There's something I must admit; I enjoy hating the protagonist of some
novels almost as much as I enjoy loving the protagonists of others.
Sometimes, the main character is obnoxious, selfish, naive, immature,
and a lot of other mean words that probably shouldn't be posted to a
blog of this nature. When these characters reveal themselves, there's
nothing more fun than to take out my knife of hatred and
metaphorically stab this character with my knife of ill will and
laughter at his or her misfortunes. As much as I want to turn my
hatred onto Stephen, an immature, egotistical twat who wouldn't know a
healthy relationship with a female if he wass watching a romantic
movie flashing "healthy relationship" in bright neon lights while
someone forced him to pay attention "Clockwork Orange" style, I just
can't bring myself to draw the final blow. Every time I want to slap
him across the face, a thought crosses my mind that both scares and
humbles me: 'Am I really that different?"
Let's be clear: I have no plans to buy a prostitute within my lifetime
nor do I expect my father to become an immature drunk who ruins
everything for which my family has ever worked, but there is something
surprisingly appealing in seeing a character for who he or she really
is. None of this perfect protagonist lies that are thrown at us in
countless novels where the main character is nothing less than an
idealic saint whose sadness when issues occur remind one of a small
child learning that the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause aren't real. Not
even a perfectly imperfect protagonist a la Holden Caulfield where
everything about this character makes you want to scream or have him
brutally murdered to never be heard from again, or at least taken as
far away from the book as possible. No, Stephen is real; a true
insecure teenage guy who doesn't have the skills to be successful but
who has all the typical desires of someone growing into their own body
and mind. With every thought he makes or every mistake that seems
easily avoidable, I have a desire to go into the book and slap him for
being such an idiot. Almost immediately, however, I am reminded of the
times in which similar thoughts and desires crossed my own mind, and
similar mistakes were made. Sure, I'm not going to sleep with a
prostitute, but anyone who claims that such lustful desires have never
crossed their mind is lying. He is far from perfect, but he's also far
from incomprehensibly imperfect, and by entering his stream of
consciousness, we gain a realistic perspective on Stephen that is
familiar yet unsettling as everything he does makes him only a few
thoughts away from ourselves, and such introspection is unnerving to
say the least.
The question becomes thus: can a character which we as readers get to
know so intimately be enjoyable. My answer? No, no he can't, but he's
also not supposed to be. If we were meant to have a feel-good attitude
towards Stephen, Joyce would undoubtedly have written him much
differently. It's the uncomfortable familiarity on which the reader is
supposed to be fixated, and as long as that is present, the character
is not likeable. What that says about ourselves is much more
complicated. Maybe if we weren't all psychologically built to dismiss
our accomplishments and focus on our failures (a psychological
phenomena I like to call "My least favorite of God's design
strategies") we could grow to appreciate Stephen more. Instead,
Stephen just makes us realize an underlying dislike of ourselves.
I've got to stop writing so much on these things... :P