Then they take courage and walk to the Palace,
imbibing
there a sacramental cup of nectar, a pledge of paternality and filiality.
re-joyce-a-burgess
While describing the meeting of Bloom and Stephen, first in the newspaper office and later in the maternity hospital, Joyce gives us, as free gifts, a history of newspaper prose and of headlines, a critical textbook on rhetoric, and a parodic survey of English literature.
Finnegans Wake completes the work begun in A Portrait- the work of demonstrating that literature is not just a commentary on life but an integra!
part of it.
The poor poet, the indifferent dramatist and the casual critic take on greatness in the context of life, which is the context of the novel.
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PART TWO
THE LABYRINTH
? ? I: Ways into the Labyrinth
THE ODYSSEY OF Ulysses MAKES VERY PAINFUL READING. AFTER the seven-year labour of writing the book-poverty, eye-disease, the disruption of a European war-came the hell of trying to get it into print. (Even, for that matter) into typescript: much of the 'Circe' episode was burned by the disgusted husband of a volunteer typist. ) When, printed at last in France and published by a Paris bookshop, all the regular British and American channels having turned it down. Ulysses appeared in its handsome colours of the Greek flag and full of misprints (on Joyce's birthday, 1922), it began an unbelievable career of suppression, vilification, adulation, piracy, public and private burning, smuggling. (As a schoolboy I sneaked the two- volume Odyssey Press edition into England, cut up into sections and distributed all ove1 my body. ) When, in 1933, Judge Woolsey pro- nounced in the United States District Court that Ulysses was not obscene and might legally be bought and sold in America, Enghnd still had to wait three years for its own edition. It had taken a long time, all too long, for the legal recognition of a ffilsterpiece. Now we are past being shocked by Ulysses. We can take it calmly from the shelves of the school or public library and marvel at other things than dirty words and descriptions of bodily functions. There are a lot of things to marvel at but, first, a lot of questions to ask. M03t of these questions are assumed in one fundamental question: Why did Joyce write the book at all?
Ulysses is a big book (933 pages in the 1960 Bodley Head edition), and its bigness is one answer. Every novelist wishes to prove to himself and to others that he can tackle a large canvas. The great novels of the past-Don Quixote, Tom Jones, War and Peace, for example-have all been very long, and it is only in great length that novelists can fulfil their blasphemous urge to rival God. To create a few human beings in a segmentary context of life is well enough for the minor artist, but the major writer wants a whole cosmos and the
83
? ? ? The Labyrinth
Ways into the Labyrinth
whole of mankind. He cannot really have all this-Joyce, like Blake, was only able to achieve it by making one character play many parts- but he can at least create a big human community which is a sort of reduced image of the cosmos.
Starting with this vague and general and traditional intention,
Joyce then (or simultaneously, or before) conceived another ambi-
tion-to make a modern novel not merely rival classical achievement but contain it. Classical epic was expansive; classical drama was contractive. Homer covers heaven, earth, the sea and a great slab of time; Sophocles stays in one small place and confines the time of his action to twenty-four hours. And so Joyce stays in Dublin on
June 16th, 1904, but also uses delirium and imagination to encom- pass a great deal of human history and even the End of the World. Greek epic and Greek drama are both contained within the frame- work of a modern bourgeois nove1.
Epic length and the strictures of dramatic form can be reconciled not merely by imaginative 'loops' but by a more detailed examination of the characters' acts and motives than traditional novelists thought either necessary or decent. Bloom must not only eat but defecate; Molly Bloom must meditate not only on her lovers but also on what her lovers are like in bed. With so large a canvas, no human detail may be left out. But the traditional techniques for expressing ,un- spoken thoughts are bound to be insufficient. Hence the 'stream of consciousness' or the 'interior monologue'-an endless commentarv from the main characters on the data thrown at them by life, b~t unspoken, often chaotic, sometimes reaching the thresholds of the unconscious mind. This device had been used before-by Dickens and Samuel Butler, even by that great primitive Jane Austen? -but never on the scale or to the limits employed by Joyce. Joyce, after all, lived in the psycho-analytic era: he liked to joke about his name's having the same etymology as Freud's.
There are two artistic problems raised by the extensive use of interior monologue. The first is concerned with characterisation: how does one make one person's interior monologue sound different from another's, so that we instantly recognise which character is thinking without tiresome mechanical pointers like 'Stephen thought' or 'Bloom thought'? Part of the problem here lies in the fact that the 'stream of consciousness' is essentially pre-verbal: we do not say to ourselves: 'Where's light-switch? Very dark in here. Must be careful. Chair over there, I know. Damn. Barked shin on it'-rather we react without words to stimuli and memories, and any attempt to set
84
down such a process in words is highly conventional. Joyce solves the problem by assigning a characteristic rhythm to the thought- stream of each of his' three main personages. Stephen's is lyrical, subtle somewhat clotted, and, since Stephen is a poet, his interior monol~gueis much more aware of words-not words as conventional signs for images but words as data for meditation-than that of either Bloom or his wife. Bloom's own rhythm is quick, jaunty, jerky, darting, clipped-appropriate for a man more given to pub- talk than to aesthetic disquisitions, expressive of the very soul of an
intell~gent, but not over-educated, advertising canvasser. As for Molly Bloom's rhythm, it somehow combines the practical and the poetical, short words organised into long flowing phrases which- as we are made to take her mind all in one piece, not in instalments- coalesce into a single mammoth sentence which makes up the last chapter of the book.
The other problem is concerned with what the characters shall think about. The mind naturally strays and wanders, holding to nothing very long, coming back frequently to the same point again and again but rarely staying there. A naturalistic representation of the human mind monologuising to itself may be of scientific interest, but it has nothing to do with art. Themes must be imposed on the three main minds of the novel, and these themes must move in towards each other, suggesting purposeful movement and the unity
proper to a work of literature. The main subject of the book-the
creative relationship between spiritual father, spiritual son, and non- spiritual mother-wife-will clamp the consciousness of each mex:nber of the main trio down, preventing over-much free flight, b~t-m so spacious a book-more than that is needed. We have to consIder not only the theme of the book but its structure.
We are back to Joyce's epic intention. He is not only emulating Homer but taking him over. The title Ulysses is no mere ironical reference to the decline of the heroic as exemplified in the emergence of the bourgeois novel from the original epic form: the title is the key to the structure. Bloom is Ulysses having his little adventures in Dublin; Stephen Dedalus is Telemachus in se~rchofa father; Molly Bloom is both the beguiling Calypso and the faithful Penelope. These
identifications would be merely fanciful if there were not a more solid parallel with the Odyssey built into the structure of the work itself: a little study shows the parallel to be both profound and detailed. Each episode of Ulysses corresponds to an episode of the Odyssey, and the correspondence proliferates in a mass of subtle references.
85
? ? The Labyrinth
Ways into the Labyrinth
When, for instance, Bloom strolls by Sir John Rogerson's Q,lay in glonous summer-morning weather, he is re-enacting the lotus-eating e~isode of the Odyssey. Everything-the warmth, the thought of a leIsurely bath, the communicants in the church he visits, the odours of a chemist's shop, conduce to a mood of 'letting go', and the chapter ends with a vision of Bloom in the bath, lapped in a 'womb
of warmth'. This motif controls the direction of Bloom's loose
meditations, gives them form, shapes them to art. It even conditions
the vocabulary which provides the symbols for his interior mono- logue: if we look carefully we see that this vocabulary is a true an- thology, a mass of flower-references. It also modifies the rhythm of the monologue to something more relaxed and passive than we are normally to associate with Bloom.
But the Homeric parallel is only the beginning. Shape and direc- tion are primarily imposed on each chapter by means ofan Odyssean reference, but that reference suggests related references, sub- references, and these have much to do with not only the direction and subject-matter of the interior monologue but the action itself, and even the technique used to present that action. Thus, a Dublin newspaper-office is a reasonable parallel to the cave of lEolus-the god of the winds whose enmity Ulysses earned-and, so that the scriptures may be fulfilled, Bloom goes to the office of the Freeman's
Journal and National Press. It is appropriate that the scene should be wind-swept, galleys flying about the place, but also appropriate that wind should suggest the lungs, the windiness of newspaper rhetoric, the art of rhetoric itself, the wind-swift transmission of news, the history of the art of the presentation of news (expressed in headlines which punctuate the text) and the technique through which the action, talk, and thought are presented. We end up with a formidable battery of clamps- the scene, the art, the presiding physi- cal organ, the technique. Above everything puffs and blows the wind-god himself-the Editor. If we look deepest of all we shall find
that the episode even has a predominant colour-red. Red is right for
the art of inflaming passions through words and the journalistic cult of the sensational.
What applies in this chapter applies nearly everywhere in the
book: to the Homeric parallel we add a presiding organ, art, colour, symbol, and an appropriate technique. The characters cannot think what they want to think nor do what they want to do: they are bound in a lex eterna, disciplined to the making of a work of art, and yet- such is the author's silence and cunning-they appear to have free-
86
will. By the time we have finished the book they have presented us not only with a serio-comic re-telling of the Odyssey but also with a complete conspectus of the arts and sciences, a working model of the human body, a spectrum, and a textbook of literary techniques. These are gifts which we can accept or ignore, just as we wish: they are primarily there in the service of a story. As Joyce himself said, they make a bridge for the marching across of his eighteen chapters; when the chapters have achieved their passage the bridge can be blown sky-high. But the bridge is an astonishing piece of pontifical architecture in its own right.
So far we have answered the question about Joyce's purpose in
writing Ulysses purely in terms of a kind of technical ambition. There is always the danger that, bemused by the sheer skill of the book, we may ignore what the book is about. It is difficult in any work of art to fillet subject-matter from the presentation of subject- matter, and we may find in Joyce's attempt to make a sort of encyclo- paedia with a heart, as well as a rainbow, a sufficient artistic, as opposed to technical, intention. The fundamental purpose of any work of art is to impose order on the chaos of life as it comes to us; in imparting a vision of order the artist is doing what the religious teacher also does (this is One of the senses in which truth and beauty are the same thing). But the religious teacher's revelation is less a creation than a discovery, whereas the artist feels that-God rather than God's servant-he is the author of order. I have already said that the creation of a human community in fiction is the ? closest the novelist can get to the creation of a cosmos, but Joyce is ambitious enough to want to create a human body (chapter by chapter, organ by organ) which is a sort of configuration (as in Blake or Sweden- borg) ofthe ultimate celestial order. This is perhaps less blasphemous than it looks: it may even be taken as a gesture of piety. It may cer- t. linly be taken as Joyce's attempt to build for himself an order which is a substitute for the order he abandoned when he abandoned the Church.
But we must not forget that Joyce is, as well as a cosmic poet and apocalyptical epiphanist, a writer ofstorics. Ulysses is a story, and a simple story at that. It is a story about the need of people for each other, and Joyce regards this theme as so important that he has to borrow an epic form in which to tell it. The invocation of the Odyssey may reduce Ulysses to Bloom, but it also exalts Bloom to Ulysses. It is time to look at the nature of this invocation.
? ? 2: Taking over Homer
'ULYSSES' AND 'ULIXES' ARE, AS EVERY SCHOOLBOY USED TO KNOW, Latin forms of the Greek 'Odysseus', Odysseus was, even quite early in life, Joyce's favourite epic hero, and, knowing something of Joyce's temperament, one can see why. Most primitive poetry is about fighting, and the ancient epic naturally extols fighting quali- ties, making its heroes out of heavyweights gifted with blind courage, brute strength, and a garnishing of conventional virtue. Physical violence was repugnant to Joyce-there is very little of it in his books-but he responded readily enough to more intelligent ways of overcoming an enemy-organisation, coolness, tact, cunning. These qualities are all to be found in Odysseus, and to them we can add
various endearing imperfections of character. He longs to get home to his wife, but he is not averse to fornication with nymphs and god- desses. This wife is a second-best to Helen, whose hand he failed to win, and it is good loser's decency on his part to persuade all the suitors to join him in swearing an oath to'protect Helen from violence. Yet when Helen is carried off to Troy he tries to evade his obligations by pretending to be mad. Still, once launched on the expedition he proves wise and cunning in counsel and prudently brave in war. He is more likeable than Achilles and Ajax and JEneas; he is more human, more Bloom-like. The Iliad gives us a sharp picture of him.
Odysseus's qualities call for celebration in a separate epic poem,
and the Odyssey is devoted entirely to his adventures after the fall of Troy. It covers the ten years between his demobilisation and his arrival home in Ithaca to wrest the little island kingdom from the suitors of his presumed widow Penelope. Most of the' adventures which fin the ten years are related in retrospect, the actual events of the poem taking about six weeks. Before we meet Odysseus we meet his son Telemachus (this opening section of the poem is called the Telemachia). Telemachus, like Hamlet, is sick at heart. Various
88
island princes are seeking the hand of his mother, but she has-with a cunning perhaps learned from her husband-been putting them off by promising to come to a decision when she has finished weaving a winding-sheet for Laertes, Odysseus's father. What she weaves during the day she unravels at night, but, at the opening of the poem, this trick has been discovered: she must choose her husband now. It becomes urgent for Telemachus to get news of his father. He faces the prospect of having a stepfather whom he hates (he hates all the suitors, but Antinous, the candidate with the shortest odds, is the worst of them all); moreover, these insolent princelings are wasting the substance of the little kingdom of Ithaca very fast. Telemachus goes off to consult Nestor at Pylos and Menelaus and his wife Helen at Sparta: they may have news of his father. Meanwhile, the suitors prepare an ambush against his return.
We come now to the Odyssey proper. Odysseus has been living for seven years on the island of Ogygia, detained there by the goddess Calypso. He wants to go home, but she will not let him. But Zeus, father of the gods, steps in and orders his release, and Odys- seus builds himself a raft. He sails on it for seventeen days and comes within sight of Scheria, where the Phaeacians live, but then Poseidon, the sea-god, blows up a storm and destroys the raft. Odysseus, as we shall hear, put out the one eye of Poseidon's giant son Polyphemus, and he will not be allowed to forget it. Odysseus floats for two days on the sea, buoyed up by a scarf which Ino, sea- goddess, has given him, and at length he is cast ashore on the coast of Scheria. Nausicaa, daughter of the king Alcinous, finds him and looks after him. In the palace the bard Democodus sings to him about his own exploits-including that of the Trojan Horse-and Odysseus, who has up to that moment concealed his name, now tells the Phaeacians who he is and recounts his perilous story.
He tells of the raid on the Cicones at Ismarus, then of the land of the Lotus-Eaters, where so many of his men succumbed to the will- destroying, home-forgetting fruit. After that we hear about the one- eyed giant cannibals called Cyclopes and how Odysseus put out the eye of one of them - Polyphemus-with a red-hot stake. Then comes the account of his stay with the wind-god JEolus, who gave him the adverse winds tied up in a bag as a farewell present; his men, think- ing that the bag contained treasure, released the winds, doing them- selves and their leader little good. After that, the Laestrygones, another giant race of cannibals, destroyed eleven of his twelve ships and ate their crews. The forlorn remainder reached iEaea, where the
89
Taking over Homer
? ? The Labyrinth
Taking over Home1
witch-goddess Circe turned them all into swine-except, of course,
Odysseus, who was protected from enchantment by the herb moly, a gift from Hermes. After a year with Circe (during which he begot a son on her, Telegonus, who was eventually to destroy his father unwittingly) he left-his men having been restored to human shape- to consult the seer Tiresias in Hades about his prospects ofreturning to Ithaca. In Hades he saw the ghosts ofmany dead heroes and their womenfolk and talked with his own mother, Anticlea. Back on the sea again, he resisted the lethal song of the Sirens (himself tied to the mast, his men with wax in their ears) and steered between Scylla- a mariner-eating monster in a cave-and the whirlpool Charybdis. After so many lucky or cunning escapes, his men now did for them- selves by killing the cattle ofthe Sun-god Helios on Thrinacia: such
sacrilege earned them a thunderbolt, though Odysseus-who had
warned them against their crime-escaped on the wreckage of the
ship to Ogygia and the arms of Calypso.
Now comes the homecoming or Nostos. The Phaeacians take
Odysseus back to Ithaca (for their pains their ship is turned, by
Poseidon, into a rock on its return) and now the crafty Odysseus has
to encompass the destruction of the suitors. The goddess Athene disguises him as a beggar, and the faithful swineheard Eumaeus tells him of the behaviour of the suitors. He shows himself to Tele- machus (who escapes the suitors' ambush) and together they plan a massacre. Meanwhile, two others learn that this beggar is Odysseus- his nurse Eurycleia and his dog Argus. After insults from the suitors and a fight with the beggar lrus, our hero learns that Penelope is to marry the man who can string the bow of Odysseus and shoot an arrow through twelve axe-heads. Needless to say, only Odysseus can bend the bow and shoot the arrow, and now he stands revealed in his glory and all the suitors quake-with justice, as it turns out, for Odysseus, Telemachus and Eumaeus kill them all, starting with Antinous, and even hang their women. Penelope knows that this must be her husband, since he can tell her what their bedstead looks like, and so all ends, though bloodily, happily. That is how Homer
tells the story.
Joyce tells it rather differently. He has eighteen chapters to
Homer's twenty-four books; he misses out some of Homer's material but inserts an adventure of the Argonauts-that of the Symplegades, or clashing rocks, expanding a reference to the Planktai, or wander- ing rocks, in the twelfth book (line 61) of the Odyssey. Also, he changes the order of Odysseus's exploits and presents them all in
dramatic immediacy, not in epic narration-within-a-narration. The
Joycean Odyssey runs as follows:
Telemachus, like Hamlet, is sick at heart. His mother is dead, and
he feels guilty about her; he has left his father's house to dwell with
two companions. One of these is a foreigner, member of a race that
has usurped the kingdom of his people; the other is a fellow-country- man who perpetually mocks him, demands money from him and even the key of the tower where they live together. He is dis- possessed, bitter at the presence of the usurper. From Nestor-a sage, garrulous and reminiscent prince-he can learn nothing that wi]] lead him back to lawful possession of his rights. He-not Mene- laus-consults the sea-god Proteus, but this god changes his form perpetually, slipping out of the grasp ofTelemachus. Oracular hints have been flashed at him about his need for a spiritual, as opposed to a biological, father, but he cannot formulate this need to himself. Now, after this Telemachia of three episodes, we are ready for Odysseus. Joyce's hero is both an exile and at home. He has his dwelling in the west, but his heart is tugged by ancestral memories of the east, wherefrom his people have wandered. Thus his wife Penelope can take on the properties of a goddess who has seduced him into staying in exile: this is her kingdom, and her name is Calypso. Odysseusgoes forth, having fed her with ambrosia and nectar, and at once finds himself among the Lotus-Eaters. He passes safely through their land and proceeds, with his companions, to
Hades, where he meets the ghosts of the fabled dead. Next he makes
windy contact with . lEolus and nearly meets Telemachus, in whom- his own son being dead - he sees the lineaments of another son. He wanders next among the Laestrygonians, filthy gorgers all, but is himself uneaten.
On the way to Scylla and Charybdis, a necessary passage of his
journey, he espies Antinous, whom he knows to be a suitor of his
wife Penelope. He does not offer fight: he is solitary; he has no son to help him. But now he sees Telemachus himself taking on with courage the perilous passage between the monster's cave and the whirlpool. Telemachus, steering through, sees this sonless father in his turn, and recalls a dream in which such a man seemed to visit him. And now both pseudo-father and pseudo-son have to face new perils: they become Argonauts and venture among the clashing rocks which hide one from the other. Then we are with Odysseus alone once more, and he is not lured by the Sirens' song away from his
purpose-to do the work the gods have set him to do and, at length, 90 91
? ? ? The Labyrinth
return safely to Ithaca. But he ventures into territory where the
Cyclops Polyphemus lurks, and Polyphemus attacks him. Odysseus
gets away, but the giant hurls a heavy missile after him. It is time to
seek brief shelter from the hostile world before continuing the journey. He rests in sight of the sea.
On the seashore the king's daughter Nausicaa is playing with her companions. She falls in love with the mature and weary stranger and, in a dream of abandon, gives herself to him. In a dream Odys- seus takes her, but, in the convalescence of after-love, he comes to
the realisation that, while he is thus dallying away from home, the suitor Antinous has prevailed in Ithaca. It is a bitter moment. Still, ever more mindful of others than himself, he sails to the island where the Oxen of the Sun-god bellow their song of fertility: the island is full of women in labour, and he knows that the wife of a companion is soon to give birth. He lands on the island, enquires about her, and is told that the hour is at hand. He sees that the young Telemachus is there, revelling with drunken companions, and Odysseus is shocked to hear blasphemy spoken against the divine gift of concep- tion: is not this a symbolic slaughtering of the holy oxen? But Zeus hears and, as a warning, launches terrifying thunder.
Odysseus sees that Telemachus has drunk too much wine; what dangers worse than blasphemy may not befall him? He appoints himself the young man's protector and follows him to the island of Circe, where men are turned by magic into swine. The prudent Odysseus is in no danger himself, for the god Hermes has given him the protective herb moly. He sails through terrifYing apparitions and phantasmagorias unscathed. As for the young hero towards whom his attitude grows ever more paternal, he too resists gross transfor- mation and is only in danger of attack from rough men whom lust and drunkenness have turned into beasts. He is struck in the face and falls. And now it is Odysseus's duty to take this new-found son back to Ithaca, to heal him, give him opportunity to recover, and offer him the freedom-as to a true son-of his palace.
But the return to the kingdom must be made with caution. They rest awhile, taking food and drink, in the rude shelter of Eumaeus.
Then they take courage and walk to the Palace, imbibing there a sacramental cup of nectar, a pledge of paternality and filiality. The young man leaves, no stranger now. Odysseus seeks his couch-he is weary; he has travelled far-and his wife Penelope finds in him a masterfulness she has not known before. The suitors may have tasted of her body, but they have not prevailed as Odysseus has prevailed:
92
they cannot draw his long bow of cunning and knowledge of the world and the deathless gods that govern the world. And Odysseus has brought her a son to replace the ttue son they lost long ago to the gods of the underworld. This son, not being of her body, stands in the potential relationship of messiah and lover. She sleeps, well content.
That, briefly, is Joyce's own version of the Odyssey. All we have
to do now is to dress these characters in modern clothes and make
them live through their adventures in a modern city, expanding these adventures to epic length but imposing on them the tight rules ofunity found in the classical drama. Let us go back to the beginning again but this time take it more slowly.
Taking over Homer
93
? ? 3: Telemachus
DAZZLED BY THE MOST GLITTERING ASPECT OF Ulysses - ITS display of literary techniques and its ingenuities of symbolism-we find it easy to regard each chapter as a separable item to be marvelled
at, the whole book as a loose collocation of tableaux like an exhibi- . '
tlon, and to forget that its fundamental concern is with the telling of a story. A plain summary of this story is not very enlightening, but the theme on which the story is based is potent, suggestive, and compelhng. It is the mystery of the relationship between non- begetting father and unbegotten son.
What sounds like nonsense or, at best, a paradox becomes clear
only in a context of theology. At the end of A Portrait we are puzzled by an identification which we did not expect. Stephen Dedalus has been seeing himself as the fabulous inventor of human flight and creator of the Labyrinth. But in his last diary entry he invokes Daedalus as a father. 'Brightness falls from the air' and 'Non serviam' are for Lucifer but also for Icarus, the son of Daedalus whose wings failed him. Stephen is both Daedalus and Icarus, both father and son. How can this mystery be resolved? Only in the
mystical terms of Christian theology, in which Father and Son are, though separate Persons, really aspects ofeach other.
And so the branch oflearning (art or science) which presides over the first chapter of Ulysses is theology. This justifies the liturgical opening, with Buck Mulligan intoning the beginning of the Mass- Introibo ad altare Dei-and carrying a lather-bowl on which a cross is made by a razor and mirror. The scene is that Martello Tower on the Dublin coast where Joyce and Oliver St John Gogarty (the original of Buck Mulligan) lived for a short time (it is now a Joyce
museum), and the hour is eight o'clock on the morning ofJune 16th, 1904. We enter the story without difficulty. The technique is a straightforward narrative onc in which all the characters save one are young. Suddenly, though, the interior monologue of Stephen
94
Dedalus begins. Mulligan's teeth glisten with gold fillings and the detach~dword 'Chrysostomos' is thrown at us. It mean; 'golden ~? uth. and It refers us back to a Saint John so called. The reference IS lforucally apt when we remember that Mulligan is Oliver St John Go? arty. Here th~ worrie~ that accompany us when we read Joyce's major books begm-worne~ about real-life references which, pro- perly, should have no place m the readmg of a work of fiction. Time and time again obscurities only become clear when we consult the biographical background of Ulysses.
'Chrysostomos'-the word links the two worlds ofthe chapter and, for that matter, the bookItSelf. It suggests Christian hagiography a". d, bemg a Greek word, It suggests the Greek myth which, under- Iymg the whole work, must be established at once. Mulligan sees himself as a Greek. He Will teach Stephen the language. They will go to Athens together. They will try to 'Hellenise' the island. He r~cogmses that Stephen's surname is Greek, though this is absurd smce Stephen is a 'jejune jesuit'. Mulligan is a great mocker-of Stephen's 'poverty (he ~as given him some cast-off clothes), of the JesUIt stram m Stephen s make-up which cannot be eliminated. At once we start to see Mulligan as a kind of Antinous to Stephen's T~lemachus. Stephen IS patromsed and bullied. He has, we learn, paId the rent for thIS tower where they are living; soon Mulligan will demand the key as well as 'twopence for a pint'. To make matters worse, an English friend of Mulligan's-Haines-is staying with the~, and Haines serves to remind Stephen of his, and all Ireland's, servitude to the Bntlsh state. The key symbol to this episode is 'Helf', and Stephen feels himself to be disinherited: there is nothing he can call his own.
Mulligan addresses the sea in Greek-'Thalatta! Thalattal'-and says it is a 'great sweet mother'. This brings in a new and important theme-Stephen's guilt in relation to his own mother, recently dead. The eXile foreshadowed at the end of A Portrait was fulfilled: S:ephen went to Paris to study medicine. But a telegram stating that hiS ~other was dying summoned him home again. At his mother's bedSide he refused to kneel and pray for her-non serviatn. The sea a:dullgre. en mass ofliquid', now reminds him ofthe bowl of slug~ glsh bIle she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groamng vomiting'. Pity for her rests with him and he wears mourn- ing as its outwa:d sign, b? t he would not kneel and pray, nor does he regret that h~ did not. H,s mother remains as a symbol for a Church he both despises and fears, since it is the temporal voice of a hateful
95
Telemachus
? ? The Labyrinth
Telemachus
butcher God. And yet, in temperament, he is still what Mulligan
says he is-a 'jejune jesuit'.
If you reject family-which a mother holds together-as well as the ties of Church and State, is there anything left for you? There is art, but art has to be nourished, and Irish art is 'the cracked looking-glass of a servant'. Stephen, so totally disinherited, does not yet know where he will find security and material for the great literature he must create. He despises his father, though he does not fear him: it is his mother, not his father, who is to be associated with the bearded monster called God ('Nobodaddy' to William Blake). What he needs, though he has still to recognise this, is a spiritual or mystical father, a father who is not 'consubstantial'. This father will be a mother as well, and we are given a hint as to where he lies. Mulligan, a medical student, sees bodies cut up in the dis- secting-room of the Mater. The Mater is at the top of Eccles Street, where Leopold Bloom lives. 'Et unam sanetam cathaliearn et apostoli- cam ecclesiam' rings through Stephen's head. 'Eccles'l is there. Bloom will take on the function of both a mother and a church.
Once this opening chapter is under way the father-son theme is
presented obliquely but vigorously. Haines has heard of Stephen's theory of Hamlet and wants it expounded at once. Mulligan says: 'He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father. ' Haines points to Stephen and says: 'What? He himself? ' And then Mulligan mocks Stephen with '0, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search o f a father l' Haines says: 'I read a theological intepretation of it somewhere. The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father. ' And then Mulligan, blasphemous as well as mocking, recites some of his own (that is, Gogarty's) verses- 'The Ballad of Joking Jesus'.
The mockery is apt:
- I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.
With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree,
So here's to disciples and Calvary.
Stephen broods on heresies about the relationship between God the
Father and God the Son. In his own case, we realise, 'Photius and
the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one' speak a salutary warning. If we are to turn Stephen into a kind of Christ we have to
1 In Finnegans Wake, Ulysses is called 'The Blue Book of Eccles'. 96
.
remember that the word can only be made flesh through the mediacy of a mother. For Bloom to be father-mother is well enough in the world of the spirit, but the flesh remains: the physical mother is inescapable. Hence another symbol in this chapter-the omphalos. Stephen first speaks it to himself, in Matthew Arnold's words: 'To ourselves . . . new paganism . . . omphalos. ' Mulligan, talking o f the Martello Tower, says: 'Billy Pitt had them built when the French were on the sea. But ours is the omphalos. ' We are linked to our . mothers by a navel-cord, and so back for ever and ever. And so the image of his mother must remain, a potent symbol, with Stephen all day. Also he is linked through her to two other mothers-Ireland and the Church. He cannot really escape to an empyrean where the son and heir knows only mystical family ties.
I have said that the opening chapter concentrates, with one excep-
tion, on young people, sons and heirs. The exception is the old woman who comes to deliver the milk. She is Ireland, poor and dis- possessed. Haines, her lord and master, speaks Irish; she does not; she has not even her own language. She goes off, uncomplaining, with her milk-bill not fully paid (the twopence that should go to her goes to Mulligan 'for a pint'). Though her Homeric analogue is Athene-who appears in the likeness of Mentor and tells Tele- machus to be wise and courageous like his father-she neither serves as a messenger nor upbraids like a goddess. And yet the sacramental potion of the day's beginning cannot be taken without her: Haines
and Mulligan want milkin their tea; Stephen, though, significantly, is willing to take it black.
The last word of this section is 'Usurper', and it applies equally to
Mulligan and Haines. Mulligan, as Antinous, is actively a usurper, here and now, mocking, patronising, taker of Stephen-Telemachus's goods as well as chider of his spirit and chiller of his courage. Haines's usurpation lies further back, the work of his ancestors, and Haines blames history for what he recognises as England's unfairness to Ireland. History is what Stephen is now to brood on in the fol- lowing chapter. The morning marine colours of white and gold are changed to brown. The technique is that of a catechism, perpetual question and answer, and this is fitting for a scene laid in a school.
The school belongs to Mr Deasy, and Stephen is employed as a teacher there. As the chapter opens he is asking his class questions about Pyrrhus (,Another victory like that and we are done for'), but his interior monologue is obsessed with the nightmare of history in general. History is so very much there, an incubus on living man, as
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Tekmachus
inescapable as the umbilical link with one's own mother. Was there ever any element of choice back there in history, anything which could have made events turn out differently?
Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death? They are not to be thought away. Time has branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass? Weave, weaver of the wind.
His pupils too are oppressed by history. They ask their teacher for a
story, a ghost story, the release through the imagination from the
incubus of the past. Instead, Stephen hears their recitation from Milton's Lycidas, which they have been given to learn by heart. 'Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor': a 'drowned man' motif initiated in the preceding chapter (Mulligan saved a man from drowning) is continued here; it has its obvious Homeric parallel in the many drowned companions o f Odysseus, but it has another func- tion as well-it calls up an aspect of that world of the dead which, like history itself, oppresses the world of the living. The boy Talbot stumbles over the line 'Through the dear might of Him that walked the wave's', and Christ suddenly overshadows history. 'Here also
over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. ' But Stephen mocks the image away:
Riddle me, riddle me, randy roo My father gave me seeds to sow.
It is Thursday, a half-holiday (without that half-holiday the book would not have been possible), and the boys get ready to dismi" and then reassemble for hockey. First, though, Stephen gins them" riddle:
The cock crew,
The sky was blue:
The bells in heaven
Were striking eleven.
'Tis time for this poor soul To go to heaven.
They cannot answer it, and Stephen's own answer disappoints them:
'The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. ' But Stephen
means neither a fox nor a grandmother. The mother motif has re-
98
appeared and, when young Sargent comes to Stephen to be helped with his algebra ('He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather'), it is developed for the length of a whole paragraph. In Sargent Stephen sees the eternal son- 'ugly and futile: lean neck and tangled hair and a stain of ink, a snail's bed'-pro- tected from the world that would crush him by a mother's love. 'With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands. ' In face of the dreadful nightmare of history is perhaps amor matris the only true thing in life? But, while he is asking this question, Stephen traces the sym- bols of an algebraic equation for Sargent, and Oriental images are suggested by these 'imps offancy ofthe Moors' - Averroes and Moses Maimonides, 'flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world'. Leopold Bloom, too, at this moment, is drawn towards an ancestral East, as we shall see when we come to the Joycean Odyssey proper. Stephen's mind and Bloom's mind are tuning up for the eventual meeting.
Stephen and Mr Deasy have a session together in the old school- master's study, full ofstale air, old coins and shells, pictures ofhorses on the walls. Mr Deasy is old, and his room stands for history. He himself stands for Nestor, the wise tamer of horses whom Tele- machus first consulted about the whereabouts of his father. He can tell Stephen nothing that will bring him closer to the repossession of his heritage. 'You think me an old fogey and old tory', he says, rightly. He knows of wrongs committed in the past-'a woman brought sin into the world': Helen, for whom the Greeks made a ten years' war on Troy, MacMurrough's wife who brought the strangers to Ireland, the woman who 'brought Parnell low' (here one Homeric parallel is set, like a clue, before us). But history still 'moves
towards one great goal, the manifestation of God'. To Stephen 'history is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake' and God is 'a shout in the street'. The young dispossessed heir and the man of ancient wisdom can meet at few points, and Mr Deasy shrewdly guesses that Stephen will not stay long in his school.
But Mr Deasy gives Stephen money-his month's salary-and Stephen, through his journalistic contacts, can do Mr Deasy a good turn. Nestor's castle stood near the mouth of the river Alpheus, the river which Heracles deflected to clean out the Augean stables. Around this river cluster a whole host of bovine associations (the Semitic letters alif, lam, pa form a root meaning 'ox'; the letter alpha is derived from a simple representation of an ox's head). It is
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? ? : :
The Labyrinth
Telemachus
appropriate, then, that Mr Deasy should be much concerned about foot-and-mouth disease in Ireland and a threatened embargo on Irish cattle. He is writing a letter on the subject for newspaper publication, and he wants Stephen to place it with one of the editors he knows. This ox motif is important. Through its associations with the Oxen of the Sun, which stand for fertility, it suggests a way out of the treadmill of history-the perpetual renewal presented in Vico's theory of history (the basis of Finnegans Wake), already prefigured here in a reference to Vico Road, Dalkey. The young poet dubs himself 'bullockbefriending bard': the ancient knight has given him
a potent symbol.
Only here, though, do Nestor and Telemachus come together.
Mr Deasy thunders his false prophecies, particularly about the ruin that the Jews will bring upon England. Ireland is safe, however, both from Jewish conspiracy and guilt about Jewish persecution. His last words explain why: 'She never let them in. ' He apparently does not know of that man in Eccles Street. The fact is that Mr Deasy sees history as a march towards glory, the eventual vision of God, and blames the errors ofhistory on bad women and on Jews. To Stephen, as to Blake, history is barren, 'fabled by the daughters of memory'. The symbols of history which are contained in Mr Deasy's study, neatly arranged like facts in catechisms, are shells and coins. To Stephen coins are to spend, not hoard; shells are mere sounding hollows. Telemachus leaves Nestor unenlightened, except for the possession of that bull-image, symbol of a renewal of life not to be found in shelled, coined history.
The third section of this Telemachia is a lengthy monologue and our first encounter with the really 'difficult' Joyce. The scene is the seashore, the colour is green, the symbol the tide, the hour ap- proaches noon. The Homeric parallel is only indirectly concerned with Telemachus. Menelaus, whom Telemachus consults immedi- ately after his visit to Nestor, himself seeks to consult Proteus, the old sea-god who is unwilling to be consulted and will only prophesy if captured. But he is hard to catch, being adept at changing his form, and it is only with the aid of Eidothea, Proteus's daughter, that Menelaus is able to hold him down and question him. Evidently Proteus, in his very name, suggests some primal force, the very stuff o f life, capable o f expressing itself in many forms. Man's most
fundamental questions-about the nature of life, the heavens, the universe-are posed to a mess of shifting, elusive phenomena; he must learn the gift of reading the signs, of understanding the lan-
100
guage in which life expresses itself. It is philology, the science of language, that presides over this episode of Ulysses.
Stephen is his own Menelaus, walking along Sandycove shore, enquiring into the nature of reality, straining the resources of human language in the process. The signatures he must learn to read are all about-'seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen' (so Mulligan described the sea in the first chapter) 'blue- silver, rust: coloured signs'. Aristotle is invoked, 'maestro di color che sanno' (,master of them who know') according to Dante, to tame and classify the elusive world of matter. Stephen provides his own definitions of the elements in which this world lives and moves. Time is the Nacheinander-one thing coming after another; space is the Nebeneinander-one thing coming next to another. These subsist in the dark (Stephen shuts his eyes) when the world of visible matter has been shut out.
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PART TWO
THE LABYRINTH
? ? I: Ways into the Labyrinth
THE ODYSSEY OF Ulysses MAKES VERY PAINFUL READING. AFTER the seven-year labour of writing the book-poverty, eye-disease, the disruption of a European war-came the hell of trying to get it into print. (Even, for that matter) into typescript: much of the 'Circe' episode was burned by the disgusted husband of a volunteer typist. ) When, printed at last in France and published by a Paris bookshop, all the regular British and American channels having turned it down. Ulysses appeared in its handsome colours of the Greek flag and full of misprints (on Joyce's birthday, 1922), it began an unbelievable career of suppression, vilification, adulation, piracy, public and private burning, smuggling. (As a schoolboy I sneaked the two- volume Odyssey Press edition into England, cut up into sections and distributed all ove1 my body. ) When, in 1933, Judge Woolsey pro- nounced in the United States District Court that Ulysses was not obscene and might legally be bought and sold in America, Enghnd still had to wait three years for its own edition. It had taken a long time, all too long, for the legal recognition of a ffilsterpiece. Now we are past being shocked by Ulysses. We can take it calmly from the shelves of the school or public library and marvel at other things than dirty words and descriptions of bodily functions. There are a lot of things to marvel at but, first, a lot of questions to ask. M03t of these questions are assumed in one fundamental question: Why did Joyce write the book at all?
Ulysses is a big book (933 pages in the 1960 Bodley Head edition), and its bigness is one answer. Every novelist wishes to prove to himself and to others that he can tackle a large canvas. The great novels of the past-Don Quixote, Tom Jones, War and Peace, for example-have all been very long, and it is only in great length that novelists can fulfil their blasphemous urge to rival God. To create a few human beings in a segmentary context of life is well enough for the minor artist, but the major writer wants a whole cosmos and the
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? ? ? The Labyrinth
Ways into the Labyrinth
whole of mankind. He cannot really have all this-Joyce, like Blake, was only able to achieve it by making one character play many parts- but he can at least create a big human community which is a sort of reduced image of the cosmos.
Starting with this vague and general and traditional intention,
Joyce then (or simultaneously, or before) conceived another ambi-
tion-to make a modern novel not merely rival classical achievement but contain it. Classical epic was expansive; classical drama was contractive. Homer covers heaven, earth, the sea and a great slab of time; Sophocles stays in one small place and confines the time of his action to twenty-four hours. And so Joyce stays in Dublin on
June 16th, 1904, but also uses delirium and imagination to encom- pass a great deal of human history and even the End of the World. Greek epic and Greek drama are both contained within the frame- work of a modern bourgeois nove1.
Epic length and the strictures of dramatic form can be reconciled not merely by imaginative 'loops' but by a more detailed examination of the characters' acts and motives than traditional novelists thought either necessary or decent. Bloom must not only eat but defecate; Molly Bloom must meditate not only on her lovers but also on what her lovers are like in bed. With so large a canvas, no human detail may be left out. But the traditional techniques for expressing ,un- spoken thoughts are bound to be insufficient. Hence the 'stream of consciousness' or the 'interior monologue'-an endless commentarv from the main characters on the data thrown at them by life, b~t unspoken, often chaotic, sometimes reaching the thresholds of the unconscious mind. This device had been used before-by Dickens and Samuel Butler, even by that great primitive Jane Austen? -but never on the scale or to the limits employed by Joyce. Joyce, after all, lived in the psycho-analytic era: he liked to joke about his name's having the same etymology as Freud's.
There are two artistic problems raised by the extensive use of interior monologue. The first is concerned with characterisation: how does one make one person's interior monologue sound different from another's, so that we instantly recognise which character is thinking without tiresome mechanical pointers like 'Stephen thought' or 'Bloom thought'? Part of the problem here lies in the fact that the 'stream of consciousness' is essentially pre-verbal: we do not say to ourselves: 'Where's light-switch? Very dark in here. Must be careful. Chair over there, I know. Damn. Barked shin on it'-rather we react without words to stimuli and memories, and any attempt to set
84
down such a process in words is highly conventional. Joyce solves the problem by assigning a characteristic rhythm to the thought- stream of each of his' three main personages. Stephen's is lyrical, subtle somewhat clotted, and, since Stephen is a poet, his interior monol~gueis much more aware of words-not words as conventional signs for images but words as data for meditation-than that of either Bloom or his wife. Bloom's own rhythm is quick, jaunty, jerky, darting, clipped-appropriate for a man more given to pub- talk than to aesthetic disquisitions, expressive of the very soul of an
intell~gent, but not over-educated, advertising canvasser. As for Molly Bloom's rhythm, it somehow combines the practical and the poetical, short words organised into long flowing phrases which- as we are made to take her mind all in one piece, not in instalments- coalesce into a single mammoth sentence which makes up the last chapter of the book.
The other problem is concerned with what the characters shall think about. The mind naturally strays and wanders, holding to nothing very long, coming back frequently to the same point again and again but rarely staying there. A naturalistic representation of the human mind monologuising to itself may be of scientific interest, but it has nothing to do with art. Themes must be imposed on the three main minds of the novel, and these themes must move in towards each other, suggesting purposeful movement and the unity
proper to a work of literature. The main subject of the book-the
creative relationship between spiritual father, spiritual son, and non- spiritual mother-wife-will clamp the consciousness of each mex:nber of the main trio down, preventing over-much free flight, b~t-m so spacious a book-more than that is needed. We have to consIder not only the theme of the book but its structure.
We are back to Joyce's epic intention. He is not only emulating Homer but taking him over. The title Ulysses is no mere ironical reference to the decline of the heroic as exemplified in the emergence of the bourgeois novel from the original epic form: the title is the key to the structure. Bloom is Ulysses having his little adventures in Dublin; Stephen Dedalus is Telemachus in se~rchofa father; Molly Bloom is both the beguiling Calypso and the faithful Penelope. These
identifications would be merely fanciful if there were not a more solid parallel with the Odyssey built into the structure of the work itself: a little study shows the parallel to be both profound and detailed. Each episode of Ulysses corresponds to an episode of the Odyssey, and the correspondence proliferates in a mass of subtle references.
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? ? The Labyrinth
Ways into the Labyrinth
When, for instance, Bloom strolls by Sir John Rogerson's Q,lay in glonous summer-morning weather, he is re-enacting the lotus-eating e~isode of the Odyssey. Everything-the warmth, the thought of a leIsurely bath, the communicants in the church he visits, the odours of a chemist's shop, conduce to a mood of 'letting go', and the chapter ends with a vision of Bloom in the bath, lapped in a 'womb
of warmth'. This motif controls the direction of Bloom's loose
meditations, gives them form, shapes them to art. It even conditions
the vocabulary which provides the symbols for his interior mono- logue: if we look carefully we see that this vocabulary is a true an- thology, a mass of flower-references. It also modifies the rhythm of the monologue to something more relaxed and passive than we are normally to associate with Bloom.
But the Homeric parallel is only the beginning. Shape and direc- tion are primarily imposed on each chapter by means ofan Odyssean reference, but that reference suggests related references, sub- references, and these have much to do with not only the direction and subject-matter of the interior monologue but the action itself, and even the technique used to present that action. Thus, a Dublin newspaper-office is a reasonable parallel to the cave of lEolus-the god of the winds whose enmity Ulysses earned-and, so that the scriptures may be fulfilled, Bloom goes to the office of the Freeman's
Journal and National Press. It is appropriate that the scene should be wind-swept, galleys flying about the place, but also appropriate that wind should suggest the lungs, the windiness of newspaper rhetoric, the art of rhetoric itself, the wind-swift transmission of news, the history of the art of the presentation of news (expressed in headlines which punctuate the text) and the technique through which the action, talk, and thought are presented. We end up with a formidable battery of clamps- the scene, the art, the presiding physi- cal organ, the technique. Above everything puffs and blows the wind-god himself-the Editor. If we look deepest of all we shall find
that the episode even has a predominant colour-red. Red is right for
the art of inflaming passions through words and the journalistic cult of the sensational.
What applies in this chapter applies nearly everywhere in the
book: to the Homeric parallel we add a presiding organ, art, colour, symbol, and an appropriate technique. The characters cannot think what they want to think nor do what they want to do: they are bound in a lex eterna, disciplined to the making of a work of art, and yet- such is the author's silence and cunning-they appear to have free-
86
will. By the time we have finished the book they have presented us not only with a serio-comic re-telling of the Odyssey but also with a complete conspectus of the arts and sciences, a working model of the human body, a spectrum, and a textbook of literary techniques. These are gifts which we can accept or ignore, just as we wish: they are primarily there in the service of a story. As Joyce himself said, they make a bridge for the marching across of his eighteen chapters; when the chapters have achieved their passage the bridge can be blown sky-high. But the bridge is an astonishing piece of pontifical architecture in its own right.
So far we have answered the question about Joyce's purpose in
writing Ulysses purely in terms of a kind of technical ambition. There is always the danger that, bemused by the sheer skill of the book, we may ignore what the book is about. It is difficult in any work of art to fillet subject-matter from the presentation of subject- matter, and we may find in Joyce's attempt to make a sort of encyclo- paedia with a heart, as well as a rainbow, a sufficient artistic, as opposed to technical, intention. The fundamental purpose of any work of art is to impose order on the chaos of life as it comes to us; in imparting a vision of order the artist is doing what the religious teacher also does (this is One of the senses in which truth and beauty are the same thing). But the religious teacher's revelation is less a creation than a discovery, whereas the artist feels that-God rather than God's servant-he is the author of order. I have already said that the creation of a human community in fiction is the ? closest the novelist can get to the creation of a cosmos, but Joyce is ambitious enough to want to create a human body (chapter by chapter, organ by organ) which is a sort of configuration (as in Blake or Sweden- borg) ofthe ultimate celestial order. This is perhaps less blasphemous than it looks: it may even be taken as a gesture of piety. It may cer- t. linly be taken as Joyce's attempt to build for himself an order which is a substitute for the order he abandoned when he abandoned the Church.
But we must not forget that Joyce is, as well as a cosmic poet and apocalyptical epiphanist, a writer ofstorics. Ulysses is a story, and a simple story at that. It is a story about the need of people for each other, and Joyce regards this theme as so important that he has to borrow an epic form in which to tell it. The invocation of the Odyssey may reduce Ulysses to Bloom, but it also exalts Bloom to Ulysses. It is time to look at the nature of this invocation.
? ? 2: Taking over Homer
'ULYSSES' AND 'ULIXES' ARE, AS EVERY SCHOOLBOY USED TO KNOW, Latin forms of the Greek 'Odysseus', Odysseus was, even quite early in life, Joyce's favourite epic hero, and, knowing something of Joyce's temperament, one can see why. Most primitive poetry is about fighting, and the ancient epic naturally extols fighting quali- ties, making its heroes out of heavyweights gifted with blind courage, brute strength, and a garnishing of conventional virtue. Physical violence was repugnant to Joyce-there is very little of it in his books-but he responded readily enough to more intelligent ways of overcoming an enemy-organisation, coolness, tact, cunning. These qualities are all to be found in Odysseus, and to them we can add
various endearing imperfections of character. He longs to get home to his wife, but he is not averse to fornication with nymphs and god- desses. This wife is a second-best to Helen, whose hand he failed to win, and it is good loser's decency on his part to persuade all the suitors to join him in swearing an oath to'protect Helen from violence. Yet when Helen is carried off to Troy he tries to evade his obligations by pretending to be mad. Still, once launched on the expedition he proves wise and cunning in counsel and prudently brave in war. He is more likeable than Achilles and Ajax and JEneas; he is more human, more Bloom-like. The Iliad gives us a sharp picture of him.
Odysseus's qualities call for celebration in a separate epic poem,
and the Odyssey is devoted entirely to his adventures after the fall of Troy. It covers the ten years between his demobilisation and his arrival home in Ithaca to wrest the little island kingdom from the suitors of his presumed widow Penelope. Most of the' adventures which fin the ten years are related in retrospect, the actual events of the poem taking about six weeks. Before we meet Odysseus we meet his son Telemachus (this opening section of the poem is called the Telemachia). Telemachus, like Hamlet, is sick at heart. Various
88
island princes are seeking the hand of his mother, but she has-with a cunning perhaps learned from her husband-been putting them off by promising to come to a decision when she has finished weaving a winding-sheet for Laertes, Odysseus's father. What she weaves during the day she unravels at night, but, at the opening of the poem, this trick has been discovered: she must choose her husband now. It becomes urgent for Telemachus to get news of his father. He faces the prospect of having a stepfather whom he hates (he hates all the suitors, but Antinous, the candidate with the shortest odds, is the worst of them all); moreover, these insolent princelings are wasting the substance of the little kingdom of Ithaca very fast. Telemachus goes off to consult Nestor at Pylos and Menelaus and his wife Helen at Sparta: they may have news of his father. Meanwhile, the suitors prepare an ambush against his return.
We come now to the Odyssey proper. Odysseus has been living for seven years on the island of Ogygia, detained there by the goddess Calypso. He wants to go home, but she will not let him. But Zeus, father of the gods, steps in and orders his release, and Odys- seus builds himself a raft. He sails on it for seventeen days and comes within sight of Scheria, where the Phaeacians live, but then Poseidon, the sea-god, blows up a storm and destroys the raft. Odysseus, as we shall hear, put out the one eye of Poseidon's giant son Polyphemus, and he will not be allowed to forget it. Odysseus floats for two days on the sea, buoyed up by a scarf which Ino, sea- goddess, has given him, and at length he is cast ashore on the coast of Scheria. Nausicaa, daughter of the king Alcinous, finds him and looks after him. In the palace the bard Democodus sings to him about his own exploits-including that of the Trojan Horse-and Odysseus, who has up to that moment concealed his name, now tells the Phaeacians who he is and recounts his perilous story.
He tells of the raid on the Cicones at Ismarus, then of the land of the Lotus-Eaters, where so many of his men succumbed to the will- destroying, home-forgetting fruit. After that we hear about the one- eyed giant cannibals called Cyclopes and how Odysseus put out the eye of one of them - Polyphemus-with a red-hot stake. Then comes the account of his stay with the wind-god JEolus, who gave him the adverse winds tied up in a bag as a farewell present; his men, think- ing that the bag contained treasure, released the winds, doing them- selves and their leader little good. After that, the Laestrygones, another giant race of cannibals, destroyed eleven of his twelve ships and ate their crews. The forlorn remainder reached iEaea, where the
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Taking over Homer
? ? The Labyrinth
Taking over Home1
witch-goddess Circe turned them all into swine-except, of course,
Odysseus, who was protected from enchantment by the herb moly, a gift from Hermes. After a year with Circe (during which he begot a son on her, Telegonus, who was eventually to destroy his father unwittingly) he left-his men having been restored to human shape- to consult the seer Tiresias in Hades about his prospects ofreturning to Ithaca. In Hades he saw the ghosts ofmany dead heroes and their womenfolk and talked with his own mother, Anticlea. Back on the sea again, he resisted the lethal song of the Sirens (himself tied to the mast, his men with wax in their ears) and steered between Scylla- a mariner-eating monster in a cave-and the whirlpool Charybdis. After so many lucky or cunning escapes, his men now did for them- selves by killing the cattle ofthe Sun-god Helios on Thrinacia: such
sacrilege earned them a thunderbolt, though Odysseus-who had
warned them against their crime-escaped on the wreckage of the
ship to Ogygia and the arms of Calypso.
Now comes the homecoming or Nostos. The Phaeacians take
Odysseus back to Ithaca (for their pains their ship is turned, by
Poseidon, into a rock on its return) and now the crafty Odysseus has
to encompass the destruction of the suitors. The goddess Athene disguises him as a beggar, and the faithful swineheard Eumaeus tells him of the behaviour of the suitors. He shows himself to Tele- machus (who escapes the suitors' ambush) and together they plan a massacre. Meanwhile, two others learn that this beggar is Odysseus- his nurse Eurycleia and his dog Argus. After insults from the suitors and a fight with the beggar lrus, our hero learns that Penelope is to marry the man who can string the bow of Odysseus and shoot an arrow through twelve axe-heads. Needless to say, only Odysseus can bend the bow and shoot the arrow, and now he stands revealed in his glory and all the suitors quake-with justice, as it turns out, for Odysseus, Telemachus and Eumaeus kill them all, starting with Antinous, and even hang their women. Penelope knows that this must be her husband, since he can tell her what their bedstead looks like, and so all ends, though bloodily, happily. That is how Homer
tells the story.
Joyce tells it rather differently. He has eighteen chapters to
Homer's twenty-four books; he misses out some of Homer's material but inserts an adventure of the Argonauts-that of the Symplegades, or clashing rocks, expanding a reference to the Planktai, or wander- ing rocks, in the twelfth book (line 61) of the Odyssey. Also, he changes the order of Odysseus's exploits and presents them all in
dramatic immediacy, not in epic narration-within-a-narration. The
Joycean Odyssey runs as follows:
Telemachus, like Hamlet, is sick at heart. His mother is dead, and
he feels guilty about her; he has left his father's house to dwell with
two companions. One of these is a foreigner, member of a race that
has usurped the kingdom of his people; the other is a fellow-country- man who perpetually mocks him, demands money from him and even the key of the tower where they live together. He is dis- possessed, bitter at the presence of the usurper. From Nestor-a sage, garrulous and reminiscent prince-he can learn nothing that wi]] lead him back to lawful possession of his rights. He-not Mene- laus-consults the sea-god Proteus, but this god changes his form perpetually, slipping out of the grasp ofTelemachus. Oracular hints have been flashed at him about his need for a spiritual, as opposed to a biological, father, but he cannot formulate this need to himself. Now, after this Telemachia of three episodes, we are ready for Odysseus. Joyce's hero is both an exile and at home. He has his dwelling in the west, but his heart is tugged by ancestral memories of the east, wherefrom his people have wandered. Thus his wife Penelope can take on the properties of a goddess who has seduced him into staying in exile: this is her kingdom, and her name is Calypso. Odysseusgoes forth, having fed her with ambrosia and nectar, and at once finds himself among the Lotus-Eaters. He passes safely through their land and proceeds, with his companions, to
Hades, where he meets the ghosts of the fabled dead. Next he makes
windy contact with . lEolus and nearly meets Telemachus, in whom- his own son being dead - he sees the lineaments of another son. He wanders next among the Laestrygonians, filthy gorgers all, but is himself uneaten.
On the way to Scylla and Charybdis, a necessary passage of his
journey, he espies Antinous, whom he knows to be a suitor of his
wife Penelope. He does not offer fight: he is solitary; he has no son to help him. But now he sees Telemachus himself taking on with courage the perilous passage between the monster's cave and the whirlpool. Telemachus, steering through, sees this sonless father in his turn, and recalls a dream in which such a man seemed to visit him. And now both pseudo-father and pseudo-son have to face new perils: they become Argonauts and venture among the clashing rocks which hide one from the other. Then we are with Odysseus alone once more, and he is not lured by the Sirens' song away from his
purpose-to do the work the gods have set him to do and, at length, 90 91
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return safely to Ithaca. But he ventures into territory where the
Cyclops Polyphemus lurks, and Polyphemus attacks him. Odysseus
gets away, but the giant hurls a heavy missile after him. It is time to
seek brief shelter from the hostile world before continuing the journey. He rests in sight of the sea.
On the seashore the king's daughter Nausicaa is playing with her companions. She falls in love with the mature and weary stranger and, in a dream of abandon, gives herself to him. In a dream Odys- seus takes her, but, in the convalescence of after-love, he comes to
the realisation that, while he is thus dallying away from home, the suitor Antinous has prevailed in Ithaca. It is a bitter moment. Still, ever more mindful of others than himself, he sails to the island where the Oxen of the Sun-god bellow their song of fertility: the island is full of women in labour, and he knows that the wife of a companion is soon to give birth. He lands on the island, enquires about her, and is told that the hour is at hand. He sees that the young Telemachus is there, revelling with drunken companions, and Odysseus is shocked to hear blasphemy spoken against the divine gift of concep- tion: is not this a symbolic slaughtering of the holy oxen? But Zeus hears and, as a warning, launches terrifying thunder.
Odysseus sees that Telemachus has drunk too much wine; what dangers worse than blasphemy may not befall him? He appoints himself the young man's protector and follows him to the island of Circe, where men are turned by magic into swine. The prudent Odysseus is in no danger himself, for the god Hermes has given him the protective herb moly. He sails through terrifYing apparitions and phantasmagorias unscathed. As for the young hero towards whom his attitude grows ever more paternal, he too resists gross transfor- mation and is only in danger of attack from rough men whom lust and drunkenness have turned into beasts. He is struck in the face and falls. And now it is Odysseus's duty to take this new-found son back to Ithaca, to heal him, give him opportunity to recover, and offer him the freedom-as to a true son-of his palace.
But the return to the kingdom must be made with caution. They rest awhile, taking food and drink, in the rude shelter of Eumaeus.
Then they take courage and walk to the Palace, imbibing there a sacramental cup of nectar, a pledge of paternality and filiality. The young man leaves, no stranger now. Odysseus seeks his couch-he is weary; he has travelled far-and his wife Penelope finds in him a masterfulness she has not known before. The suitors may have tasted of her body, but they have not prevailed as Odysseus has prevailed:
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they cannot draw his long bow of cunning and knowledge of the world and the deathless gods that govern the world. And Odysseus has brought her a son to replace the ttue son they lost long ago to the gods of the underworld. This son, not being of her body, stands in the potential relationship of messiah and lover. She sleeps, well content.
That, briefly, is Joyce's own version of the Odyssey. All we have
to do now is to dress these characters in modern clothes and make
them live through their adventures in a modern city, expanding these adventures to epic length but imposing on them the tight rules ofunity found in the classical drama. Let us go back to the beginning again but this time take it more slowly.
Taking over Homer
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DAZZLED BY THE MOST GLITTERING ASPECT OF Ulysses - ITS display of literary techniques and its ingenuities of symbolism-we find it easy to regard each chapter as a separable item to be marvelled
at, the whole book as a loose collocation of tableaux like an exhibi- . '
tlon, and to forget that its fundamental concern is with the telling of a story. A plain summary of this story is not very enlightening, but the theme on which the story is based is potent, suggestive, and compelhng. It is the mystery of the relationship between non- begetting father and unbegotten son.
What sounds like nonsense or, at best, a paradox becomes clear
only in a context of theology. At the end of A Portrait we are puzzled by an identification which we did not expect. Stephen Dedalus has been seeing himself as the fabulous inventor of human flight and creator of the Labyrinth. But in his last diary entry he invokes Daedalus as a father. 'Brightness falls from the air' and 'Non serviam' are for Lucifer but also for Icarus, the son of Daedalus whose wings failed him. Stephen is both Daedalus and Icarus, both father and son. How can this mystery be resolved? Only in the
mystical terms of Christian theology, in which Father and Son are, though separate Persons, really aspects ofeach other.
And so the branch oflearning (art or science) which presides over the first chapter of Ulysses is theology. This justifies the liturgical opening, with Buck Mulligan intoning the beginning of the Mass- Introibo ad altare Dei-and carrying a lather-bowl on which a cross is made by a razor and mirror. The scene is that Martello Tower on the Dublin coast where Joyce and Oliver St John Gogarty (the original of Buck Mulligan) lived for a short time (it is now a Joyce
museum), and the hour is eight o'clock on the morning ofJune 16th, 1904. We enter the story without difficulty. The technique is a straightforward narrative onc in which all the characters save one are young. Suddenly, though, the interior monologue of Stephen
94
Dedalus begins. Mulligan's teeth glisten with gold fillings and the detach~dword 'Chrysostomos' is thrown at us. It mean; 'golden ~? uth. and It refers us back to a Saint John so called. The reference IS lforucally apt when we remember that Mulligan is Oliver St John Go? arty. Here th~ worrie~ that accompany us when we read Joyce's major books begm-worne~ about real-life references which, pro- perly, should have no place m the readmg of a work of fiction. Time and time again obscurities only become clear when we consult the biographical background of Ulysses.
'Chrysostomos'-the word links the two worlds ofthe chapter and, for that matter, the bookItSelf. It suggests Christian hagiography a". d, bemg a Greek word, It suggests the Greek myth which, under- Iymg the whole work, must be established at once. Mulligan sees himself as a Greek. He Will teach Stephen the language. They will go to Athens together. They will try to 'Hellenise' the island. He r~cogmses that Stephen's surname is Greek, though this is absurd smce Stephen is a 'jejune jesuit'. Mulligan is a great mocker-of Stephen's 'poverty (he ~as given him some cast-off clothes), of the JesUIt stram m Stephen s make-up which cannot be eliminated. At once we start to see Mulligan as a kind of Antinous to Stephen's T~lemachus. Stephen IS patromsed and bullied. He has, we learn, paId the rent for thIS tower where they are living; soon Mulligan will demand the key as well as 'twopence for a pint'. To make matters worse, an English friend of Mulligan's-Haines-is staying with the~, and Haines serves to remind Stephen of his, and all Ireland's, servitude to the Bntlsh state. The key symbol to this episode is 'Helf', and Stephen feels himself to be disinherited: there is nothing he can call his own.
Mulligan addresses the sea in Greek-'Thalatta! Thalattal'-and says it is a 'great sweet mother'. This brings in a new and important theme-Stephen's guilt in relation to his own mother, recently dead. The eXile foreshadowed at the end of A Portrait was fulfilled: S:ephen went to Paris to study medicine. But a telegram stating that hiS ~other was dying summoned him home again. At his mother's bedSide he refused to kneel and pray for her-non serviatn. The sea a:dullgre. en mass ofliquid', now reminds him ofthe bowl of slug~ glsh bIle she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groamng vomiting'. Pity for her rests with him and he wears mourn- ing as its outwa:d sign, b? t he would not kneel and pray, nor does he regret that h~ did not. H,s mother remains as a symbol for a Church he both despises and fears, since it is the temporal voice of a hateful
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Telemachus
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Telemachus
butcher God. And yet, in temperament, he is still what Mulligan
says he is-a 'jejune jesuit'.
If you reject family-which a mother holds together-as well as the ties of Church and State, is there anything left for you? There is art, but art has to be nourished, and Irish art is 'the cracked looking-glass of a servant'. Stephen, so totally disinherited, does not yet know where he will find security and material for the great literature he must create. He despises his father, though he does not fear him: it is his mother, not his father, who is to be associated with the bearded monster called God ('Nobodaddy' to William Blake). What he needs, though he has still to recognise this, is a spiritual or mystical father, a father who is not 'consubstantial'. This father will be a mother as well, and we are given a hint as to where he lies. Mulligan, a medical student, sees bodies cut up in the dis- secting-room of the Mater. The Mater is at the top of Eccles Street, where Leopold Bloom lives. 'Et unam sanetam cathaliearn et apostoli- cam ecclesiam' rings through Stephen's head. 'Eccles'l is there. Bloom will take on the function of both a mother and a church.
Once this opening chapter is under way the father-son theme is
presented obliquely but vigorously. Haines has heard of Stephen's theory of Hamlet and wants it expounded at once. Mulligan says: 'He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father. ' Haines points to Stephen and says: 'What? He himself? ' And then Mulligan mocks Stephen with '0, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search o f a father l' Haines says: 'I read a theological intepretation of it somewhere. The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father. ' And then Mulligan, blasphemous as well as mocking, recites some of his own (that is, Gogarty's) verses- 'The Ballad of Joking Jesus'.
The mockery is apt:
- I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.
With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree,
So here's to disciples and Calvary.
Stephen broods on heresies about the relationship between God the
Father and God the Son. In his own case, we realise, 'Photius and
the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one' speak a salutary warning. If we are to turn Stephen into a kind of Christ we have to
1 In Finnegans Wake, Ulysses is called 'The Blue Book of Eccles'. 96
.
remember that the word can only be made flesh through the mediacy of a mother. For Bloom to be father-mother is well enough in the world of the spirit, but the flesh remains: the physical mother is inescapable. Hence another symbol in this chapter-the omphalos. Stephen first speaks it to himself, in Matthew Arnold's words: 'To ourselves . . . new paganism . . . omphalos. ' Mulligan, talking o f the Martello Tower, says: 'Billy Pitt had them built when the French were on the sea. But ours is the omphalos. ' We are linked to our . mothers by a navel-cord, and so back for ever and ever. And so the image of his mother must remain, a potent symbol, with Stephen all day. Also he is linked through her to two other mothers-Ireland and the Church. He cannot really escape to an empyrean where the son and heir knows only mystical family ties.
I have said that the opening chapter concentrates, with one excep-
tion, on young people, sons and heirs. The exception is the old woman who comes to deliver the milk. She is Ireland, poor and dis- possessed. Haines, her lord and master, speaks Irish; she does not; she has not even her own language. She goes off, uncomplaining, with her milk-bill not fully paid (the twopence that should go to her goes to Mulligan 'for a pint'). Though her Homeric analogue is Athene-who appears in the likeness of Mentor and tells Tele- machus to be wise and courageous like his father-she neither serves as a messenger nor upbraids like a goddess. And yet the sacramental potion of the day's beginning cannot be taken without her: Haines
and Mulligan want milkin their tea; Stephen, though, significantly, is willing to take it black.
The last word of this section is 'Usurper', and it applies equally to
Mulligan and Haines. Mulligan, as Antinous, is actively a usurper, here and now, mocking, patronising, taker of Stephen-Telemachus's goods as well as chider of his spirit and chiller of his courage. Haines's usurpation lies further back, the work of his ancestors, and Haines blames history for what he recognises as England's unfairness to Ireland. History is what Stephen is now to brood on in the fol- lowing chapter. The morning marine colours of white and gold are changed to brown. The technique is that of a catechism, perpetual question and answer, and this is fitting for a scene laid in a school.
The school belongs to Mr Deasy, and Stephen is employed as a teacher there. As the chapter opens he is asking his class questions about Pyrrhus (,Another victory like that and we are done for'), but his interior monologue is obsessed with the nightmare of history in general. History is so very much there, an incubus on living man, as
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Tekmachus
inescapable as the umbilical link with one's own mother. Was there ever any element of choice back there in history, anything which could have made events turn out differently?
Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death? They are not to be thought away. Time has branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass? Weave, weaver of the wind.
His pupils too are oppressed by history. They ask their teacher for a
story, a ghost story, the release through the imagination from the
incubus of the past. Instead, Stephen hears their recitation from Milton's Lycidas, which they have been given to learn by heart. 'Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor': a 'drowned man' motif initiated in the preceding chapter (Mulligan saved a man from drowning) is continued here; it has its obvious Homeric parallel in the many drowned companions o f Odysseus, but it has another func- tion as well-it calls up an aspect of that world of the dead which, like history itself, oppresses the world of the living. The boy Talbot stumbles over the line 'Through the dear might of Him that walked the wave's', and Christ suddenly overshadows history. 'Here also
over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. ' But Stephen mocks the image away:
Riddle me, riddle me, randy roo My father gave me seeds to sow.
It is Thursday, a half-holiday (without that half-holiday the book would not have been possible), and the boys get ready to dismi" and then reassemble for hockey. First, though, Stephen gins them" riddle:
The cock crew,
The sky was blue:
The bells in heaven
Were striking eleven.
'Tis time for this poor soul To go to heaven.
They cannot answer it, and Stephen's own answer disappoints them:
'The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. ' But Stephen
means neither a fox nor a grandmother. The mother motif has re-
98
appeared and, when young Sargent comes to Stephen to be helped with his algebra ('He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather'), it is developed for the length of a whole paragraph. In Sargent Stephen sees the eternal son- 'ugly and futile: lean neck and tangled hair and a stain of ink, a snail's bed'-pro- tected from the world that would crush him by a mother's love. 'With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands. ' In face of the dreadful nightmare of history is perhaps amor matris the only true thing in life? But, while he is asking this question, Stephen traces the sym- bols of an algebraic equation for Sargent, and Oriental images are suggested by these 'imps offancy ofthe Moors' - Averroes and Moses Maimonides, 'flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world'. Leopold Bloom, too, at this moment, is drawn towards an ancestral East, as we shall see when we come to the Joycean Odyssey proper. Stephen's mind and Bloom's mind are tuning up for the eventual meeting.
Stephen and Mr Deasy have a session together in the old school- master's study, full ofstale air, old coins and shells, pictures ofhorses on the walls. Mr Deasy is old, and his room stands for history. He himself stands for Nestor, the wise tamer of horses whom Tele- machus first consulted about the whereabouts of his father. He can tell Stephen nothing that will bring him closer to the repossession of his heritage. 'You think me an old fogey and old tory', he says, rightly. He knows of wrongs committed in the past-'a woman brought sin into the world': Helen, for whom the Greeks made a ten years' war on Troy, MacMurrough's wife who brought the strangers to Ireland, the woman who 'brought Parnell low' (here one Homeric parallel is set, like a clue, before us). But history still 'moves
towards one great goal, the manifestation of God'. To Stephen 'history is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake' and God is 'a shout in the street'. The young dispossessed heir and the man of ancient wisdom can meet at few points, and Mr Deasy shrewdly guesses that Stephen will not stay long in his school.
But Mr Deasy gives Stephen money-his month's salary-and Stephen, through his journalistic contacts, can do Mr Deasy a good turn. Nestor's castle stood near the mouth of the river Alpheus, the river which Heracles deflected to clean out the Augean stables. Around this river cluster a whole host of bovine associations (the Semitic letters alif, lam, pa form a root meaning 'ox'; the letter alpha is derived from a simple representation of an ox's head). It is
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The Labyrinth
Telemachus
appropriate, then, that Mr Deasy should be much concerned about foot-and-mouth disease in Ireland and a threatened embargo on Irish cattle. He is writing a letter on the subject for newspaper publication, and he wants Stephen to place it with one of the editors he knows. This ox motif is important. Through its associations with the Oxen of the Sun, which stand for fertility, it suggests a way out of the treadmill of history-the perpetual renewal presented in Vico's theory of history (the basis of Finnegans Wake), already prefigured here in a reference to Vico Road, Dalkey. The young poet dubs himself 'bullockbefriending bard': the ancient knight has given him
a potent symbol.
Only here, though, do Nestor and Telemachus come together.
Mr Deasy thunders his false prophecies, particularly about the ruin that the Jews will bring upon England. Ireland is safe, however, both from Jewish conspiracy and guilt about Jewish persecution. His last words explain why: 'She never let them in. ' He apparently does not know of that man in Eccles Street. The fact is that Mr Deasy sees history as a march towards glory, the eventual vision of God, and blames the errors ofhistory on bad women and on Jews. To Stephen, as to Blake, history is barren, 'fabled by the daughters of memory'. The symbols of history which are contained in Mr Deasy's study, neatly arranged like facts in catechisms, are shells and coins. To Stephen coins are to spend, not hoard; shells are mere sounding hollows. Telemachus leaves Nestor unenlightened, except for the possession of that bull-image, symbol of a renewal of life not to be found in shelled, coined history.
The third section of this Telemachia is a lengthy monologue and our first encounter with the really 'difficult' Joyce. The scene is the seashore, the colour is green, the symbol the tide, the hour ap- proaches noon. The Homeric parallel is only indirectly concerned with Telemachus. Menelaus, whom Telemachus consults immedi- ately after his visit to Nestor, himself seeks to consult Proteus, the old sea-god who is unwilling to be consulted and will only prophesy if captured. But he is hard to catch, being adept at changing his form, and it is only with the aid of Eidothea, Proteus's daughter, that Menelaus is able to hold him down and question him. Evidently Proteus, in his very name, suggests some primal force, the very stuff o f life, capable o f expressing itself in many forms. Man's most
fundamental questions-about the nature of life, the heavens, the universe-are posed to a mess of shifting, elusive phenomena; he must learn the gift of reading the signs, of understanding the lan-
100
guage in which life expresses itself. It is philology, the science of language, that presides over this episode of Ulysses.
Stephen is his own Menelaus, walking along Sandycove shore, enquiring into the nature of reality, straining the resources of human language in the process. The signatures he must learn to read are all about-'seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen' (so Mulligan described the sea in the first chapter) 'blue- silver, rust: coloured signs'. Aristotle is invoked, 'maestro di color che sanno' (,master of them who know') according to Dante, to tame and classify the elusive world of matter. Stephen provides his own definitions of the elements in which this world lives and moves. Time is the Nacheinander-one thing coming after another; space is the Nebeneinander-one thing coming next to another. These subsist in the dark (Stephen shuts his eyes) when the world of visible matter has been shut out.
