Jumping for Joyce

This Künstlerroman took us into the existential journey of a young artist as he struggled to find his identity in the burgeoning world of modernity as it clashed with the fading principles of Victorian imperialism. The character Stephen is exposed to a wide array of external and internal influences all conjoining to concoct a tumultuous brew of idealistic turmoil, as he tries to discern of these influences which is ‘real’ and which is folly.

This novel was peculiar because in several ways the “classic” colonial experience that we had been studying was in ways turned on its head. The growing independence of the young boy often matches allegorically the growing independence movement within the country, but for the first time in a novel we have a character that truly wants no part or association in his mother country. Not only does Stephen seem none too invested in Ireland’s own movement away from colonialism, but in a weird paradoxical shift we find our protagonist consistently refusing things commonly associated with the Irish or at least now southern Irish culture and nationalism; primarily Stephens revulsion to the Catholic Church. His affinity for words evolves into a broader cultural affinity as he rejects his race. Though Ngugi would ultimately disagree with an individual abandoning one’s culture in favor of the culture of the colonizer, I think Ngugi would point to this instance as an affirmation of what he believes colonization does to the colonized mind. After generations of subservience and second class citizenship an Irish writer (which in itself is seen as a cultural signature) no longer wants to be Irish. The land of poets is now breeding poets which turn its back on its green fields. What would Brendan Behan say? Is Stephen Daedelus’ rejection of his own culture is in some way quite Irish? The loathing of these social constructs thrust upon Hibernia, marring the once virgin fields, and fey coats, …yada, yada, yada, and Ireland isn’t the same. Did Stephen reject his race because of Englishness or because of himself? Or perhaps he is just so lost he doesn’t even care anymore. Fairly modern I suppose, the death of the optimistic delegation of faith and the realization that the greasy machine -ran palpability of the world will crush your puny dreams, so your wings better be made of titanium and jet fuel or the nets might catch them up ol’ boy.