Gordon Bowker’s James Joyce: A Biography describes a man who, though he may have been a great writer, was a terrible husband and father. In 1907 Joyce is 25 years old. He is living in Rome on a negligible salary as a bank clerk, supplemented by funds borrowed from his brother. He has a young son, and his wife is pregnant. He is constantly eluding creditors, falling behind in his rent, and moving his family from one shabby apartment to another. He decides to leave Rome, and gives notice to his employer. On his last day of work,
he drew a month’s salary (250 lire) at the bank and went on a farewell spree—a drunken adieu to the Eternal City, which he had come to consider ‘vulgar’ and ‘whorish.’ When [he was] suitably drunk, two congenial bar-flies took him to a backstreet and relieved him of his bulging wallet. He returned home penniless and completely soaked from an evening downpour. (p. 165)
Many have questioned the ethics of enjoying art created by people who have been misogynists, rapists, racists, or fascists, for example. It seems difficult to reconcile beautiful art with such ugly behaviour. In Joyce’s case, such questions have been asked, but in this instance the behaviour is not only bad, but stupid—and this raises a slightly different question. How is it possible for someone like Joyce—who read, wrote, and spoke several languages fluently, and whose work, whatever you think of it, is undeniably brilliant—how is it possible for such an obviously intelligent man to make such stupid choices? If intelligence did not save Joyce from making stupid choices, what about us? What can save us from making stupid choices?