I find myself at a loss for words, without epiphanies inspired by Stephen Dedalus' own. Which usually even if I hated the process of reading a book, I find some value to it in the end (The Finkler Question excluded, it was no mistake that I avoided blogging about that novel). But I did not dis-like reading the Portrait of the Artist, I even enjoyed the discussions of art and vocation that were inspired by Joyce. but as I try to figure out what Joyce left imprinted on my heart with his words, I come up with nothing. Which makes me sad, I have come to a realization that great literature is one of those things I like the idea of liking more than I actually like great literature itself. I had the same realization (maybe I have been having epiphanies after all) during my poetry paper that I like the idea of poetry more than I actually like poetry. and this reminds me of one of my favorite quotations from one of my favorite books, Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller (it's becoming a movie too!):
I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn't resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes.
After that I liked jazz music.
Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.
Literature and poetry don't resolve. The Portrait of the Artist doesn't resolve. It doesn't offer anything close to a black and white answer on religion or art or journeys. And the question I am asking will probably never resolve, but instead morph slowly into some variant of question of identity. I am not walking away with any answers to my question, but also, I don't think that Joyce is even trying to answer the question I am exploring in this blog. But maybe just watching my discussion group love this novel, or talking to any of the members of the boys group outside of class, maybe watching someone love something is enough for right now. Someday I will struggle with the definition of art, I will struggle to find m vocation, I will be challenged profoundly in my Catholic faith, and then Joyce will give me some answers. I will walk away with passages of beauty echoing in my ear and with more than images of others loving this book.
someday I will re-read this novel and the "frozen sea" will crack, with Joyce's words as an ax to the heart.
The Portrait of The Artist does not show me the way quite yet, but I end this unit with a profound hope for whatever light it will give to the future because of how others loved it today.
