Departments Article |
Treasures: Dublin Comes to Delancey
By Matthew Teague
DUBLIN PUNISHED A young man like James Joyce. He was a forward-looking sort, and Dublin seemed to forever gaze into its past.
For a glorious while at the end of the 18th century, both Dublin and Philadelphia served as the capitals of their countries. Neither lasted. Shortly after the Americans launched their Revolution from Philadelphia, the British Empire, annoyed by the loss of its colony, reached over and took away Ireland’s self-rule. The two former capitals — Dublin and Philadelphia — became linked in that moment; the depth of the relationship, as we’ll see, would only reveal itself years later. In the meantime, London — Dublin’s civic nemesis — became the preeminent metropolis in the Irish world, and Dublin faded. It’s a city that knows — feels — loss intimately, in its soul. A very familiar sensation for Philadelphians.
Joyce called one of his early books Dubliners. “My intention was to write a chapter of the moral history of my country,” he said, “and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the center of paralysis.”
Dublin seemed stuck, like an aging debutante who never took off her debut dress. Its Georgian architecture — the red brick with white window trim, symmetrical chimneys and columns — harked back to its moment of political, financial and social importance: It’s no wonder that as waves of Irishmen emigrated, they felt at home in Philadelphia. Even the shutters matched.
In 1904, when he was 22, Joyce fled Dublin’s stagnation and moved to Trieste, then Zurich, then Paris, but all the while, he wrote about his home city. His masterwork, Ulysses, follows a middle-aged Jewish resident of Dublin, Leopold Bloom, on a stroll around the city.
The book took its title from the greatest hero in literature, Homer’s Ulysses from The Odyssey, who makes an epic journey home after the fall of Troy. Joyce felt that the average man lives his own epic each day, even in a gray town, striving to return home each evening. In Ulysses, Joyce crafted a monument to the ordinary man, striving in the second city.
To fund the writing of the book, Joyce sold the handwritten manuscript of each episode as he completed it, sending them off to a New York book collector named John Quinn. Once he received the whole work, Quinn sold it to Philadelphia’s Abraham Rosenbach for $1,975. The price infuriated Joyce, who wanted to buy the manuscript back from Rosenbach. But the mighty Rosenbach held onto his prize. Later, in a cabled message, he offered to buy Ulysses’s typed page proofs.
Apparently he misspelled “Ulysses.” Joyce, in his signature style, wrote a curt poem about the Philadelphia tycoon, including a pun on the German meaning of Rosenbach’s name:
Rosy Brook he bought a book
Though he didn’t know how to spell it.
Such is the lure of literature
To the lad who can buy it and sell it.
Rosenbach didn’t see himself as a mere buyer and seller. He had studied literature at the University of Pennsylvania, and his fixation never ended. And although he was unimposing in body — five feet, five inches of paste — he earned a reputation around the world as a book-devouring lion.
“I have known men to hazard their fortunes, go long journeys halfway about the world, forget friendships,” he said, “even lie, cheat, and steal, all for the gain of a book.”
Rosenbach saw books as something more than mere business. They were his means to change the world. For instance. In 1937, just before the Second World War, Rosenbach and a book-collecting friend, Lessing Rosenwald, heard news of a rare manuscript coming up for auction. It was listed, mildly, as Lot 553.
For a glorious while at the end of the 18th century, both Dublin and Philadelphia served as the capitals of their countries. Neither lasted. Shortly after the Americans launched their Revolution from Philadelphia, the British Empire, annoyed by the loss of its colony, reached over and took away Ireland’s self-rule. The two former capitals — Dublin and Philadelphia — became linked in that moment; the depth of the relationship, as we’ll see, would only reveal itself years later. In the meantime, London — Dublin’s civic nemesis — became the preeminent metropolis in the Irish world, and Dublin faded. It’s a city that knows — feels — loss intimately, in its soul. A very familiar sensation for Philadelphians.
Joyce called one of his early books Dubliners. “My intention was to write a chapter of the moral history of my country,” he said, “and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the center of paralysis.”
Dublin seemed stuck, like an aging debutante who never took off her debut dress. Its Georgian architecture — the red brick with white window trim, symmetrical chimneys and columns — harked back to its moment of political, financial and social importance: It’s no wonder that as waves of Irishmen emigrated, they felt at home in Philadelphia. Even the shutters matched.
In 1904, when he was 22, Joyce fled Dublin’s stagnation and moved to Trieste, then Zurich, then Paris, but all the while, he wrote about his home city. His masterwork, Ulysses, follows a middle-aged Jewish resident of Dublin, Leopold Bloom, on a stroll around the city.
The book took its title from the greatest hero in literature, Homer’s Ulysses from The Odyssey, who makes an epic journey home after the fall of Troy. Joyce felt that the average man lives his own epic each day, even in a gray town, striving to return home each evening. In Ulysses, Joyce crafted a monument to the ordinary man, striving in the second city.
To fund the writing of the book, Joyce sold the handwritten manuscript of each episode as he completed it, sending them off to a New York book collector named John Quinn. Once he received the whole work, Quinn sold it to Philadelphia’s Abraham Rosenbach for $1,975. The price infuriated Joyce, who wanted to buy the manuscript back from Rosenbach. But the mighty Rosenbach held onto his prize. Later, in a cabled message, he offered to buy Ulysses’s typed page proofs.
Apparently he misspelled “Ulysses.” Joyce, in his signature style, wrote a curt poem about the Philadelphia tycoon, including a pun on the German meaning of Rosenbach’s name:
Rosy Brook he bought a book
Though he didn’t know how to spell it.
Such is the lure of literature
To the lad who can buy it and sell it.
Rosenbach didn’t see himself as a mere buyer and seller. He had studied literature at the University of Pennsylvania, and his fixation never ended. And although he was unimposing in body — five feet, five inches of paste — he earned a reputation around the world as a book-devouring lion.
“I have known men to hazard their fortunes, go long journeys halfway about the world, forget friendships,” he said, “even lie, cheat, and steal, all for the gain of a book.”
Rosenbach saw books as something more than mere business. They were his means to change the world. For instance. In 1937, just before the Second World War, Rosenbach and a book-collecting friend, Lessing Rosenwald, heard news of a rare manuscript coming up for auction. It was listed, mildly, as Lot 553.
 |
Change text size |
 |
Print |
 |
Email |
 |
Write a comment |
User comments
- No users have posted comments on this article.
