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."

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."

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."

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.

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?"

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.