Wake In Progress

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Page 16, version 3

I changed it again! Indecision is a curse.

Page 18, version 2

All of these foreign texts are somehow relevant to their context, by the way. However, I have no memory of what they say.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

THE DETAILS ARE IN! From June 16th, Bloomsday, Wake in Progress will be on show at Shakespeare and Company bookstore, 37 rue de la Bûcherie, 75005. On Bloomsday itself, there’ll only be five pictures displayed. The rest are going to show at the awards ceremony for the Paris Literary Prize, which is sadly not open to the public! However, from Friday 17th, the rest of the pictures will go up at the store (covering as few of the books as possible) and remain on display for an undisclosed period. Until people decide they want to get at the books, I suppose.

ALSO! At 6pm on Friday 17th, the winner and two runners-up of the novella prize will be reading from their stories. I advise all of you to come, stare at my pictures in unique, non-pixelated form, and listen to extracts from some great novellas.

ALSO ALSO! I offer this solemn vow: that if there is nothing to drink at this event, I shall provide some.

My sincerest thanks go to Sylvia and everyone else at Shakespeare’s!

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Page 16, version 2

Doing some spring cleaning for the show. I’ve completely gone off the traced look. Sorry, Henry.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Bloomsday Show

The debt I owe to historic Paris bookstore Shakespeare and Company is utterly incalculable. Among so much else, without this institution some of my greatest friends, the most formative experiences of my life, and my wife would be unknown to me.

So when the owner, omnipotent goddess Sylvia Whitman, offered to host an exhibition of my Finnegans Wake illustrations, I knew it could only mean one thing: that she intended me to incur a moral debt so great that I should be forced to offer myself in indentured servitude, after the style of Man Friday.

But whatever the reason, I am very happy to announce that a selection from Wake in Progress will be on display on June 16th, to coincide with Bloomsday! Which all seems amazingly apt, since Shakespeare and Co. is named after the bookstore that published the first edition of Ulysses, and Sylvia is herself named after the owner, Sylvia Beach.

The venue and other details are not settled yet, so watch this space!

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Page 70

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Page 69

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Page 64

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Why Finnegans Wake is better than Ulysses

In a nod to the uniquely challenging nature of the book that I’m sacrificing my youth to, I thought it might be worthwhile to offer some reasons to bother with it. And so I present the purposely divisive first in a series:

Why Read Finnegans Wake?
Part One: Because it’s better than Ulysses

Among the sort of people who care to form opinions about this sort of thing, it seems quite fashionable to call Ulysses the pinnacle of James Joyce’s achievement, and Finnegans Wake merely the unreadable folly on which he squandered the last 12 17 years of his productive life. This opinion was most convincingly voiced by Vladimir Nabokov, who (in this interview) named Ulysses the greatest novel of the 20th Century, but compared the Wake to “a persistent snore in the next room.”

But let’s get this straight: Ulysses is a remarkable book, but one with a serious structural imbalance. It’s telling that Nabokov’s own lecture notes on Ulysses recommend skipping huge chunks of it that he simply didn’t like. As the book trundles along for the first eight chapters or so, the logic behind it seems pretty clear: to recount a single day in the lives of two people in obsessively detailed realism, following the train of their thoughts through stream-of-consciousness style. Round about chapter nine, however, the style seems to break off like a mad horse, leaving the characters in the dust. Thus we get episodes like chapter 11 (“Sirens”) in which grammar is replaced with a pseudo-musical system of motifs (I can’t wait to see how they deal with that on Ulysses “Seen”), or the following chapter (“Cyclops”), in which an anecdote by a pub landlord is unaccountably intercut with increasingly hyperbolic interruptions in a variety of incongruous styles.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But it’s not the same book. In my opinion, Joyce simply grew tired of his original idea. Although it seems crazy now, he’d spent much of his life obsessed with Henrik Ibsen (anyone who’s read Exiles will, I hope, agree what a mistake that was), and I think he conceived Ulysses as an Ibsenian novel, in which the greatest extreme of realism is combined with an

equally obsessive system of semi-mystical symbolism. But eventually he simply outgrew Ibsen, and began to fully develop the style that he’s now best remembered for: that in which style itself takes centre-stage, so that, for example, a chapter about birth might start in Chaucerian English and develop through to present day slang, or one about miscommunication be written entirely in clichés.

In Finnegans Wake, style oustrips not just the characters and the setting, but even the language itself. Style becomes fluid in a way that you will not experience in any other book, shifting from the complex syntax of classical history through fairy tales, to the pedantic diction of a science lecture, all of it suffused with poetry and irony in equal measure. More than that, it has the structural integrity that Ulysses lacks, a precise system of repetition and cyclical development that carries it from beginning to end. Far from being a self-indulgent imitation, Finnegans Wake feels in a lot of ways like the perfection of an idea for which Ulysses was merely the trial run. (Which is not to say that it isn’t self-indulgent.)

So perhaps Finnegans Wake isn’t “better” than Ulysses. I suppose it really depends what you mean by “better”. It may not be the perfect book; it isn’t even my favourite book; but it is the most perfectly Joycean book, the pinnacle of his style, his vision and his temperament, and no one can claim to love Joyce without at least respecting it. No matter what Vladimir Nabokov might tell you.