Tag Archives: Paris

James Joyce and his decent silk hat

I’m currently deep into Richard Ellmann’s biography of James Joyce, an 800-page opus which is, in parts, almost as detailed as “Ulysses” itself.

As such, I’m well into the world of Joyce-words: ‘europicola’, ‘allalluvial’, ‘douncestears’, to pick three among thousands. At times it’s not easy going, and it got me thinking. Did the man himself ever read his work into a microphone? What did the colossus of Modernism actually sound like?

The answers are: yes, and like a slightly stiff Irish lawyer.

In November 1924 Joyce made a recording of a section of “Ulysses”. The audio, set down at the HMV studio in Paris, would be one of only two such artifacts he made (five years later he would make an eight-minute recording of an extract from Finnegans Wake).

The excerpt Joyce picked is from the ‘Aoelus’ episode of ‘Ulysses’, a section known as ‘The John F Taylor speech’. The passage is a metaphorical take on the relationship of Ireland and England. Joyce picked it, his friend and publisher Sylvia Beach later said, because he reckoned that it was the only part of his book fit to lifted out and ‘declaimed’.

'Portrait of James Joyce' Patrick Tuohy (1924-1927)

‘Portrait of James Joyce’
Patrick Tuohy (1924-1927)

Listened to the audio down the passage of 90 years it sounds strange – ethereal and formal in equal parts. It didn’t inject much color into my impression of Joyce – but it did lead me onward, to the footage above.

It is one of only two pieces of film I can find of the Irish writer, both shot in Paris in the 1920s (the other features the writer and his wife strolling down the street – here at 3:00 minutes). In the clip Joyce stands on the street, holding a conversation with someone off camera and looking like a skinny Irish version of Vito Corleone as he stares dismissively into the camera.

It’s spliced with a brief clip of the writer stepping out of a house, a child running before him. Again the vibe is one of a literary made man.

The footage casts little, if any light on the writer himself. That’s no unfortunate thing, given that Joyce’s life is woven so extensively into his work already. If anything the film represents a brief respite from the latter, writing that’s at times entertaining, eye-opening, and hugely frustrating (usually in the same paragraph).

At the risk of sounding simplistic this brief clip also shows that, despite the poverty, drinking and illness, the writer could certainly pull off some nice threads.

Or, as he wrote in the short story ‘Grace’: “He had never been seen in the city without a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters. By grace of these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always pass muster…”

_____

 

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Of all the world’s places this was Paris

paris1

Le Sacre-Coeur

As a young man I didn’t place much importance on the City of Light.

I knew it as the home of the French Revolution, the cradle of the Enlightenment, a place of love and rivers and religion (or a famous cathedral at any rate).

And so I didn’t travel there until I was 35. When I did the city I encountered bore some resemblance to the cast-in-absinthe Paris of the popular imagination.

The guide-booked Eiffel Tower, Ile de la Cite, Sacre-Couer and Montmartre were present and correct, busy with July tourists.

But in the 10th and 11th arrondissements, where we stayed, ate and drank, the city was faster, pushier, live, loud. This Paris was traffic and dirt and people – office workers, beggars, mothers with strollers, groups of teenagers. An aroma of cheap pizza and cigarettes blew above the pavements; more than once I dodged dogs’ deposits underfoot.

Le Quai Saint-Michel

Le Quai Saint-Michel

This was the moving city. It was – and is – a city of difference. The walk from Gare du Nord station across Boulevard de la Chapelle and onto our apartment at Rue de Clignancourt took us past north African, west African and Asian homes and businesses.

In a side street in the shadow of the Sacre-Couer my wife and I ate bun bowls at a tiny Vietnamese cafe. Sitting in the shadow of Notre-Dame, on the Quai Saint-Michel, I had a lunch of falafel above the Seine. Searching out breakfast on a Sunday morning we came across a small cafe on Rue Lamarck, which served a mix of French, Greek and Indian food.

We visited, ate and drank, the other Paris too, of course.

But as the news worsened by the minute last Friday night my thoughts went back to the 11th, and to the last morning I spent in the city, walking in the light through the Sunday morning Bastille market, surrounded by a mix of faces, languages, cultures and foods. The morning’s hundreds shared a common tongue, a place, a sense of tradition.

And a feeling that, of all the world’s places this was Paris, and there was nowhere else to be.

paris2

Le Marche Bastille

_____

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

James Joyce: drinking wine, talking weather

'Portrait of James Joyce' Patrick Tuohy (1924-1927)

‘Portrait of James Joyce’
Patrick Tuohy (1924-1927)

If any one of the hundreds of Joyce fans who’ll flock to the Dublin’s streets for Bloomsday next week could have met the man himself what would they have encountered?

The dandyish, cane-leaning street-stroller immortalised in a statue on Talbot Street?

The aloof, slightly imperious scholar who wed Greek myth to modernism?

Or the earnest, lovestruck young man who was stood up on a Dublin street corner on his first date with his future wife?

Perhaps none of the above, if they were to meet the man Djuna Barnes did. The French-based American writer, no small modernist talent herself, profiled the Irish writer for the March 1922 issue of Vanity Fair.

The Joyce of Paris 1922 bore “an orderly distemper of red and black hair”, wore a blue coat “too young it seemed”, a waistcoat made by his grandmother and sat with his head “turned farther away than disgust and not so far as death”.

Djuna Barnes, 1905

Djuna Barnes, 1905

He drank a “thin, cool wine with lips almost hidden”, and smoked an “eternal cigar”.

What did the Joyce the exile, the master storyteller of Dubliners, the writer of the novel of his century – published only two months earlier – chat about?

“We have talked of rivers and religion,” Barnes writes. “The instinctive genius of the church…of women…we have talked of death, of rats, of horses, the sea; languages, climates and offerings,” Barnes writes.

No mention of boater hats, gorgonzola sandwiches or bicycles with baskets, mind you.

Most surprisingly of all, for a man who propelled the novel into the twentieth century, the Dubliner wished to talk of “anything that is not “artistic” or “flashy” or “new””.

Were today’s Joyceans to meet the man himself then, they would likely encounter a “heavy man yet thin”, reading a book of saints (“he is never without it”) and “muttering to himself that this particular day’s saint was “a devil of a fellow for bringing on the rain, and we wanting to go for stroll””.

Let’s hope the weather holds for on Tuesday then.

Poets Patrick Kavanagh and Anthony Cronin on Bloomsday, June 16, 1954 Pic: National Library of Ireland

Poets Patrick Kavanagh and Anthony Cronin on Bloomsday, June 16, 1954
Pic: National Library of Ireland

_____

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Surely the next will be better than the last

Johnstown Castle, Wexford.

Johnstown Castle, Wexford. June 2013.

What other way to greet the end of a relentless year than with relief? And also with happiness that it’s over; and with a hope that I won’t encounter another like it again.

I spent long hours in unhappy places over the past 12 months and, despite this, happy hours in others.

Today I’m thinking of the better times: my niece’s birthday party, a nightcap with my wife on the terrace underneath Sacré-Cœur Basilica, and, most of all, the warm afternoons in June spent with my mother at Johnstown Castle.

I am writing this thousands of miles from those places, remembering and looking forward. To everything there is a season and surely the next season will be better than the last.

Until I find out, happy new year.

Tagged , , , , ,

Home in the rue Cardinal Lemoine

At 74 Rue Cardinal Lemoine

At 74 Rue Cardinal Lemoine.
Pic: Clare Kleinedler

Ernest Hemingway’s ghost has long since fled the Place Contrescarpe, in the fifth arrondissement of Paris, and is likely easier found now in San Sebastian, Havana or Ketchum.

But Paris being Paris, the building where he lived in the early 1920s, “very poor and very happy” with his wife and newborn son, still stands.

I discovered this on a visit last weekend, when my wife and I walked up the winding Rue Cardinal Lemoine, away from the bustle of the Boulevard Saint-Germain.

There are more famous literary landmarks in the City of Light, and more famous Hemingway ones even.

But, on a pristine Parisian afternoon this small symbol of domesticity, hope, ambition and youth in a life later strewn with great success and personal wreckage was our destination.

The book which brought us there was A Moveable Feast, the collection of vignettes Hemingway wrote in Cuba in his last, declining years, at a remove of almost half a century from “the early days”, as he described them, spent as a journalist and sometimes-starving writer eking out a living in the cafes of Montparnasse.

The work famously contains distilled and stripped portraits of fellow writers, not least Hemingway’s fellow ex-pats Scott Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein (revealing how the latter borrowed her famous ‘lost generation’ comment from a local mechanic, no less). But written into and between these accounts are fascinating small details of the writer’s day-to-day acts of work, love, eating and drinking.

Clare and I had travelled to Paris from Dublin exhausted, pulled taut by stress, sleep-deprived and weary. Hemingway’s accounts of a less-complicated (on the surface only, of course) domestic and working life had appealed to us for sometime. And so we found ourselves outside a chipped blue door, beneath a simple white plaque, stepping aside as a resident returned home with her shopping.

Hemingway in Paris, 1924

Hemingway in Paris, 1924.
Pic: Ernest Hemingway Collection (JFK Presidential Library and Museum, Boston)

In 1922 Hemingway lived with Hadley Richardson on the third floor at 74 Rue Cardinal Lemoine, “a two-room flat that had no hot water and no inside toilet facilities…With a fine view and a good mattress and springs for a comfortable bed on the floor”.

Lunch there was “little radishes, and a good foie de veau with mashed potatoes and an endive salad. Apple tart”.

Rising early Hemingway walked to work daily, to a garret-room at a nearby hotel on Rue Descartes, where he would attempt to write “one true sentence, and then go on from there”. He later declared: “Work could cure almost anything, I believed then, and I believe now.”

Sitting on the Place Contrescarpe, dry and bright unlike its rain-lashed, impoverished appearance at the opening of A Moveable Feast, Clare and I discussed these simple pleasures and truisms.

Very poor rarely means very happy. And the opposite is not the case, either. So we go on seeking the balance. Some days or hours or nights, we find it.

That evening we returned to our rented apartment and later walked the hill at Montmartre to look on Paris below. Hungry, we went on to Le Comptoir des Belettes on Rue Lamarck, where we ate tartines and characturie and drank rose.

Then we returned home to the night breeze on our balcony, the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur above and the murmur of the streets below.

And we were happy.

Charcuterie plate at Le Comptoir des Belettes, 18e

Charcuterie plate at Le Comptoir des Belettes, 18e


All quotes in this post are from A Moveable Feast

Tagged , , , , , , , ,