Statua di James Joyce
Statua di James Joyce
4
عرض كامل
المنطقة
أفضل الأماكن القريبة
المطاعم
664 على بُعد 5 كيلومترات
معالم الجذب
694 على بُعد 10 كيلومترات
4.0
176 تعليق
ممتاز
60
جيد جدًا
71
متوسط
41
سيئ
1
سيئ جدًا
3
Vale
Pieve Emanuele, إيطاليا2,071 مساهمة
أبريل 2023
Elogio della città al famosissimo poeta e scrittore. La statua è posta su un ponte. All'inizio non ci si fa caso perché si immette perfettamente nel paesaggio. Ma è una statua ben fatta!
كُتب بتاريخ 25 مايو 2023
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gringottsgoblin
dublin350 مساهمة
زوجان • مايو 2023
It’s nice to see one our own remembered by the city he lived in for years. I have a particular affection for him not only because he is a literary genius but he is associated with where I live and his museum is there but he also went to the same school ( but didn’t rate it very highly). Yes this statue in Trieste it’s a great place for a selfie with the man himself and that seems to happen here more often that at the statue of him in O’Connell street in Dublin. The people in Trieste are rightly proud of him and even celebrate bloomsday.
كُتب بتاريخ 17 مايو 2023
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Thombly
بولونيا, إيطاليا1,356 مساهمة
ديسمبر 2022
Tributo della città ad un suo concittadino. La statua è lì, non particolarmente appariscente. Ti dici quanto basso fosse Joyce e prosegui.
كُتب بتاريخ 7 ديسمبر 2022
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Newryoneisback
Newry, UK1,796 مساهمة
زوجان • نوفمبر 2022
Fate put us in sub tropical Trieste; we hadn’t planned a week long visit. So when life gives ya lemons do try making lemonade. We did and the results were just fine.
I didn’t know that Trieste is Italy’s coffee capital when we arrived and that’s some achievement in a nation of coffee aficionados, chocolate aficionados, life aficionados. It handles and processes 2.5 million sacks of coffee annually, more than 40% of Italy’s coffee fix.
So we had to go see James in bronze. Trieste is still a long way from Dublin today in many ways; not least the climate, culture and cuisine but it had to be planets away from the 1904 poverty stricken Dublin that Joyce left on the promise of work that fell through.
The 12 year old me hated this man. He was on our school curriculum so it was enforced reading of Ulysses a 735 page book that is always up and away, dissatisfied with itself, ironic, sardonic, virulent, contemptuous, sad, despairing, and bitter by an introverted, mentally ill man.
Now that I am a very long way from 12 I still dislike him because of that book. As I grew it grew with me; it pours along for 735 pages, a stream of time of 735 days which all consist in one single and senseless every day of Everyman, the completely irrelevant 16th day of June 1904, in Dublin — a day on which, in all truth, nothing happens.
The stream beings in the void and ends in the void. Is all of this perhaps one single, immensely long and excessively complicated Strindbergian pronouncement upon the essence of human life, and one which, to the reader’s dismay, is never finished?
Perhaps it does touch upon the essence of life; but quite certainly it touches upon life’s ten thousand surfaces and their hundred thousand colour gradations. As far as my glance reaches, there are in those 735 pages no obvious repetitions and not a single hallowed island where the long-suffering reader may come to rest.
There is not a single place where he can seat himself, drunk with memories, and from which he can happily consider the stretch of the road he has covered, be it one hundred pages or even less… But no! The pitiless and uninterrupted stream rolls by, and its velocity or precipitation grows in the last 40 pages till it sweeps away even the marks of punctuation. It thus gives cruelest expressions to that emptiness which is both breath taking and stifling, which is under such tension, or is so filled to bursting, as to grow unbearable.
This thoroughly hopeless emptiness is the dominant note of the whole book. It not only begins and ends in nothingness, but it consists of nothing but nothingness. It is all infernally nugatory.
I didn’t know that Trieste is Italy’s coffee capital when we arrived and that’s some achievement in a nation of coffee aficionados, chocolate aficionados, life aficionados. It handles and processes 2.5 million sacks of coffee annually, more than 40% of Italy’s coffee fix.
So we had to go see James in bronze. Trieste is still a long way from Dublin today in many ways; not least the climate, culture and cuisine but it had to be planets away from the 1904 poverty stricken Dublin that Joyce left on the promise of work that fell through.
The 12 year old me hated this man. He was on our school curriculum so it was enforced reading of Ulysses a 735 page book that is always up and away, dissatisfied with itself, ironic, sardonic, virulent, contemptuous, sad, despairing, and bitter by an introverted, mentally ill man.
Now that I am a very long way from 12 I still dislike him because of that book. As I grew it grew with me; it pours along for 735 pages, a stream of time of 735 days which all consist in one single and senseless every day of Everyman, the completely irrelevant 16th day of June 1904, in Dublin — a day on which, in all truth, nothing happens.
The stream beings in the void and ends in the void. Is all of this perhaps one single, immensely long and excessively complicated Strindbergian pronouncement upon the essence of human life, and one which, to the reader’s dismay, is never finished?
Perhaps it does touch upon the essence of life; but quite certainly it touches upon life’s ten thousand surfaces and their hundred thousand colour gradations. As far as my glance reaches, there are in those 735 pages no obvious repetitions and not a single hallowed island where the long-suffering reader may come to rest.
There is not a single place where he can seat himself, drunk with memories, and from which he can happily consider the stretch of the road he has covered, be it one hundred pages or even less… But no! The pitiless and uninterrupted stream rolls by, and its velocity or precipitation grows in the last 40 pages till it sweeps away even the marks of punctuation. It thus gives cruelest expressions to that emptiness which is both breath taking and stifling, which is under such tension, or is so filled to bursting, as to grow unbearable.
This thoroughly hopeless emptiness is the dominant note of the whole book. It not only begins and ends in nothingness, but it consists of nothing but nothingness. It is all infernally nugatory.
كُتب بتاريخ 18 نوفمبر 2022
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Franchini1956
روما, إيطاليا1,716 مساهمة
سبتمبر 2022
Molto particolare. La trovate su uno dei ponti del canale e vi sorprenderà. Uno dei punti di interesse della piazza.
كُتب بتاريخ 8 سبتمبر 2022
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Claudio Vuck
Passo Corese, إيطاليا5,531 مساهمة
بمفردك • أغسطس 2022
Questa frase di James Joice, la dice lunga su di lui. Diciamo che essendo stato uno che non scriveva cose stupide farsi un selfie con la sua statua su Ponte Rosso è secondo me una cosa simpatica! Un selfie con chi diceva cose intelligenti fa sempre piacere. Buona visione a voi popolo di TripAdvisor.
كُتب بتاريخ 23 أغسطس 2022
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Ugurd
ستوكهولم, السويد7,460 مساهمة
يونيو 2022
There are lots of statues in this town. Joyce has a great position on one of the bridges over the Canal Grande.
كُتب بتاريخ 27 يونيو 2022
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Ste Pet
Brugherio, إيطاليا45 مساهمة
أبريل 2022
Ci si passa più volte, nulla di che, simpatica, ma non da consigliare come luogo da visitare per forza
كُتب بتاريخ 26 أبريل 2022
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doriana c
Reggio Emilia, إيطاليا134 مساهمة
أبريل 2022
James Joyce fu legato in maniera indissolubile a Trieste città che vide il formarsi dello scrittore fino all'età adulta...
كُتب بتاريخ 20 أبريل 2022
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Patrizia C
12 مساهمة
مايو 2021
Parte della sua vita Joyce è stato qui ed è stato molto legato a Trieste, ammirando la statua che si trova in una bellissima posizione, in Ponterosso, vanno rivissuto le suggestioni al tempo di Joyce e, per gli appassionati, vi è anche un giorno dedicato in cui si elena Joyce.
كُتب بتاريخ 15 أكتوبر 2021
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