So you finally made it! After all the trials and tribulations, obstacles, false starts, and antagonisms, you finally reached your destination and, like Odysseus before you, can crawl into bed and curl up with your sweet Penelope stay at home. "Penelope" is the last episode of Ulysses, the last stop and final resting place in our odyssey. It is an odd little episode in its own way (what episode of Ulysses is not?). Set apart from the masculine -- or at least the male -- stories of Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom, "Penelope" is Molly Bloom's story. It is her turn to have a say in this "chaffering allincluding most farraginous chronicle." It was Joyce's intention to give Molly Bloom the final word in Ulysses, and as Joyce himself points out the episode begins and ends with the affirmative "yes". Thus we are justified in reading this complex book as an affirmation and not as an indictment of the human condition.
"Penelope" is perhaps the most famous episode of Ulysses, not least of all because of its frankness (read, obscenity to many). Molly tells it like it is and pulls no punches as she freely pours out her feelings, fantasies (obscene and romantic), grudges, and cracked ideas with no regard for the feelings or sensibilities of others. And why should she care? It is we who are invading the privacy of her personal ruminations.
Both the manner and the content of Molly's thoughts have invited the controversy which has followed this episode, some seeing Joyce's rendition as an uncanny duplication of the woman's voice, others patently rejecting his attempt at representing the female thought process as a typical and poorly executed male usurpation of the feminine. Be that as it may, whether you like it, love it, or hate it, "Penelope" has put its stamp on English language literature and, like Ulysses itself, has carved out a place for itself in the pantheon of English prose. Many will argue over the authenticity of the voice, others will chafe at the indecency and indelicacy of the language, and still others will debate where Molly finally lands on the question of Bloom, but none can argue that "Penelope" leaves a lasting impression.
Stylistically, "Penelope" is a handful, a raging river of words that rush with little cessation. Composed of eight very long sentences, this episode is responsible for fostering the grossly exaggerated rumor that Ulysses (as in the entire book) lacks punctuation. Of course, having now read virtually the entire book you know that's not true. Technically, this isn't even true of "Penelope": the are eight full stops after all. Okay, eight randomly placed stones do not a dam make, but you get the point: there is a modest attempt by Joyce to slow the raging river of Molly's mind. Still, "Penelope" can be a bear to follow at first. Thoughts flow on top of and into other thoughts, particular words serving as bridges to sudden segues that leave a sense of brilliant ambivalence. But once you catch on to the general pattern of speech and though, you will find yourself expertly negotiating the twists and turns of speech like a seasoned whitewater kayaker.
As the cap to an 800 page book, "Penelope" serves not only as equal time for Molly, but also as something of an alternative summary of the days events. Much of what Molly re-presents to the reader in her monologue has been related to her by husband Leopold regarding his day, but Molly injects her own interpretations and suspicions. From the view of Homeric correspondences Joyce reproduces the close of Odysseus's adventures as he climbs into bed with Penelope and relates to her the story of his wanderings. It is apparent that Bloom and Molly have engaged in the same manner of verbal intercourse before Bloom drifts off, but Joyce lets Molly become the final interpreter. Molly's voice is privileged in a way that Penelope's is not, as she (Molly) is given reign to interpret events from her perspective and, more importantly, to speak for herself about herself. Molly's reputation has been much maligned by the Dublin males on this June 16th day. One could argue that she has been shaped by the men in this story. "Penelope" provides an occasion for Molly to create herself in her own image.
Vis-a-vis the broader story of Ulysses, what is most important in Molly's rambling monologue are her thoughts on her husband. We have seen Bloom undergo a trial in the court of his own psyche and emerge exonerated, but the final judgement is left to Molly. As she recounts his foibles, assets, liabilities, idiosyncrasies, and their common history as a couple she must make a determination about her own future with or without old Poldy. And while (in typical Joycean fashion) a definitive, indisputable verdict is not given to the reader, an implication is left hanging in the final volley of yeses that close the monologue and book. Ultimately, you will make your own determination as to what Molly decides and, on a broader scale, what Joyce seems to be saying in this labyrinth tome, but it's hard to argue against a positive reading when confronted with Molly's emphatic affirmations.
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Sunday, 27 November 2011
Book Three-Episode Seventeen: Ithaca
"Ithaca" is one of the more famous episodes of Ulysses, renowned for its unique catechismic style it tends to receive a lot of attention and praise from critics and commentators. "Ithaca" is the homecoming episode. At its simplest it is an extension of the previous episode, continuing the story of the interaction between Bloom and Stephen, but with a radical shift in style. The dry question and response of "Ithaca" camouflages the warmth and humanity which is shared between its two principals.
Here, once again we see Joyce testing the limits of language and narrative. Like many fans of "Ithaca" one of the things I love about this episode is how Joyce paints such a strikingly vivid portrait of events through a precise, almost mathematical, employment of words. Contrasted against the previous episode, "Eumaeus" and its extreme verbosity, "Ithaca" is sparse and to the point, using language like a scalpel. Both styles achieve the same effect -- creating a visual image through the textual -- but by opposing means.
On account of the style, "Ithaca" can be difficult to decipher at first (like most of these episodes). In one sense we could contrast it against episode three, "Proteus" where Stephen is ambling along Sandymount strand. While that reading experience is virtually unmediated -- we have direct access to Stephen's thoughts -- "Ithaca" is completely mediated by a third person narrator (or two) relaying in as objective a fashion as possible everything that passes between Stephen and Bloom as well as an account of the physical environment. Such filtering of information changes how we receive and process the content; Stephen's unfiltered thoughts and impressions from "Proteus" are warm and sentimental but subject to doubt, while "Ithaca" is cool and calculated, lacking sentimentality but giving more of an air of objectivity.
In terms of navigation this episode is very easy to manage. The difficulty is to make sense of the content presented as it is in academese:
What concomitant phenomenon took place in the vessel of liquid by the agency of fire?
The phenomenon of ebullition. Fanned by a constant updraught of ventilation between the kitchen and the chimneyflue, ignition was communicated from the faggots of precombustible fuel to polyhedral masses of bituminous coal, containing in compressed mineral form the foliated fossilised decidua of primeval forests which had in turn derived their vegetative existence from the sun, primal source of heat (radiant), transmitted through omnipresent luminiferous diathermanous ether.
In terms of story "Ithaca" marks the end of Bloom and Stephen's journey. When the episode ends, their fated union is complete (but the story is not yet resolved). One of the greatest knocks on Ulysses is that the story doesn't go anywhere. When Stephen and Bloom finally part company neither seems any better or worse off and nothing seems to have changed. So the question that I would ask is does anything happen in "Ithaca"? For example, in Homer's Odyssey when Odysseus and Telemachus reach their home, they bolt the doors and lay waste to the suitors who have taken up residence and wasted their goods. Justice is served and all is set aright. What corresponding issues are resolved in Joyce's "Ithaca"? What is set aright in Ulysses?
To answer this question you first have to identify what problems were presented in Ulysses. What was wrong? Indeed. To understand the resolution to a problem one must first know what is the problem in question in need of resolution. Of course, like everything else with Ulysses the problem is not apparent but must be discovered beneath the surface of the text. So, solve for X before you can determine Y and Z.
Raw Notes
Compile the budget for 16 June 1904.
Debit Credit
£.s.d. £.s.d.
1 Pork kidney 0.0.3 Cash in Hand 0.4.9
1 Copy _Freeman's Journal_ 0.0.1 Commission recd. Freeman's Journal 1.7.6
1 Bath and Gratification 0.1.6 Loan (Stephen Dedalus) 1.7.0
Tramfare 0.0.1
1 In Memoriam Patrick Dignam 0.5.0
2 Banbury cakes 0.0.1
1 Lunch 0.0.7
1 Renewal fee for book 0.1.0
1 Packet Notepaper and Envelopes 0.0.2
1 Dinner and Gratification 0.2.0
1 Postal Order and Stamp 0.2.8
Tramfare 0.0.1
1 Pig's Foot 0.0.4
1 Sheep's Trotter 0.0.3
1 Cake Fry's Plain Chocolate 0.1.0
1 Square Soda Bread 0.0.4
1 Coffee and Bun 0.0.4
Loan (Stephen Dedalus) refunded 1.7.0
Balance 0.17.5
£ 2.19.3 £ 2.19.3
Book Three - Episode Sixteen: Eumaeus
After the mayhem and debauchery of "Circe" episode sixteen, "Eumaeus" thrusts us back into the sane world of Dublin Night town reality. Starting with a bang on heels of the retreat from Bella Cohen's brothel "Eumaeus" ends with a whimper in the quiet and relative calm of the cabman's shelter.
The denouement of our epic, this episode represents the atonement of our heroes, where the father and son activate their father/son bond. Finally left alone without the interference or mediation of friends or interlopers Bloom and Stephen engage in their first significant face to face conversation, and despite the fact that Stephen begins the discourse dead drunk and none to coherent from the punch in the face he received from the British soldier, as he sobers up and warms up to Bloom their colloquy becomes more in depth and interpersonal.
So what do our heroes discuss in this much awaited atonement? What earthshaking, world-changing exchange takes place between Bloom and Stephen that has necessitated 600 pages of foreshadowing? Well, everything and nothing, mostly leaning on the side of nothing. Specifically:
Music, literature, Ireland, Dublin, Paris, friendship, woman, prostitution, diet, the influence of gaslight or the light of arc and glowlamps on the growth of adjoining paraheliotropic trees, exposed corporation emergency dustbuckets, the Roman catholic church, ecclesiastical celibacy, the Irish nation, jesuit education, careers, the study of medicine, the past day, the maleficent influence of the presabbath, Stephen's collapse. ~ (courtesy of episode seventeen, "Ithaca")
The conversation, to say the least is not particularly scintillating, as Stephen and Bloom make their way through late night Dublin and into the relative calm of the cabman's shelter where various down and out denizens of the city waste away trading tall tales. "Eumaeus" may in fact be the most boring and seemingly pointless episode in Ulysses.
Of course, you must realize by now that that is simply not the case. What on the surface seems trivial and dull in Ulysses always obscures a deeper richer reality. Like Bloom himself, "Eumaeus" is full of interesting surprises and can be quite endearing once you peel below the humdrum surface. It took me a few years to gain an appreciation of what was actually happening in this episode, as it seems that absolutely nothing happens at all. As usual, you must incorporate what you know and try to contextualize. (I know! So much work this book!). And as usual, keep in mind your Homeric correspondences and major themes. Hey, I'm not saying this is the most exciting read in the book, but it is infinitely more interesting and entertaining once you get a hold of what Joyce is doing with the subtext.
As far as episode navigation, no problem, right? There is virtually nothing that should confuse you in this episode. Okay, admittedly, the narrator is a bit convoluted in his descriptions, but after what you've experienced with Joyce's shenanigans this should be a piece of cake with cream cheese icing.
All in all "Eumaeus" is not going to rock your socks as the most exciting text you've ever read, but at minimum, being obstacle free it should at least allow you a little mental breathing room.
Raw Notes
The atonement or bonding of the spiritual father and son.
Stephen goes from child-son to man-son in the space of a couple of hours.
Homeric parallel of Ulysses getting to know his now grown son Telemachus for the first time.
"...both black, one full, one lean, walk towards the railway bridge, to be married by Father Maher."
"...you who know your Shakespeare infinitely better than I, of course I needn't tell you. Can't you drink that coffee, by the way? Let me stir it. And take a piece of that bun."
"Stephen, patently crosstempered, repeated and shoved aside his mug of coffee or whatever you like to call it none too politely, adding:
—We can't change the country. Let us change the subject."
"Christus or Bloom his name is or after all any other, secundum carnem."
The denouement of our epic, this episode represents the atonement of our heroes, where the father and son activate their father/son bond. Finally left alone without the interference or mediation of friends or interlopers Bloom and Stephen engage in their first significant face to face conversation, and despite the fact that Stephen begins the discourse dead drunk and none to coherent from the punch in the face he received from the British soldier, as he sobers up and warms up to Bloom their colloquy becomes more in depth and interpersonal.
So what do our heroes discuss in this much awaited atonement? What earthshaking, world-changing exchange takes place between Bloom and Stephen that has necessitated 600 pages of foreshadowing? Well, everything and nothing, mostly leaning on the side of nothing. Specifically:
Music, literature, Ireland, Dublin, Paris, friendship, woman, prostitution, diet, the influence of gaslight or the light of arc and glowlamps on the growth of adjoining paraheliotropic trees, exposed corporation emergency dustbuckets, the Roman catholic church, ecclesiastical celibacy, the Irish nation, jesuit education, careers, the study of medicine, the past day, the maleficent influence of the presabbath, Stephen's collapse. ~ (courtesy of episode seventeen, "Ithaca")
The conversation, to say the least is not particularly scintillating, as Stephen and Bloom make their way through late night Dublin and into the relative calm of the cabman's shelter where various down and out denizens of the city waste away trading tall tales. "Eumaeus" may in fact be the most boring and seemingly pointless episode in Ulysses.
Of course, you must realize by now that that is simply not the case. What on the surface seems trivial and dull in Ulysses always obscures a deeper richer reality. Like Bloom himself, "Eumaeus" is full of interesting surprises and can be quite endearing once you peel below the humdrum surface. It took me a few years to gain an appreciation of what was actually happening in this episode, as it seems that absolutely nothing happens at all. As usual, you must incorporate what you know and try to contextualize. (I know! So much work this book!). And as usual, keep in mind your Homeric correspondences and major themes. Hey, I'm not saying this is the most exciting read in the book, but it is infinitely more interesting and entertaining once you get a hold of what Joyce is doing with the subtext.
As far as episode navigation, no problem, right? There is virtually nothing that should confuse you in this episode. Okay, admittedly, the narrator is a bit convoluted in his descriptions, but after what you've experienced with Joyce's shenanigans this should be a piece of cake with cream cheese icing.
All in all "Eumaeus" is not going to rock your socks as the most exciting text you've ever read, but at minimum, being obstacle free it should at least allow you a little mental breathing room.
Raw Notes
The atonement or bonding of the spiritual father and son.
Stephen goes from child-son to man-son in the space of a couple of hours.
Homeric parallel of Ulysses getting to know his now grown son Telemachus for the first time.
"...both black, one full, one lean, walk towards the railway bridge, to be married by Father Maher."
"...you who know your Shakespeare infinitely better than I, of course I needn't tell you. Can't you drink that coffee, by the way? Let me stir it. And take a piece of that bun."
"Stephen, patently crosstempered, repeated and shoved aside his mug of coffee or whatever you like to call it none too politely, adding:
—We can't change the country. Let us change the subject."
"Christus or Bloom his name is or after all any other, secundum carnem."
Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Book Two-Episode Fifteen: Circe
We have arrived, friends, at the penultimate episode of Ulysses. "Oxen of the Sun" has deposited us at the apex of our metaphorical rollover coaster, and "Circe" will now send us hurtling back towards earth at dizzying speeds. But our journey through the halls of "Circe" will not crest at the earth's surface but send us deeper, harrowing a phantasmagoric hellscape where our heroes, Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus, will meet and confront their demons.
Joyce's "Circe", thus named for the corresponding episode in Homer's Odyssey where Odysseus and his remaining crew encounter the goddess Circe who transforms most of the crew into swine at the touch of her wand, is equally infused with the magical and the mysterious. Here is where the story of Ulysses coalesces and finds it's resolution as Bloom and Stephen must now come face to face with those issues that have been dogging them throughout the day. This episode is best summarized by Joyce himself in this quote from the preceding episode "Oxen of the Sun:
"There are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim, let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself that they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in the most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel and harp soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the evening or at the feast, at midnight, when he is now filled with wine. Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies under her wrath, not for vengeance to cut him off from the living but shrouded in the piteous vesture of the past, silent, remote, reproachful."
There is, of course, a deeper purpose to these karmic reckonings than the mere construction of a story where protagonists must rise above themselves through brave confrontations. Ulysses is not the simplistic story of the self overcoming the self for the purpose of personal growth, though that would be a laudable objective in its own right. But Joyce's ambitions were bigger than that. It may not be clear to the reader, and I may be giving away more than I ought to here, but you might be well served to think of our heroes as vehicles through which things bigger than their individual existences are accomplished.
In this respect it is especially important to reference the preceding episode. As I mentioned in the last blog entry "Oxen of the Sun" and "Circe" combine to form the critical action in Ulysses. If you can make sense of these two densely packed literary conglomerations and assimilate the myriad allusions, references, and symbolisms that make up the rest of Ulysses, then I have every confidence that you will have no trouble putting the puzzle together.
Okay, that's a pretty tall order for a first read, and I don't expect that you will be successful in that endeavor. Hell, you're probably just happy to get through the book without a "postal" incident. Still, whether you get there or not, it's important to recognize that the story does have a purpose beyond frustrating the reader. In fact, its goals are quite noble once you come to understand them.
Stylistically and structurally "Circe" can be a little bit intimidating at the start. First of all the sheer length of the episode can give us pause (don't look down!). And the theater script format of the episode my throw you off for a moment, but I suspect that once you acclimate to it, you will find the reading relatively easy. Because it is written like a play, all of the dramatis personae are clearly delineated so it's very easy to know who is speaking when. More cumbersome is the bizarre, dreamlike scenarios and the endless procession of characters populating "Circe". It is not easy to discern when the action has transitioned from reality to the through-the-looking-glass-esque dream world that Joyce has fashioned.
Not to redundantly repeat myself and say the same thing over and over again in a repetitious manner, but the importance of the "Circe" episode cannot be overstated. The degree to which you can understand this episode will determine how well you get Ulysses. This is not to suggest that if you don't get this episode you can't enjoy the book. As you have hopefully discovered already, Ulysses can be enjoyed purely for the beauty and texture of its prose and the depth and detail of its character development. But as someone who has gone through various stages of learning this text over the past ten years I can tell you that the book is significantly more satisfying when you can make greater sense of the story, and that means making sense of "Circe".
Raw Notes
"Account for yourself this very minute or woe betide you!"
MRS BREEN: (Eagerly) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
"Wildgoose chase this... What am I following him for? Still, he's the best of that lot. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met. Kismet."
Joyce's "Circe", thus named for the corresponding episode in Homer's Odyssey where Odysseus and his remaining crew encounter the goddess Circe who transforms most of the crew into swine at the touch of her wand, is equally infused with the magical and the mysterious. Here is where the story of Ulysses coalesces and finds it's resolution as Bloom and Stephen must now come face to face with those issues that have been dogging them throughout the day. This episode is best summarized by Joyce himself in this quote from the preceding episode "Oxen of the Sun:
"There are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim, let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself that they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in the most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel and harp soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the evening or at the feast, at midnight, when he is now filled with wine. Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies under her wrath, not for vengeance to cut him off from the living but shrouded in the piteous vesture of the past, silent, remote, reproachful."
There is, of course, a deeper purpose to these karmic reckonings than the mere construction of a story where protagonists must rise above themselves through brave confrontations. Ulysses is not the simplistic story of the self overcoming the self for the purpose of personal growth, though that would be a laudable objective in its own right. But Joyce's ambitions were bigger than that. It may not be clear to the reader, and I may be giving away more than I ought to here, but you might be well served to think of our heroes as vehicles through which things bigger than their individual existences are accomplished.
In this respect it is especially important to reference the preceding episode. As I mentioned in the last blog entry "Oxen of the Sun" and "Circe" combine to form the critical action in Ulysses. If you can make sense of these two densely packed literary conglomerations and assimilate the myriad allusions, references, and symbolisms that make up the rest of Ulysses, then I have every confidence that you will have no trouble putting the puzzle together.
Okay, that's a pretty tall order for a first read, and I don't expect that you will be successful in that endeavor. Hell, you're probably just happy to get through the book without a "postal" incident. Still, whether you get there or not, it's important to recognize that the story does have a purpose beyond frustrating the reader. In fact, its goals are quite noble once you come to understand them.
Stylistically and structurally "Circe" can be a little bit intimidating at the start. First of all the sheer length of the episode can give us pause (don't look down!). And the theater script format of the episode my throw you off for a moment, but I suspect that once you acclimate to it, you will find the reading relatively easy. Because it is written like a play, all of the dramatis personae are clearly delineated so it's very easy to know who is speaking when. More cumbersome is the bizarre, dreamlike scenarios and the endless procession of characters populating "Circe". It is not easy to discern when the action has transitioned from reality to the through-the-looking-glass-esque dream world that Joyce has fashioned.
Not to redundantly repeat myself and say the same thing over and over again in a repetitious manner, but the importance of the "Circe" episode cannot be overstated. The degree to which you can understand this episode will determine how well you get Ulysses. This is not to suggest that if you don't get this episode you can't enjoy the book. As you have hopefully discovered already, Ulysses can be enjoyed purely for the beauty and texture of its prose and the depth and detail of its character development. But as someone who has gone through various stages of learning this text over the past ten years I can tell you that the book is significantly more satisfying when you can make greater sense of the story, and that means making sense of "Circe".
Raw Notes
"Account for yourself this very minute or woe betide you!"
MRS BREEN: (Eagerly) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
"Wildgoose chase this... What am I following him for? Still, he's the best of that lot. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met. Kismet."
Wednesday, 2 November 2011
Book Two - Episode Fourteen : Oxen of the Sun
How long I have waited to finally arrive at this point in the epic; the beginning of our climb to the climactic action of Ulysses. Think of it like the slow suspenseful, inexorable trek up the biggest hill of a roller coaster, where you know you will eventually be dropped back downward hurtling toward the earth at some ridiculous rate of sped.
"Oxen of the Sun" is the first half of what I would argue are the two most significant episodes of Ulysses. The crystallization of all of Joyce's efforts begin to unfold here at the National Maternity Hospital, 29, 30 and 31 Holles street. Fitting that the fruits of the author's labors should come to fruition via a birth (and a hard one at that). Coincidence? You decide.
Of primary significance to the reader (that's you) is the much anticipated meeting between Bloom and Stephen. Although our two protagonists have crossed paths at various points in their respective sojourns through Dublin, this is the first time they share space, activity, and conversation together. Back at the beginning when we first began this journey, I broke down the plot of Ulysses to it's most basic element: the story of two guys who meet. And there have been plenty of occurrences, close calls, and shared thoughts that have indicated that this meeting has been presaged. So, here we are at the crossroads of destiny, the principals have met, and the question that confronts us is: now what?
Now what, indeed. It would be a slap in the face -- if not completely demoralizing -- to say that the real work begins now. If you've read thirteen episodes of Ulysses then you are well aware of how much work you've already invested. So I won't say that this is where the real work begins. In fact, I will say the opposite: all of the work it took just to arrive at this point, the dense and difficult prose, the narrative obstacles, the adventures in protean style shifts, and the demands of the author of this blog (that's me) that you try and make sense of this pile of text should (hopefully) have prepared you to see the convergences of those oft repeated references, allusions, and motifs that Joyce has woven into a story. The work is by no means over, it is simply coming to a head. And "Oxen of the Sun" while symbolically bring the important elements of Ulysses into a "coherent" whole will, through that very symbolism, confuse the bejeezus out of you. As usual, Joyce makes his point frustratingly complicated (but not without purpose).
Bygmester Finnegan, it's time to begin again!
It will be worthwhile for us once again to review what we know about the themes, motifs, references, and symbolism that we have encountered up until now. Of the major themes presented, I hope the father/son dialectic will have immediately come to mind. Other related themes that are evident in "Oxen" are those of maternity, fertility, masculinity/femininity/androgyny, and the process growth of change. Feel free to refer back to the episode one blog for a partial list of themes, motifs, etc.
Style, style, style on top of the pile
In terms of episode style, I guess I should start by cautioning you to tighten your seat belts 'cause there's going to be a bit of turbulence ahead. This episode is among the most challenging to read through and contextualize (IMHO) as it is very heavily laden with style issues. In fact, Joyce famously presents us with a chronological survey of English prose history which morphs from style to style as the episode progresses until language appears to disintegrate into a barely comprehensible confusion. Some of the styles in particular as well as the general shifts can make the content hard to apprehend. The irony, agony, and brilliance of Joyce is in evidence in "Oxen of the Sun."
It is vitally important to understand the subtextual symbolic action taking place in "Oxen" in order to understand how the climax of the story plays out and, thereby, understand Ulysses as a complete story. The "action" is brilliantly embedded in the form of the episode, but it is so well embedded that the reader cannot unearth it without the help of outside assistance. It is highly unlikely that anyone has ever read this episode without some foreknowledge of Joyce's hidden art and figured out what was going on. This is one of the reasons why Joyce made sure that certain select individuals --such as Stuart Gilbert and Frank Budgen among others -- were give license to publish certain inside information or "keys" to the book. Without such extra-textual information this would truly be a mystery too dense to penetrate. That said, I still (stubbornly) hold to the belief that your first read should be unencumbered by explanatory notes.
However, just because you cannot know everything about the episode doesn't mean you can't learn anything through the episode. While it is true that Joyce's methods are obscure (some would say unsound), you can at least figure out what the general theme of the episode is about. Again, go back to what you do know: birth, fatherhood, son-hood, and all that that might entail. You might think about that debate that Stephen was embroiled in back in episode nine at the National Library, or even revisit the story of the slaughter of the oxen of the sun god Helios in Homer's Odyssey. (Let's not forget our Homeric underpinnings). Whatever the case, don't let the complexity of the episode goad you into a quick and unreflective read through. We've done all of this reading just to get to this meeting. Let's not cheat ourselves out of the fruits of our labor.
Raw notes
"That answer and those leaves, Vincent said to him, will adorn you more fitly when something more, and greatly more, than a capful of light odes can call your genius father. All who wish you well hope this for you. All desire to see you bring forth the work you meditate, to acclaim you Stephaneforos. I heartily wish you may not fail them. O no, Vincent, Lenehan said, laying a hand on the shoulder near him. Have no fear. He could not leave his mother an orphan. The young man's face grew dark. All could see how hard it was for him to be reminded of his promise and of his recent loss."
"...the dark horse Throwaway drew level, reached, outstripped her. "
"...and the brave woman had manfully helped."
"...he involuntarily determined to help him himself …"
"It had better be stated here and now at the outset that the perverted transcendentalism to which Mr S. Dedalus' (Div. Scep.) contentions would appear to prove him pretty badly addicted runs directly counter to accepted scientific methods."
"Oxen of the Sun" is the first half of what I would argue are the two most significant episodes of Ulysses. The crystallization of all of Joyce's efforts begin to unfold here at the National Maternity Hospital, 29, 30 and 31 Holles street. Fitting that the fruits of the author's labors should come to fruition via a birth (and a hard one at that). Coincidence? You decide.
Of primary significance to the reader (that's you) is the much anticipated meeting between Bloom and Stephen. Although our two protagonists have crossed paths at various points in their respective sojourns through Dublin, this is the first time they share space, activity, and conversation together. Back at the beginning when we first began this journey, I broke down the plot of Ulysses to it's most basic element: the story of two guys who meet. And there have been plenty of occurrences, close calls, and shared thoughts that have indicated that this meeting has been presaged. So, here we are at the crossroads of destiny, the principals have met, and the question that confronts us is: now what?
Now what, indeed. It would be a slap in the face -- if not completely demoralizing -- to say that the real work begins now. If you've read thirteen episodes of Ulysses then you are well aware of how much work you've already invested. So I won't say that this is where the real work begins. In fact, I will say the opposite: all of the work it took just to arrive at this point, the dense and difficult prose, the narrative obstacles, the adventures in protean style shifts, and the demands of the author of this blog (that's me) that you try and make sense of this pile of text should (hopefully) have prepared you to see the convergences of those oft repeated references, allusions, and motifs that Joyce has woven into a story. The work is by no means over, it is simply coming to a head. And "Oxen of the Sun" while symbolically bring the important elements of Ulysses into a "coherent" whole will, through that very symbolism, confuse the bejeezus out of you. As usual, Joyce makes his point frustratingly complicated (but not without purpose).
Bygmester Finnegan, it's time to begin again!
It will be worthwhile for us once again to review what we know about the themes, motifs, references, and symbolism that we have encountered up until now. Of the major themes presented, I hope the father/son dialectic will have immediately come to mind. Other related themes that are evident in "Oxen" are those of maternity, fertility, masculinity/femininity/androgyny, and the process growth of change. Feel free to refer back to the episode one blog for a partial list of themes, motifs, etc.
Style, style, style on top of the pile
In terms of episode style, I guess I should start by cautioning you to tighten your seat belts 'cause there's going to be a bit of turbulence ahead. This episode is among the most challenging to read through and contextualize (IMHO) as it is very heavily laden with style issues. In fact, Joyce famously presents us with a chronological survey of English prose history which morphs from style to style as the episode progresses until language appears to disintegrate into a barely comprehensible confusion. Some of the styles in particular as well as the general shifts can make the content hard to apprehend. The irony, agony, and brilliance of Joyce is in evidence in "Oxen of the Sun."
It is vitally important to understand the subtextual symbolic action taking place in "Oxen" in order to understand how the climax of the story plays out and, thereby, understand Ulysses as a complete story. The "action" is brilliantly embedded in the form of the episode, but it is so well embedded that the reader cannot unearth it without the help of outside assistance. It is highly unlikely that anyone has ever read this episode without some foreknowledge of Joyce's hidden art and figured out what was going on. This is one of the reasons why Joyce made sure that certain select individuals --such as Stuart Gilbert and Frank Budgen among others -- were give license to publish certain inside information or "keys" to the book. Without such extra-textual information this would truly be a mystery too dense to penetrate. That said, I still (stubbornly) hold to the belief that your first read should be unencumbered by explanatory notes.
However, just because you cannot know everything about the episode doesn't mean you can't learn anything through the episode. While it is true that Joyce's methods are obscure (some would say unsound), you can at least figure out what the general theme of the episode is about. Again, go back to what you do know: birth, fatherhood, son-hood, and all that that might entail. You might think about that debate that Stephen was embroiled in back in episode nine at the National Library, or even revisit the story of the slaughter of the oxen of the sun god Helios in Homer's Odyssey. (Let's not forget our Homeric underpinnings). Whatever the case, don't let the complexity of the episode goad you into a quick and unreflective read through. We've done all of this reading just to get to this meeting. Let's not cheat ourselves out of the fruits of our labor.
Raw notes
"That answer and those leaves, Vincent said to him, will adorn you more fitly when something more, and greatly more, than a capful of light odes can call your genius father. All who wish you well hope this for you. All desire to see you bring forth the work you meditate, to acclaim you Stephaneforos. I heartily wish you may not fail them. O no, Vincent, Lenehan said, laying a hand on the shoulder near him. Have no fear. He could not leave his mother an orphan. The young man's face grew dark. All could see how hard it was for him to be reminded of his promise and of his recent loss."
"...the dark horse Throwaway drew level, reached, outstripped her. "
"...and the brave woman had manfully helped."
"...he involuntarily determined to help him himself …"
"It had better be stated here and now at the outset that the perverted transcendentalism to which Mr S. Dedalus' (Div. Scep.) contentions would appear to prove him pretty badly addicted runs directly counter to accepted scientific methods."
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
Book Two - Episode Thirteen: Nausicaa
...But it don't mean nothin' without a woman or a girl
If episode twelve "Cyclops" was a testosterone bathed dudefest, "Nausicaa" is a cleansing dip in the estrogen pool, as we find ourselves awash in the "namby-pamby jammy marmalady drawsery,"* prose of Gerty's fantasies. *Joyce's description
That's what she said
Through the mind of Gerty McDowell Joyce presents to us the naive or immature picture of girlish love (as distinct from the mature and experienced woman-love of Molly Bloom that awaits us in a later episode). Gerty is a girl-woman whose ideas of life and love are romantic caricatures shaped by the popular literature of the time. She seems to exist in a sugar sweetened universe of which she is the center point. Gerty's narcissism is wrapped up in her feminine identity and this identity seems to become the standard from which all femininity is measured. "Gerty MacDowell... was, in very truth, as fair a specimen of winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see."
While Gerty finds her companions perfectly acceptable, Eddy Boardman with her "squinty eyes" and Cissy Caffrey with her "skinny shanks" and short hair "which had a good enough colour if there had been more of it..." could never compare with "[t]he waxen pallor of [Gerty's] face... almost spiritual in its ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuine Cupid's bow, Greekly perfect." It is easy to think that Joyce was taking a cheap shot at the feminine element, but that seems too simplistic for me. It might be worthwhile to consider why Joyce constructed Gerty's internal dialogue in this idealized fashion.
She said, he said
The prose style for Gerty is uber-romantic contrasting sharply with the Dublin-masculinese of "Cyclops". It also contrasts (or compliments, depending on your point of view) with Bloom's style of thought. Through this prose dialectic, which is employed constantly throughout the book, Joyce shapes narrative, characters, and overall plot. Ulysses is a story where extremes meet to interact with, form, and transform one another, and "Nausicaa" may be one of the purist examples of this tendency as Gerty McDowell brings Bloom into sharp relief for us.
While Gerty has created her romanticized narrative of the events passing between herself and Bloom, Bloom is engaged in what amounts to be a purely practical exercise, a "necessary evil" shall we say. This is in perfect keeping with the Bloom we have come to know up to this point in the novel, practical-minded and particularly fond of women's undergarments. There is more to this interaction, subtextually speaking, than meets the eye, and a variety of conclusions, parallels, and metaphors can be drawn from this episode. I'll leave you to work out what those might be.
Intercession of the Virgin
Narratively, "Nausicaa" should present no significant challenge to you, it is super-simple and straightforward reading. The only possible difficulty I can imagine is the interlacing of the benediction service throughout Gerty's monologue. But this is (for the most part) fairly clear cut from the general narration. Nothing to get lost in. However, you may be wondering why it's there at all, and if you aren't then you should be. Remember: Joyce doesn't throw these things in on a whim or for the sake of being difficult, they serve a purpose. So, as usual, you should give at least a little thought to the possible reasons that this bit of religion has worked its way into the narrative. Consider:
"He told her that time when she told him about that in confession, crimsoning up to the roots of her hair for fear he could see, not to be troubled because that was only the voice of nature and we were all subject to nature's laws, he said, in this life and that that was no sin because that came from the nature of woman instituted by God, he said, and that Our Blessed Lady herself said to the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me according to Thy Word. "
If it don't fit, don't force it
In terms of placing "Nausicaa" into the context of the larger story, I find it to be one of those episodes not easily incorporated. Relative to my own theories and assumptions about what Ulysses is about, "Nausicaa" seems to have no direct bearing. But through writing this blog and being forced to be more attentive to the details of the text, I have been able to make some general assessments which might be helpful. At minimum I would say that "Nausicaa" helps to reinforce and further round out the character of Leopold Bloom.
Because Joyce does not (generally speaking) present Bloom via traditional physical description, we instead come by our understanding of Bloom through his thoughts, and through his relationships and interactions with the surrounding people and environment. Thus his "liason" with Gerty further shapes and dimensionalizes Bloom. Another aspect of his character is revealed, habits, proclivities, and outlook are made plain to us, and while this may not tie directly into the mission of Ulysses, it does help to create the conditions to make that mission manifest.
Bloom looks different to us through Gerty's eyes, relative to the other eyes through which we have seen him. (How different is this Bloom from the one we saw just an episode before?). But Bloom also looks different to himself when imagining himself from Gerty's perspective. "Saw something in me. Wonder what." This multiple perspectivism is in keeping with the theme of parallax that is woven throughout the text as well as the persistent theme of 'seeing ourselves as others see us.' All of these grand themes and sub-themes are destined to coalesce into something more complete. That integrated whole is the underlying message of Ulysses, and it is what we are on a quest to discover.
If episode twelve "Cyclops" was a testosterone bathed dudefest, "Nausicaa" is a cleansing dip in the estrogen pool, as we find ourselves awash in the "namby-pamby jammy marmalady drawsery,"* prose of Gerty's fantasies. *Joyce's description
That's what she said
Through the mind of Gerty McDowell Joyce presents to us the naive or immature picture of girlish love (as distinct from the mature and experienced woman-love of Molly Bloom that awaits us in a later episode). Gerty is a girl-woman whose ideas of life and love are romantic caricatures shaped by the popular literature of the time. She seems to exist in a sugar sweetened universe of which she is the center point. Gerty's narcissism is wrapped up in her feminine identity and this identity seems to become the standard from which all femininity is measured. "Gerty MacDowell... was, in very truth, as fair a specimen of winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see."
While Gerty finds her companions perfectly acceptable, Eddy Boardman with her "squinty eyes" and Cissy Caffrey with her "skinny shanks" and short hair "which had a good enough colour if there had been more of it..." could never compare with "[t]he waxen pallor of [Gerty's] face... almost spiritual in its ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuine Cupid's bow, Greekly perfect." It is easy to think that Joyce was taking a cheap shot at the feminine element, but that seems too simplistic for me. It might be worthwhile to consider why Joyce constructed Gerty's internal dialogue in this idealized fashion.
She said, he said
The prose style for Gerty is uber-romantic contrasting sharply with the Dublin-masculinese of "Cyclops". It also contrasts (or compliments, depending on your point of view) with Bloom's style of thought. Through this prose dialectic, which is employed constantly throughout the book, Joyce shapes narrative, characters, and overall plot. Ulysses is a story where extremes meet to interact with, form, and transform one another, and "Nausicaa" may be one of the purist examples of this tendency as Gerty McDowell brings Bloom into sharp relief for us.
While Gerty has created her romanticized narrative of the events passing between herself and Bloom, Bloom is engaged in what amounts to be a purely practical exercise, a "necessary evil" shall we say. This is in perfect keeping with the Bloom we have come to know up to this point in the novel, practical-minded and particularly fond of women's undergarments. There is more to this interaction, subtextually speaking, than meets the eye, and a variety of conclusions, parallels, and metaphors can be drawn from this episode. I'll leave you to work out what those might be.
Intercession of the Virgin
Narratively, "Nausicaa" should present no significant challenge to you, it is super-simple and straightforward reading. The only possible difficulty I can imagine is the interlacing of the benediction service throughout Gerty's monologue. But this is (for the most part) fairly clear cut from the general narration. Nothing to get lost in. However, you may be wondering why it's there at all, and if you aren't then you should be. Remember: Joyce doesn't throw these things in on a whim or for the sake of being difficult, they serve a purpose. So, as usual, you should give at least a little thought to the possible reasons that this bit of religion has worked its way into the narrative. Consider:
"He told her that time when she told him about that in confession, crimsoning up to the roots of her hair for fear he could see, not to be troubled because that was only the voice of nature and we were all subject to nature's laws, he said, in this life and that that was no sin because that came from the nature of woman instituted by God, he said, and that Our Blessed Lady herself said to the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me according to Thy Word. "
If it don't fit, don't force it
In terms of placing "Nausicaa" into the context of the larger story, I find it to be one of those episodes not easily incorporated. Relative to my own theories and assumptions about what Ulysses is about, "Nausicaa" seems to have no direct bearing. But through writing this blog and being forced to be more attentive to the details of the text, I have been able to make some general assessments which might be helpful. At minimum I would say that "Nausicaa" helps to reinforce and further round out the character of Leopold Bloom.
Because Joyce does not (generally speaking) present Bloom via traditional physical description, we instead come by our understanding of Bloom through his thoughts, and through his relationships and interactions with the surrounding people and environment. Thus his "liason" with Gerty further shapes and dimensionalizes Bloom. Another aspect of his character is revealed, habits, proclivities, and outlook are made plain to us, and while this may not tie directly into the mission of Ulysses, it does help to create the conditions to make that mission manifest.
Bloom looks different to us through Gerty's eyes, relative to the other eyes through which we have seen him. (How different is this Bloom from the one we saw just an episode before?). But Bloom also looks different to himself when imagining himself from Gerty's perspective. "Saw something in me. Wonder what." This multiple perspectivism is in keeping with the theme of parallax that is woven throughout the text as well as the persistent theme of 'seeing ourselves as others see us.' All of these grand themes and sub-themes are destined to coalesce into something more complete. That integrated whole is the underlying message of Ulysses, and it is what we are on a quest to discover.
Thursday, 18 August 2011
Book Two Episode Twelve: Cyclops
It's a man's world
Violence, heroism, machismo, nationalism, anti-Semitism, misogyny, homophobia, everything you love to hate about the male of the species is here, and all wrapped up in a big box o' funny. "Cyclops" is where Joyce compacts all of what he sees as wrong with his country and his people into an aesthetic thesis statement of sorts. It is also where we get to see Joyce's humor in full throttle, from the virtuoso use of local language and color, to the outlandish parodies which tussle with the unnamed narrator for the reader's attention. It is one of my absolute favorite episodes. The parodies in particular are killer.
Taking place in Barney Kiernan's public house this is clearly a mens only affair. Not that the rest of Ulysses isn't. If one took Ulysses at face value as an indicator of Dublin city life, they'd be left to conclude that there were five men for every woman. Yes, Ulysses is a sausagefest (as the kids like to say nowadays), but then I suppose that at the turn of the century Dublin public life was the domain of men. And because it was primarily the men who determined the course and fate of the city and the nation, it is the men of Ireland who bear the brunt of Joyce's satirical scorn.
I imagine the only thing which might cause you some difficulty in reading this episode is the narrative arm wrestling match that takes place between the unidentified narrator of the happenings in Barney Kiernan's -- the "I" of "Cyclops" (pun intended?) -- and the apparent myriad of voices that intervene out of the blue. Undoubtedly, if you have not had prior warning before starting the episode, your first encounter with this sudden style shift would be confusing. But I suppose (hope) you'd eventually figure out Joyce's little game and just continue on as if nothing was amiss. What purpose these narrative intrusions serve, I cannot say for sure, but they should not be skipped, ignored, or blown through without regard. If only for their sheer humor you should read them in full. They are hilarious. And of course, they provide necessary content and give us valuable pieces to our puzzle as we try to put together broader meanings of the story.
For instance, the final parody which begins "When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness..." is both a description of Bloom's narrow escape from being brained by a biscuit tin -- a modern reenactment of Odysseus' escape from the leader of the Cyclops's, Polyphemus in Homer's Odyssey -- and a direct correlation of Bloom as both Christ (ascending to heaven) and Elijah the heralding prophet. Note also Joyce's virtuoso and economy at work in this passage as he compacts a number of symbols into one tight paragraph while simultaneously doing justice to Homer's original. We see the Citizen (Polyphemus) blinded by fire, "Mercy of God the sun was in his eyes...," hurling his stone at the fleeing ship (tin and coach respectively), while Odysseus-Bloom baits him with insults. And remember, all of the Bloomian associations (Odysseus, Christ, Elijah) have been pre-established before this point. That's craftsmanship people!
The episode's narrator himself, the unidentified "I", is a bit of a mystery. Some random Dubliner, a collector of bad debts and a barfly (what male Dubliner isn't a barfly in Ulysses?), he has been empowered by Joyce to take the reins and continue the tale of Bloom's wanderings. This is a departure from the other episodes where the story (when it's not presented in interior monologue) is given to us via a third-person omniscient narrator. If I haven't mentioned it before, this third person narrator is often referred to as the "Arranger" by many scholars. I only mention it now because some of those same scholars believe the voice(s) jostling with the nameless I is this same Arranger. I am not convinced this is the case, and I suppose for our purposes it doesn't matter one way or the other. Just thought I'd put it out there as some extra information.
In any event, the nameless I's narration is very easy to follow, which should be a relief to you as it makes the episode proceed with relative ease. On top of this he's a hoot (to quote the state of Minnesota). This episode should provide you with some much needed entertainment as we slowly make our way toward the homestretch of Ulysses.
Raw Notes
Violence, heroism, machismo, nationalism, anti-Semitism, misogyny, homophobia.
"Jesus, I had to laugh at the little jewy getting his shirt out."
"You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm."
"...I'm told those jewies does have a sort of a queer odour coming off them for dogs..."
"The fat heap he married is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a ballalley."
"Pity about her, says the citizen. Or any other woman marries a half and half."
"A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, that's what's the cause of all our misfortunes."
"The strangers, says the citizen. Our own fault. We let them come in."
"Boylan plunged two quid on my tip Sceptre for himself and a lady friend."
"But, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere. I mean wouldn't it be the same here if you put force against force?"
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
The Ongoing Trials of Ulysses
Refuting Slate Magazine's Anti-Ulysses Column: "Is Ulysses Overrated? All but one chapter—and not the one you think.". By Ron Rosenbaum for Slate Magazine - Posted Thursday, April 7, 2011
Dear Reader,
Let me take a moment away from our investigation of James Joyce’s Ulysses to address something that has been stuck in my craw for a while.
In publishing the Thursday, April 7, 2011 article "Is Ulysses Overrated? All but one chapter—and not the one you think." By Ron Rosenbaum, Slate magazine committed the sin of taking an axe to one of literature’s sacred cows. In Homer's Odyssey, when the sacred cattle of the sun god Helios are slaughtered, death is the sentence levied on the perpetrators. But we live in less unsparing times, and this is of course a sacrilege of words, not carnage, so I suppose a polite textual rebuff is appropriate in this instance. In that spirit I would like to take this opportunity to address some of Mr. Rosenbaum's claims and to make a case for why James Joyce's Ulysses is worth reading... in its entirety.
Mr. Rosenbaum's general claim is that save for one episode, "Ithaca", one need not bother reading Ulysses. This suggestion is unacceptable for a couple of reasons. First off, the proposition that reading any single excerpt from any great book is a sufficient alternative to reading the entire text strikes me as irresponsible coming from someone who has devoted his life to literature. Secondly, while I am fully onboard with Mr. Rosenbaum's appreciation of the "Ithaca" episode, I must confess it took me three tries to get there. "Ithaca" is a dry read out of context, and it only comes alive within the broader context of the story. If a reader can appreciate "Ithaca" on the strength of its creativity and the style of its prose alone, I am confident that that same reader will appreciate the entire book with all of it's quirks and difficulties.
One of Mr. Rosenbaum's particular criticisms seems to be that Ulysses isn't Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, another of Joyce's masterpieces. In his words, "Portrait of the Artist... didn't need [to be] blown up to Death-Star size and overinfused with deadly portentousness." With all due respect to Mr. Rosenbaum, yes it did. What has apparently escaped Mr. Rosenbaum is the fact that Portrait and Ulysses are of a piece, the latter text written as the fulfillment of the former. The two books are best understood in relation to one another. (For a more thorough explication of this connection he might consult Charles Peake's James Joyce, the Citizen and the Artist.)
The continuation of Stephen Dedalus' story from the end of Portrait transitioning into Ulysses isn't simply a neat literary device, nor is it a vehicle of convenience, it is an absolute necessity. Stephen's is the voice which Joyce chooses to advance his own real life ambitions, dreams and aesthetic agendas. Joyce's objective was to author Ireland's national epic in order, not to recapture the past glories of Erin, but to forge its future. Ulysses is both the story of how that national epic was shaped, and the national epic itself. It is the book that authors its own existence.
The presumption made by many readers (and wannabe readers) of Ulysses is that it's a book full of literary parlor tricks, arcane allusions and complicated symbolism to no end. The belief is that Joyce was engaged in literary snobbery and smartypantism for the sake of showing everyone how superior he was to the rest of us. This is certainly what Rosenbaum would have us believe when he decries Ulysses as:
...an overwrought, overwritten epic of gratingly obvious, self-congratulatory, show-off erudition that, with its overstuffed symbolism and leaden attempts at humor... bearable only by terminal graduate students who demand we validate the time they've wasted reading it.
Well, I was not an English major, nor did my graduate studies require me to read Ulysses, yet I managed the book just fine. And so have many other readers of Ulysses. I can also tell you with certainty that the validation I received from reading Ulysses has come entirely from the revelations of the text itself, and not through the acknowledgment of others. Of course, I suppose that Mr. Rosenbaum and others of his ilk would probably say that people just pretend to enjoy the book in order to seem intelligent or well read. It is this attitude that galls me. It's quite fair to read Ulysses and hate it. I know people who have done just that. But it is arrogant to presume that just because he didn't understand the book or enjoy the reading that no else could possibly understand or enjoy it either.
But I am not here to bury Mr. Rosenbaum, but to praise Ulysses. So I should get on with the business of offering my defense and explaining why the book is actually worth reading.
Contrary to the views of Mr. Rosenbaum, there are many things about about Ulysses that makes it worthy of the effort. If you like beautifully written prose look no further. Even Mr. Rosenbaum must acknowledge that Joyce was a fantastic craftsman of the written word and he himself attests to the virtuosity to be found in Ulysses. But for me this is the least valuable aspect ofUlysses.
Ulysses is also a book that makes learners of its readers. If you take an interest in trying to make sense of Joyce's thicket of references, symbols, and allusions you will naturally progress from becoming a passive recipient of information to an active seeker of knowledge. From personal experience I can say that my knowledge of Shakespeare has improved immensely after reading Ulysses. As a Shakespearean scholar Mr. Rosenbaum should appreciate that. Plus, owing to Ulysses, I have delved into readings on the occult to unravel the Eastern philosophical mysteries that populate the text and shape the story, discovered the poetry and art of William Blake, become better versed in Homer's Odyssey and Iliad (and thereby Greek mythology in general), revisited Dante's Inferno, and discovered the intricate historical evolution of the Christian Trinitarian doctrine adding the names Arius, Sabellieus, and Photius to my lexicon of random knowledge.
These are only a few of the intellectual gains I have received by reading Ulysses. As a graduate of an advanced degree program in Liberal Studies, the multidisciplinary approach of Joyce's Ulysses embodies everything in learning that I hold dear. If I had my way, every Liberal Studies program would be required to teach a course on Ulysses.
But as much as I value the learning aspect of Ulysses, there is another aspect of the book which holds even higher value for the reader, and it is on this basis above all others that I endorse Ulysses.
Ulysses is not just a learner's book but also a thinker's book. It is reading for diligent, curious people who want more than mere entertainment for their reading experience. One needn't be a "terminal graduate student", literary scholar, or bonafide genius to enjoy Ulysses. What you absolutely must be is an advanced reader (in the John Mortimer sense of the word). Ulysses isn't simply about reading, it is about using your brain. To understand Ulysses is to conjecture, ask questions, and hypothesize. In short it is an exercise in critical thinking, and this is the supreme value of the book.
Ulysses is Modern Art in the truest sense. Concerned about the relationship between art and society, it is the story of the redemptive powers of aesthetics, and the belief that art can change the world for the better. "To forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated consciousness of my race" is not just a sweet literary catchphrase, it is a mission statement. When Joyce wrote Ulysses he was on a mission to fix a broken country and to give it voice and legitimacy in the world. He believed that his means were much more efficacious (and humane) than the political bluster or military might chosen by his peers and elders. When Stephen Dedalus chooses "silence, exile, and cunning" as his only weapons, he is speaking on behalf of Joyce himself. These are the means which Joyce employed to realize his goals, and Ulysses is the tangible fulfillment of his lifelong objective of employing art as savior. With Ulysses Joyce became Ireland's national voice, and gave the world a work of art that is, nearly a century later, still considered to sit among the greatest writing ever produced.
For us as readers the value of this modernist masterpiece is in the work that it requires of us. What makes Ulysses worth reading is that we learn a great deal through the process of trying to come to terms with what the text might mean. I have spent time and effort to cobble together my own ideas and theories about what this book is about. I have done this with Ulysses as opposed to other texts because few other texts have demanded this of me. This is not to say that other books cannot be probed for deeper meaning. There are any number of great works of literature from Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment to Morrison's Beloved that can provide the hungry reader with a bounty of literary nutrition. But the style of the writing of these texts don't demand it. You can just as easily read them once, enjoy them sufficiently, understand them on a superficial level, and move on satisfied with your yield. Ulysses does not afford this luxury, because you're either in or you’re out with Ulysses. Joyce gives the reader nothing for free, save for beautiful prose. Everything else must be earned.
The fact that Ulysses is not an effortless read, the fact that it is obscure, the fact that it's erudite are all of the things that make it so incredibly worthwhile. This book isn't for everyone. There are even those who might go so far as to argue that it is only for the very few. But, just because Ulysses isn't for everyone doesn't mean that it isn't for anyone. And it doesn't mean it isn't worth reading.
At this point you might be wondering if I have come to bury Ulysses or praise it? Time? Effort? Work!? This doesn't sound like a picnic in the park. I assure you that I consider these requirements selling points, with a caveat: Ulysses may not be for you. My goal here is not to convince you that Ulysses is a 'must read before you die' book. It's not. And I don't want to give the impression it is a good book for everyone to read. It isn't. I am simply making the case that Ulysses is worth reading, and that despite the cheap shots that it sometimes takes from its detractors, there is plenty to redeem this masterpiece. You don't have to agree that it is the greatest novel of the twentieth-century, but it's hard to imagine a reasonable person categorically dismissing Ulysses as not worthy of being read.
The bottom line: if you like challenges, if you like mysteries, if you like great prose writing, if you don't mind learning something, and if your ego can handle the idea that you don't know everything, then Ulysses is definitely worth your time and effort. If the above criteria do not apply to you and you simply want entertainment and excitement in your reading, then grab a copy of The Da Vinci Code and godspeed.
Dear Reader,
Let me take a moment away from our investigation of James Joyce’s Ulysses to address something that has been stuck in my craw for a while.
In publishing the Thursday, April 7, 2011 article "Is Ulysses Overrated? All but one chapter—and not the one you think." By Ron Rosenbaum, Slate magazine committed the sin of taking an axe to one of literature’s sacred cows. In Homer's Odyssey, when the sacred cattle of the sun god Helios are slaughtered, death is the sentence levied on the perpetrators. But we live in less unsparing times, and this is of course a sacrilege of words, not carnage, so I suppose a polite textual rebuff is appropriate in this instance. In that spirit I would like to take this opportunity to address some of Mr. Rosenbaum's claims and to make a case for why James Joyce's Ulysses is worth reading... in its entirety.
Mr. Rosenbaum's general claim is that save for one episode, "Ithaca", one need not bother reading Ulysses. This suggestion is unacceptable for a couple of reasons. First off, the proposition that reading any single excerpt from any great book is a sufficient alternative to reading the entire text strikes me as irresponsible coming from someone who has devoted his life to literature. Secondly, while I am fully onboard with Mr. Rosenbaum's appreciation of the "Ithaca" episode, I must confess it took me three tries to get there. "Ithaca" is a dry read out of context, and it only comes alive within the broader context of the story. If a reader can appreciate "Ithaca" on the strength of its creativity and the style of its prose alone, I am confident that that same reader will appreciate the entire book with all of it's quirks and difficulties.
One of Mr. Rosenbaum's particular criticisms seems to be that Ulysses isn't Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, another of Joyce's masterpieces. In his words, "Portrait of the Artist... didn't need [to be] blown up to Death-Star size and overinfused with deadly portentousness." With all due respect to Mr. Rosenbaum, yes it did. What has apparently escaped Mr. Rosenbaum is the fact that Portrait and Ulysses are of a piece, the latter text written as the fulfillment of the former. The two books are best understood in relation to one another. (For a more thorough explication of this connection he might consult Charles Peake's James Joyce, the Citizen and the Artist.)
The continuation of Stephen Dedalus' story from the end of Portrait transitioning into Ulysses isn't simply a neat literary device, nor is it a vehicle of convenience, it is an absolute necessity. Stephen's is the voice which Joyce chooses to advance his own real life ambitions, dreams and aesthetic agendas. Joyce's objective was to author Ireland's national epic in order, not to recapture the past glories of Erin, but to forge its future. Ulysses is both the story of how that national epic was shaped, and the national epic itself. It is the book that authors its own existence.
The presumption made by many readers (and wannabe readers) of Ulysses is that it's a book full of literary parlor tricks, arcane allusions and complicated symbolism to no end. The belief is that Joyce was engaged in literary snobbery and smartypantism for the sake of showing everyone how superior he was to the rest of us. This is certainly what Rosenbaum would have us believe when he decries Ulysses as:
...an overwrought, overwritten epic of gratingly obvious, self-congratulatory, show-off erudition that, with its overstuffed symbolism and leaden attempts at humor... bearable only by terminal graduate students who demand we validate the time they've wasted reading it.
Well, I was not an English major, nor did my graduate studies require me to read Ulysses, yet I managed the book just fine. And so have many other readers of Ulysses. I can also tell you with certainty that the validation I received from reading Ulysses has come entirely from the revelations of the text itself, and not through the acknowledgment of others. Of course, I suppose that Mr. Rosenbaum and others of his ilk would probably say that people just pretend to enjoy the book in order to seem intelligent or well read. It is this attitude that galls me. It's quite fair to read Ulysses and hate it. I know people who have done just that. But it is arrogant to presume that just because he didn't understand the book or enjoy the reading that no else could possibly understand or enjoy it either.
But I am not here to bury Mr. Rosenbaum, but to praise Ulysses. So I should get on with the business of offering my defense and explaining why the book is actually worth reading.
Contrary to the views of Mr. Rosenbaum, there are many things about about Ulysses that makes it worthy of the effort. If you like beautifully written prose look no further. Even Mr. Rosenbaum must acknowledge that Joyce was a fantastic craftsman of the written word and he himself attests to the virtuosity to be found in Ulysses. But for me this is the least valuable aspect ofUlysses.
Ulysses is also a book that makes learners of its readers. If you take an interest in trying to make sense of Joyce's thicket of references, symbols, and allusions you will naturally progress from becoming a passive recipient of information to an active seeker of knowledge. From personal experience I can say that my knowledge of Shakespeare has improved immensely after reading Ulysses. As a Shakespearean scholar Mr. Rosenbaum should appreciate that. Plus, owing to Ulysses, I have delved into readings on the occult to unravel the Eastern philosophical mysteries that populate the text and shape the story, discovered the poetry and art of William Blake, become better versed in Homer's Odyssey and Iliad (and thereby Greek mythology in general), revisited Dante's Inferno, and discovered the intricate historical evolution of the Christian Trinitarian doctrine adding the names Arius, Sabellieus, and Photius to my lexicon of random knowledge.
These are only a few of the intellectual gains I have received by reading Ulysses. As a graduate of an advanced degree program in Liberal Studies, the multidisciplinary approach of Joyce's Ulysses embodies everything in learning that I hold dear. If I had my way, every Liberal Studies program would be required to teach a course on Ulysses.
But as much as I value the learning aspect of Ulysses, there is another aspect of the book which holds even higher value for the reader, and it is on this basis above all others that I endorse Ulysses.
Ulysses is not just a learner's book but also a thinker's book. It is reading for diligent, curious people who want more than mere entertainment for their reading experience. One needn't be a "terminal graduate student", literary scholar, or bonafide genius to enjoy Ulysses. What you absolutely must be is an advanced reader (in the John Mortimer sense of the word). Ulysses isn't simply about reading, it is about using your brain. To understand Ulysses is to conjecture, ask questions, and hypothesize. In short it is an exercise in critical thinking, and this is the supreme value of the book.
Ulysses is Modern Art in the truest sense. Concerned about the relationship between art and society, it is the story of the redemptive powers of aesthetics, and the belief that art can change the world for the better. "To forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated consciousness of my race" is not just a sweet literary catchphrase, it is a mission statement. When Joyce wrote Ulysses he was on a mission to fix a broken country and to give it voice and legitimacy in the world. He believed that his means were much more efficacious (and humane) than the political bluster or military might chosen by his peers and elders. When Stephen Dedalus chooses "silence, exile, and cunning" as his only weapons, he is speaking on behalf of Joyce himself. These are the means which Joyce employed to realize his goals, and Ulysses is the tangible fulfillment of his lifelong objective of employing art as savior. With Ulysses Joyce became Ireland's national voice, and gave the world a work of art that is, nearly a century later, still considered to sit among the greatest writing ever produced.
For us as readers the value of this modernist masterpiece is in the work that it requires of us. What makes Ulysses worth reading is that we learn a great deal through the process of trying to come to terms with what the text might mean. I have spent time and effort to cobble together my own ideas and theories about what this book is about. I have done this with Ulysses as opposed to other texts because few other texts have demanded this of me. This is not to say that other books cannot be probed for deeper meaning. There are any number of great works of literature from Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment to Morrison's Beloved that can provide the hungry reader with a bounty of literary nutrition. But the style of the writing of these texts don't demand it. You can just as easily read them once, enjoy them sufficiently, understand them on a superficial level, and move on satisfied with your yield. Ulysses does not afford this luxury, because you're either in or you’re out with Ulysses. Joyce gives the reader nothing for free, save for beautiful prose. Everything else must be earned.
The fact that Ulysses is not an effortless read, the fact that it is obscure, the fact that it's erudite are all of the things that make it so incredibly worthwhile. This book isn't for everyone. There are even those who might go so far as to argue that it is only for the very few. But, just because Ulysses isn't for everyone doesn't mean that it isn't for anyone. And it doesn't mean it isn't worth reading.
At this point you might be wondering if I have come to bury Ulysses or praise it? Time? Effort? Work!? This doesn't sound like a picnic in the park. I assure you that I consider these requirements selling points, with a caveat: Ulysses may not be for you. My goal here is not to convince you that Ulysses is a 'must read before you die' book. It's not. And I don't want to give the impression it is a good book for everyone to read. It isn't. I am simply making the case that Ulysses is worth reading, and that despite the cheap shots that it sometimes takes from its detractors, there is plenty to redeem this masterpiece. You don't have to agree that it is the greatest novel of the twentieth-century, but it's hard to imagine a reasonable person categorically dismissing Ulysses as not worthy of being read.
The bottom line: if you like challenges, if you like mysteries, if you like great prose writing, if you don't mind learning something, and if your ego can handle the idea that you don't know everything, then Ulysses is definitely worth your time and effort. If the above criteria do not apply to you and you simply want entertainment and excitement in your reading, then grab a copy of The Da Vinci Code and godspeed.
Monday, 18 July 2011
Book Two Episode Eleven: Sirens
you can also read the webpage version of this blog by clicking this here link!)
Raw Notes
I have a hard time incorporating this episode into my broader understanding of the story. It's clear that this is the episode where "the deed" commences, but I'm wondering how that, music, And the wiles and ways of women factor into the bigger picture.
"—Greetings from the famous son of a famous father.
—Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked."
"Means something, language of flow."
"He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a jaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence."
"Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now. Out."
"Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor where he strode."
"See the conquering hero comes."
"Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee"
"A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon the headland, wind around her."
"Too late. She longed to go. That's why. Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost."
"Silly man! Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out his wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. "
"Hold on. Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the gulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne's. Is eight about. Say half a crown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six."
"If she found out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless pain"
"Wish they'd sing more. Keep my mind off."
"Seems to be what you call yashmak..."
Folly. Persist.
My rule of thumb when writing about anything is to keep it simple: know what you want to say and say it. Of course it stands to reason that the more you know about your subject, the more you can say, and hence the easier it is (or should be) to write about it. To write a blog about Ulysses for first time readers is to write narrowly about the particular episodes, their structures, styles, and the narrative pitfalls one might encounter. But I'm also finding that as we move deeper into the book, piecing together a general understanding of the story is important as well, and this requires us to try and fit particular episodes into the wider framework of the book.
"Sirens" (at least for me) seems to be something of a challenge, for while I know this episode fairly well, I can't quite seem to reconcile it into my understanding of the larger story. If we think about Ulysses as a puzzle and the episodes as individual pieces, then you might say that with "Sirens" I have a piece that I don't quite know what to do with. This is made more complicated because we are marching linearly through the book, so I can't really discuss greater meanings at length without giving away the parts that you have not yet read, thus it becomes difficult to lead you (and myself as well in is case) to some satisfactory understanding of the episode.
Sweeeeeet song
I imagine that many of you have found aspects of "Sirens" difficult since Joyce, in his now predictable fashion, has introduced yet another way of deconventionalizing the conventional narrative. Concerning the narrative I don't want to repeat what has already been said one thousand and one times before by one thousand and one different writers: that structurally "Sirens" is meant to read as a musical piece. But there really isn't anything else to say regarding the structure. If there's one thing that you as a new reader might find challenging in this episode it is this musical aspect of "Sirens".
To repeat past analyses, that conglomeration of clipped phrases which signals the start of "Sirens" is Joyce's equivalent of the warming up of an orchestra: different instruments playing different parts of the total piece at the same time. The cacophony that introduces the episode is meant to coalesce into a melodic oeuvre. Joyce attempts to achieve this by effect playing with elements of the text, staccato repetitions here, rhythmic iambs there, and plenty of onomatopoeia. The host of techniques Joyce invents to attain his goal of a musical episode in prose makes for some "interesting" reading in parts. So, if you're finding some of the wording a bit odd, that's your explanation.
Lash me to the mast
As I stated in an earlier blog entry, we mustn't be led away by words, or in this case, we mustn't be led astray by music. The technique here, the siren song, can lead us to believe the text is more difficult than it really is. But once again, just like we did in "Aeolus", we can simply read through the oddity of the style and easily discern the what is actually happening. The surface story of "Sirens" is pretty simple, but the technique gives the veneer of complexity. Perhaps Joyce would have us dash or ship against the rocks.
Do not misunderstand my point here. I don't mean to imply that Joyce is throwing these style shifts in simply to serve as obstacles. I imagine that many who have read parts or the whole ofUlysses have suspected this of Joyce, but they could not be more wrong. Despite the difficulty of the text, Joyce did not create these difficulties for their own sakes. All of these textual anomalies, style "experiments", and the myriad allusions and symbolism that make up Ulysses fit into a broader framework. My own suspicion is that while Joyce understood these difficulties as necessary evils, he nonetheless took a perverse pleasure in knowing how difficult the text would be.
Bringing her in to port (or not)
This brings me back to my particular dilemma: finding a place for "Sirens" in the larger context of Ulysses. I think that's what I would really like to write about in this entry, because I think that's where we now are in terms of what we need to help us get through the remainder of the book. Episode structure will continue to need some commentary, but just as the above analysis required relatively little time, so too will the rest of the episodes. Of course, this doesn't mean that the reading gets easier from this point. Quite the opposite. There is some serious turbulence ahead, but nothing that can't be explained in a couple of paragraphs or so (I think).
The bigger issue is making sense of the text. In the last few entries I've been trying to push you into thinking more about meaning instead of simply taking for granted that meaning will come to you. It won't. That being the case, there is some obligation on my end to try and provide some structure to that end.
The ways of the creator...
I have mentioned in earlier entries that Joyce created a schema (actually two schemata) for Ulysses. The schema can be seen not only as a guide to understanding each episode, but also as a way to integrate the parts to a greater whole. The schema implies connectivity or a larger purpose to the story. I am not suggesting that you can (or should) comb the the schema for answers to the larger meaning of the text -- it ain't in there. But you should take it's existence to mean that each episode -- their respective contents and styles -- has a purpose within the greater organism. And, as we better understand how each particular episode contributes to the whole, we can better understand the meaning of Ulysses.
I have a hard time incorporating this episode into my broader understanding of the story. It's clear that this is the episode where "the deed" commences, but I'm wondering how that, music, And the wiles and ways of women factor into the bigger picture.
"—Greetings from the famous son of a famous father.
—Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked."
"Means something, language of flow."
"He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a jaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence."
"Follow. Risk it. Go quick. At four. Near now. Out."
"Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor where he strode."
"See the conquering hero comes."
"Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee"
"A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon the headland, wind around her."
"Too late. She longed to go. That's why. Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost."
"Silly man! Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out his wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. "
"Hold on. Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the gulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne's. Is eight about. Say half a crown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six."
"If she found out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless pain"
"Wish they'd sing more. Keep my mind off."
"Seems to be what you call yashmak..."
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Book Two Episode Ten: The Wandering Rocks
you can also read the webpage version of this blog by clicking this here link!)
Here Comes Everybody
We have now arrived at the midpoint of the novel and you my be wondering what the point of this particular episode is (or more likely your wondering what the point of the whole book is, but we'll get to that). This is one of only two episodes in the book which does not concern itself directly or extensively with either of the main characters. True, we do encounter both Bloom and Stephen in "The Wandering Rocks" but they are given equal or in some cases lesser airtime than some of the other personages whom we meet, and if it seems as though you are meeting everyone who might live in Dublin circa June 16th 1904, you may not be far off. There appears to be an endless processional of people in this episode.
For some of you this may be a rather dull episode to read through, and I won't pretend it's the most exciting episode in Ulysses, but I suspect that at least it should not be a difficult read for you. Like every other episode in the book "The Wandering Rocks" serves its purpose in fulfilling the greater objective(s) of Ulysses -- which have not yet been made evident to you.
Narratively the episode is more or less straight forward with clear third person descriptions and a bit of interior monologue to weed through. Interestingly, we are treated to a rare glimpse into the thoughts of characters other than Bloom and Stephen. We get a pretty extensive ride along with the superior, the very reverend John Conmee S.J. We also get a good chunk of the mental meanderings of Patrick Aloysius Dignam, son of the late Patrick (Paddy) Dignam, as well as Tom Kiernan, who seems to think very highly of himself. None of these IMs should give you any problems as far as navigating the text, although you may wonder why you are being subjected to them. I have my own theories about why they are here, but I won't burden you with my conjecture. I'll let you make sense of things yourself.
Didn't that happen already?
If, at times, you think you are rereading something you just saw two pages before, you're not crazy*. One the stylistic elements of the episode is the repetition of action within different vignettes. I mean, how many times do we encounter Eugene Stratton and Marie Kendall, or have that disk shooting down the groove to ogle us? Once again, I'm not going to be a spoil sport and tell why these repetitions exist, but I do want to draw attention to them so that their existence doesn't escape your awareness. It's vey easy for particulars to get lost in the density of the text during a first read, even when they're rather obvious. While I'm on the subject of narrative structure I'll also throw out that there's an interesting bookending to this episode. Let me know if you catch it and what your thoughts are on it. Hint: it relates to one of the many themes of the novel.
*well, you may actually be crazy, but these particular repetitions you are experiencing are not proof of that
The pause that refreshes
Since we're at the midpoint of the book (at least episode-wise) this might be a good time to review what we have read. After all, if you're simply plowing through the reading without reflecting then you're likely not getting much out of the reading. We did this a little a couple of entries ago, but let's try it again focusing our attention on Stephen and Bloom.
So, what do we know about Stephen up to this point? Well, we know he's quite learned, thinks in complex, abstract, almost poetical ways. He is an aspiring writer. He isn't the happiest person you might encounter. He seems to be haunted by the thought of his dead mother, and fairly unimpressed by his father (who art not in heaven), Si Dedalus. He also seems to have exiled himself from both his family and his friend and flat mate Buck Mulligan. (I should also point out for those who don't know, that exile is one of Stephen Dedalus' three defense weapons of choice, the other two being silence and cunning [see this excerpt the final conversation with Cranley in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man]). Up to this point Stephen has just been wandering aimlessly around Dublin.
As for Bloom, we know that he is an ad canvasser for the Freeman Journal, married to Marion (Molly) Bloom (née Tweedy), and that he lives at 7 Eccles street. He is a Jew (on the spear side) though not practicing. He's relatively well educated, but not exactly a genius, possessing a better than average knowledge of music and apparently knows his astronomy, among lots of other random knowledge. He is rumored to be a Freemason though this is only conjecture on the part of some of the other citizens. We also know that Bloom is a father, having one daughter with Molly (Milly Bloom, newly turned 15) and one son (Rudy) who died eleven days after he was born. Thus Bloom is a father, but not the father of a son. Perhaps most importantly, we know that Bloom's wife is going to have an affair at or around four o'clock with one Blazes Boylan, and we know that Bloom knows of this affair.
This is just a fraction of what we might list about Stephen and Bloom, but they should serve as solid, basic facts to work from. I was somewhat selective about what I included, trying to insure that some of the most important facts about our heroes were present.
Other important things to consider
So, what else? Outside of Bloom and Stephen, what other facts can help us piece the story together? Well, I am of the opinion that there are no irrelevancies in Ulysses, and that everything provided is useful in understanding the story. However, while trying to build a broad understanding of the story, it is best to focus on the bigger facts first. Maybe the biggest fact outside of the principle characters is the fact of Dublin itself. Dublin, Ireland, Irish-ness and all that that means to the citizenry, our heroes, and Joyce are a constant theme of the novel. Ulysses is an Irish novel in the most literal sense.
Not far behind are the themes of fatherhood (that legal fiction according to Stephen), religion (often via the holy trinity), and the English 'occupiers' (as contrasted against a free Ireland). And of course there are those Homeric parallels. To be sure, there are so many more things that go into the mix, but these should help us begin the process of piecing together what we currently know.
Okay, I realize this is a complicated mix of elements so let me try an experiment with you. Taking into consideration what you already know, how do you see this story playing out? Conjecture as to how this thing wraps up. Write an ending to this story. Don't read any further until you do so. It doesn't have to be long, just a simple (though educated) guess at how and why these two lone men meet, and what is accomplished by their meeting.
Done? Okay.
Whatever you came up with, you're wrong. But that hardly matters. What matters is you're thinking about the story. You are actively engaging with the information, and that is vital to gaining some understanding of what you are reading. From this point on you should be regularly trying to venture a guess as to where this story is leading. I suggest doing it after each episode, assimilating the new information into your thinking. A the episodes get progressively longer and more difficult from here (yes, that is possible, believe me) this will not be an easy task, but it will hopefully help provide some context for you.
Raw Notes
The mid point. The omphalos? A day in the life of dear, dirty Dublin. The meanderings and doings of the city. Orchestrated waltz of the Dublin citizenry.
Here Comes Everybody
We have now arrived at the midpoint of the novel and you my be wondering what the point of this particular episode is (or more likely your wondering what the point of the whole book is, but we'll get to that). This is one of only two episodes in the book which does not concern itself directly or extensively with either of the main characters. True, we do encounter both Bloom and Stephen in "The Wandering Rocks" but they are given equal or in some cases lesser airtime than some of the other personages whom we meet, and if it seems as though you are meeting everyone who might live in Dublin circa June 16th 1904, you may not be far off. There appears to be an endless processional of people in this episode.
For some of you this may be a rather dull episode to read through, and I won't pretend it's the most exciting episode in Ulysses, but I suspect that at least it should not be a difficult read for you. Like every other episode in the book "The Wandering Rocks" serves its purpose in fulfilling the greater objective(s) of Ulysses -- which have not yet been made evident to you.
Narratively the episode is more or less straight forward with clear third person descriptions and a bit of interior monologue to weed through. Interestingly, we are treated to a rare glimpse into the thoughts of characters other than Bloom and Stephen. We get a pretty extensive ride along with the superior, the very reverend John Conmee S.J. We also get a good chunk of the mental meanderings of Patrick Aloysius Dignam, son of the late Patrick (Paddy) Dignam, as well as Tom Kiernan, who seems to think very highly of himself. None of these IMs should give you any problems as far as navigating the text, although you may wonder why you are being subjected to them. I have my own theories about why they are here, but I won't burden you with my conjecture. I'll let you make sense of things yourself.
Didn't that happen already?
If, at times, you think you are rereading something you just saw two pages before, you're not crazy*. One the stylistic elements of the episode is the repetition of action within different vignettes. I mean, how many times do we encounter Eugene Stratton and Marie Kendall, or have that disk shooting down the groove to ogle us? Once again, I'm not going to be a spoil sport and tell why these repetitions exist, but I do want to draw attention to them so that their existence doesn't escape your awareness. It's vey easy for particulars to get lost in the density of the text during a first read, even when they're rather obvious. While I'm on the subject of narrative structure I'll also throw out that there's an interesting bookending to this episode. Let me know if you catch it and what your thoughts are on it. Hint: it relates to one of the many themes of the novel.
*well, you may actually be crazy, but these particular repetitions you are experiencing are not proof of that
The pause that refreshes
Since we're at the midpoint of the book (at least episode-wise) this might be a good time to review what we have read. After all, if you're simply plowing through the reading without reflecting then you're likely not getting much out of the reading. We did this a little a couple of entries ago, but let's try it again focusing our attention on Stephen and Bloom.
So, what do we know about Stephen up to this point? Well, we know he's quite learned, thinks in complex, abstract, almost poetical ways. He is an aspiring writer. He isn't the happiest person you might encounter. He seems to be haunted by the thought of his dead mother, and fairly unimpressed by his father (who art not in heaven), Si Dedalus. He also seems to have exiled himself from both his family and his friend and flat mate Buck Mulligan. (I should also point out for those who don't know, that exile is one of Stephen Dedalus' three defense weapons of choice, the other two being silence and cunning [see this excerpt the final conversation with Cranley in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man]). Up to this point Stephen has just been wandering aimlessly around Dublin.
As for Bloom, we know that he is an ad canvasser for the Freeman Journal, married to Marion (Molly) Bloom (née Tweedy), and that he lives at 7 Eccles street. He is a Jew (on the spear side) though not practicing. He's relatively well educated, but not exactly a genius, possessing a better than average knowledge of music and apparently knows his astronomy, among lots of other random knowledge. He is rumored to be a Freemason though this is only conjecture on the part of some of the other citizens. We also know that Bloom is a father, having one daughter with Molly (Milly Bloom, newly turned 15) and one son (Rudy) who died eleven days after he was born. Thus Bloom is a father, but not the father of a son. Perhaps most importantly, we know that Bloom's wife is going to have an affair at or around four o'clock with one Blazes Boylan, and we know that Bloom knows of this affair.
This is just a fraction of what we might list about Stephen and Bloom, but they should serve as solid, basic facts to work from. I was somewhat selective about what I included, trying to insure that some of the most important facts about our heroes were present.
Other important things to consider
So, what else? Outside of Bloom and Stephen, what other facts can help us piece the story together? Well, I am of the opinion that there are no irrelevancies in Ulysses, and that everything provided is useful in understanding the story. However, while trying to build a broad understanding of the story, it is best to focus on the bigger facts first. Maybe the biggest fact outside of the principle characters is the fact of Dublin itself. Dublin, Ireland, Irish-ness and all that that means to the citizenry, our heroes, and Joyce are a constant theme of the novel. Ulysses is an Irish novel in the most literal sense.
Not far behind are the themes of fatherhood (that legal fiction according to Stephen), religion (often via the holy trinity), and the English 'occupiers' (as contrasted against a free Ireland). And of course there are those Homeric parallels. To be sure, there are so many more things that go into the mix, but these should help us begin the process of piecing together what we currently know.
Okay, I realize this is a complicated mix of elements so let me try an experiment with you. Taking into consideration what you already know, how do you see this story playing out? Conjecture as to how this thing wraps up. Write an ending to this story. Don't read any further until you do so. It doesn't have to be long, just a simple (though educated) guess at how and why these two lone men meet, and what is accomplished by their meeting.
**************************************
Whatever you came up with, you're wrong. But that hardly matters. What matters is you're thinking about the story. You are actively engaging with the information, and that is vital to gaining some understanding of what you are reading. From this point on you should be regularly trying to venture a guess as to where this story is leading. I suggest doing it after each episode, assimilating the new information into your thinking. A the episodes get progressively longer and more difficult from here (yes, that is possible, believe me) this will not be an easy task, but it will hopefully help provide some context for you.
Raw Notes
The mid point. The omphalos? A day in the life of dear, dirty Dublin. The meanderings and doings of the city. Orchestrated waltz of the Dublin citizenry.
- "He can never be a poet. The joy of creation..."
- "Does he write anything for your movement? —Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write something in ten years."
- "If I had served my God as I have served my king..."
- "a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a coin."
- "...A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the Liffey..."
- "Too much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion?"
- "The way she's holding up her bit of a skirt."
- "The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal cavalcade."
- "A darkbacked figure scanned books on the hawker's cart.
- —There he is, Lenehan said.
- —Wonder what he's buying, M'Coy said, glancing behind. —Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye, Lenehan said."
- "He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He's not one of your common or garden... you know... There's a touch of the artist about old Bloom."
- "Who has passed here before me?"
- "Do others see me so?"
- "She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will drown me with her, eyes and"
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Book Two Episode Nine: Scylla and Charybdis
(you can also read the webpage version of this blog by clicking this here link!)
The life esoteric is not for ordinary person. O.P. must work off bad karma first.
~ SD
Bubble, bubble toil and trouble
Now we're into the thick of it. "Scylla and Charibdis" (S&C), the famous library episode. Many consider this to be one of the best episodes in Ulysses, and I concur. There are lots of cover-worthy issues in S&C as it is an episode that begs interpretation, however, in keeping with the prime directive I will try to do this as unobtrusively as possible.
Ulysses is like a giant witches caldron, and Joyce has just about finished adding all of the ingredients to his magic potion. "Scylla and Charibdis" is where he begins to stir them all together. The fact is, whether I like it or not we are now at the point in the novel where we need to discuss the substance of Ulysses and not just its form. Of course we may have to deal with a couple of minor issues concerning form too, but the goal in this week's blog is to try to help you advance your understanding of where this story is heading without giving it all away, and this requires us to unearth a couple of Joyce's hidden treasures.
Never know whose thoughts you're chewing
Speaking of giving it all away, I have to mention that I came across the Cliffs Notes analysis of S&C online*, and it made me even more steadfast in my belief that those types of guides should be avoided by first time readers of Ulysses. I certainly don't mean to knock the Cliffs Notes site or Cliffs Notes in general. I think that a lot of the information they provided is very informative and, under the right circumstances, useful, but talk about stripping the reading experience of independent discovery! It's hard for me to see any reason to read the actual book when someone has already chewed up, digested, and regurgitated the most nutritious portions for you to effortlessly woof down like a helpless baby bird.
Imagine going to see The Matrix for the first time and someone gives you Cliffs Notes so that you might better understand the subtext of the movie. (Yes, there is subtext to be found in The Matrix. What? Did you think it was just about special effects and blowing shit up? Okay, I'll grant you Reloaded and Revolutions, but the original is choke full of clever allusions, in-depth symbolism, and an actual message beyond the superficial story). Anyway...
*note that I did not provide a link to this site (hint!). Now, of course it looms before you like a shiny red button labeled Do Not Push.
What's the story morning glory?
One thing (or theme) that should be glaringly obvious to you in S&C is the father and son pairing. This episode is thick with it. The other theme that should jump out at you is that of transcendentalism (with emphasis on transcendence - hint, hint...). This is particularly evident in the early part of the episode while A.E. Russell is still present. We have briefly discussed the importance of the father and the son (a MAJOR theme), but I should also point out that these esoteric/hermetic/occult/transcendental allusions that populate S&C (and the rest of the book as well) are very important to understanding the story of Ulysses. In fact they combine with the father/son theme to lend significant meaning to the story.
So we're back on that old saw again, the story. Yep, if I've said it once I've said it a hundred times; your first read through Ulysses should be about learning how to navigate the narrative and cultivating a solid general understanding of the story. Again, we want to answer the question "what is Ulysses about?" So, going back to our simplistic description of the text, we know that Ulysses is the story of two men, one older and one younger, who meet. The greater question is why? What is the point of this meeting? What happens? With these questions in mind your job is to factor in the father/son (or Father/Son - hint, hint...) conversations that occur in S&C and the episodes and draw your own conclusions from there. Get together with friends and spitball some ideas. Or try to explain the book to someone who isn't reading it. Don't be afraid to think creatively on this point, and don't be afraid to be wrong. You probably are. (JK... kind of) :)
Well, that's it for your lecture on substance. I suppose you were expecting more, but, you know... that whole prime directive thing... But this little morsel of information should help you piece things together. This is the essence of the reading experience of Ulysses, you know, making sense of the story, order from chaos... stuff like that. Modernist art forms in all genres are about critically reflecting on the material and attempting to draw plausible conclusions, NOT arriving at a single codified answer. I said at the start that Ulysses required work, and I wasn't joking. But I also said it was worth the effort that you would put in. Of course, you'll have to make that determination for yourself, but I am confident that you'll be feelin' pretty good about yourself once you finish this book.
Form of forms
Now about those questions of narrative. For the most part there's nothing particularly difficult, or at least nothing new, in the way of narrative. It's generally us in Stephen's complicated head, as usual. There is a potentially confusing interior dialogue going on in Stephen's thoughts beginning with "How now sirrah..." and ending in the brilliant punchline A.E.I.O.U. This IM is more of a dialogue where Stephen interrogates himself about the debts he owes, particularly to A.E. Russell. If you want to know why the pun is so brilliant revisit episode 2, "Nestor" and reread the list of debts Stephen recalls. Maybe it's just me, but to set up a joke in episode two and spring the punchline in episode nine is pretty impressive.
Otherwise we also have that strange albeit short instance of what appears to be dialogue in free verse beginning with "to whom thus Eglington:" and ending in "Leftabed". To be honest, I don't have any explanation for that, so I would welcome any and all speculation on the subject. And toward the latter half of the episode we also see part of the dialogue laid out in the form of a play musical direction included. I also cannot give a satisfactory explanation for that. Again, your best guesses are encouraged.
Agenbite of Inwit
Oh! There is one other thing I wanted to mention since I'm doling out all this substantive info. In the interest of fair and balanced reporting I wanted to make explicit "Stephen's issue", to balance out the info you have on Bloom from the last entry.
So, as you might recall, I revealed to you that Bloom's wife Molly (Mrs Marion Bloom -- Boldhand) was about to embark upon an affair with her manager Blazes Bolyan, and this knowledge has preoccupied Bloom's thoughts throughout the day. Well, Stephen has been haunted by a recurrent ghost of his own: His mother "who's beastly dead". But its not so much the death of his mother per se as it is his guilt about his behavior at her deathbed and his refusal to honor her dying request to kneel and pray for her.
Like the information that I gave you concerning Bloom and his dilemma, this revelation of Stephen's guilt is clearly crossing the line of the prime directive (a.k.a. TMI). However, just as in the case of Bloom, I absolve myself of the transgression with the excuse that this issue has been at play for quite some time now, and it is highly likely that most readers have picked up on it (or at least formed suspicions about it). Thus the half-life of its interpretive potency has expired and it is safe to give it to you because it is no longer toxic*.
*bs
The only other thing I will say concerning Stephen's personal problem is that you might consider it in connection with Bloom's problem. Taken together their respective issues shape the story, how I won't say (in this blog), but I will say that they serves as a central drivers of the subtextual narrative.
Randomage
Note that the two principals of Ulysses once again find themselves in proximity of one another in this episode. Note also that at each interval of almost meeting they draw ever closer to one another. To remind you, the first instance was when Bloom spotted Stephen from the funeral carriage in "Hades", the second was when he spotted him with the pressmen in the "Aeolus" episode, and now we have them to close enough to speak with one another. Just another thing for you to consider in your ruminations.
Raw notes
Plato and Aristotle factor into this episode greatly (must do more research on this dichotomy)
"Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato."
"God: noise in the street: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see... Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past." (does Stephen align himself with aristotle here?)
Begin on the surface: what's going on in the text?
Next: what subtextual elements are important to understanding the story? (without giving away the store)
---> the father and son theme
Any narrative issues to address?
- "The life esoteric is not for ordinary person. O.P. must work off bad karma first".
- "He will have it that Hamlet is a ghoststory"
- "What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded into impalpability through death, through absence, through change of manners."
- "Go to! You spent most of it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter. Agenbite of inwit."
- "Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got pound." (Aristotelian?)
- "no man, not a woman, will ever know."
- "Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?"
- "an actress played Hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin."
- "Agenbite of inwit: remorse of conscience."
- "We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves."
- "...glorified man, an androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself."
- "Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a dialogue, don't you know, like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote."
- "Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Aengus of the birds."
- "O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters of Erin had to lift their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!"
- "...feeling one behind, he stood aside. Part. The moment is now. Where then?"
- "A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting."
- "A dark back went before them, step of a pard..."
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