Harry Levin's James Joyce
(New Directions, revised edition 1960) is brilliant, but - as Henry Reed says in his useful essay, Joyce's Progress, in Orion in 1946 - 'he seems on the whole only to deepen the mystery\ There are many admirable essays on aspects of Joyce's work, but, as yet, few really important full-length critical studies.
(New Directions, revised edition 1960) is brilliant, but - as Henry Reed says in his useful essay, Joyce's Progress, in Orion in 1946 - 'he seems on the whole only to deepen the mystery\ There are many admirable essays on aspects of Joyce's work, but, as yet, few really important full-length critical studies.
re-joyce-a-burgess
?
?
?
?
?
L I T E R A T U R E I G R I T I C I S_M
,
\tTw:jn _heavens for-the scholars, Ulysses and Finrwgans because' -of the am. Qunt of research that already
ar-? uud, bell1g 1110re and more rega~d_ed as Inystical co? dices, l~ss-/a1}p_",! ess as: ll1asterly novels intended to entertain.
';"M1b~;'1E;aocsnot,pretendto scholarship, only t6"" 'heIp the average read~rwho wants to knowJoyce's w(,r'(&>> been scared off by the professors, The appearance ofilii'f;
part ofJoyee's big joke; the profundities are always
goo~ round. Dublin tenus; Joyc. e1s heroes aTe htlnlblleni,
-from the
A great and inventive writer enjoys himself discussing and explaining perhaps the most important Wl"iter of the twentieth century. Vigorous. and percept'ive, Anthony Burgess;s commentary is ? an
introduction and a valuable companion t'? reading]
1tRecognizing the coming and cosmic in J~yce.
prOceeds with his self-imposed task of unraveling m. 'a>~j* "s~t,utinizing the layers of a mind that was
dimension. , , . He has defined the perimeter of
ture in both UJysses and Finnegans Wlke, , , . It took BllT~re~! s,t()'~ 'joyce's satire in its proper orbit. . " ---Saturdt'fYReview-
ANTHONY BURQ,ESS is ,the autho~ of A Clockulork@I'Il' """',""
_. ,. V",'. Sick, Honry for . the B~;'rs;' and The Wlnting Seed, from Norton, Burgess died in'I993.
Cover painting by Duncan Hannaht :>t *~P' ,)\""
Tibor de Nagy Gallery, N. Y. Cover design by Megan Wilson
f'>rt w,
NORTON
N Ei',' '{ORK < LONDON
9
? Anthony Burgess was born in Manchester, England, in 1917. After studying music and languages in Manchester, 'he joined the army in 1940 and served for six years. In 1954, he accepted a post as edu- cation officer in the Federation of Malaya, where he remained until the coming of independence; this experience was the background for his fiction trilogy, The Long Day Wanes.
Mr. Burgess began writing in his late thirties and went on to have a long career as author of many works of fiction and criticism. He died in 1993.
? ? ? ? ? By ANTHONY BURGESS IN NORTON PAPERBACK
FICTION
A Clockwork Orange The Wanting Seed Honey for the Bears Nothing Like the Sun The Long Day Wanes The Doctor Is Sick
NONFICTION
ReJoyce
Anthony Burgess
REJOYCE
J
W. W. NORTON & COMPANY New Y ork? London
? TO
CHRISTOPHER BURSTALL
COPYRIGHT (C) 1965 BY ANTHONY BURGESS
FIRST PUBLISHED AS A NORTON PAPERBACK 1968; REISSUED 2000
Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 65-18779
Contents
ISBN 0-393-00445-7
W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. , 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10110
www. wwnorton. com
W. W. Norton & Company Ltd. , 10 Coptic Street, London WCIA IPU Printed in the United States of America
234567890
BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY HELL, WIND, CANNIBALS
H E PROVES BY ALGEBRA
I 2 3 4 5 6
FOREWORD
PART ONE: THE STONES SOLEMNISA TIONS
INHERIT ANCES
A PARALYSED C,TY
MARTYR AND MAZE-MAKER FREE FLIGHT
'Y ou POOR POET, YOU! '
I I
PART TWO: THE LABYRINTH WAYS INTO THE LABYRINTH
TAKING OVER HOMER
TELEMACHUS
I
2
3
4
5
6
7 LABYRINTH AND FUGUE 8 F,REWORKS
83 88
94 106
114 126
133 '42
'5' '57 165
9 BULLOCKBEFRIENDERS
10 MEN INTO SWINE
II HOME IS THE SAILOR
12 THE BEDSIDE LABYRINTH
'77 PART THREE: THE MAN-MADE MOUNTAIN
I BIG NIGHT MUSIC 185
? ? 9
IN THE END IS THE WORD 264
Contents
2 BYGMESTER FINNEGAN
3 HERE COMES EVERYBODY
4 ALP AND HER LETTER
5 BROTHERLY HATE
6 MACTATION OF THE HOST 7 SHAUN TO JAUN TO YAWN
8 BED AND RICORSO
194 203 209 219 220
239 253
Foreword
ANOTHER book about James Joyce? Yes, and very far from being the last or anywhere near the last. Indeed (What, will the line stretch out till the crack of Bloom? ) it must be regarded as coming very early in the series. Innumerable Ph. D. candidates yet unborn have their thesis subjects waiting for them - an Old Norse word-count of Finnegans Wake, II. iii. ; the identity of Magrath; the prosodic system of Ulysses; Joyce as Marxian allegorist; the misuse of stretto in the 'Sirens' episode; HCE and the schizophrenic syndrome- Joyce might as well, in has last great dense book, have left us twenty pages of possible titles (perhaps he did; I must look again). Twin heavens for the scholars, Ulysses and Finnegans Wake are, because of the amount of research that already fences them around, being more and more regarded as mystical codices and less and less as masterly novels intended to entertain.
My book does not pretend to scholarship, only to a desire to help the average reader who wants to know Joyce's work but has been scared off by the professors. The appearance of difficulty is part of Joyce's big joke; the profundities are always expressed in good round Dublin terms; Joyce's heroes are humble men. If ever there was a writer for the people, Joyce was that writer. The time is coming for both Ulysses and Finnegans Wake to be made avail- able to the paperback audience that already knows the earlier, more orthodox, fiction. This audience needs the gUidance of a sort of pilot-commentary, and that is what my book tries to be.
Naturally, I could not have written it without help from the
scholars. I would like to acknowledge my debt to them now. I have been reading Joyce for the last thirty-odd years, and I have been reading books about him for the same length of time, so I cannot hope to mention all. But no Joyce student can do without James Joyce's Ulysses - a study by Stuart Gilbert (available in Vintage
9
INDEX
273
8
? ? Foreword
paperback), since this learned commentary was sponsored by
Joyce himself. A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake, by Joseph Campbell and Henry Morton Robinson (available in a Viking paperback) lacks the authority of Gilbert's book, but it is a remarkable attempt - both painstaking and imaginative - to un- cover the narrative line that underlies Joyce's word-jungle. Adaline Glasheen's A Censu. s of Finnegans Wake (Northwestern Univer- sity) is unique in that it systematically - but also humbly and humorously - tames much of. the thematic material of the book into a miniature encyclopaedia. I have always received help from it when help was wanted. The nearest approach to a Joyce's-voice guide to the great myth of death and resurrection is Our Exag- mination round his Factification faT Incamination of ,Work in Progress (New Directions; revised edition 1962), twelve essays by twelve men, behind all of whom the prodding master seems
to stand.
The best Joyce criticism is stilL I think, to be found in Edmund Wilson's Axefs Castle (Scribner, 1931) and The Wound and the Bow (Oxford University Press, 1947). Harry Levin's James Joyce
(New Directions, revised edition 1960) is brilliant, but - as Henry Reed says in his useful essay, Joyce's Progress, in Orion in 1946 - 'he seems on the whole only to deepen the mystery\ There are many admirable essays on aspects of Joyce's work, but, as yet, few really important full-length critical studies. Needless to say, my own book is not presented as one of them. It is commentary rather than criticism,
Joyce was an autobiographical writer, and my reading of books about Joyce the man, husband and father has always helped to elucidate difficulties in his novels. Richard EHmann's deRnitive biography James Joyce (Oxford University Press, 1959) is a large book that to some extent swallows up Herbert Gorman's earlier life (lames Joyce - Bodley Head, 1941), Frank Budgen's James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses (Indiana, paper, 1960) and Stanislaus Joyce's unfinished memoir My Brother's Keeper (Faber and Faber, 1958), but these three maintain their own flavour and still ought to be read. In Letters of James Joyce, edited by Stuart Gilbert (Viking, 1957), the enigmatic master sometimes says what he is trying to do in his enigmatic works.
The title of the British edition of Re Joyce is Here Comes Everybody. It comes from Finnegans Wake, whose hero Humphrey
10
Foreword
Chimpden Earwicker very frequently has his initials filled out to
s~me appropriate phrase or slogan, like Howth Castle and En. Vlrons or Haveth Childers Everywhere, I do not mean to imply that Earwicker. is Joyce's wry portrait 01 himself; rather, I want to stress the um~ersalityof Joyce's creations, the fact that they are as demotIc as a come-all-ye'. Also I enfold there the hope that it
W ill not be long before everybody comes to Joyce, seeing in him not tortuous puzzles: dirt, and jesuitry gone mad, but great comedy, large humamty, and that affirmation of man's worth that more popular writers stamp on in order to make money.
Chiswick August 1965
A. B.
11
? PART ONE
THE STONES
? I: Solemnisations
I START THIS BOOK ON JANUARY 13TH, '964-THE TWENTY-THIRD - anniversary of the death of James Joyce. I can think of no other writer who would bewitch me into making the beginning of a spell
of hard work into a kind of joyful ritual, but the solemnisation of dates came naturally to Joyce and it infects his admirers, Indeed, this deadest time of the year (the Christmas decorations burnt a week ago, the children back at school, the snow come too late to be festive) is brightened by being a sort of Joyce season. It is a season beginning in Advent and ending at Candlemas. January 6th is the Feast of the Epiphany, and the discovery of epiphanies-'showings forth' -of beauty and truth in the squalid and commonplace was Joyce's vocation. February 1st is St Bridget's Day. February 2nd is Joyce's birthday, and two massive birthday presents were the first printed copies of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake; it is also Candlemas Day and Groundhog Day. One is being very Joycean if one tempers the solemnity by remembering the groundhogs. Overlooked by Christmas shoppers, Saint Lucy, Santa Lucia, celebrated her feast on December 13th. T o Joyce, who struggled most of his life against eye- disease, she had a special meaning, being the patron' saint of sight, and his daughter Lucia was named for her. The theme of the whole season is light-out-of-darkness, and it is proper to rejoice (Joyce was well aware of the etymology of his name) in the victory of the light. We are to rejoice even in the death of the first Christian martyr on Boxing Day, and we remember why Joyce appears under the name of Stephen in his autobiographical novels. He too was a martyr, though to literature; a witness for the light, self-condemned to exile, poverty, suffering, vilification and (perhaps worst of all) coterie canonisation in life, that the doctrine of the Word might be spread. He was a humorous martyr, though, full of drink and irony. Out of the stones that life threw at him he made a labyrinth, so that Stephen earned the surname Dedalus. The labyrinth is no home for a
'7
? The Stones
Solemnisations
monster, however; it is a house of life, its corridors ringing with
song and laughter.
In January, 1941, when the news ofJoyce's death filtered through
from Zurich, the world was distracted by other preoccupations, other deaths. Few of his admirers could take time off for a wake. I myself, a private soldier in snow-bound Northumberland, learned the news when I was polishing the windows of the Sergeants' Mess with a week-old copy of the Daily Mail. There it was, on the front page, rightly dwarfed by the bombing of Plymouth.
'Good God, James Joyce is dead. '
'Who the hell's he? ' asked a sergeant.
'A writer. Irish. The author of Ulysses. '
'Aaaaah, a dirty book that is. Get on with the job. ' So Joyce's
quizzical photograph polished away, looking out at the snow ('faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead'. A great writer modifies everything).
Ulysses, then, was generally known of among the so-called non- intellectuals, even though the name Joyce meant only an English traitor, broadcaster of Nazi propaganda. Ulysses (heavily accented on the first syllable) was one of the great dirty books, too dirty to be easily accessible, one of the trilogy ofliterary dirt completed by Lady Chatterley's Lover and The Well ofLoneliness. Most ofus are prurient and will buy the latest piece of literary erotica to be released by a court judgement; we will not join the queue, but we will watch for the queue to die down. I have never felt inclined to condemn people who look for dirt in literature: looking for dirt, they may find some- thing else. I do not think that those of my fellow-soldiers who read paperback pornography for masturbatory thrills saw that sort of stuff as of the same order as The Decameron or Joyce's dirty book. In literature (recognisable as such through bulk, hard words, long stretches of boredom) they wanted confirmation that sexual desire, sexual exercise, and sexual obscenity were valid aspects of life. A solid book in hard covers solemnised the day of the groundhog and showed that holy candles were still phallic. Often it was enough for them just to find the word (sex' in an evidently serious book. For a whole month, in my unit, there was talk ofa dirty book in the guard- room-a book that was never, unsportingly, removed but left there to beguile the tedium of guard-duty. It turned out to be my lost copy of Lawrence's Fantasia of the Unconscious, a work of jaw- locking dullness.
The author of Ulysses, at the time of his death, was not, then, 18
regarded as a pornographic writer even on the lowest level: he was
rather the creator of a big book in which, like ore in dull rock, dirt nestled. Twenty-three years after, thanks to the popularising media, his name is generally known and his other work is at least known of. Paperback copies of his earlier fiction, and even Harry Levin's The Essential James Joyce, may be bought on railway bookstalls; Stephen D-a dramatisation of Stephen Hero and A Portrait ofthe Artist as a Young Man- has been seen at peak-viewing hours on BBC televi- sion. ' The glamour of smut has worn off Ulysses since Henry Miller and the didactic pornograpliy of the East have appeared on the open market. Joyce is available as Ian Fleming is available, and at no higher price. But he remains, to the majority of library-borrowers and paperback-buyers, suspect. He is obscure, crafty, not straight- forward. The low priest of dirt, unfrocked, is the high priest of difficulty.
No one who has wrestled with Finnegans Wilke will deny the diffi- culty there; after ton-loads of exegesis, parts of Ulysses still have to be puzzled out. But is the early work, the latest of it fifty years old, really difficult? In a way, though not an obvious way, yes. The stories in Dubliners are different from the stories of O. Henry, Guy de Maupassant, and W. Somerset Maugham: nothing seems to happen in them, there are no plots, they are not really stories at all. Anyone who has ever read a Dubliners story aloud to a class of adolescents or even adults will know the embarrassment of, at the end of the read- ing, meeting a wave of incredulity, disappointment, even anger: is it really all over ? -why, there is no denouement, no resolution, no twist. Joyce isn't playing fair; he's a confidence trickster; he pretends to be in the tradition but he's really walked out of it. As for A Portrait ofthe Artist as a Young Man, the very opening breaks the rules; this is not how an adult story ought to begin:
Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was corning down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo . . .
But even the surface of his writing offends. After Dubliners, he de- cides to reject both inverted commas and hyphens. His lines of"
lialogue begin with a dash, in the Continental manner:
- Hello, Stephanos!
- Here comes The Dedalus!
- Ao! . . . Eh, give it over, Dwyer, I'm telling you or I'll give you a stuff in the kisser for yourself . . . Ao f
1 So has Bloomsaay-Allan McClelland's dramatisation of Ulysm (June lOth, 1964). 19
? The Stones
Solemnisations
- Good man, Towser! Duck him!
- Corne along, Dedalus! BOlls Stephanoumenos! BOlls Stephaneforos! - Duck him! Guzzle him now, Tawser!
-Help! Help! . . . Ao!
His compound words have a German look about them: 'softhued',
'slateblue', 'darkplumaged', 'earsplitting', Later, in Ulysses, he 15 to pervert conventional word-order as Milton did: 'Perfume of em- braces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore. ' He is to pack and tighten his sentences as the Elizabethans used to: 'Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. ' Or, better, 'She dances in a foul gloom where gum burns with garlic. A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker:rum and
eyes her. A long and seafed silent rut. ' He hates pure fill-m words,
a. guacities; he presses every drop o f water ? ut. of hi~ ~o? ~ed ~abbag. e. His prose thus often looks odd when Its mtelhpblllt!
Harry Levin's James Joyce
(New Directions, revised edition 1960) is brilliant, but - as Henry Reed says in his useful essay, Joyce's Progress, in Orion in 1946 - 'he seems on the whole only to deepen the mystery\ There are many admirable essays on aspects of Joyce's work, but, as yet, few really important full-length critical studies. Needless to say, my own book is not presented as one of them. It is commentary rather than criticism,
Joyce was an autobiographical writer, and my reading of books about Joyce the man, husband and father has always helped to elucidate difficulties in his novels. Richard EHmann's deRnitive biography James Joyce (Oxford University Press, 1959) is a large book that to some extent swallows up Herbert Gorman's earlier life (lames Joyce - Bodley Head, 1941), Frank Budgen's James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses (Indiana, paper, 1960) and Stanislaus Joyce's unfinished memoir My Brother's Keeper (Faber and Faber, 1958), but these three maintain their own flavour and still ought to be read. In Letters of James Joyce, edited by Stuart Gilbert (Viking, 1957), the enigmatic master sometimes says what he is trying to do in his enigmatic works.
The title of the British edition of Re Joyce is Here Comes Everybody. It comes from Finnegans Wake, whose hero Humphrey
10
Foreword
Chimpden Earwicker very frequently has his initials filled out to
s~me appropriate phrase or slogan, like Howth Castle and En. Vlrons or Haveth Childers Everywhere, I do not mean to imply that Earwicker. is Joyce's wry portrait 01 himself; rather, I want to stress the um~ersalityof Joyce's creations, the fact that they are as demotIc as a come-all-ye'. Also I enfold there the hope that it
W ill not be long before everybody comes to Joyce, seeing in him not tortuous puzzles: dirt, and jesuitry gone mad, but great comedy, large humamty, and that affirmation of man's worth that more popular writers stamp on in order to make money.
Chiswick August 1965
A. B.
11
? PART ONE
THE STONES
? I: Solemnisations
I START THIS BOOK ON JANUARY 13TH, '964-THE TWENTY-THIRD - anniversary of the death of James Joyce. I can think of no other writer who would bewitch me into making the beginning of a spell
of hard work into a kind of joyful ritual, but the solemnisation of dates came naturally to Joyce and it infects his admirers, Indeed, this deadest time of the year (the Christmas decorations burnt a week ago, the children back at school, the snow come too late to be festive) is brightened by being a sort of Joyce season. It is a season beginning in Advent and ending at Candlemas. January 6th is the Feast of the Epiphany, and the discovery of epiphanies-'showings forth' -of beauty and truth in the squalid and commonplace was Joyce's vocation. February 1st is St Bridget's Day. February 2nd is Joyce's birthday, and two massive birthday presents were the first printed copies of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake; it is also Candlemas Day and Groundhog Day. One is being very Joycean if one tempers the solemnity by remembering the groundhogs. Overlooked by Christmas shoppers, Saint Lucy, Santa Lucia, celebrated her feast on December 13th. T o Joyce, who struggled most of his life against eye- disease, she had a special meaning, being the patron' saint of sight, and his daughter Lucia was named for her. The theme of the whole season is light-out-of-darkness, and it is proper to rejoice (Joyce was well aware of the etymology of his name) in the victory of the light. We are to rejoice even in the death of the first Christian martyr on Boxing Day, and we remember why Joyce appears under the name of Stephen in his autobiographical novels. He too was a martyr, though to literature; a witness for the light, self-condemned to exile, poverty, suffering, vilification and (perhaps worst of all) coterie canonisation in life, that the doctrine of the Word might be spread. He was a humorous martyr, though, full of drink and irony. Out of the stones that life threw at him he made a labyrinth, so that Stephen earned the surname Dedalus. The labyrinth is no home for a
'7
? The Stones
Solemnisations
monster, however; it is a house of life, its corridors ringing with
song and laughter.
In January, 1941, when the news ofJoyce's death filtered through
from Zurich, the world was distracted by other preoccupations, other deaths. Few of his admirers could take time off for a wake. I myself, a private soldier in snow-bound Northumberland, learned the news when I was polishing the windows of the Sergeants' Mess with a week-old copy of the Daily Mail. There it was, on the front page, rightly dwarfed by the bombing of Plymouth.
'Good God, James Joyce is dead. '
'Who the hell's he? ' asked a sergeant.
'A writer. Irish. The author of Ulysses. '
'Aaaaah, a dirty book that is. Get on with the job. ' So Joyce's
quizzical photograph polished away, looking out at the snow ('faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead'. A great writer modifies everything).
Ulysses, then, was generally known of among the so-called non- intellectuals, even though the name Joyce meant only an English traitor, broadcaster of Nazi propaganda. Ulysses (heavily accented on the first syllable) was one of the great dirty books, too dirty to be easily accessible, one of the trilogy ofliterary dirt completed by Lady Chatterley's Lover and The Well ofLoneliness. Most ofus are prurient and will buy the latest piece of literary erotica to be released by a court judgement; we will not join the queue, but we will watch for the queue to die down. I have never felt inclined to condemn people who look for dirt in literature: looking for dirt, they may find some- thing else. I do not think that those of my fellow-soldiers who read paperback pornography for masturbatory thrills saw that sort of stuff as of the same order as The Decameron or Joyce's dirty book. In literature (recognisable as such through bulk, hard words, long stretches of boredom) they wanted confirmation that sexual desire, sexual exercise, and sexual obscenity were valid aspects of life. A solid book in hard covers solemnised the day of the groundhog and showed that holy candles were still phallic. Often it was enough for them just to find the word (sex' in an evidently serious book. For a whole month, in my unit, there was talk ofa dirty book in the guard- room-a book that was never, unsportingly, removed but left there to beguile the tedium of guard-duty. It turned out to be my lost copy of Lawrence's Fantasia of the Unconscious, a work of jaw- locking dullness.
The author of Ulysses, at the time of his death, was not, then, 18
regarded as a pornographic writer even on the lowest level: he was
rather the creator of a big book in which, like ore in dull rock, dirt nestled. Twenty-three years after, thanks to the popularising media, his name is generally known and his other work is at least known of. Paperback copies of his earlier fiction, and even Harry Levin's The Essential James Joyce, may be bought on railway bookstalls; Stephen D-a dramatisation of Stephen Hero and A Portrait ofthe Artist as a Young Man- has been seen at peak-viewing hours on BBC televi- sion. ' The glamour of smut has worn off Ulysses since Henry Miller and the didactic pornograpliy of the East have appeared on the open market. Joyce is available as Ian Fleming is available, and at no higher price. But he remains, to the majority of library-borrowers and paperback-buyers, suspect. He is obscure, crafty, not straight- forward. The low priest of dirt, unfrocked, is the high priest of difficulty.
No one who has wrestled with Finnegans Wilke will deny the diffi- culty there; after ton-loads of exegesis, parts of Ulysses still have to be puzzled out. But is the early work, the latest of it fifty years old, really difficult? In a way, though not an obvious way, yes. The stories in Dubliners are different from the stories of O. Henry, Guy de Maupassant, and W. Somerset Maugham: nothing seems to happen in them, there are no plots, they are not really stories at all. Anyone who has ever read a Dubliners story aloud to a class of adolescents or even adults will know the embarrassment of, at the end of the read- ing, meeting a wave of incredulity, disappointment, even anger: is it really all over ? -why, there is no denouement, no resolution, no twist. Joyce isn't playing fair; he's a confidence trickster; he pretends to be in the tradition but he's really walked out of it. As for A Portrait ofthe Artist as a Young Man, the very opening breaks the rules; this is not how an adult story ought to begin:
Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was corning down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo . . .
But even the surface of his writing offends. After Dubliners, he de- cides to reject both inverted commas and hyphens. His lines of"
lialogue begin with a dash, in the Continental manner:
- Hello, Stephanos!
- Here comes The Dedalus!
- Ao! . . . Eh, give it over, Dwyer, I'm telling you or I'll give you a stuff in the kisser for yourself . . . Ao f
1 So has Bloomsaay-Allan McClelland's dramatisation of Ulysm (June lOth, 1964). 19
? The Stones
Solemnisations
- Good man, Towser! Duck him!
- Corne along, Dedalus! BOlls Stephanoumenos! BOlls Stephaneforos! - Duck him! Guzzle him now, Tawser!
-Help! Help! . . . Ao!
His compound words have a German look about them: 'softhued',
'slateblue', 'darkplumaged', 'earsplitting', Later, in Ulysses, he 15 to pervert conventional word-order as Milton did: 'Perfume of em- braces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore. ' He is to pack and tighten his sentences as the Elizabethans used to: 'Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. ' Or, better, 'She dances in a foul gloom where gum burns with garlic. A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker:rum and
eyes her. A long and seafed silent rut. ' He hates pure fill-m words,
a. guacities; he presses every drop o f water ? ut. of hi~ ~o? ~ed ~abbag. e. His prose thus often looks odd when Its mtelhpblllt! ' IS not m doubt. It is a special kind of oddness which he shares with a poet- Gerard Manley Hopkins. These two, the renegade Catholic and the Catholic convert, the Jesuit-taught and the Jesuit, teacher, ~ave more in common than critics have been prepared to notIce. Hopkins taught Greek at University College, Dublin, but long before Joyce was a student there: Joyce was only seven when Hopkins died. Hopkins's verse was not published till 1918, when Joyce's mature style was already formed. They were, independently and one ahead of the
other on the same track. 'Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west:her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height waste'-that is Hopkins, but it could be Joyce. 'Isabel, she is so pretty, truth to tell, wildwood's eyes and primarose hair, quietly, all the woods so wild, in mauves of moss and daphnedews, how all so still she lay, neath of the whitehorn child of tree, like some losthappy leaf, like blowing flower stilled'; here Joyce seems almost to parody Hopkins. 'For- wardlike but however and like favourable heaven heard these' is the Joycean'last line of Hopkins's 'The Bugler's First C~mm':ln. ion" written in 1879. Joyce's 'whitemaned seahorses, champmg, bnght- windbridled' would have delighted Hopkins.
There is more to it than a love of packed sentences and a dislike of hyphens. Joyce and Hopkins were led to a common view of art be- cause of a common belief in the power of ordinary life to burst forth -suddenly and miraculously-with a revelation of truth. Joyce talked of 'epiphanies" Hopkins of 'inscape'; Joyce adopted Aqu~nas as his philosopher, Hopkins took to Duns Scotus; the one rejected the
20
Church (or thought he did), the other gave up all for it (or tried to:
literature got in the way); both were so acutely aware of the numi-
nous in the commonplace that they found it necessary to manipulate the commonplaces oflanguage into a new medium that should shock the reader into a new awareness. The language of both of them- priest-poet and free-thinking fabulist-is fitted for naked confronta- tion with a world that seems newly created. It is the lack, not merely of the cliche, but of the rhythm that suggests a cliche, that makes both writers seem odd. Yet this oddness springs from nature: Eng- lish is never abused, never given exotic flavouring; the compressions, re-orderings of the sentence, compound coinages, alliterations are native to the language. 'Our heart's charity's hearth's fire, our thoughts' chivalry's throng's Lord': so Hopkins addresses Christ, and we are listening to English rhythms that were old-fangled before the coming of the Reformation. 'Dead breaths I living breathe,' writes Joyce, 'tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead', and the Norman Conquest is not long behind us. Both writers build, not on the accumulations of the centuries, but on the freshly un- covered roots of English. This, then, makes them look odd.
Oddness is more easily excused in a poet tharr in a novelist. The poet's trade is with words, an odd trade anyway, and he has to arrange them oddly to draw attention to the mystery oflanguage (a mystery which is a distraction in the market-place). But the novelist's trade is less with words than with people and places and actions. Most novel-readers want to get at the content of a novel without the intermediacy o f a kind o f writing that seems to obtrude, rivalling the plot in its claim to be looked at. In the works of the late Nevil Shute there is no such distraction:
He called the front basement room his clean workshop, and this was his machine shop. Here he had a six-inch H. erbert lathe for heavy work, a three-and-a-half-inch Myford, and a Boley watchmaker's lathe. He had. a Senior milling machine and a Boxford shaper, a large and a small dnll press, and a vast arr~y of tools ready to hand. A l. 0! lg bench ran across the window a tubular lIght system ran across the ceIlIng, and a small camera and flashgun stood ready for use in a cupboard, for it was his habit to take photographs of interesting processes to illustrate his articles,
That is from Trustee from the Toolroom, a novel so readable that it slips down like an oyster. Consider also a passage from the late Ian Fleming's Moonraker:
The amenities of Blades, apart from the gambling! are sO,desirable. that the Committee has had to rule that every member IS reqUIred to wm or
21
? The Stones
lose ? 500 a year on the club premises, or pay a~ annual fine of ? 250. The food and wine are the best in London and no btIls are presented, the cost of all meals being deducted at the end of each week pro rata from the profits of the winners. Seeing that about ? 5,000 cha:nges hands each week atthetablestheimpostisnottoopainfulandthelosershavethes~tisfac- tion of saving something from the wreck; and the custom explams the fairness of the levy on infrequent gamblers.
The solidity of such prose is more apparent than real:' it derives
from the content, the hard inventories of fact; otherwise it is pedes-
trian enough. But the average novel-reader can only take descriptive prose of a static nature (that is, prose that is not dialogue and prose that does not present physical action) if it evokes the market-place. If a novel attempts static analysis of a scene, a situation, or an emotion, the average novel-reader becomes uneasy: if you cannot give us action, then give us an inventory. If the covers of a novel could contain a film rather than a book, such readers would be pleased. The film, the comic-strip adaptation, the Reader's Digest summary-these are, in order of easiness, the easiest ways of getting at the heart of a novel. They agree in finding many novels too wordy; words, a necessary evil in the days of primitive art, are rendered supererogatory by the new, mostly visual, media. This is the general view: it is wrong for the novel to be literature. The popular novel
never has been literature, and that is why it is popular: the language
is transparent, a window on to generalised situations and generalised characters. Joyce's novels are all too literary, his language horribly opaque.
All this means is that Joyce is a sort of prose-poet, and to be that is to be a cheat-the dry bread of a good yarn seems to be offered, but it turns out to be the stone (precious but still inedible) of words or symbOl. The thing to do is to forget that the field of the novel is as limited as the cult of the contemporary best-seller is making it, and to consider that Joyce may be within his rights in turning language into one of the characters of Ulysses (perhaps in Finnegans Wake the only character). In Ulysses, the poeticising and the pastiche and parody serve, as we shall see later, a dramatic enough purpose; they also deepen the human characters by adding to their ordinary human dimensions the dimension, first, of history, then of myth. Here is the hero of Ulysses seen in his primary, Nevil Shute, aspect, though the language ofthis inventory has, in sheer sound, in sheer organisa- tion of consonants and vowels, a distinction few popular novelists could reach:
22
Solemnisatians
Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fO'~vls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, l. lver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he lIked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
Here he is seen in relation to one phase of past history:
Some man that wayfaring was stood by housedoor at night's oncoming. Of Israel's folk was that man that on earth wandering far had fared. Stark ruth of man his errand that him lone led till that house.
And here he is in one of his comic-mythic aspects:
And there carne a voice out of heaven, calling: EliJah! Ellj? ah! And he answered with a main cry: Abba! Adonai! And they beheld Him even Him ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over Donohue's in Little Green Street like a shot off a shovel.
'Comic' is the key-word, for Ulysses is a great comic novel-though comic in a tradition that has been obscured by 'popular' cpnceptions of comedy-Po G. Wodehouse, Richard Gordon and the rest. The comedy of Joyce is an aspect of the heroic: it shows man in relation to the whole cosmos, and the whole cosmos appears in his work symbolised in the whole of language.
One idea that should now be emerging is that Joyce is a very traditional writer: he belongs to a period in which the warring notions offine'art and pop-art had no place; he antecedes, certainly, the popular novel in the sense in which we are using that term. He is very close to novelists like Cervantes, Fielding and Sterne, masters of the mock-epic. There is a great deal of Rabelais in hlm and not a little Dickens. He belongs, in fact, to the comic-heroic tradition of Western Europe-a tradition based on a kind of qualified humanism. Man is interesting and important enough to be examined in great detail and at great length, but he is not by any means the Lord of the Universe. The universe can be a mystery or an antagonist: against it the comic-epic hero opposes all he has, and it is not much-merely free will and a capacity for love. His defeats are inevitable but always
contain the seed o f a victory that the universe, a vast mass o f organised
ironmongery, is not equipped to understand. It is the victory of the
stoic who, though the gods themselves crush him with superior weight, knows that his values are right and theirs are wrong. The heroes ofthe great mock-epics are, by an ironical twist, always more admirable, because more human, than the demi-gods of true epic
23
? The Stones
Soiemnisations
It is the face of a man about forty, with a small beard and a high colour. He is laughing, with a touch of anger in his laughter, but no triumph, no malignity. It is the face of a man who is always fighting against something, but who fights in the open and is not frightened, the face of a man who is generously angry-in other words, of a nineteenth-century liberal, a free intelligence, a type hated with equal hatred by all the smelly little ortho- doxies which are now contending for our souls.
No face shines through the novels of James Joyce, and this is dis-
turbing. He is cut off from his own creation, as he is cut off from God's, and he has no comment to make about either. He cannot be enlisted in the cause of Irish nationalism, Fascism or Communism, though-like Shakespeare, a man legitimately faceless because he wrote plays and not novels-he has been invoked in the name of every ideology. Perhaps, among novelists, only Flaubert approaches him for self-effacement.
But, to the novel-reader brought up in a cosier tradition, such
self-effacement looks like hauteur, the nose in the air, the swollen head, the snob. It ought not to look like that.
,
\tTw:jn _heavens for-the scholars, Ulysses and Finrwgans because' -of the am. Qunt of research that already
ar-? uud, bell1g 1110re and more rega~d_ed as Inystical co? dices, l~ss-/a1}p_",! ess as: ll1asterly novels intended to entertain.
';"M1b~;'1E;aocsnot,pretendto scholarship, only t6"" 'heIp the average read~rwho wants to knowJoyce's w(,r'(&>> been scared off by the professors, The appearance ofilii'f;
part ofJoyee's big joke; the profundities are always
goo~ round. Dublin tenus; Joyc. e1s heroes aTe htlnlblleni,
-from the
A great and inventive writer enjoys himself discussing and explaining perhaps the most important Wl"iter of the twentieth century. Vigorous. and percept'ive, Anthony Burgess;s commentary is ? an
introduction and a valuable companion t'? reading]
1tRecognizing the coming and cosmic in J~yce.
prOceeds with his self-imposed task of unraveling m. 'a>~j* "s~t,utinizing the layers of a mind that was
dimension. , , . He has defined the perimeter of
ture in both UJysses and Finnegans Wlke, , , . It took BllT~re~! s,t()'~ 'joyce's satire in its proper orbit. . " ---Saturdt'fYReview-
ANTHONY BURQ,ESS is ,the autho~ of A Clockulork@I'Il' """',""
_. ,. V",'. Sick, Honry for . the B~;'rs;' and The Wlnting Seed, from Norton, Burgess died in'I993.
Cover painting by Duncan Hannaht :>t *~P' ,)\""
Tibor de Nagy Gallery, N. Y. Cover design by Megan Wilson
f'>rt w,
NORTON
N Ei',' '{ORK < LONDON
9
? Anthony Burgess was born in Manchester, England, in 1917. After studying music and languages in Manchester, 'he joined the army in 1940 and served for six years. In 1954, he accepted a post as edu- cation officer in the Federation of Malaya, where he remained until the coming of independence; this experience was the background for his fiction trilogy, The Long Day Wanes.
Mr. Burgess began writing in his late thirties and went on to have a long career as author of many works of fiction and criticism. He died in 1993.
? ? ? ? ? By ANTHONY BURGESS IN NORTON PAPERBACK
FICTION
A Clockwork Orange The Wanting Seed Honey for the Bears Nothing Like the Sun The Long Day Wanes The Doctor Is Sick
NONFICTION
ReJoyce
Anthony Burgess
REJOYCE
J
W. W. NORTON & COMPANY New Y ork? London
? TO
CHRISTOPHER BURSTALL
COPYRIGHT (C) 1965 BY ANTHONY BURGESS
FIRST PUBLISHED AS A NORTON PAPERBACK 1968; REISSUED 2000
Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 65-18779
Contents
ISBN 0-393-00445-7
W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. , 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10110
www. wwnorton. com
W. W. Norton & Company Ltd. , 10 Coptic Street, London WCIA IPU Printed in the United States of America
234567890
BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY HELL, WIND, CANNIBALS
H E PROVES BY ALGEBRA
I 2 3 4 5 6
FOREWORD
PART ONE: THE STONES SOLEMNISA TIONS
INHERIT ANCES
A PARALYSED C,TY
MARTYR AND MAZE-MAKER FREE FLIGHT
'Y ou POOR POET, YOU! '
I I
PART TWO: THE LABYRINTH WAYS INTO THE LABYRINTH
TAKING OVER HOMER
TELEMACHUS
I
2
3
4
5
6
7 LABYRINTH AND FUGUE 8 F,REWORKS
83 88
94 106
114 126
133 '42
'5' '57 165
9 BULLOCKBEFRIENDERS
10 MEN INTO SWINE
II HOME IS THE SAILOR
12 THE BEDSIDE LABYRINTH
'77 PART THREE: THE MAN-MADE MOUNTAIN
I BIG NIGHT MUSIC 185
? ? 9
IN THE END IS THE WORD 264
Contents
2 BYGMESTER FINNEGAN
3 HERE COMES EVERYBODY
4 ALP AND HER LETTER
5 BROTHERLY HATE
6 MACTATION OF THE HOST 7 SHAUN TO JAUN TO YAWN
8 BED AND RICORSO
194 203 209 219 220
239 253
Foreword
ANOTHER book about James Joyce? Yes, and very far from being the last or anywhere near the last. Indeed (What, will the line stretch out till the crack of Bloom? ) it must be regarded as coming very early in the series. Innumerable Ph. D. candidates yet unborn have their thesis subjects waiting for them - an Old Norse word-count of Finnegans Wake, II. iii. ; the identity of Magrath; the prosodic system of Ulysses; Joyce as Marxian allegorist; the misuse of stretto in the 'Sirens' episode; HCE and the schizophrenic syndrome- Joyce might as well, in has last great dense book, have left us twenty pages of possible titles (perhaps he did; I must look again). Twin heavens for the scholars, Ulysses and Finnegans Wake are, because of the amount of research that already fences them around, being more and more regarded as mystical codices and less and less as masterly novels intended to entertain.
My book does not pretend to scholarship, only to a desire to help the average reader who wants to know Joyce's work but has been scared off by the professors. The appearance of difficulty is part of Joyce's big joke; the profundities are always expressed in good round Dublin terms; Joyce's heroes are humble men. If ever there was a writer for the people, Joyce was that writer. The time is coming for both Ulysses and Finnegans Wake to be made avail- able to the paperback audience that already knows the earlier, more orthodox, fiction. This audience needs the gUidance of a sort of pilot-commentary, and that is what my book tries to be.
Naturally, I could not have written it without help from the
scholars. I would like to acknowledge my debt to them now. I have been reading Joyce for the last thirty-odd years, and I have been reading books about him for the same length of time, so I cannot hope to mention all. But no Joyce student can do without James Joyce's Ulysses - a study by Stuart Gilbert (available in Vintage
9
INDEX
273
8
? ? Foreword
paperback), since this learned commentary was sponsored by
Joyce himself. A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake, by Joseph Campbell and Henry Morton Robinson (available in a Viking paperback) lacks the authority of Gilbert's book, but it is a remarkable attempt - both painstaking and imaginative - to un- cover the narrative line that underlies Joyce's word-jungle. Adaline Glasheen's A Censu. s of Finnegans Wake (Northwestern Univer- sity) is unique in that it systematically - but also humbly and humorously - tames much of. the thematic material of the book into a miniature encyclopaedia. I have always received help from it when help was wanted. The nearest approach to a Joyce's-voice guide to the great myth of death and resurrection is Our Exag- mination round his Factification faT Incamination of ,Work in Progress (New Directions; revised edition 1962), twelve essays by twelve men, behind all of whom the prodding master seems
to stand.
The best Joyce criticism is stilL I think, to be found in Edmund Wilson's Axefs Castle (Scribner, 1931) and The Wound and the Bow (Oxford University Press, 1947). Harry Levin's James Joyce
(New Directions, revised edition 1960) is brilliant, but - as Henry Reed says in his useful essay, Joyce's Progress, in Orion in 1946 - 'he seems on the whole only to deepen the mystery\ There are many admirable essays on aspects of Joyce's work, but, as yet, few really important full-length critical studies. Needless to say, my own book is not presented as one of them. It is commentary rather than criticism,
Joyce was an autobiographical writer, and my reading of books about Joyce the man, husband and father has always helped to elucidate difficulties in his novels. Richard EHmann's deRnitive biography James Joyce (Oxford University Press, 1959) is a large book that to some extent swallows up Herbert Gorman's earlier life (lames Joyce - Bodley Head, 1941), Frank Budgen's James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses (Indiana, paper, 1960) and Stanislaus Joyce's unfinished memoir My Brother's Keeper (Faber and Faber, 1958), but these three maintain their own flavour and still ought to be read. In Letters of James Joyce, edited by Stuart Gilbert (Viking, 1957), the enigmatic master sometimes says what he is trying to do in his enigmatic works.
The title of the British edition of Re Joyce is Here Comes Everybody. It comes from Finnegans Wake, whose hero Humphrey
10
Foreword
Chimpden Earwicker very frequently has his initials filled out to
s~me appropriate phrase or slogan, like Howth Castle and En. Vlrons or Haveth Childers Everywhere, I do not mean to imply that Earwicker. is Joyce's wry portrait 01 himself; rather, I want to stress the um~ersalityof Joyce's creations, the fact that they are as demotIc as a come-all-ye'. Also I enfold there the hope that it
W ill not be long before everybody comes to Joyce, seeing in him not tortuous puzzles: dirt, and jesuitry gone mad, but great comedy, large humamty, and that affirmation of man's worth that more popular writers stamp on in order to make money.
Chiswick August 1965
A. B.
11
? PART ONE
THE STONES
? I: Solemnisations
I START THIS BOOK ON JANUARY 13TH, '964-THE TWENTY-THIRD - anniversary of the death of James Joyce. I can think of no other writer who would bewitch me into making the beginning of a spell
of hard work into a kind of joyful ritual, but the solemnisation of dates came naturally to Joyce and it infects his admirers, Indeed, this deadest time of the year (the Christmas decorations burnt a week ago, the children back at school, the snow come too late to be festive) is brightened by being a sort of Joyce season. It is a season beginning in Advent and ending at Candlemas. January 6th is the Feast of the Epiphany, and the discovery of epiphanies-'showings forth' -of beauty and truth in the squalid and commonplace was Joyce's vocation. February 1st is St Bridget's Day. February 2nd is Joyce's birthday, and two massive birthday presents were the first printed copies of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake; it is also Candlemas Day and Groundhog Day. One is being very Joycean if one tempers the solemnity by remembering the groundhogs. Overlooked by Christmas shoppers, Saint Lucy, Santa Lucia, celebrated her feast on December 13th. T o Joyce, who struggled most of his life against eye- disease, she had a special meaning, being the patron' saint of sight, and his daughter Lucia was named for her. The theme of the whole season is light-out-of-darkness, and it is proper to rejoice (Joyce was well aware of the etymology of his name) in the victory of the light. We are to rejoice even in the death of the first Christian martyr on Boxing Day, and we remember why Joyce appears under the name of Stephen in his autobiographical novels. He too was a martyr, though to literature; a witness for the light, self-condemned to exile, poverty, suffering, vilification and (perhaps worst of all) coterie canonisation in life, that the doctrine of the Word might be spread. He was a humorous martyr, though, full of drink and irony. Out of the stones that life threw at him he made a labyrinth, so that Stephen earned the surname Dedalus. The labyrinth is no home for a
'7
? The Stones
Solemnisations
monster, however; it is a house of life, its corridors ringing with
song and laughter.
In January, 1941, when the news ofJoyce's death filtered through
from Zurich, the world was distracted by other preoccupations, other deaths. Few of his admirers could take time off for a wake. I myself, a private soldier in snow-bound Northumberland, learned the news when I was polishing the windows of the Sergeants' Mess with a week-old copy of the Daily Mail. There it was, on the front page, rightly dwarfed by the bombing of Plymouth.
'Good God, James Joyce is dead. '
'Who the hell's he? ' asked a sergeant.
'A writer. Irish. The author of Ulysses. '
'Aaaaah, a dirty book that is. Get on with the job. ' So Joyce's
quizzical photograph polished away, looking out at the snow ('faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead'. A great writer modifies everything).
Ulysses, then, was generally known of among the so-called non- intellectuals, even though the name Joyce meant only an English traitor, broadcaster of Nazi propaganda. Ulysses (heavily accented on the first syllable) was one of the great dirty books, too dirty to be easily accessible, one of the trilogy ofliterary dirt completed by Lady Chatterley's Lover and The Well ofLoneliness. Most ofus are prurient and will buy the latest piece of literary erotica to be released by a court judgement; we will not join the queue, but we will watch for the queue to die down. I have never felt inclined to condemn people who look for dirt in literature: looking for dirt, they may find some- thing else. I do not think that those of my fellow-soldiers who read paperback pornography for masturbatory thrills saw that sort of stuff as of the same order as The Decameron or Joyce's dirty book. In literature (recognisable as such through bulk, hard words, long stretches of boredom) they wanted confirmation that sexual desire, sexual exercise, and sexual obscenity were valid aspects of life. A solid book in hard covers solemnised the day of the groundhog and showed that holy candles were still phallic. Often it was enough for them just to find the word (sex' in an evidently serious book. For a whole month, in my unit, there was talk ofa dirty book in the guard- room-a book that was never, unsportingly, removed but left there to beguile the tedium of guard-duty. It turned out to be my lost copy of Lawrence's Fantasia of the Unconscious, a work of jaw- locking dullness.
The author of Ulysses, at the time of his death, was not, then, 18
regarded as a pornographic writer even on the lowest level: he was
rather the creator of a big book in which, like ore in dull rock, dirt nestled. Twenty-three years after, thanks to the popularising media, his name is generally known and his other work is at least known of. Paperback copies of his earlier fiction, and even Harry Levin's The Essential James Joyce, may be bought on railway bookstalls; Stephen D-a dramatisation of Stephen Hero and A Portrait ofthe Artist as a Young Man- has been seen at peak-viewing hours on BBC televi- sion. ' The glamour of smut has worn off Ulysses since Henry Miller and the didactic pornograpliy of the East have appeared on the open market. Joyce is available as Ian Fleming is available, and at no higher price. But he remains, to the majority of library-borrowers and paperback-buyers, suspect. He is obscure, crafty, not straight- forward. The low priest of dirt, unfrocked, is the high priest of difficulty.
No one who has wrestled with Finnegans Wilke will deny the diffi- culty there; after ton-loads of exegesis, parts of Ulysses still have to be puzzled out. But is the early work, the latest of it fifty years old, really difficult? In a way, though not an obvious way, yes. The stories in Dubliners are different from the stories of O. Henry, Guy de Maupassant, and W. Somerset Maugham: nothing seems to happen in them, there are no plots, they are not really stories at all. Anyone who has ever read a Dubliners story aloud to a class of adolescents or even adults will know the embarrassment of, at the end of the read- ing, meeting a wave of incredulity, disappointment, even anger: is it really all over ? -why, there is no denouement, no resolution, no twist. Joyce isn't playing fair; he's a confidence trickster; he pretends to be in the tradition but he's really walked out of it. As for A Portrait ofthe Artist as a Young Man, the very opening breaks the rules; this is not how an adult story ought to begin:
Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was corning down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo . . .
But even the surface of his writing offends. After Dubliners, he de- cides to reject both inverted commas and hyphens. His lines of"
lialogue begin with a dash, in the Continental manner:
- Hello, Stephanos!
- Here comes The Dedalus!
- Ao! . . . Eh, give it over, Dwyer, I'm telling you or I'll give you a stuff in the kisser for yourself . . . Ao f
1 So has Bloomsaay-Allan McClelland's dramatisation of Ulysm (June lOth, 1964). 19
? The Stones
Solemnisations
- Good man, Towser! Duck him!
- Corne along, Dedalus! BOlls Stephanoumenos! BOlls Stephaneforos! - Duck him! Guzzle him now, Tawser!
-Help! Help! . . . Ao!
His compound words have a German look about them: 'softhued',
'slateblue', 'darkplumaged', 'earsplitting', Later, in Ulysses, he 15 to pervert conventional word-order as Milton did: 'Perfume of em- braces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore. ' He is to pack and tighten his sentences as the Elizabethans used to: 'Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. ' Or, better, 'She dances in a foul gloom where gum burns with garlic. A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker:rum and
eyes her. A long and seafed silent rut. ' He hates pure fill-m words,
a. guacities; he presses every drop o f water ? ut. of hi~ ~o? ~ed ~abbag. e. His prose thus often looks odd when Its mtelhpblllt!
Harry Levin's James Joyce
(New Directions, revised edition 1960) is brilliant, but - as Henry Reed says in his useful essay, Joyce's Progress, in Orion in 1946 - 'he seems on the whole only to deepen the mystery\ There are many admirable essays on aspects of Joyce's work, but, as yet, few really important full-length critical studies. Needless to say, my own book is not presented as one of them. It is commentary rather than criticism,
Joyce was an autobiographical writer, and my reading of books about Joyce the man, husband and father has always helped to elucidate difficulties in his novels. Richard EHmann's deRnitive biography James Joyce (Oxford University Press, 1959) is a large book that to some extent swallows up Herbert Gorman's earlier life (lames Joyce - Bodley Head, 1941), Frank Budgen's James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses (Indiana, paper, 1960) and Stanislaus Joyce's unfinished memoir My Brother's Keeper (Faber and Faber, 1958), but these three maintain their own flavour and still ought to be read. In Letters of James Joyce, edited by Stuart Gilbert (Viking, 1957), the enigmatic master sometimes says what he is trying to do in his enigmatic works.
The title of the British edition of Re Joyce is Here Comes Everybody. It comes from Finnegans Wake, whose hero Humphrey
10
Foreword
Chimpden Earwicker very frequently has his initials filled out to
s~me appropriate phrase or slogan, like Howth Castle and En. Vlrons or Haveth Childers Everywhere, I do not mean to imply that Earwicker. is Joyce's wry portrait 01 himself; rather, I want to stress the um~ersalityof Joyce's creations, the fact that they are as demotIc as a come-all-ye'. Also I enfold there the hope that it
W ill not be long before everybody comes to Joyce, seeing in him not tortuous puzzles: dirt, and jesuitry gone mad, but great comedy, large humamty, and that affirmation of man's worth that more popular writers stamp on in order to make money.
Chiswick August 1965
A. B.
11
? PART ONE
THE STONES
? I: Solemnisations
I START THIS BOOK ON JANUARY 13TH, '964-THE TWENTY-THIRD - anniversary of the death of James Joyce. I can think of no other writer who would bewitch me into making the beginning of a spell
of hard work into a kind of joyful ritual, but the solemnisation of dates came naturally to Joyce and it infects his admirers, Indeed, this deadest time of the year (the Christmas decorations burnt a week ago, the children back at school, the snow come too late to be festive) is brightened by being a sort of Joyce season. It is a season beginning in Advent and ending at Candlemas. January 6th is the Feast of the Epiphany, and the discovery of epiphanies-'showings forth' -of beauty and truth in the squalid and commonplace was Joyce's vocation. February 1st is St Bridget's Day. February 2nd is Joyce's birthday, and two massive birthday presents were the first printed copies of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake; it is also Candlemas Day and Groundhog Day. One is being very Joycean if one tempers the solemnity by remembering the groundhogs. Overlooked by Christmas shoppers, Saint Lucy, Santa Lucia, celebrated her feast on December 13th. T o Joyce, who struggled most of his life against eye- disease, she had a special meaning, being the patron' saint of sight, and his daughter Lucia was named for her. The theme of the whole season is light-out-of-darkness, and it is proper to rejoice (Joyce was well aware of the etymology of his name) in the victory of the light. We are to rejoice even in the death of the first Christian martyr on Boxing Day, and we remember why Joyce appears under the name of Stephen in his autobiographical novels. He too was a martyr, though to literature; a witness for the light, self-condemned to exile, poverty, suffering, vilification and (perhaps worst of all) coterie canonisation in life, that the doctrine of the Word might be spread. He was a humorous martyr, though, full of drink and irony. Out of the stones that life threw at him he made a labyrinth, so that Stephen earned the surname Dedalus. The labyrinth is no home for a
'7
? The Stones
Solemnisations
monster, however; it is a house of life, its corridors ringing with
song and laughter.
In January, 1941, when the news ofJoyce's death filtered through
from Zurich, the world was distracted by other preoccupations, other deaths. Few of his admirers could take time off for a wake. I myself, a private soldier in snow-bound Northumberland, learned the news when I was polishing the windows of the Sergeants' Mess with a week-old copy of the Daily Mail. There it was, on the front page, rightly dwarfed by the bombing of Plymouth.
'Good God, James Joyce is dead. '
'Who the hell's he? ' asked a sergeant.
'A writer. Irish. The author of Ulysses. '
'Aaaaah, a dirty book that is. Get on with the job. ' So Joyce's
quizzical photograph polished away, looking out at the snow ('faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead'. A great writer modifies everything).
Ulysses, then, was generally known of among the so-called non- intellectuals, even though the name Joyce meant only an English traitor, broadcaster of Nazi propaganda. Ulysses (heavily accented on the first syllable) was one of the great dirty books, too dirty to be easily accessible, one of the trilogy ofliterary dirt completed by Lady Chatterley's Lover and The Well ofLoneliness. Most ofus are prurient and will buy the latest piece of literary erotica to be released by a court judgement; we will not join the queue, but we will watch for the queue to die down. I have never felt inclined to condemn people who look for dirt in literature: looking for dirt, they may find some- thing else. I do not think that those of my fellow-soldiers who read paperback pornography for masturbatory thrills saw that sort of stuff as of the same order as The Decameron or Joyce's dirty book. In literature (recognisable as such through bulk, hard words, long stretches of boredom) they wanted confirmation that sexual desire, sexual exercise, and sexual obscenity were valid aspects of life. A solid book in hard covers solemnised the day of the groundhog and showed that holy candles were still phallic. Often it was enough for them just to find the word (sex' in an evidently serious book. For a whole month, in my unit, there was talk ofa dirty book in the guard- room-a book that was never, unsportingly, removed but left there to beguile the tedium of guard-duty. It turned out to be my lost copy of Lawrence's Fantasia of the Unconscious, a work of jaw- locking dullness.
The author of Ulysses, at the time of his death, was not, then, 18
regarded as a pornographic writer even on the lowest level: he was
rather the creator of a big book in which, like ore in dull rock, dirt nestled. Twenty-three years after, thanks to the popularising media, his name is generally known and his other work is at least known of. Paperback copies of his earlier fiction, and even Harry Levin's The Essential James Joyce, may be bought on railway bookstalls; Stephen D-a dramatisation of Stephen Hero and A Portrait ofthe Artist as a Young Man- has been seen at peak-viewing hours on BBC televi- sion. ' The glamour of smut has worn off Ulysses since Henry Miller and the didactic pornograpliy of the East have appeared on the open market. Joyce is available as Ian Fleming is available, and at no higher price. But he remains, to the majority of library-borrowers and paperback-buyers, suspect. He is obscure, crafty, not straight- forward. The low priest of dirt, unfrocked, is the high priest of difficulty.
No one who has wrestled with Finnegans Wilke will deny the diffi- culty there; after ton-loads of exegesis, parts of Ulysses still have to be puzzled out. But is the early work, the latest of it fifty years old, really difficult? In a way, though not an obvious way, yes. The stories in Dubliners are different from the stories of O. Henry, Guy de Maupassant, and W. Somerset Maugham: nothing seems to happen in them, there are no plots, they are not really stories at all. Anyone who has ever read a Dubliners story aloud to a class of adolescents or even adults will know the embarrassment of, at the end of the read- ing, meeting a wave of incredulity, disappointment, even anger: is it really all over ? -why, there is no denouement, no resolution, no twist. Joyce isn't playing fair; he's a confidence trickster; he pretends to be in the tradition but he's really walked out of it. As for A Portrait ofthe Artist as a Young Man, the very opening breaks the rules; this is not how an adult story ought to begin:
Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was corning down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo . . .
But even the surface of his writing offends. After Dubliners, he de- cides to reject both inverted commas and hyphens. His lines of"
lialogue begin with a dash, in the Continental manner:
- Hello, Stephanos!
- Here comes The Dedalus!
- Ao! . . . Eh, give it over, Dwyer, I'm telling you or I'll give you a stuff in the kisser for yourself . . . Ao f
1 So has Bloomsaay-Allan McClelland's dramatisation of Ulysm (June lOth, 1964). 19
? The Stones
Solemnisations
- Good man, Towser! Duck him!
- Corne along, Dedalus! BOlls Stephanoumenos! BOlls Stephaneforos! - Duck him! Guzzle him now, Tawser!
-Help! Help! . . . Ao!
His compound words have a German look about them: 'softhued',
'slateblue', 'darkplumaged', 'earsplitting', Later, in Ulysses, he 15 to pervert conventional word-order as Milton did: 'Perfume of em- braces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore. ' He is to pack and tighten his sentences as the Elizabethans used to: 'Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. ' Or, better, 'She dances in a foul gloom where gum burns with garlic. A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker:rum and
eyes her. A long and seafed silent rut. ' He hates pure fill-m words,
a. guacities; he presses every drop o f water ? ut. of hi~ ~o? ~ed ~abbag. e. His prose thus often looks odd when Its mtelhpblllt! ' IS not m doubt. It is a special kind of oddness which he shares with a poet- Gerard Manley Hopkins. These two, the renegade Catholic and the Catholic convert, the Jesuit-taught and the Jesuit, teacher, ~ave more in common than critics have been prepared to notIce. Hopkins taught Greek at University College, Dublin, but long before Joyce was a student there: Joyce was only seven when Hopkins died. Hopkins's verse was not published till 1918, when Joyce's mature style was already formed. They were, independently and one ahead of the
other on the same track. 'Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west:her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height waste'-that is Hopkins, but it could be Joyce. 'Isabel, she is so pretty, truth to tell, wildwood's eyes and primarose hair, quietly, all the woods so wild, in mauves of moss and daphnedews, how all so still she lay, neath of the whitehorn child of tree, like some losthappy leaf, like blowing flower stilled'; here Joyce seems almost to parody Hopkins. 'For- wardlike but however and like favourable heaven heard these' is the Joycean'last line of Hopkins's 'The Bugler's First C~mm':ln. ion" written in 1879. Joyce's 'whitemaned seahorses, champmg, bnght- windbridled' would have delighted Hopkins.
There is more to it than a love of packed sentences and a dislike of hyphens. Joyce and Hopkins were led to a common view of art be- cause of a common belief in the power of ordinary life to burst forth -suddenly and miraculously-with a revelation of truth. Joyce talked of 'epiphanies" Hopkins of 'inscape'; Joyce adopted Aqu~nas as his philosopher, Hopkins took to Duns Scotus; the one rejected the
20
Church (or thought he did), the other gave up all for it (or tried to:
literature got in the way); both were so acutely aware of the numi-
nous in the commonplace that they found it necessary to manipulate the commonplaces oflanguage into a new medium that should shock the reader into a new awareness. The language of both of them- priest-poet and free-thinking fabulist-is fitted for naked confronta- tion with a world that seems newly created. It is the lack, not merely of the cliche, but of the rhythm that suggests a cliche, that makes both writers seem odd. Yet this oddness springs from nature: Eng- lish is never abused, never given exotic flavouring; the compressions, re-orderings of the sentence, compound coinages, alliterations are native to the language. 'Our heart's charity's hearth's fire, our thoughts' chivalry's throng's Lord': so Hopkins addresses Christ, and we are listening to English rhythms that were old-fangled before the coming of the Reformation. 'Dead breaths I living breathe,' writes Joyce, 'tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead', and the Norman Conquest is not long behind us. Both writers build, not on the accumulations of the centuries, but on the freshly un- covered roots of English. This, then, makes them look odd.
Oddness is more easily excused in a poet tharr in a novelist. The poet's trade is with words, an odd trade anyway, and he has to arrange them oddly to draw attention to the mystery oflanguage (a mystery which is a distraction in the market-place). But the novelist's trade is less with words than with people and places and actions. Most novel-readers want to get at the content of a novel without the intermediacy o f a kind o f writing that seems to obtrude, rivalling the plot in its claim to be looked at. In the works of the late Nevil Shute there is no such distraction:
He called the front basement room his clean workshop, and this was his machine shop. Here he had a six-inch H. erbert lathe for heavy work, a three-and-a-half-inch Myford, and a Boley watchmaker's lathe. He had. a Senior milling machine and a Boxford shaper, a large and a small dnll press, and a vast arr~y of tools ready to hand. A l. 0! lg bench ran across the window a tubular lIght system ran across the ceIlIng, and a small camera and flashgun stood ready for use in a cupboard, for it was his habit to take photographs of interesting processes to illustrate his articles,
That is from Trustee from the Toolroom, a novel so readable that it slips down like an oyster. Consider also a passage from the late Ian Fleming's Moonraker:
The amenities of Blades, apart from the gambling! are sO,desirable. that the Committee has had to rule that every member IS reqUIred to wm or
21
? The Stones
lose ? 500 a year on the club premises, or pay a~ annual fine of ? 250. The food and wine are the best in London and no btIls are presented, the cost of all meals being deducted at the end of each week pro rata from the profits of the winners. Seeing that about ? 5,000 cha:nges hands each week atthetablestheimpostisnottoopainfulandthelosershavethes~tisfac- tion of saving something from the wreck; and the custom explams the fairness of the levy on infrequent gamblers.
The solidity of such prose is more apparent than real:' it derives
from the content, the hard inventories of fact; otherwise it is pedes-
trian enough. But the average novel-reader can only take descriptive prose of a static nature (that is, prose that is not dialogue and prose that does not present physical action) if it evokes the market-place. If a novel attempts static analysis of a scene, a situation, or an emotion, the average novel-reader becomes uneasy: if you cannot give us action, then give us an inventory. If the covers of a novel could contain a film rather than a book, such readers would be pleased. The film, the comic-strip adaptation, the Reader's Digest summary-these are, in order of easiness, the easiest ways of getting at the heart of a novel. They agree in finding many novels too wordy; words, a necessary evil in the days of primitive art, are rendered supererogatory by the new, mostly visual, media. This is the general view: it is wrong for the novel to be literature. The popular novel
never has been literature, and that is why it is popular: the language
is transparent, a window on to generalised situations and generalised characters. Joyce's novels are all too literary, his language horribly opaque.
All this means is that Joyce is a sort of prose-poet, and to be that is to be a cheat-the dry bread of a good yarn seems to be offered, but it turns out to be the stone (precious but still inedible) of words or symbOl. The thing to do is to forget that the field of the novel is as limited as the cult of the contemporary best-seller is making it, and to consider that Joyce may be within his rights in turning language into one of the characters of Ulysses (perhaps in Finnegans Wake the only character). In Ulysses, the poeticising and the pastiche and parody serve, as we shall see later, a dramatic enough purpose; they also deepen the human characters by adding to their ordinary human dimensions the dimension, first, of history, then of myth. Here is the hero of Ulysses seen in his primary, Nevil Shute, aspect, though the language ofthis inventory has, in sheer sound, in sheer organisa- tion of consonants and vowels, a distinction few popular novelists could reach:
22
Solemnisatians
Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fO'~vls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, l. lver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he lIked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
Here he is seen in relation to one phase of past history:
Some man that wayfaring was stood by housedoor at night's oncoming. Of Israel's folk was that man that on earth wandering far had fared. Stark ruth of man his errand that him lone led till that house.
And here he is in one of his comic-mythic aspects:
And there carne a voice out of heaven, calling: EliJah! Ellj? ah! And he answered with a main cry: Abba! Adonai! And they beheld Him even Him ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over Donohue's in Little Green Street like a shot off a shovel.
'Comic' is the key-word, for Ulysses is a great comic novel-though comic in a tradition that has been obscured by 'popular' cpnceptions of comedy-Po G. Wodehouse, Richard Gordon and the rest. The comedy of Joyce is an aspect of the heroic: it shows man in relation to the whole cosmos, and the whole cosmos appears in his work symbolised in the whole of language.
One idea that should now be emerging is that Joyce is a very traditional writer: he belongs to a period in which the warring notions offine'art and pop-art had no place; he antecedes, certainly, the popular novel in the sense in which we are using that term. He is very close to novelists like Cervantes, Fielding and Sterne, masters of the mock-epic. There is a great deal of Rabelais in hlm and not a little Dickens. He belongs, in fact, to the comic-heroic tradition of Western Europe-a tradition based on a kind of qualified humanism. Man is interesting and important enough to be examined in great detail and at great length, but he is not by any means the Lord of the Universe. The universe can be a mystery or an antagonist: against it the comic-epic hero opposes all he has, and it is not much-merely free will and a capacity for love. His defeats are inevitable but always
contain the seed o f a victory that the universe, a vast mass o f organised
ironmongery, is not equipped to understand. It is the victory of the
stoic who, though the gods themselves crush him with superior weight, knows that his values are right and theirs are wrong. The heroes ofthe great mock-epics are, by an ironical twist, always more admirable, because more human, than the demi-gods of true epic
23
? The Stones
Soiemnisations
It is the face of a man about forty, with a small beard and a high colour. He is laughing, with a touch of anger in his laughter, but no triumph, no malignity. It is the face of a man who is always fighting against something, but who fights in the open and is not frightened, the face of a man who is generously angry-in other words, of a nineteenth-century liberal, a free intelligence, a type hated with equal hatred by all the smelly little ortho- doxies which are now contending for our souls.
No face shines through the novels of James Joyce, and this is dis-
turbing. He is cut off from his own creation, as he is cut off from God's, and he has no comment to make about either. He cannot be enlisted in the cause of Irish nationalism, Fascism or Communism, though-like Shakespeare, a man legitimately faceless because he wrote plays and not novels-he has been invoked in the name of every ideology. Perhaps, among novelists, only Flaubert approaches him for self-effacement.
But, to the novel-reader brought up in a cosier tradition, such
self-effacement looks like hauteur, the nose in the air, the swollen head, the snob. It ought not to look like that.
