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.
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.
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