being some pseudo-Hegelian dreamland of hyper-Self-consciousness? No. I am not so naive, nor romantic, (though I am both), as to think that Italy and Italians have cornered the market on details and the appreciation of the finer things in life, but it is impossible to deny there.

On a daily basis, I would find myself wondering and wandering through virtual and literal labyrinths of details, details, details that if noticed, would enhance my daily walk through life exponentially. A turn of the phrase, or the turn of the Jamesian screw of finding the patterns in the carpet, the carvings of the wooden molding, the door handle, the figure of a plaster-caste Madonna peering out the window over an abandoned piazza in Todi, or a Turkish figure on Bologna's piazza San Stefano who looks suspiciously like my Yoga guru, Bekir, there is always something in Italy that grabs the attention, stimulates the imagination, and makes one realize how important an attention to details can be.

Do I miss the details?

No, not necessarily, but it is the awareness of them that I miss. This, again, is not to say that Italians stroll arm in arm through the day pointing out the details of everything around them, yet, at some level they do, or at least, their culture lends itself to that. Like India, there is a difference of Time and Space in Italy that forces one to stop, take notice, and to observe. You can react, or you can enjoy.

For me, Italy was a perennial celebration of the details in life. Living in northern Europe now, however, I find that people have no patience for the detail. As in America, (again, a gross generalization, and there is much about America I respect, miss, and appreciate, though patience is not one of them), here, one needs to have something yesterday. But, the appreciation of the process, the bringing about and the becoming is no longer, if it ever was.

Life is a process.

Life is details.

I miss that on a cultural level.

What is the Here and Now if we are steeped in the Elsewhere and Next?

I praise and curse Italy for this. Ignorance is sometimes bliss, but it is also hollow, and hollow men are already dead.

Non lo so...