Our Second Meeting

We had our second meeting yesterday. Ten of us convened to talk about our next section of Ulysses, the first five chapters of Part II. This time we met in a private room at Cafe Ventana. As John K. noted, our previous meeting in a noisy, crowded brewery was fitting, given Joyce’s bustling Dublin street scenes in this novel. Perhaps our location yesterday is more akin to the conversation in the library in the Scylla and Charybdis chapter (the first chapter of our reading assignment for next time). Though at times the silence of the room could be intimidating as we struggled to help each other understand this puzzling, even enraging book, overall the space was a success: each person at the table could hear everyone else, and each person contributed to the conversation.

Tom K. started us off with a story from his own recent experience, along with a passage from the novel that stood out for him in connection with that experience. On a trip with students to Camden, N.J., Tom and some other members of the group went in to Philadelphia to get a Philly cheese steak. The sandwich shop they went to, a highly recommended spot in the middle of a neighborhood largely populated by immigrants, had a sign in it that said, “This is America. Place your order in English.” Tom thought of that unwelcoming message when he read this statement, from page 598 in the Eumaeus chapter, spoken by Leopold Bloom:

It’s a patent absurdity to hate people because they live around the corner and speak another vernacular, so to speak.

We admired Bloom’s humanity, his enjoyment of the bodily and the sensual, his social gracefulness, skill in the everyday sorts of rhetorical situations that he finds himself in as he wanders the sidewalks and pubs of Dublin, his tenderness in his thoughts about his children. But do these things make him heroic? Barbara and Jeane again raised the question of whether or not Bloom can truly be considered a hero, an Odysseus figure.

Terry Q. pointed out that the book is not called Odysseus, but Ulysses, pointing to the ways in which the character of Odysseus has itself been constantly reinterpreted over the centuries. In calling his book Ulysses, Terry suggested, Joyce asks us to consider how this mythological figure can help us to understand what heroism might look like in our time—or to consider how someone like Bloom might be both like and unlike a classic hero of yore.

John K. brought with him a book called Odyssey of the Psyche, whose author, Jean Kimball, has this take on the question (emphasis added):

Ulysses is a book without a hero, but with two protagonists who are together its subject. It is a critical truism that Stephen and Bloom are opposites, but together ... they represent Joyce’s vision of the artist as a divided self working toward integration.

***

Frank K. brought up a line he read one time in an essay by Arthur Miller: “Whatever is not turned into art disappears forever.” It seems that this notion has something to do with Joyce’s encyclopedic project in Ulysses. He’s trying to preserve his home town, his homeland, with all of its effluvia and detritus, political debates and interpersonal resentments, in this monumental work of art whose complexity (he hoped) would give it immortality akin to that of The Odyssey or the Divine Comedy. In its experiments and osbcurity, it’s art that doesn’t always give us what we expect—like many modernist works of music or painting, as Jeane pointed out.

In some ways the book is Biblical, in its heft and occasional tedium. Bloom, though he may not be especially devout as either a Jew or a convert to Catholicism, nevertheless has a religious imagination, Rob G. noted—a view of the world as charged with significance and meaning, a lens on reality that is inflected by the language of ritual (“This is my body” (83), he thinks as he soaks in the bathhouse.). And so does Joyce, though he may have rejected the traditional Catholicism that he was raised in. (On the back cover of Odyssey of the Psyche is a blurb for another academic tome, James Joyce’s Pauline Vision: A Catholic Exposition, by Robert Boyle, S.J.)

The real journey of Ulysses, Chris K. asserted, is an internal, linguistic journey. The novel is about how human beings think, how the human mind uses language to make sense of the world and of the self. What does the stream of consciousness look like for someone who has never had access to language? Chris K. brought up the following fascinating quotation from Helen Keller to suggest an answer to that question:

Before my teacher came, I did not know that I am. I lived in a world that was no world. I cannot hope to describe adequately that unconscious, yet conscious time of nothingness. I did not know that I knew aught, or that I lived or acted or desired. I had neither will nor intellect.

Language, it seems, focuses our humanity, gives structure to our minds and shapes our experience of the world. Not only does Ulysses seeks to represent a human mind at work during the course of a particular day in a particular time and place, but in its more abstruse experiments it seeks to investigate language itself and play with this elastic, transformative, and mysterious human invention.

Bill on Hades

Breughel's Aeneas and the Sybil in Hades

In Hades, Bloom descends into Hell like his heroic counterparts—Aeneas, Odysseus, Christ. Here in the city of the Dead—Glasnevin Cemetery for the Catholics of Dublin—Bloom and others visit their nationalistic heroes such as Charles Stuart Parnell, the uncrowned king of Ireland to whom as a boy JJ wrote an elegiac poem. The net of patriotism is something the older JJ evades and satirizes and something Bloom, by virtue of his marginality in Ireland or his intelligence or both,  is not interested in. Bloom carries the comedy of this chapter as his efficiency-expert self speculates on the possibility of burying people feet down to economize on space; and Bloom carries the seriousness of the chapter in his thoughts about his son and his father and other ghosts like those Hamlet must confront to become the heroic self he seems destined to be. Macintosh is perhaps a metonym for these ghosts as he stands watching the goings on of these particular mourners.  Bloom's ghosts are personal—Rudy, his dead son and Bloom' father, who committed suicide. Bloom's father's letter to his son Bloom echoes  the letters from Martha and to Molly from Boylan and to Bloom from Milly. The letters range from dead letters (how many times is dead referred to in this chapter—dead letter office, dead right, etc.—in both Bloom's musings and the narrator's language—Karen Lawrence's book—Ulysses, an Odyssey of Style—notes that the language of each narrator is reflected in the content of the chapter—and death palls the language of this chapter certainly—

The triumph of the chapter comes when Bloom chooses life over death. Later we'll see that this triumph is not without its lapses, but the sweep of the chapter allows us to observe Bloom, an outsider whose Jewishness in a callously anti-Semitic culture is one of the reason for his feelings of impotence. Even the kind hearted Martin Cunningham, a parallel to Shakespeare in LB's mind,  is ignorantly anti-Semitic. Stephen's father blames Gogarty from Stephen's demise—how far from the truth can that analysis be. Powers, another like Cunningham who appears in "Grace" is like the others in the carriage and Menton afterwards dismissive of Bloom as not of their ilk. They lack the negative capability of a Bloom whose empathy for all is constantly in evidence. For example, he remembers Mrs. Sinico, the ignored romantic from "A Painful Case" and all the other dead. This trait threatens to pull him into a morbidity like that of Stephen, who, we are reminded, is wearing mourning colors for his mother, but Bloom is not Stephen in so many ways. As he emerges from the underworld he notes, he prefers this world—"Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. Feel live warm being near you. They are not going to get me this innings. Warm beds; warm fullbodied life.

—Bill G.

An Update from Bill

Bill G., one of our group's veteran Irish scholars, offers this report from his reading of Ulysses:

I've picked up on the Ulysses reading the last few days.  I just read Lotus Eaters, one of my favorite chapters. Bloom is so distraught by his own impotence in his wanderings he cannot go five minutes without hearing or thinking about the diffculty of getting it up and keeping it up. In Calypso, though his Odyssean namesake is one whom Calypso desires, who desires him?, in Dublin he can only speculate about that letter that Molly is hiding not that well beneath her pillow and wonder about Milly's blooming about which he can do nothing but hope for the best.  His own attempts at blooming as Henry Flower, while it keeps his sexual life alive, is so less real, fleshy and satisfying. To Martha, he is a mere "boy."  His sexual life has been reduced to masturbatory fantasies in the bathhouse.  Why is this interesting, sensual man so reduced to voyeurism and epistulatory seduction that is hardly heroic? Is it merely that Molly prefers Blazes Boylan? Is it because that at 41 Bloom is physically declining? The Hades chapter will provide more answers to this quesiton. I can't wait to read it today.

Barbara on Bloom

A young James Joyce.

I like Bloom's interior monologue much more than arrogant Stephen's Telemachae.  Bloom is anti-Odyssean in his humility, his being an outsider (Jew), and in his quiet observant nature.  However, he is Odyssean in power and wit in that he understands the conversations of others (as outsiders often do), attends carefully and notices details, has a pretty clear self-knowledge.  I am not even bothered by the corniness of the headlines in Aeolus, partly because I realize that my irritation is anachronistic:  Joyce didn't get this stuff from Barth;  he invented it.  Also, since I am ADD, I like having the parts labelled and cut into little pieces. :-)

—Barbara O.