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I ..v.: 1'.‘ IIth‘Pl\ .I III II} I0.VIIIII 3 I. I. \IIII IIII \ . .Lr I I. '2 . .AIYIII. ~\17».~I:! l a ’17.. \ifl; .lel .I... ...: i1; . \.... I. 1.1.2.1.. .. :1. 1:2 .... Ir} .I..\.I. ..IIIlII . I. . . 1.9. . It OIIII.).&.# IC. ...: I. I. II. ....... {I 2;. I 1 l, ... II . .I I! I. i ...: :1 .L. .. .2 ..z t . . I .I ..1 . I I I: II I LIBRARY Michigan State University This is to certify that the dissertation entitled JAMES JOYCE ' S NARRATIVE PAC IF ISM presented by Chauncey A. Ridley has been accepted towards fulfillment of the requirements for Ph.D. degree in English Mutu- / v13 it .. Portrait, the artist's project is to "change the world not by violence but by subtlety" (pg £1 147). Another discussion of the doctrine of pacifism enacted in Joyce's novels is Morris Beja's essay "The Wooden Sword: Threatener and Threatened in the Fiction of James Joyce." Beja focuses upon those who threaten violence with sticks in Joyce's fiction. He shows that Joyce's artistic encounter and contention with the stick—wielder is fundamental to Joyce's work throughout his career. Beja makes a wonderful case for the thematic connection between the threatening Mr. Vance, who come in with a stick to chastise Stephen in Epiphanies, warning that if he doesn't apologise the "eagles will come and pull out his eyes" (3 8), and the beggar in a newly discovered passage of Stephen Hggg (SH 244) who raises his stick to the young Stephen threatening to put his "lights out.“ He shows the thematic relationship between many other stick wielding threateners as well, showing the consistency of Joyce's artistic rendering of the threatener as a futile figure who threatens to destroy artistic vision. Later in Finnegans W353 the threatening stick wielder, Shaun, "points the deathbone and the quick are still" (fig 193), as opposed to Shem who wields a pen which does not silence opponents with threats of violence, but conversely, Shem "lifts the lifewand and the dumb speak." (FW 195) Shem's pen does not threaten but resurrects the utterances--the various styles of "signature” (Efl 181)--of present and past Dubliners "who had settled and stratified in the capital." k What is most fascinating about Beja's argument is his ability to show that Joyce's opposition to the violent threatener changes from an antipathetic to a sympathetic one. Beja gives a reading of "An Encounter“ in which the boy's reluctance to look up--when Mahoney points out the stick— wielding old josser's onanism--indicates the boy's fear of witnessing "an unsettling awareness of self," i.e. an awareness of shared guilt. Beja concludes that the boy is on his way to “accepting the need for human sympathy, and his own responsibility for the pleas of the strange man with the stick that someone 'should understand him'" (41). However, this sympathy with the stick wielder does not fully dawn on Joyce until his later work. In his earlier novels the threatener is solely a figure of destruction. Then, in the W352, both the threatening and the non-violent stick wielders are related by their shared consciousness of archetypal guilt: Instead of a confrontation in which one side is completely controlled by hatred or anger or self righteousness and the other by fear or rebelliousness or doubt, we have a complex pattern in which each side displays many or all of these emotions. . . .above all both share the same sense of guilt. (Beja 40) The guilt which Beja derives from the W353 is vaguely archetypal, drawn from analogies to Kafka's and Dostoevsky's novels, and Joyce is certainly evoking an archetypal guilt in the felix culpa theme running through Finnegans Wake. Both Shaun the wielder of the "deathbone" Shem the wielder of the 'lifewand” do share this archetypal guilt, providing a basis 5 for empathy and eventual synergism between the artist and the violent threatener. It is true that, as Beja describes, guilt is one basis for empathy between the non—violent forces which Joyce supports and those which he satirizes as violent forces, but beyond the assertion of a shared sense of guilt, Joyce's works eventually enact not only mutual sympathy , but also mutually beneficial fusion between antagonists on all levels of narrative meaning. Arguing more along these lines, William Johnsen (“Joyce's Dubliners and the Futility of Modernism") examines Joyce's creation of Dubliners as Joyce's encounter with~the violent futility of his own rivalry. According to Johnsen, the series of letters which Joyce wrote defending Dubliners against Grant Richards' censorship and the order of completion of the stories together enact Joyce's developing self-critical awareness that his longing to expose and purge the deadly work of the commonplace violence in the everyday life of Dublin has aroused a violently perverse devil of violence in his own literary conscience, implicating him in Dublin's violence. His letters indicate the development of this awareness. This self-critical awareness culminates in Joyce's creation of "The Dead" which Johnsen calls "Joyce's first attempt to imagine a non-sacrificial society" (20). The worldly Gabriel Conroy who initially represents the purgative artistic attitude of the first fourteen Dubliners stories, eventually learns to find the beneficial point of synergism between the text of his own voice and the text of the culture ‘ ‘ z-.- kl 7 which he had previously perceived as absolutely repressive, and as a result he learns to know love for the first time. Synergism makes possible forms of spiritual regeneration of which neither opponent would be capable independently or in violent enmity. In spite of the cited critical and biographical work suggesting Joyce's pacifism, I have not yet seen a critical work which focuses upon pacifism as an ethical doctrine which Joyce is trying to develop and refine in all of his works. I intend to focus upon Joyce's narrative work completed from 1904 until 1921 showing that pacifism is important to Joyce's literary production not only because there are many passages in his works which express opposition to violence, but because opposition to violence is fundamental to Joyce's earliest expressions of his intentions as an artist, because it is Joyce's overt intention in every major narrative to expose and contend the violent impulses and institutions in the Dublin environment, and because Joyce usually draws analogies between large scale warfare and the commonplace violence which he contends. I will focus primarily upon his completed narrative works, using his essays, letters, poems, and drama as texts which anticipate, inform, and otherwise participate in the creation of his narrative works. I don't mean to be reductive by my thesis that Joyce's intent throughout his career is to teach opposition to violence. It is evident from reading Joyce's letters, essays, poems, novels, and drama that he was opposed to many things. fi r“ For example Helene Cixous has written a huge literary biography centered upon Joyce's definition of himself as an artist in opposition to the Church the State, and the family. The artist in Joyce's works also opposes commerce and "the rabblement." However, it would be reductive to say that Joyce was absolutely opposed to these phenomena in society. Instead Joyce only opposes the violent aspects of these phenomena. For example, in the essay, "The Day of Rabblement" (1901), the artist maintains a "hatred of the multitude" (QW 69) because it is intolerant of great literature; this hatred of the multitude is evident in Joyce's romantic and tragic works in which Ireland is a violent "sow that eats her own farrow" (g 203); the artist must either escape this violence through romantic idealization or purge it through tragedy. Yet in the essay, "A portrait of the Artist" (1904), anticipating his later synergistic pacifism, the non-suppressive "confederate will" ("Ap" 34-8) of the multitude is something that the artist strives to teach by means of "the word:" “to those multitudes not as yet in the womb but surely engenderable there he would give the word. Man and woman out of you comes the nation that is to come" (“Ap“ 34-8). Therefore, as opposed to the romantic escape from the multitude or the disdainful purgation of it, the artist can become an interdependent part of a synergistic fusion with the multitude, and together they form the nation that is to come. The artist opposes the Church as a suppressive institution, yet it is clear from all of Joyce's works that the artist needs the Church's art and literature to articulate many of his own i ideas. Therefore, the Church and the artist can become interdependent parts of a regenerative fusion of which neither would have been capable independently. It is clear from the body of Joyce's works as a whole that the nature of Joyce's opposition to violence changes as his career advances, and that he anticipates his future changes in his theoretical essays well before he renders them in narrative, dramatic, or poetic form. The first stage of his artistic opposition to violence is romantic escapism. The second stage is tragic purgation. The final stage, which takes up most of his productive artistic career, is synergism. I am not referring to the theological sense of synergism as the union of divine and human wills, but of the biological sense of the two or more organs or organisms together achieving an effect of which neither would be capable independently. The use of medical and biological terminology is not inappropriate to Joyce who tried three times to ge a medical degree and when he grew disinterested in medicine as a profession he "kept only a taste for a medical vocabulary" (II I 140). The development of Joyce's pacifism is to a great extent the result of the self-critical labor which Joyce devoted to his narrative representations of his values. Through the labor which he puts into teaching non-violence to his readers, he learns to revise his own pacifism and refine out the violence of his own opposition to violence. I think that this development is important because it shows that pacifism is an arduous good that demands revision in the A difficult smithy of self-critical thought. Too often pacifists are intolerant of those infected by the violence innate within human culture. In their most extreme forms, unenlightened pacifists have lynched violent criminals or have cursed veterans returning from wars. As William Johnsen states in his Girardian critique of Modernism, "It seems impossible to argue against violence without becoming violent" ("Rene Girard and the Boundaries of Modern Literature" 277). In the case of James Joyce, he intends his purgative opposition to violence to correct the violence of his own earlier romantic escapism; then his later synergistic pacifism is intended to correct the violence of his earlier purgative opposition to violence. The specific nature of the violence which Joyce opposes is Irish censorship. This form of violence is common to both large and small scale enmities. In his early work, both in his escapist and purgative stages of pacifism, Joyce considered Ireland to be a country in which many institutions converge to censor all who aspire beyond the common level; the point of contact between aspiration and common Dublin life results in the destruction of aspiration. This attitude is characterized best by Stephen Dedalus who calls Ireland "an old sow that eats her own farrow"(g 203). Joyce considered Ireland to be the country which not only betrays but energetically censors the voices of those who aspire beyond the common limitations of Dublin life. He felt that Ireland had not only betrayed him tsp 76) and driven him into exile, but also had 10 A ‘ .‘ . .‘Ypl. driven all of her other aspiring Writers and authors into banishment And in the spirit of Irish fun Betrayed her leaders one by one. 'Twas Irish humour, wet and dry Flung quicklime in Parnell's eyes. ("Gas From a Burner") Joyce anticipates this hatred of the common multitude's censoriousness in his "Day of Rabblement" essay (1902) which he published at his own expense in order to protest the student movement to censor the religious heresy of Yeats' play ng Countess Cathleen. As in this essay, so throughout Joyce's life, he opposes common Dublin life primarily because "the forces which dictate public judgement" (QW 70) energetically censor those who would regenerate Ireland. For example, in "The Holy Office" where "mammon places under ban/The uses of Leviathan," the combined forces of the Church and commerce retain their status as absolutes at the expense of some of Ireland's most fruitful impulses, such as "Leviathan,“ Ireland's regenerative sexuality. Joyce's earliest works, aside from his essays, are his romantic Chamber gngg poems, the bulk of which were composed between 1900 and 1904. In these romantic poems the speaker's only form of opposition to the violent censorship-- the falsity and denial--which threatens him is escape into an imaginative ideal world. The speaker in these poems is embattled by violent forces whose identities are unspecified throughout the thirty-six poems. He refers to these violent 11 k forces metaphorically as the "charioteers" who put the sensitive poetic voice at bay by their shout of "a battlename" (XXXVI). The speaker initially opposes these violent forces by escaping into his "austerities" and "his books" (V); but throughout most of these poems he escapes, while under the spell of the beloved, to an imaginary landscape, a "laughing land" (VII) filled with faery and perfect harmony, where "no rude wind might visit me" and "only peace might be my part" (VI). However, when the beloved is gone, the speaker is once again thrown back upon his austerities and books as his only escape from the rude winds of the hoard of violent forces which he perceives surrounding him in the real world. From 1898 to 1904, before and during the writing of these “hymns to extravagant beauty" (§H 214), Joyce is also writing essays and letters which theoretically anticipate his rebellion against this romantic escapism. In these early essays, written while he is composing romantic poems, he calls romanticism a "babyish" tendency to "dive under blankets at the mention of that bogey realism" (gfl 44). At the same time Joyce calls romanticism a reductive form of violence, displaying only the "monstrous or the heroic" (9W 100), thereby distorting men and women into "absolute types" so that they may embody the artist's idealism. As opposed to this youthful and idealistic romanticism, Joyce's "classicist' (gfl 44) works with observable phenomena, rendering men and women "as we meet them in the real world, not as we apprehend them in the world of faery" (93 45). From this meticulous and thorough observation of everyday life, 12 - Int-Err. the artist theorizes his intent to face and purge the 'charioteers' which he had previously tried to escape in his romantic Chamber Mngg poems. However, it is not until 1904, that he begins his major work of artistically rendering the explicit nature of these violent forces which he observes in reality beyond the metaphor of "charioteers." Between 1898 and 1904 Joyce is writing romantic poems while simultaneously working out his classicism theoretically in his essays and experimentally in some narrative sketches--Silhouettes--and poems--§png 32g 2353. Only one story of Silhouettes survives, and that one only in the form of a description by Stanislaus (pp; 91); the story involves a small woman who violentsly defends herself against her bullying husband. Ellmann's ggpgs Joyce records some of the Shine Egg 23;; poems that were preserved because Stanislaus wrote part of his diary on the back sides of the pages which Joyce had discarded because he was unhappy with the poems. These poems involve the artist feeling himself infected by the violence and decadence of his environment. Then in 1904 Joyce begins Dubliners and Stephen Hggg. By 1904, Joyce's "classicism" is influenced by French naturalism, Catholic Church ritual, and Aristotelian theories of tragedy. Like the Naturalists, Joyce becomes not only anti- romantic, but he also uses language and techniques suggestive of the natural sciences to shape his artistic ideas. He describes Dubliners as a series of epicleti (sic)--ten--for a paper, I 13 have written one. I call the series Dubliners to betray the soul of that hemiplegia or paralysis which many consider a city. (SI 22) His use of the word "hemiplegia" is intended to suggest the scientific objectivity of the natural sciences. Like the scientist for whom the body which he is examining is neither an object of desire nor disgust, the artist dispassionately performs exploratory surgery , piercing with the lancet of his art to expose and purge the motive center of the spiritual body of Dublin. His use of the word "epicleti" shows the added influence of Christian terminology. "Epicleti" are invocations of the Holy Spirit. Joyce uses the term heretically in this letter to signify ten invocations of the diseased spirit of Dublin. "Epiclesis" immediately suggests the term "epiphany" to those who read Joyce. An epiphany is the instant in which the spirit is manifest and Joyce means that these epicleti are the invocations by which one might stimulate an epiphanic instant. According to Stephen Daedalus, in an epiphanic moment the soul of an object leaps out to us from the vestment of its appearance. The soul of the commonest object, the structure of which is so adjusted seems, to us radiant. The object achieves its epiphany (§fl 213). Joyce wrote seventy-one epiphanies which are published in the :kmes Joyce Archive, many of which he incorporates into the continuous narratives of Stephen Hero and Portrait (none of t1)“, are reproduced in QgpInggg). These seventy-one epiphanies are short, instantaneous revelations of the spirit l4 of a boy growing from boyhood to young adulthood. On the other hand, each Dubliners story is a short invocation of the spirit of Dublin paralysis and together they were originally intended to call forth a unified epiphany, the "soul of that hemiplegia or paralysis that many consider a city" (SI 22). Finally, Joyce exploits Aristotelian notions of tragic catharsis and purgation as means of contending this disease which his art invokes. In Joyce's poem "A Holy Office" (1904), he refers to himself as "Katharsis Purgative," one who eases the "timid arses" of Irish romantics by performing his “office of Katharsis." This catharsis is the aristotelian pity and terror ideally created in the spectator of tragic action in order to purge him of the tragic hero's destructive tendencies. Like naturalistic objectivity, the catharsis and purgation do not stimulate loathing or disgust. In 1903, Joyce theorized in his "Paris Notebook" that the terror and pity of tragedy do not "urge us from rest" (SW 143) like loathing and disgust do. Instead pity and terror constitute a purgation which "holds us in rest, as it were, by fascination." One does not rush up on the stage to restrain Oedipus' pride because the form of the tragedy is whole and complete and because the disaster leaves the audience feeling not depressed but relieved and even GXalted, as if they had been purified. In other words, the medically detached observation of individual Dubliners, implied in Joyce's cultivation of myejat::ific terminology, and his pretense to dispassionate Observation are methods by which to conjure. Each story 15 A invokes the spirit of Dublin; however, at the same time this spiritual representation is not escapist religion or romanticism. The spiritual significance emerges from an objective recording of observable phenomena. The evocation of this spirit is intended to stimulate Aristotelian pity and terror which purge the reader of the spiritual violence which he shares with the protagonists. In using the term "hemiplegia" to describe the spiritual illness infecting the soul of Dublin, Joyce not only suggests scientific objectivity, but he is also imagining Dublin to be a large, living spiritual body composed of interdependent limbs and organs, some of which have been paralysed by violence, causing a hemiplegia of the larger spiritual body of Dublin. If one extends this metaphor, imagining that this spiritual body is language and its limbs and organs are voices, then one might see the sense in which a spiritual body can suffer hemiplegia as a result of the silencing of a voice. This violent censorship of vital voices and the violent reduction of the object to one perspective by one presumptive absolute voice constitute the nature of the violence which Joyce perceives in Ireland in his work written from 1904 until late 1907. Even a single denominated character may have two or more distinct voices or consciences in Joyce's narratives, for JOYce gives each relevant impulse or conscience within each Character or group of characters its own voice in the narration. The artist's sensibility is a "vital sea" which 16 i fills every entity with "such vital force that he or she assumes a proper and intangible aesthetic life" (Portrait 215) independently of the artist; and this independent life is manifest as an independent voice with its own diction and point of view. According to Joyce's own description of his technique while writing Ulysses, the plurality of voices in the narration “fuses” into a "somatic unity" (Selected Letters 241) which non-repressively retains the immanence of each voice. A great deal of informative and sensitive criticism has arisen recently concerning these immanent voices both in the dialogue and in the narrative line of Joyce's works. Hugh Kenner calls Joyce's multi—vocal narration the "Uncle Charles Principle" (Joyce's Voices). Kenner derives the name from Joyce's Portrait in which the the narration uses the term 'repaired"--"Uncle Charles repaired to his outhouse"—-a term which Wyndham Lewis thought to be an inadvertancy in the diction of the narrative. Kenner argues more correctly that this is Joyce' effort to have more than a single voice participate in narrating his story. The term "repaired" in the narrative line is in Uncle Charles' diction. The narrative voice need not be the narrator's own according to Kenner; however, I think that Kenner exaggerates when he uses his Uncle Charles Principle to support Ezra Pound's claim that Joyce's technique is Flaubertian objectivity in which the artist's own VOice is refined out of existence. This would simply be another kind of violence--martyrdom. It is true that Stephen Dedalus makes much of the artist's attempt to refine himself 17 out of existence, but it is also true that Joyce's novels ultimately treat this attempt satirically. Wolfgang Iser explains the multiplicity of voices in terms far more in line with Joyce's intentions when he states that Joyce's "Awareness of the danger that he will capture only the surface of things makes him approach the object as it were from all linguistic sides, in order to avoid a perspective foreshortening of it" ("Doing Things in Style" 195). Working on similar lines, the "MURGE" report, begun in 1979 (James Joyce Quarterly summer 1981) distinguishes two voices in the narrative line of "Araby:" one voice is that of the narrator looking backwards to his boyhood, and the other is the voice of the young boy who has a power equivalent to that of the older narrator to determine the language of the narration. The critics of the "MURGE" project do not point out, however, that Joyce anticipated this pluralistic narrative technique in his 1904 "A portrait" essay: The features of infancy are not commonly reproduced in the adolescent portrait for, so capricious are we, that we cannot or will not conceive the past in any other but its iron memorial aspect. Yet the past assuredly implies a fluid succession of presents, the development of an entity of which our present in just a phase only. (The James Joyce Archive 34-1) Joyce chooses the word "portrait" as opposed to "autobiography" as a title for this early work in order to suggest that he is Presenting more than the linear history of the recollections of a Inature artist. He is evoking the immediacy of a visual image 18 T'F—_—— in which the actual face of infancy simultaneously looks outward from the portrait of a young man. The past becomes more than an anticipation of the present; but beyond this, "the past implies a fluid succession of presents," meaning that the narrative present is an expansion of the conventional "now." The mature voice doesn't dominate or repress the voice of his past, but the telling of the literary portrait involves the synergistic collaboration of distinct voices from different times in the artist's lifetime. Jane Egleson Dunleavey ("The Ectoplasmic Truth Tellers of 'The Dead'") pushes the study of these voices beyond the ground earlier established by Hugh Kenner's Uncle Charles Principle (see also Kenner's Dublin's Joyce and his essay "Irish History and Mythology in James Joyce's 'The Dead") and beyond John Kelleher's lectures (she does not mention the "MURGE" project). With the aid of a computer, she identifies not only a "veritable Who's Who of Irish dead who walk unseen through the substructure," of "The Dead (Dunleavy 309), but also another ghostly group which she describes as four unnamed but distinct personalities who cannot be rendered as multiple point-of—view narrators (because they are not given the full responsibility for telling the tale) but who can be described as characters, so fully are they developed on at least the narrative level and so specific are their roles (Dunleavy 309). Eacfli of these voices which Dunleavy distinguishes is a voice 19 ‘F—_——_—' which endows distinct impulses within the story with the power of narrative speech so that each vocally endowed impulse participates in the language of the narration. For example, Voice I (Dunleavy 312) gives speech to "trips, skips, and scampers' in fidelity to Lily's impulses and action in the story. Voice III focuses exclusively on. Gabriel's educated diction and poetic impulses (Dunleavy 313). Voice IV is aloof from and uninvolved with the impulses of any single named character: "his voice is tuned to the visible and social rather than the audible and individual world" (Dunleavy 314). These voices share the narration with the Who's Who of Irish dead previously distinguished in the narrative line by Kenner and Kelleher. As distinct from, but in combination with the voices in the dialogue, these separate voices IS Egg narrative Ing are extremely important in Dubliners because most of these stories are told for the most part in narration, and even in the stories primarily using dialogue ("Ivy Day in the Committee Room” and "Grace" in particular), one loses the non-violent effort to avoid reductiveness and suppression in all of Joyce's fiction without an ear for the separate voices in the narration. In Stephen S359, begun in 1904 after "A portrait" was rejected by the Irish journal, 2222' the theme is the censorship of the artist, Stephen Daedalus, by the common regulatory forces of Dublin. Joyce exaggerates certain events fr0m his own life in order to dramatize this censorship. Stepmen Daedalus is overtly like Joyce himself, particularly in 20 the sense that the artist is writing romantic poems at the same time that he opposes romanticism on the basis that it censors the voices of everyday reality. However, the artist resorts to writing romantic poems as an escape-~an "exaltation of the mind“ (SW 194)--from the ugliness of the ugly world which threatens him. Even though he does imagine the possibility of “the voice of a new humanity, active, unafraid and unashamed" (194), the only ideas which he can generate artistically are romantic poems. The incomplete extant manuscript of Stephen §2£2 develops toward the artist's ultimate belief that if he wants to write about the real experience of the artist, then he must write about the forces which censor his artistic aspiration. Therefore, he understands his romanticism to be a form of violence which censors his experience and as a result he destroys his romantic poems. Through Stephen's destruction of his romantic poems, Joyce vicariously participates in the purgation of his reductively violent romantic impulse and prepares himself to oppose the commonplace violence of Dublin reality on a higher plane by means of his "classicism." Despite his heavy-handedness in Stephen S232, it is evident in Joyce's early essays that his overall attitude toward romanticism is far more complex than the presentation of it in Stephen Sgpp. It is clear from his 1902 "James Clarence Mangan" essay that he, at least theoretically, believes that romanticism is more than just a violentyouthful or Irish tendency which a mature artist repudiates for the sake of classicism: 21 "’_‘~. ,- It is many days since the dispute of the classicial and romantic schools began in the quiet city of the arts, so that criticism, which had wrongly decided that the classical temper is the romantic temper grown older, has been driven to ggcognize these as constant states of mind (SW The argument which Joyce is refuting is one which implies that when artists mature, they naturally outgrow a youthful tendency to extravagance and idealisation. Joyce does not state the context of this dispute, but it is evident from his essays that he originated the argument which he is refuting. For example, in his "Catalina" essay he describes Ibsen's early romanticism as inferior to Ibsen's later classicism. Joyce had read many of Ibsen's plays as a teenager, and at that time he must have interpreted Ibsen's later style as one which corrected the flaws of his youthful romanticism. Although it is conventional to interpret a mature or modern style as one which makes the past obsolete, Joyce becomes aware of the violence of this notion in 1902, since to relegate romanticism to the role of naive classicism denies the vital and distinct spiritual reality of romanticism as a voice whose independent vitality Joyce sees to be evident in the romanticism of Michelangelo, Dante, Da Vinci, and Petrarch (SW 81). Although he still considers romanticism to be a violent distortion of reality and he attacks Mangan for this violence, Joyce in the essay "James Clarence Mangan" does not commit the violence of denying that romanticism is artistically and spiritually a "constant state of mind“ which contributes something positive and enduring to 22 ”i rW————__‘F the spiritual nature of real human experience. In Dubliners, begun in the same year as Stephen SEES, Joyce renders in narrative form a more tolerant version romanticism than he renders in Stephen §E£9° As opposed to Stephen EEEQI it is evident that the protagonists' disowning of their romantic aspirations in the Dubliners stories is less a triumphant purgation by which the aspirant frees himself from his past romantic violence and prepares himself to aspire on a higher, purgative plane of activity, than it is a surrender of aspiration altogether, causing the characters to feel defeat and anguish. Therefore, these stories suggest far more compassion for romance than in Stephen EEEQI and I think the tragic loss of romance in these narratives indicates Joyce's effort to temper the violence of his Daedalan opposition to romanticism. A romantic in Dubliners does not have to be a writer. Romanticism in "Araby" as defined by the MURGE project is loosely-applicable to to romanticism throughout Dubliners: a characteristic that refers to a more-than-typical imaginative response to the world. This response may take history, literature, and/or religion as its springboard, magnifying the importance of the [character's] actions and of his present role in life. ("A Summary of the Murge Project" 242) This 'more-than-typical" imaginative aspiration, takes many forms in Dubliners. The voice of romance in each story detects the despair and defeat of its surroundings and attempts to inagine a way out of it by adopting a larger, more adventurous Style than the typical life of Dublin allows. Its most 23 T— positive expository presentation in Joyce's writings, is found in his “James Clarence Mangan" essays where he states, the best of what [Mangan] has written makes its appeal surely because it was conceived by the imagination which he called, I think, the mother of things whose dream are we, who imageth us to herself, and to ourselves. . . .Though even in the best of Mangan the presence of alien emotions is sometimes felt, the presence of an imaginative personality reflecting the light of imaginative beauty is more vividly felt (SW 78). Romantic aspiration is one basis for human hope, without which Dubliners are left feeling that there is everything to be endured and nothing to be done. It is not a cowering escapism but a courageous imagined ideal borne "bravely above the accidents of lust and faithlessness and weariness" (SW 78). At the beginning of the stories in Dubliners the vocally endowed romantic aspirations are at odds with the powers in control of their surroundings. These impulses are under a great deal of pressure from the controlling powers to limit their impulses to a common level. Opposing institutional censorship is a central concern in Joyce's life and art throughout his career, but in Joyce's fiction the spiritual violence is not so much institutional as it is impulsive. Institutions contribute to the conditions of" paralysis surrounding the characters, creating an antagonistic environment for those who aspire beyond the common level. However, this exterior pressure of censorship which the characters can initially see and contend comprises only the narrative background. The climax in each 24 r—‘———¢ story takes place in these narratives when the characters discover that the violence which they're resisting has infected their own personal impulses. Then, as in the macrocosm of Ireland, the point of contact between aspiration and common Dublin life in the microcosm is violent, resulting in the censorship of aspiration. Then, late in 1906 Joyce has begun to realize that he may have been too harsh in not reproducing "any of the attraction of the city for I have never felt at my ease in any city since I left it except Paris" (SS 110). Whereas he previously defended the violence of his own style of "scrupulous meanness" by claiming that the meanness of the style is in absolute fidelity with the meanness of his subject, he now self-critically understands that the violence of his style of scrupulous meanness at least partially originates from his own impulse to stare in fascination at the tragic disease infecting the soul of Dublin. This stare ignores the “attraction" and comfort of common Dublin life; both "attraction" and "comfort" are points of beneficial point of contact between the artistic aspiration and average Dublin life if the artist can make the leap of insight to recognize and accept them. Extending the metaphor of the spiritual body of language composed of voices which function as its limbs or organs (the metaphor which Joyce suggests in his use of the term "the soul of the hemiplegia") one step further, when distinct organs fuse, they form what is physiologically called a mutual articulation. When two organs articulate, the 25 L , L. distinct organs, often opposites in their nature and function, become interdependent parts of a larger body' which benefits both without one impulse suppressing the other in order to survive. My reading extends the findings of the "MURGE" readers of "Araby" to all of Joyce's works. The “MURGE" readers point out that at the end of "Araby" the boy's romantic voice in the narration and the older narrator's "classical" voice in the narration ("A Summary of the Murge Project" 245) fuse into a mutual tragic rejection of youthful romanticism. In the two works which Joyce begins late in 1907--Portrait and "The Dead," instead of rendering only the censorship resulting from the contact between the artist's scrupulous meanness and romanticism, or from the contact between Dublin commonness and aspiration, Joyce learns to render the beneficial point of articulation between opposing impulses within the self and within the community. In "The Dead," the point of contact between commonness and aspiration within Gabriel results not in the sow of Dublin eating her own aspirants nor in the mean style meant to accurately reproduce this "sow" devouring romantic aspiration, but it results instead in synergism, the mutual articulation of the opposing voices. Gabriel's commonness enhances his romantic aspirations and vice versa: the common Irish dead teach Gabriel to know love for the first time, and Gabriel gives new life to the dead. Once again, Joyce seems to have realized the violence of his earlier classicism. Now, instead of staring in fascination at the 26 if» violence of common Dublin life in an effort to purge it, he writes a new kind of narrative which enacts not the violence, but the beneficial synergism which can result from the contact between aspiration and common Dublin life. Of course, this story disrupts the unity of Dubliners, but for reasons which I will discuss in detail in chapter one, by this time his new conception of Dublin has become far more important to him than his original plan for the unity of Dubliners. Also in Portrait, which he reconceives from the abandoned pages of Stephen SEES in 1907, he does not imitate the violence of the encounter between classical and romantic artistic sensibility rendered in the earlier autobiographical novel. The romanticism of the artist does not so cripple the artist's poetic ability that he must purge it in order to free himself from it as in Stephen SEES. Instead, Joyce uses Portrait to enact a beneficial synergism between the romantic and classical aspects of the artist: the distinct classical voice of the artist in the narrative actually bears and gives birth to the romantic voice of the artist by tracing in his own “classical" style the history of the romantic artist until the romantic voice can render his initial romantic prose. The distinct sensibility of the mature narrator looking backwards is not suppressed when it leaves the narrative of Portrait: instead the mature voice generously gives over the narrative to Stephen's fully articulate romantic voice. The success of the narrative doesn't hinge upon a psychic repudiation of one or another vital fragment of the artist's sensibility, but upon 27 ..i the liberation of the beneficial multi-vocal potential of the artist. When there is a mutual articulation between antagonistic voices, there is no censorship and both voices participate in a larger spiritual body which yields benefits and not destruction. Then in his next major narrative, Ulysses, Joyce enacts the synergistic fusion between the aspirant artist Stephen Dedalus and the representative of common culture, Leopold Bloom, resulting in a beneficial synergistic fusion between these two opposites. Stephen Dedalus walks among common Dublin life to encounter "the charioteers," i.e., the soul of the violence of common Dublin life, so that he may defeat them and free his voice from the violence which inhibits his own impulses and paralyses his own artistic voice. Bloom walks among Dublin life in order to encounter its violence so that he may free his own sexuality from the common violence which infects his own impulses. When Bloom and Stephen meet and spend time together, each one comes to recognize "the reciprocal flesh of theirhisnothis fellowfaces" (S 702). Each one sees the sense in which the other has imposed violence upon himself through trying to carve out his aspirations in opposition to the circumstances in which he finds himself, thereby failing to make the leap of insight which allows him to recognize and accept the love which the Dublin environment is offering him. Stephen's vicarious identification with Bloom causes Stephen to recognize the generosity which common culture has to offer as opposed to his earlier feeling that Irish 28 ‘r——————F culture is purely antagonistic toward hiflh Bloom's vicarious identification with Stephen causes Bloom to recognize the love which Molly has to offer as opposed to his autoerotic efforts to have a fantasy sexuality by means of which he abandons her love. In the end Bloom, in repentence, humbles himself to her freely offered affection, resulting in an acceptance which she had always reserved for him. The reconciliation of the potential artist with common life, in conjunction with the reconciliation of potential parents, enacts a scheme for the synergistic regeneration of the nation which Joyce formulated back in 1904 in his essay "A portrait of the Artist" (written previous to his conception of either of his autobiographical novels): To those multitudes not as yet in the wombs of humanity but surely engenderable there, he [the artist] would give the word.Man and woman, out of you comes the nation that is to come, the [sic] lightning of your masses in travail; the competitive order is employed against itself, the aristocracies are supplanted and amid the general paralysis of an insane society, the confederate will issues in action (The James Joyce Archive 34-8). Previous to any of his attempts to write art works which enact the synergism of the artist with common life, Joyce composes this scheme for the regeneration of Ireland which involves the artist as one element in a synergistic effort to overcome Irish paralysis. This essay theoretically anticipates his ability to render within artistic works a positive synergism between the multitude and artistic aspiration, for in 1904 Joyce has just begun to write his purgative art works. Joyce's theoretical attitude toward the multitude changes from purgation to 29 II fi synergism partially as a result of his studies of Bruno. In 1901 when he wrote "The Day of Rabblement" he was fascinated with Bruno because of Bruno's disdain of the "rabblement"--the artist must "not yield up his hatred of the multitude" (SW 72). However, in 1903, in his essay "The Bruno Philosophy"Joyce is fascinated, not with Bruno's disdain of "mean influences" (SW 71) but Bruno's "ardent sympathy with nature as it is--natura naturata“ (SW 133). Joyce states in this later work that 'recriminations fill so many of Bruno's pages that nothing is easier than to receive from them an inadequate and unjust notion" of Bruno's attitude toward humanity (133). Contradicting his earlier reading of Bruno, Joyce now paraphrases Coleridge who represents Bruno's philosophy as a humane dualism: Every power in nature must evolve an opposite as the sole condition and means of its manifestation; and every opposition is, therefore, a tendency to reunion (SW 134). Joyce later uses the previous passage almost verbatim (1925) as an explanation for his technique in Finnegans W333 (SS 306). In his later career Joyce is more interested in the use of Bruno's notion of a reconciliation of opposites in order to revise his early purgative opposition to violence. Finnegans W333 is Joyce's ultimate expression of this synergistic opposition to violence. The development of Joyce's pacifism from purgation to synergism is similar to the development of the rival brothers Shem and Shaun in the W333. In the form of Caseous and Burrus the brothers expend so much energy rebuking each other that 30 r—_———T Margareena spurns them in favor of Antonious; having lost their chance for fertility, the rival brothers are left alone to learn to be "tolerant of antipathies" (163.15). Later in the novel, in the form of Shem and Shaun, the two realize their fertility when they merge as "the Twinns" (SW 330) who as composite bridegroom demand entrance at Issy's door on the first night of the honeymoon: "Knock knock. War's wherel. . .The Twinns. Knock knock. Woos withoutl. . . .and they barney dansked a kathareen round." This single conflict of the many enacted in the W333 is rendered as a type of a universal rivalry. Therefore the rival brothers, Shem and Shaun are typological incarnations of Cain versus Abel, Jacob versus Esau, Romulus versus Remus, Wellington versus Napoleon, Heaven Versus Hell, the artist versus mammon, and life versus death. Therefore the microcosmic synergism between these rival brothers signifies a universal synergism. Like the rival brothers Joyce learns to be tolerant of antipathies, and to realise the benefits of fusion with those whom he had previously rebuked before he can enter the fertile marriage chamber and realize the regenerative potential of his pacifism. Throughout this dissertation I will also allude to Joyce's continuous re-reading of other writers besides Bruno whom he identifies as sources for his ideas, particularly writers such as Henrik Ibsen, Thomas Aquinas, and Shakespeare. As his opposition to violence develops from romantic to purgative to synergistic styles, his reading of these authors develops correspondingly. For example, in his 1903 "Catalina" 31 essay, Joyce describes Ibsen's early romanticism as inferior to Ibsen's later ironic "classicism.“ Then in his 1907 revision of his "James Clarence Mangan" essay ("Giacomo Clarenzio Mangan") Joyce refers to all of Ibsen's ironic works as "destructive and fiercely self—centered" (SW 180); and he tells Stanislaus that he will not complete four apparently ironic new works for Dubliners because unlike Ibsen he was not enough of an 'egoarch“ (Letters II 205) to continue writing in that mode: "an impediment which he had not pleaded before" (SS 238). This synergism of opposites, in the W333 or in any other of Joyce's works, does not elimate difference. It does not, as Margot Norris argues (The Decentered Universe 33 Finnegans W333), reduce the unique identity of each antagonist to a negligible cipher in a binary structure of freeplay any more than a somatic unity (S3 241) in Ulysses deprives each organ of the power to condition and even create its own technique. Structural opposition in Joyce is far more medieval than Derridian. The structure is figural in Joyce's and Bruno's usage; although the structure is of primary importance, there is no free play of the signifier. Each figure in the structure is a literally real event or person. Stephen's fusion with Bloom in Ulysse --"the reciprocal flesh of theirhisnothis fellowfaces" (S 702)——and the numerous fusions in the Wake are dramatic because the opposites are not simply paradigms, but they are real personalities with distinct voices. The tree and the stone used in the Wake represent the structural opposition of life and death. However, the tree and 32 stone in the form of the two washerwomen or in the form of Shem and Shaun, does not empty the opposites of unique content. Without a real opposition of both structure 333 content the fusion of the antagonists would lose its drama. It is dramatic that one can distinguish Shem's voice from Shaun's so that when they fuse Shem can speak Ip Shaun's voice and vice versa. This would not be a dramatic process at all if there were never a point at which one could tell the difference. 33 Purgation As mentioned in my introduction, while Joyce was writing his escapist Chamber Music poems, he is writing essays in which he refers to the escapist idealisation of romanticism as inferior to classicism because a classicist examines average lives in their uncompromising reality, thereby evoking more valid spiritual truths. Like Holy Communion, the artist's work translates the "bread of life" (SS3 104) into the substance of the spirit without idealization or divine aid. However, it is not until 1904 that Joyce begins his major artistic phase of defining the spirit of the violent landscape of reality which he perceived to be invading his sensibility like "charioteers" in his Chamber Musi_c_ poems; he begins Stephen Hero and Dubliners. By 1904 Joyce's classicism exploits an amalgam of sources including the vocabulary of Catholic rite and the natural sciences. Joyce mines his sources for language by which to conjure the spirit of Dublin so that he may expose its disease and purge it with his own version of Aristotelian catharsis. Within this chapter I will discuss Stephen Hero briefly and the first fourteen stories of Dubliners more in depth as examples of this purgative stage of Joyce opposition to violence, showing tuna these Dubliners stories in general, and how "Clay" and "A Painful Case" in particular anticipate his new style of synergistic pacifism. 34 The disease of hemiplegia, partial paralysis, infects the spiritual body of Dublin as a result of what Joyce perceives to be the universal Irish tendency to violently censor her own aspirations. Having protested in writing (”The Day of Rabblement") the Irish popular and religious censorship of Yeats' The Countess Cathleen, having courted censorship (and won it) from the university, the Dana and The Irish Homestead, and having always perceived Ireland to be the censorer of her own political saviours such as Tone, Emmet, and Parnell, Joyce made Ireland's characteristic suppression of her own political and artistic aspirations his theme. Like Joyce's larger vision of Ireland as an old sow that eats her own farrow (Portrait 203), the institutions and institutionalized attitudes in Joyce's Dublin, "the centre of paralysis" (S3 83), compel the characters in Stephen Hero and Dubliners to limit their aspirations to a common level. However, the overt institutionalized censorship which Joyce's characters can initially see and contend comprises only the violent social and physical surroundings of his characters. In Dubliners and Stephen Hero the primary violence is more personal than institutional. The final twist of irony is manifest in each narrative when the characters discover that the violent surroundings which they're resisting have infected their own impulses. 'Then, as in the Dublin macrocosm, the point of contact between aspiration and average Dublin life within the individual is always violent, resulting in the paralysis of aspiration. 35 Stephen Hero and Dubliners are, of course, very distinct. Stephen Hero is a: continuous autobiographical narrative primarily about one artist: Dubliners is constituted of fifteen separate and complete narratives in the final edition, and although three of them are narrated in the first person, making them portraits of the artist as a young man, in the bulk of Dubliners the narration is in third person and the central figures vary widely in education and temperament. However, both Stephen Hero and the first fourteen stories of Dubliners end with the characters' tragic recognition of the violent point of contact between their own aspirations and their own suppressive Irish commonness. Because of the damaged condition of Stephen Hero and its function as a draft of Portrait, I will not discuss it exhaustively but will examine it in relation to Dubliners as an expression of Joyce's purgative stage of Opposition to Irish violence. Stephen Hero is Joyce's first attempt at novel-length autobiography. In it he evokes the spirit of his past artistic romanticism in order to purge its violence. In the segment which remains of the novel, the protagonist's development in a few important ways parallels Joyce's own artistic development until 1904. Although Joyce always intended the novel to end at the time that he leaves for Paris for the first time in 1902, Joyce incorporates fragments of poems, essays, and notebooks that he composed in Dublin and Paris in the two years following this initial disastrous sojourn on the continent. Also, Stephen Daedalus, the protagonist of Stephen Hero, is pressured 36 by the institutionalized forces of Dublin to censor his artistic aspirations, a position in which Joyce conceived himself to be as a young man. Finally, like Joyce, Daedalus is writing romantic poems at the same time that he is writing essays opposing the violence of romanticism. The fact that Daedalus is writing romantic poems while opposing romanticism in Stephen Hero is important because Joyce is using this work to dramatize his own youthful romanticism and the evolution of his eventual rejection of it; he comes to recognize romanticism as another aspect of the soul of Irish institutionalized violence. Biographically, in the poem "The Holy Office," composed in 1904, Joyce refers to Irish romantics as the institutionalized "mumming company" who dream their escapist "dreamy dreams" in complicity with the government to hide the sordid effects of Irish institutionalized paralysis. The speaker in the poem is the artist who exposes the suppressive facts of Irish reality, for the purpose of purging the violence. In "The Holy Office" Joyce is reacting against his own escapist romanticism by attacking the romanticism of the Celtic Twilight poets. In Stephen Hero, Joyce dramatizes an artist who is similar to himseLf as a romantic young man, heroically posturing in resistance to the institutionalized censorship of his artistic ideas by his teachers and fellow students, yet ironically the artist discovers that Irish romanticism has outflanked him and infected his own impulses. Therefore, at the end of Stephen Hero, he purges his own romantic impulse and destroys his 37 romantic poems. In Stephen Hero, Daedalus' carefully thought out essay delivered to the University literary and historical society condemns the romantic temper because Its figures are blown to wild adventures lacking the gravity of solid bodies, and the mind that has conceived them ends by disowning them. (SS 78) However, before and after the reading of this paper Daedalus is composing romantic "hymns in honour of extravagant beauty." Then at the end of Stephen Hero, Daedalus fulfills his own prediction that the romantic "ends by disowning" his ideal adventures: he burns his romantic poems. Through Stephen's destruction of his romantic poems, Joyce vicariously participates in the heroic purgation of the romantic impulse in which he continued to write for years after he theorized its reductive violence. Although the manuscript of Stephen Hero is damaged and incomplete, there is a substantial development to Daedalus' romantic infection and his purgation. One of the artist's first points of contact with the common culture of Dublin evokes within the sensitive young man the impulse of revulsion. This impulse of revulsion results in the artist becoming "enamoured of idealising" (S_H 26). Therefore, the very first point of contact between artistic aspiration and common Dublin culture actually stimulates within the artist an impulse which is in complicity with the nechanisms of Dublin violence. Within his own sensibility, the point of contact between Dublin 38 culture and artistic aspiration is a repetition of the violent contact between Ireland and her own artists. The destruction of his hymns to extravagant beauty at the end of the novel represents the point at which the artist, upon realizing that his form of ostensibly contending Dublin violence has put him in complicity with Dublin violence all along, tries to purge his sensibility of this infection of Dublin violence. Therefore Stephen Hero and the poem "The Holy Office" are Joyce's earliest surviving artistic works written in opposition to the violence of his own romanticism. The artist in these two works purges romanticism in his surroundings and himself for the purpose of contending the common Dublin censorship more openly than he could as an escapist romantic. As explained in my introduction, Stephen Hero and "A Holy Office“ are distinct from Dubliners because by the time Joyce begins working on Dubliners he has realized the implied violence of his absolute purgation of romanticism. Joyce illustrates this insight by dramatizing the purgation of romanticism to be, not an heroic liberation, but an act of crippling censorship, leaving the characters spiritually subdued by the other forms of institutionalized censorship which they had previously used their romantic aspirations to contend. Formally, each Dubliners story is a distinct naturalistic observation and recording of Dublin spiritual paralysis. Joyce originally plans to reveal Dublin's violence of censorship by creatively applying language and techniques 39 suggestive of those used by the natural sciences to create the form of Dubliners. French naturalist artists such as the Goncourts Brothers (for example, in Germanie Lacerteaux) and Maupassant (for example in Pierre 33 S333) described the proper technique of naturalistic study in the arts as the gathering together of distinct objectively observed facts or episodes from which a general philOSOphy might be discovered which is not derived from idealism or religion but from scientifically dispassionate observation. The most famous of the models for naturalistic artists was probably Darwin who postulated the origins of species from distinct, dispassionately observed data. Although it is clear from Joyce's letters that he read at least the "Preface" to the Goncourts Brothers' Germanie Lacerteaux from his use of the term "moral history" in his epistolary defense of Dubliners in 1906 (_SI 83), and that he refers to other late-nineteenth century literary Naturalists, it is not exhaustively clear which naturalist works he read. However, one need to have been familiar with very little of the work of the naturalist period to pick up such applications of scientific technique to the creation of art works. If one concedes the influence of the French naturalist ideas upon Joyce's decision to create a work formally constituted of distinct narratives, then one might go far in explaining the presence of Gertrude Stein's formally similar work, Three Lives also being composed in the first decade of the century. Stein could not possibly have been influenced by Dubliners, nor is the reverse possible. However, 4O if one attributes the appearance of these two works at this time to the influence of the French naturalists, ideas to which Joyce and Stein were certainly exposed, then there may be a case for asserting that these works share the naturalist tendency to suggest through their artistic form the techniques of the late nineteenth century natural sciences. Joyce and Stein push this putative application of scientific method further than the previous French naturalists by providing no "Preface" as in, for example, Maupassant's Pierre EE.§EEB and no voice with overall narrative authority to determine the lineaments of the "tragedy" as in the Goncourts' Germanie Lacerteaux. No voice and no overall continuous narrative determine relationships or construct transitions between separate narrative acts. Each of the short narratives within the larger structure of Dubliners and Three Lives participates as 21 complete, constitutive invocation, not incomplete like a chapter, but as complete as a short story. However, Dubliners and Three Lives are very different from collections of short stories (although one or two of the separate invocations in these works regularly appear in anthologies and magazines as separate works), "slices of life," or random impressions through which common themes might happen to rmun. Neither can one treat these as continuous narratives in which surprising eruptions of discontinuity or digression appear, such as in Tristram Shandy or Rabelais' Gargantua. Neither are they examples of characteristically English intertextuality as developed in works such as Richardson's 41 Clarissa or later works such as Durrell's Alexandria Quartet. Rather, the constitutive evocations are distinct short narratives, implying an infinity of others; together these epicletti form a larger narrative representation or meaning upon which all of the short narratives center. The form remains responsive to the self-originative nature of each narrative and to the elements of tension and stress between one narrative and the other as a strategy for determining the soul of the community, as it appears, not from religious, imaginative, or sentimental idealisation, but from scientifically objective observation and recording of specific facts. Finally, unlike Darwin, Joyce and Stein don't explicitly state the conclusions drawn from their artistic observations; instead they allow the spirit of the work to be conjured by the power of the separate invocations. Another formal unity which functions in conjunction with this constitutive narrative is the structure of embryonic/cultural maturation to which Joyce refers when defending the unity of Dubliners in 1906: My intention was to write a chapter of the moral history of my country I chose Dublin for the scene because the city seemed to me the centre of paralysis. I have tried to present it to the indifferent public under four of its aspects: childhood, adolescence, maturity and public life(S3 83). Symbolically these four phases represent four aspects of a single unifying principle. lit would simplify matters to deny that Dubliners was originally intended to have a unity as Homer Brown (James Joyce's Early Fiction 14) does; however, this is 42 contrary to Joyce's stated intentions. In his letters to C.P. Curran (S3 22) and to Grant Richards, Joyce makes clear that he originally intended Dubliners to display a unity of hemiplegia, a unity to which he adheres in the first fourteen stories. CHILDHOOD The first three stories in Dubliners constitute the ”Childhood” section. They are told in first person narration, representing three portraits of the artist as a young man. As in Stephen Hero the narrator is looking backwards to the violence of his youth for the purpose of purging it, and as in Stephen Hero the romantic youth fulfills Daedalus' prediction in Stephen Hero that the mind which conceives romantic ideas ends up disowning them because they lack ”the gravity of solid bodies" (SS 78). Yet, as stated above, the purgation of romance is far more tragically presented in Dubliners. The figure of the priest in ”The Sisters" symbolizes, as Stanislaus Joyce confirms, the paralysis manifest in Dubliners as a whole: 43 ”Irish life, priest-ridden, and semi-paralysed” ("Backgrounds of Dubliners" 502). Father Flynn, who is a kind of romantic in the sense that he tries to escape Dublin's restrictions by aspiring, as Hugh Kenner points out, ”to serve the supernatural world on its own terms" (Kenner, Dublin's Joyce 52), has a polite contempt for the common Dubliners. Instead of simplifying the mystery of confession into language understandable by common Dubliners, Father Flynn elaborates the simplest acts of sin and confession in order to grapple with their intellectual complexity and mystery. Father Flynn's intellectual aspiration is his own form of romantic escape from common Dublin coarseness and reductiveness. The boy in "The Sisters" is heir not only to Father Flynn's aspiration to intellectually grapple with the Catholic mysteries but also to Flynn's contempt of common Dublin life. Having failed to instill his intellectual aspiration within his congregation when younger, the aged Flynn teaches it to a congregation of one: the boy. With the boy's inheritance of refinement comes also the inheritance of Flynn's adversaries. The boy is embattled from the start by Old Cotter, who tells boring stories about common life in the brewery, and his uncle; these two men form an alliance to encourage the boy to "box his own corner" and "run with lads his own age" (10). Like Flynn, who fought the same kind of battle against elements of the community who tried to limit his aspiration to a common level finding him "too scrupulous always" (17), the boy is under relentless pressure to censor his aspirations to a common level 44 of common Dublin life and he withdraws in scrupulous disdain from it into the mysterious and complex world of intellectual refinement. The boy not only shares Flynn's adversaries, he also shares Flynn's defeat. Kenner explains (Dublin's Joyce) that the attempt to aspire to intellectual refinement had defeated Father Flynn, but I will emphasize Flynn's defeat at the hands of common Dublin life. In spite of Flynn's disdainful resistance to the the incursions of common life, he is finally subdued by them when infirmity and senility make him subject to his sisters' solicitous ministrations which he tolerates with polite disdain. Then, once Flynn is dead he is laid in state in the little house on Great Britain Street whose most prominent feature is its sign advertising the drapery shop within. The prominence of this business advertisement in relation to the tiny announcement of Flynn's death on the doorway of the house of mourning symbolizes the triumph of common commerce over Flynn's disdain. Also, the sisters give Flynn's dead features the look of defeat: Eliza says, --He was quite resigned. --He looks quite resigned, said my aunt. Although the priest was ”too scrupulous always" in life, the sisters, whom he had disdained, defeat him by asserting his final surrender to their solicitous care. The boy shares in this defeat and, even more ironically, contributes to it. After the priest is dead, the boy's taste for the priest's intellectual aspiration is 45 beginning to be eroded by the common interests of Dublin life, even at the boy's moment of most angry resistance to commonness. This greatest point of resistance occurs early in the story when his uncle and Old Cotter are forming their agreement that the priest was "queer" and that a healthy boy needs rough games with other boys his own age. This patronizing reference to the boy's childishness and this attack upon the priest make the boy furious, but lacking the status of an adult he can only protest in silence until he is spoken to. However, when he i1; addressed, he expresses his contempt for his audience by refusing to admit to them that he had a relationship with the priest that they can understand, and indirectly this amounts to a denial of the priest undermining the aspiration which the boy shared with the priest. In this scene, the boy, like Peter in The New Testament, denies the priest three times by silence. However, unlike Peter who denies himself and his teacher out of fear of the community, the boy denies himself and his teacher out of disdain for the community. The boy's uncle, like one of Peter's questioners says, --Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear. --Who? said I. Out of contempt for his audience the boy silences himself, continuing to eat stirabout as if the news had not interested him. His uncle and Cotter watch him for a reaction: then his uncle presses the issue of the boy's friendship with the priest 46 and of the intellectual aspiration which the boy and priest shared: --The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him a great deal mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him. (10) Now the boy eats stirabout more quickly, suppressing all admission that his uncle has the slightest understanding of the boy's and Flynn's relationship. Finally Cotter intensifies the boy's inner conflict by implying that the priest was mad: --It's bad for children, said old Cotter, because their minds are so impressionable. When children see things like that it has an effect. . . Then the boy nmst literally cram his mouth with stirabout in order to suppress giving his uncle and Cotter the pleasure of admitting that they can share in or understand his relationship with the priest. A comparison of the 1904 version (printed in the Irish Homestead [see The James Joyce Archive]) and the final revision completed in 1906 reveals that Joyce dramatizes more intensely the denial, making the boy's effort to suppress his voice more excruciating. As opposed to Peter's denial of Christ which makes his faith stronger, the boy's denial of the priest (while ostensibly imitating the priest's disdain) makes it easier for the boy to comply with the censorship which the common interests of Dublin impose upon the priest's and his own aspirations. Although the boy's conscious narration struggles with the indignity of Cotter having called him a child, while asleep his subconscious struggles to «complete Cotter's 47 unfinished attacks on the priest. He dreams of the priest who comes to the boy with his senile smile and soiled priestly garments to confess the sense in which he is "queer" and "uncanny,” so that the boy can absolve him. Then, throughout the next day the boy's thoughts again turn on these dream images which give definition to Cotter's innuendos, putting the boy in complicity with what is a pervasive community tendency to call the priest's aspiration something "queer" or "uncanny." When the boy lacks the courage to go into the house of mourning alone to View the priest in state, the boy loses even more of his earlier identification with the priest and realizes that this process of denial is giving him a sensation of freedom, "as iJEII had been freed from something by death" (12). As he relinquishes his identification with the priest the boy also relinquishes the priest's struggle against the violent pressures to censor his aspirations to a common level. When the boy finally comes to View the priest, he comes not as the priest's disciple but as his aunt's nephew: "my aunt took me with her to visit the house of nmurning" (14). Then, as they sit with Flynn's sisters by the casket, the boy's denial of the priest has allowed him to easily silence himself when hearing the pleasant and vicious innuendos similar to those that made him furious earlier. When Eliza, like Old Cotter, begins to suggest that Flynn was mad, the boy need no longer "cram" his mouth to prevent himself from speaking of his relationship with the priest. Now it takes only a "taste" (17) of sherry to silence himself. He no longer needs to cram his 48 mouth because the boy has given concrete validity to the innuendos of the priest's madness in his own consciousness, and he has already taken pleasure in his freedom from the rigors of the priest's aspiration. The climax of the story takes place when Eliza impulsively stops in the middle of her pleasant and vicious innuendos to carry through a reflex to listen in the direction of the dead room to make sure that the priest is dead. The boy, now steeped in culpability, carries through this reflex also, revealing the fearful, guilty face of practiced denial: She stopped suddenly as if'tx3 listen. I too listened; but there was no sound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still in his coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an idle chalice on his breast. This moment is absent from Joyce's original version. The 1904 version simply ends with Eliza's pleasant and vicious attacks upon the priest while the boy sits silently. However, for this final version Joyce intensifies the boy's culpability by this bald revelation of both the boy's and Eliza's impulsive mutual interest in making sure that the priest is dead. The boy denies the priest and then finally corroborates the community's leveling of the priest's aspirations. The boy becomes a deliberate participant in what he has known all along to be Dublin hemiplegia. One detail of "The Sisters" that looks forward to the next two stories in "Childhood" is the boy's incomplete 49 recollection of the end of his dream about Father Flynn. The boy cannot recall whether or not he absolved Flynn; all that he can recall is that his dream ended with an image of exotic and antique beauty which makes him think of Persia. This detail anticipates the boy new romantic avenues of aspiration: in "An Encounter" he aspires to ad-venture that must be "sought abroad" (21) because common Dublin life censors the conditions for adventure; in "Araby" he aspires to idealistic love which he imaginatively surrounds with all of the most foreign and exotic beauty that he can think of. In "An Encounter" the boy develops a temporary taste for pulp Wild West adventure novels and war games with his friends, but he soon grows contemptuous his friends' games and desires “real adventures“ (21) which do not happen to those who stay at home. However, in spite of his opposition to the environment that is hostile to romance, the boy carries latent within him an Opposing impulse for the common, institutionalized learning. The temporary contact between the opposing impulses results in the temporary suppression of his impulses for adventure. While he is dreaming of escape into adventure in class Father Butler rebukes another boy, Leo Dillon, for owning one of the Wild West pulp novels: This rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the glory of the Wild West for me and the confused puffy face of Leo Dillon awakened one of my consciences. But when the restraining influence of the school was at a distance I began to hunger again for wild sensations, for the escape 50 an: which those chronicles of disorder alone seemed to offer me. (20-21) The boy paralytically allows no reciprocity between these different ”consciences" within his own impulses; he must deny one in order to recognize the other. One of the boy's "consciences," the one which identifies with the restraint of school, is re-awakened by his disdain for "stupid boys" (25) who don't know their lessons, causing him to turn also against the wild sensations that the Wild West seems to offer him. Yet, when he is away from the influence of school, he once more grows bored with the thought of his lessons and of his friends' play adventures. Therefore, he resolves upon a day of miching, as far away from the restraints of school as he can get, in order to have real adventures. The Dublin docks are one of the first places at which the boy and his friend, Mahoney, linger on this day of miching. The boy takes great pleasure in a Norwegian vessel's foreigness and tries to decipher the mysterious Scandinavian legend written in on its side. As a craft from a foreign land, its inscription must, according the the boy's imagination, be another text which will, as the Wild West novels had, offer the boy more wild sensations. On the lookout for anything exotic, he searches for men with green eyes because he has a confused notion that somehow exotic adventurers have green eyes. Such an adventurer might decipher for him the mysterious legend on the ship's hull. 51 When the boy finally encounters a green-eyed "old josser," he has truly found one who has adventured far beyond the boy's wildest imaginings. The man has read Lord Lytton's works which the boy has never even heard of and the boy has no idea that the josser is referring to vaguely pornographical works: "There are some of Lord Lytton's works which boy's couldn't read," (28) says the josser. However, the boy claims to have read Lytton so that the green-eyed adventurer will take an interest in him and decipher for him a new text for adventure and wild sensations like the one which he failed to decipher on the Norwegian vessel. The old josser is using the boy's enthusiasm to establish a conspiratorial relationship with the boy, and through that relationship to fire the boy's imagination with sexual thoughts leading to homosexual sadism: this is the old man's version of the boy's desire for real adventures versus the play adventures of his schoolmates: Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself. Now, he added, pointing to Mahoney who was regarding us with open eyes, he is different; he goes in for games. (25) This pronouncement chimes with the boy's own assessment of his schoolmates, and when Mahoney asks the old josser why Lord Lytton's works are improper for boys, the boy is contemptuous of Mahoney and fears that the josser will think that “I was as stupid as Mahoney." Romance and common life here and 52 throughout the story are distinguished partially in terms of reading in "An Encounter." There is reading which is proper for a boy, and there is the kind of reading which offers wild sensations: for Father Butler, prOper literature is Roman history and not wild West adventure; for the old josser with bottle-green eyes Walter Scott is proper for boys, but Lord Lytton is run; However, as opposed to Father Dolan, the old josser doesn't refer to the impropriety of Lytton's pornographical works for the purpose of discouraging the boy from reading them. The josser brings them up in order to peak the boy's curiosity for new wild sensations and thereby make the boy's imagination receptive to his seductions. The josser advances his seduction slowly, moving from the vague pornography whidh he suggests in Iytton's works to his own sexual obsession for watching little girls: There was nothing he liked, he said, so much as looking at a nice young girl. . . .He repeated his phrases over and over again, varying them and surrounding them with his monotonous voice (26). After a long monologue, the old man excuses himself and does something odd in the corner of the field. The boy's friend, Mahoney, points out the old josser's act, the first adventurous event of the day, but the narrator's impulse is to avert his eYes, exhibiting that he has not the stomach for real adventure that his game-playing companion does. There before him is the old josser exhibiting wild sensations that chronicles of 53 disorder can stimulate, yet the boy rejects the offering, revealing a growing impulse to censor his own aspiration. When the josser returns to the uneasy boys, Mahoney chases a cat and then wanders about the far end of the field. The old man, now alone with the narrator, begins to unfold the next stage of his elaborate sexual mystery. He fantasizes with pleasure the possibility of whipping a young boy. As the josser's monologue lovingly unfolds this mystery, the boy begins to fear that this chronicle of disorder may stimulate even wilder conduct from the old man than previously, conduct which may involve himself. The boy feels threatened and rises in retreat, afraid that he "would seize me by the ankles" like a troll in an imaginative tale. This fear stimulates his impulse to return to the boyish world of play and the ordered world of school. He calls out for Mahoney to rescue him. The impulse for restraint which originates in the boy certainly saves him from a degrading threat from the old josser, but, since the story ends on this note, it also evokes the boy's denial of the desire to decipher the exotic text of adventure altogether. The boy is penitent not only because he had felt contempt for Mahoney who now runs to bring him the aid that he can rely on from the ordered world, he also repents his impulse for adventure. When the old josser silently appeals to the boy to understand him, the boy can deny to himself, through penitence, that the old josser is just an extreme example of his own impulse for adventure. The point of contact between common life and adventure in class, during Father Butler's 54 rebuke of Dillon, was enough to temporarilly censor the boy's adventurous impulses. However, the conclusive surrender of his romantic impulses takes place when the old josser has provided himself as a symbol by which to decipher the text of adventure, and the boy surrenders his romanticism by denying his own identification with the old josser; thereby he denies and repents an aspect of himself. In "Araby" the boy aspires to romantic love in an environment "hostile to romance" (31). The brown imperturbable faces of the houses at the beginning of the story are personifications: they stand watch over each other exerting the consciousness of the "decent" (29)--conforming--powers occupying the houses. In addition to this middle class force keeping Dublin life on a common level, other places such as the market place are filled with not only the coarseness of drunkards, labourers, and commerce, but also with the sorrowful reminders ”about the troubles in our native land" (31) resulting from her subjugation to English colonialism. The boy feels all of these forces converge in his consciousness in "a single sensation of life" (31), threatening to censor his romantic idealization like the "charioteers" of violent reality in Chamber Music XXXVI. The boy contends this violence with heroic postures, bearing his love for his friend's older sister "like a chalice through a throng of foes" (31). Unfortunately, common Dublin life wins again. At the end of the story the boy discovers within himself the point of contact between his own impulses 55 and Dublin; the result is disillusionment, anguish, and anger. This result is another form of the self-censoring penitence of "An Encounter.” The boy repents his own romanticism, thereby complying with the "decent" powers of Dublin life to censor his aspiration to a common level. By making the boy's beloved a relative of someone named Mangan with whom the narrator had played as a child, Joyce evokes his own early interest in romanticism. James Clarence Mangan was a late nineteen century Irish romantic poet who would be familiar to anyone who read Irish poetry at the time regardless of his familiarity with Joyce's early essays; yet Joyce incorporates passages from his 1902 essay on Mangan in order to evoke his own romantic youth. The line from the story about the boy bearing "his chalice through a throng of foes“ (31) is reminiscent of this early essay in which he describes the "chivalrous idea" of romanticism as a holy grail which romantic artists such as Mangan bear bravely "above the accidents of loss, faithlessness, and weariness" SW 79). Also, the title of the story and the name of the bazaar--"Araby"-- which cast an "Eastern enchantment" over the boy causing him to superimpose the imagery of the exotic East upon his love for Mangan's sister, are anticipated by Joyce's sense of James Clarence Mangan's treatment of his subjects. Whether Mangan's subject be Ireland or a princess: Music and odours and lights are spread about her and he would search the dews and sands that he might set another glory near her face. . . .How the East is laid under tribute for her and must 56 bring all its treasures to her feet. (SW 79) Like the romantic in the essay, the boy wants to lay a tribute from the exotic East at the feet of his beloved because in his confused adoration he has centered all of his romantic aspirations around her. The romance of the Eastern bazaar, intensified and augmented by the boy's love of Mangan's sister, becomes a symbol of the boy's soul in the story: ”The syllables of the word 3r_31_>y were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated" (32). Eastern romance becomes a voice in the boy's own spirit which contends the incursions of voices from the commonplace, repressive Dublin landscape. {Hue height of the conflict between these opposing voices and the final defeat of the boy's aspiration will take place in this Eastern bazaar which is temporarilly in Dublin. Therefore the height of the conflict and the final tragic epiphany will symbolically take place within the boy's soul, and the voice of romance in his soul will be defeated by another voice in his soul which speaks to him of his identity with the common Dublin landscape. As opposed to "An Encounter" in which the restraining influence of school must be at a distance before he revolts against its tedium, in "Araby" the boy revolts against school's "ugly, monotonous child's play" while sitting in class. The syllables of Araby voiced in his soul, at this point in the novel, are capable of censoring the opposing voice in his soul ”calling” his studious thoughts together. This play of voices resumes as the boy returns home 57 after school in anxious anticipation of going to the bazaar. He had received his uncle's permission to go to Araby that morning, but the boy must wait until his uncle gets home in order to get money for the tram, the entrance fee, and for his gift for Mangan's sister. When his uncle is late, the boy finds himself growing irritated and feeling helpless, so he climbs to the upper storey of the house to "liberate" (33) himself from this feeling of helplessness subjugation to this aspect of common culture. Predictably, following the intricate play of voices in the narrative, the "liberation" frees the boy's romantic aspiration and represses the voices of common Dublin Life: The high cold empty gloomy room liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct (33). The voices of common Dublin child's play cannot reach him in the "high cold room" where his romantic aspirations are liberated. When the boy's uncle finally arrives the hour is very late and, upon getting the money, the boy rushes desperately to get to the bazaar. However, he arrives so late that most of the stalls in the greater part of the hall are closed and very few people remain. The boy recognizes a "silence like that WhiCh pervades a church after a service;" in other words, the romantic spirit of the East has departed from the bazaar. Instead of exotic Eastern music and voices, the boy hears only the counting of commercial profit and the coarse English 58 accents of the stall keepers. The bazaar has become nothing but another market place designed for crude profit and hostile to romance. The words of the love game --0, I never said such a thing! --0, but you did! --0, but I didn't! --Didn't she say that? --Yes. I heard her. --0, there's a . . . fib! are spoken by coarse English shOpkeepers in a diction which is crude in comparison to the lyricism of the boy's own fantastic ejaculations of romanticism. This crudeness is offending and disillusioning to a boy who wants to plumb the secrets of ideal love. The story ends with a shout at the darkened end of the vacant corridor of the bazaar. This shout resonates back to the shouts of the boys playing on North Richmond Street with which the story begins, and these common voices oppose the very heart of the boy's aspiration. The boy's passion, capable of being stirred to song by thoughts of Araby and Mangan's sister, is effectively reduced to irony by two cries emerging from out of the blind alleys and dead ends of the Dublin landscape. The cries of common life are weakened and indistinct at the height of the boy's romanticism; however, by the end of the story, the cry from the common landscape is distinct and its meaning is clear: it signifies vanity or emptiness to the boy. The boy feels himself emptied of his romantic aspiration as a result of his disillusionment. As in "An Encounter," his penitence censors his romantic voice, allowing no reciprocity between the 59 contending voices within his sensibility. Joyce not only brings the boy to the point of denying his romanticism, but the narrator looking backwards denies his past romanticism by incorporating within the narration overt judgements upon the boy's idealism throughout the story: "Her name was like a summons to my foolish blood" (30). The voice of the "summons" comes from within the boy, but the voice judging the boy's foolish blood comes from an older narrator looking backwards to his past. These two contending voices in the narrative line add another dimension to the story: the boy who consigns his romanticism to emptiness at the end of the story has developed the attitude of the mature narrator who looks backwards and traces the origins of his disillusionment with romanticism. The critics of the MURGE project point out that in the last sentence of the story the older self-refective narrator and the less self-reflective boy fuse: The conceptual voice of 'derided by vanity' presupposes self-reflection, whereas 'driven by vanity' presupposes its absence. Hence the combined phrases imply that the boy 'saw himself' from two perspectives. ("A Summary of the Murge Project" 245) It is only in this last sentence that a reader can presuppose self-irony on the part of the boy, whereas previously the boy's own self-irony is not evident. It is possible, then, to argue that "the boy's self-irony is to be understood as the point in the narration at which the 'character' of the boy and the 'character' of the narrator are merged" (241). Previous to the boy's disillusionment, however, the 60 uncensored youthful voice of his romanticism speaks through the narrative line in lyrical passages such as this one: Through the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing on the sodden beds (31). This lyricism, as distinct from the scrupulous meanness of the older narrator, is a loss not only to the boy but to the reader as well. ILike Flaubert's lyrical passages describing Emma in Madame Bovagy, once the romantic sensibility leaves the narrative, the lyricism lapses into silence, leaving only a regrettably mean style to describe a mean subject. One does not walk away from either story with the sense that the loss of the romantic voice signals a triumph. The artist, in fact, surrenders his style to the meanness of his subject. ADOLESCENCE "Eveline,” the first story of "Adolescence," opens with the protagonist sitting at the window watching the ”evening” of common Dublin violence "invade" (36) the avenue where she sits irresolutely dreaming of her lover, Frank, who has fired her imagination with stories of his adventures as a sailor and with the possibility of aspiring to be mistress of her own house in an exotic and vital land far away from the savagery of her father's violence. Her environment is hostile to this romance: her father has forbidden her to see Frank and 61 she can anticipate the gossip which would attend her "running away vflijiaa fellow" (37). The evening "invading" the avenue signifies that time is an ally of the violent common life which threatens to censor her aspiration: time is running out for her because Frank's ship sails in the evening and she must be on it with him in order to fulfill her dream. However, Eveline's own impulses, her recollections Of her past and her affection for her family and friends, Oppose her aspiration to romance, keeping her frozen in her chair by the window. fun: musings are dangerous not only because they paralyse her in her chair while time is running out on her, but also because her meditation on her life evokes the image of her mother's commonplace sacrifices which Eveline inherited. This vision Of her mother "laid its spell on the very quick Of her being" (40). It is only a burst Of impulsive terror that frees her from the fascination Of this spell enough for her to rise from her window seat and proceed to the ship. HOwever, this spell at the quick Of her being has done its work sufficiently to freeze her at the dock at the point Of embarkation. Like her mother, Eveline has lived a life of commonplace self- sacrificial violence, a spell which, upon contact with her aspirations, attacks the feelings Of love which make her aspiration imaginable to her: as she, in anguish, watches Frank sailing away from her, she can give him "no sign Of love or farewell or recognition." Like her mother whose commonplace sacrifices cause her tO end in "craziness" (40), Eveline ends in "frenzy" (41), as if she were "surrendering the very 62 qualities which make her human" (SS 164). In other words, the habit of self-sacrifice has become her strongest impulse, an impulse which.ruwv is less an expression Of love of those for whom she sacrifices than it is habit Of self-imposed violence. Both Jimmy Doyle and his father, the central Dubliners Of the next story, "After the Race," believe that Jimmy has acquired "foreign accomplishments" which are "Often unpurchasable" (45) by those paralysed in the "channel Of poverty and inaction" (42) which is Dublin life. Their belief that Jimmy is an initiate into foreign accomplishments is based totally on Jimmy's proximity to other young men who have these accomplishments: they admire Segouin for his manners and his business success and they admire Villona for his musical skills. However, Jimmy's sole accomplishments are his inheritance Of money and "solid instincts" (46) in business and his appearance in dinner dress. Throughout the story the narrator makes scrupulously clear that Jimmy is not genuinely the sophisticate that he pretends to be. Jimmy is elated at the beginning Of the story by being looked upon by the other Dubliners as one who shares in the accomplishment Of having placed a racing car among the top three finishers in an international race. At the race's end he is with his companions in the car as it passes through the cheering crowd, and he has been granted a small partnership in the company manufacturing the car if he puts up some of the money. Yet, Jimmy is "too excited to be genuinely happy" (43). 63 He has not even invested in his partnership yet, and his satisfaction results not from genuine accomplishment, but from the fact that all Of the "profane" Dubliners who look at him believe tflmi'UO be a success because Of the company he keeps. He enjoys to the full the looks that he gets from the "spectators" (44) who watch Segouin introduce him to one Of the drivers, feeling to be no longer simply a Dublin spectator Of the ”genuine pulse Of life" (45), but instead a true participant whose accomplishments are watched by those uninitiated Dubliners. In his effort to seem to belong to the group, Jimmy confuses their satisfaction over their genuine accomplishments with giddy self-abandonment. He confuses the card playing skills Of Routh and Segouin with "boldness" (40) so that when he gets into a high-stakes card game with them, he gambles the money that would have made him a genuine participant in the accomplishments 13) which rm: has pretentiously associated himself. At the end Of the game, Jimmy hopes that the dawn is a few hours away because at daybreak he knows that he must face that fact that since he can no longer invest in the company Of these accomplished Europeans, then lug is simply another gratefully Oppressed Dubliner. However, even the luxury Of delay is denied to Jimmy as Segouin Opens the drapes revealing the sunrise which signals the revelation that Jimmy has always been nothing'tnn:ta common Dubliner resulting in the death Of Jimmy's aspiration. The title Of the next story, "Two Gallants, " 64 ironically evokes the romantic aspiration tO courtly gallantry toward women. The point Of contact between gallantry and common Dublin life results in the corruption and destruction Of this romantic aspiration. The "poverty Of purse" (57) among Dublin men is directly related to Dublin's poverty Of spirit. Dubliners have become heedless Of the spiritual quality of romance and are animated only when acquiring money or otherwise maintaining their bare substance. The corruption Of the Dublin spirit is not limited to gallantry, but the corruption Of gallantry is meant to suggest a general spiritual despair pervading the Dublin landscape: the entire landscape has, in effect, lost feeling in part Of its spiritual body resulting in a pervasive defeat Of aspiration throughout the community. The story begins with a narrator high above the Dublin streets. Like the boy in "Araby" he is so high above the setting that the common voices Of Dublin life are indistinct, sounding to him like an "unchanging, unceasing murmur" (49). However, the narrator longs to get closer to the deadly paralysis and he picks out the voice Of Corley finishing a long monologue about one Of the women Of whom he has taken advantage by means Of his "energetic gallantries (57):" Cigarettes every night she'd bring me and paying the tram out and back. And one night she brought me two bloody fine cigars. (51) Corley is speaking to Lenehan, a vagrant who sticks like a leech to anyone who may stand him a drink or a meal. Lenehan is another kind Of "gallant" who courts men by expending 65 gallantries for the purpose of getting money from them. The route the men travel will take them to the point of Corley's rendezvous with the same woman of whom Corley is speaking. Corley expects to get some money from her and Lenehan expects to get a free dinner out of Corley's profits. The two men wander through a spiritless landscape symbolized most strikingly by a harpist: Not far from the porch of the club a harpist stood in the roadway, playing to a ring of listeners. He plucked at the strings heedlessly, glancing quickly. . . at the face of each newcomer and from time to time, wearily also, at the sky. His harp too, heedless that her coverings had fallen about her knees, seemed weary alike of strangers and her master's voice. (54) The harpist who plays wearily and spiritlessly for spare change has a weary glance which takes in the spectators and the landscape as a whole. The spectators are "strangers" to the romantic spirit of Ireland which is symbolized by the personified harp. Don Gifford (Joyce Annotated 78) points out that a "stranger" is a traditional Irish term for the English invaders. However, I think that Joyce also intends the word to signify that the Irish have also become strangers to the Irish spirit which the harp symbolizes; the romantic harp has become dislocated from a vital role in the spiritual life of Dublin; it is now reduced to the role of a dispirited organ of commerce. Like Corley and Lenehan, the spiritual harp has been sold for money, inducing dispirited weariness and heedlessnes in its personified voice. The two men move on to the point of Corley's 66 rendezvous, and once Corley has met the woman from whom he intends to acquire money, Lenehan is left alone to await Corley's success. Lenehan, now wanders listlessly through the streets. His ability to make love to a woman has been corrupted and rendered inert, so he cannot respond to the subtle advances of women who encourage him to be courtly: He knew that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent and to amuse, and his brain and throat were too dry for such a task (56). Lenehan's mind does not become active again until he returns to the place where he expects Corley to meet him and share the fruits of his own profit-motivated gallantries. Lenehan is beside himself in anticipation once Corley has taken leave of his date,and he is anxious almost to the point of menace in his inquiries aout Corley's success. The climax of the story takes place when Corley, in silent self-assurance, opens his hand to reveal a gold sovereign, an amount of money that it would take the working girl six or seven weeks to earn (Gifford 62). The irony of this moment is heightened by Corley's smile of satisfaction at his accomplishment; this smile and Lenehan's inevitable relief signify that they have descended to brutal cynicism. They don't feel the anguish of Eveline or of the boy in "Araby" when they realize their complicity with Dublin violence. As a result of the story's development, their cynicism resonates outward to include the entire landscape of Dublin which has fallen beyond defeat to brutal despair as a result of having 67 sold its spiritual life for money. "The Boarding House" is thematically a very appropriate story to follow "Two Gallants." "Two Gallants" reveals the ways that men corrupt the romantic spirit of gallantry and delicacy toward women, and "The Boarding House" reveals how women contribute to this corruption by using feminine helplessness and delicacy as a weapon by which to trap men into marriage, securing for themselves a decadent form of respectability and financial stability. Mrs. Mooney is selling her daughter's charms for a position among the "decent lives" (9) who inhabit the middle class houses of the respectable Dublin community. The overtones of procuring are evident initially in the narrator's reference to Mrs. Mooney as "the Madame" (62). Her daughter also, in unspoken but clearly understood complicity with her daughter, exploits the romance of feminine delicacy, not to aspire to an ideal love, but to more securely establish herself in the common community which has replaced love with respectability and social standing. There is very little which is new that one can say about "The Boarding House" beyond showing how it works as part of Joyce's purgative opposition to Dublin violence. Hugh Kenner (Dublin's Joyce) and Warren Beck (Joyce's Dubliners) have discussed thoroughly the expert "wise innocence" by which Polly and her mother exploit the romance of feminine delicacy. It is clear that Polly is bold enough to visit Bob Doran's room nightly and her mother is perceptive enough to allow the budding affair go on long enough to make these visits community 68 knowledge. Then, vnun1 Mrs. Mooney tun; mustered enough community forces to threaten Doran's job and reputation, she springs her trap. Polly is ready for the decisive moment by playing the role of the delicate female to the hilt: "She would put an end to herself, she said" (66). Finally, her mother, after a long talk with Doran, calls Polly downstairs SK) that Doran can propose to her. Her mother arrives in her room telling her that Doran "wants" to speak to her, but actually Doran is simply sleep-walking through the motions which have already been mapped out for him by the Mooneys: He longed to ascend through the roof and fly away . . .. and yet a force pushed him downstairs step by step. the implacable faces of his employer and time Madame stared Luxni his discomfiture (68). It is clear that Doran is not purely a victim of Mrs. Mooney's and Polly's scheming, for while he has tried to aspire to a love which is not confined to common community restrictions, he has been deeply entrapped in the restrictive forces which are his undoing all along. His job and his religion contribute most powerfully to the defeat of his freedom. The aspiration tx> love outside Joyce's own attitudes without accounting for the 76 fact that Joyce fervently hated the beliefs of the Church. He understood the Church to be repressive to "the impulses of my own nature" (SE 25). I would like to postpone my discussion of the final two stories of "Mature Life" until the end of this chapter because these two stories of the first fourteen anticipate most conspicuously Jche's synergistic stage of pacifism.These two stories are unusual inclusions in the first fourteen in the sense that it ii; the Dublin milieu which offers the protagonists of these stories a solution to their paralysis, but the protagonists, Maria and Duffy, qualify as paralytic Dubliners because they maintain their self destructive insularity tur censoring the regenerative voices which originate within the Dublin milieu and within themselves. I will discuss the significance of rejections after my discussion of the stories in "Public Life." PUBLIC LIFE In the first two stories of this section the prevailing public impulse is ostensibly the political revival of Ireland, a well-known Irish effort of the late-nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The Irish Revival Movement is a nationalistic effort to assert and achieve the independence of 77 Ireland from foreign rule. In these two stories Joyce illustrates the public murder of this aspiration originating within time political institutions which were generally accepted as promoters of this revival. The aspirations (n? Charles Stewart Parnell pervade "Ivy Day in the Committee Room." Parnell, whose death the Ivy Day celebration commemorates, was the most celebrated late nineteenth century champion of Irish Home Rule in Parliament. Ivy is a symbol of Irish regeneration, and one wears ivy on this day to denote sympathy with Parnell's efforts to regenerate Ireland politically through self-rule. The Wicklow Street Committee Room in Dublin where the action of the story takes place is also significant of Irish nationalism because this committee room is the headquarters of the Irish Nationalist Party (Gifford 90). Joyce exhibits in this story the corruption of Parnell's aspiration taking place within these ostensibly nationalist institutions. For Joyce, Ireland's role as a sow who eats her own farrow was never more evident than in the Irish betrayal of Parnell: Joyce believed, as Yeats did, that "we devoured his heart" ("Parnell's Funeral"). Because of Parnell's affair with Kitty O'Shea, a married woman, Parnell was condemned from the pulpits of the Churches in Ireland, a condemnation that split his supporters and led 1x) his downfall. However, for Joyce, the betrayal of Parnell's aspirations for an independent Ireland was not complete with his initial denouncement by the Irish people. The aspirations of Parnell are degraded further 78 in the present by those in the Wicklow Street Committee Room who make his aspirations secondary to their own financial expedience. It is evident from early in the story that money, not political aspiration, is the main concern of the so-called Parnellites in the denuded, de-vitalized committee room. Hynes and O'Connor, both wearing ivy in their lapels, are the first two arrivals in the committee room besides Old Jack, the caretaker. Both Hynes and O'Connor have been canvassing for the election of Richard Tierney as alderman to the Dublin Muncipal Council. Not only does the fact that Tierney owns a pub, the Black Eagle, arouse the suspicion that he is running for alderman because, as Gifford points out, public houses of elected officials prosper from the patronage of those seeking political favors (Gifford 89), but the pecuniary degradation of Parnell's aspiration is evident by the fact tht neither Hynes nor O'Connor are particularly concerned with "Tricky Dicky" Tierney's (122) politics. Both Hynes and O'Connor are primarily concerned with whether or not they will be paid for their night of canvassing. Although Hynes is a poet with a light brown mustache and a tall slender appearance, making him resemble Joyce, I cannot agree with Helene Cixous and Warren Beck who claim that Hynes represents Joyce in the narrative. Although Hynes' poem is sympathetic to Parnell, he is selling his political fidelity to Tierney who will not state whether or not he will support an address welcoming Edward VII to Ireland, an address which 79 implies Irish loyalty to England's king. Tierney is obviously testing the political waters to discover whether a statement of loyalty to the English crown will be politically expedient or not. Hynes' support of such a man does not show his "real loyalty to Parnell" (Cixous 217), but Hynes' loyalty to the man most capable of paying him. Cixous' claim that Hynes also has a "real loyalty" to the "socialist creed" is erroneous as well since, in spite of Hynes' vociferous defense of the working class candidate, Colgan, Hynes is working against Colgan by canvassing for Tierney. Hynes' support of Tierney, in spite of the fact that he is "hard up" (124), makes him the most cynical of all of the canvassers because he works in opposition to his principles purely for money, expecting Tierney to be more capable of paying his canvassers than Colgan. Joyce is obviously satirizing Hynes' pawning of his scruples to Tierney, the son of a pawnbroker. The pecuniary interests of Tierney's campaign re- emerge when Henchy arrives claiming with pride that he is winning over votes for Tierney by arguing that Tierney's property holdings will give lfimwani interest in keeping rates down. Then Henchy supports the visit of King Edward--in spite of Parnell's advice that all "independent and patriotic people of Ireland" should not respond to the presence of the prince and princess (Gifford 95)--by arguing that the king's visit will bring revenue into the country: "It's capital we want" (131) cries Henchy, and Crofton agrees. Parnell's aspiration is evoked most ironically when, 80 at the end of the story, Hynes recites his poem in honor of Parnell, invoking Parnell's spirit to rise from death like the phoenix and bring freedom to Ireland. This poem speaks of Parnell as one who was betrayed by hypocrites, an indictment upon all of those wearing ivy on this day. Helene Cixous states that Joyce employs a "lilliputian method of satire in 'Ivy Day' that reduces everything by reference to a superior, larger being" (Cixous 266) who is Parnell. However, beyond the ignominy 1x3 which Parnell's spirit reduces tine corrupt canvassers of the Wicklow Street Committee Room, the canvassers also reduce Parnell's aspiration to the level of their own stature. "Parnell is dead" says Henchy, a statement which he uses to silence O'Connor's evocation of Parnell's opposition to the welcoming of the English king. Then, the last word on Hynes's poetic praise of Parnell is given to Crofton who compliments Hynes' skill as a poet and ignores the spiritual import of the poem. The men wearing ivy leaves sit in uneasy silence after the reading of the poem, but they have no intention of altering their political activities. Parnell's aspirations are unthreatening because they have reduced them to a level that doesn't interfere with their sense of political expediency. In "A Mother" the public violence within the spirit of the Irish Revival is conjured up through Joyce's examination of another institution of Irish nationalism, the Eire Abu Society. However, the aspiration to revive things Irish, the ostensible goal of this organization, is for most of the 81 participants, a pretext for furthering personal ambitions completely removed from Irish nationalism. Mrs. Kearney is the focal point of the story. Her primary interest during her youth was to win for herself a "brilliant" life, meaning that she depended upon her accomplishments tx> win herself ea high. social position. However, when she fails to marry a man who can elevate her socially, she settles upon marriage to a bootmaker. Then, years later, when her daughter displays musical talent, Mrs. Kearney transfers her own ambitions to her daughter. The Eire Abu society only comes to Mrs. Kearney's notice when it becomes appreciable enough to be instrumental in her own ambitions for her daughter. In order to make her daughter appear to tween) adherent to the Irish Revival, Mrs. Kearney brings an Irish instructor to the house and cultivates friends of the Movement, until her daughter, Kathleen, becomes well known in nationalist circles. The next phase of Mrs. Kearney's plan is complete when she secures a contract for her daughter to accompany a series of four recitals given for the support of the Movement. She settles upon the sum of eight guineas for her daughter, a fairly substantial sum to be given to an unknown performer (Gifford 98). This sum establishes for Mrs. Kearney that her daughter is a prominent artiste (a term deliberately chosen by Joyce to suggest the self-important affectation of the performers in the recital). On the first three nights of the recitals, Mrs. Kearney becomes worried when most of the singers the are embarrassingly bad and audiences 82 are small. Realizing that her daughter will gain no prominence from her connection with this performance, Mrs. Kearney tries to salvage her daughter's prominence by making sure that Kathleen gets her money, so on the final night, she adamantly demands her daughter's full eight guineas before she will allow her daughter to play the accompaniments. Gifford points out that the weight of tradition is against Mrs. Kearney in this dispute because, since Kathleen is not an established star, her payment in these quasi-amateur performances is regarded as far more promising than binding; the contracted fee would be paid if the concert was a financial success; otherwise, the performers would share whatever proceeds remained after expenses (Gifford 98). However, since the established stars have received their money already, Mrs. Kearney, in her impatient desire to have her daughter known as a prominent artiste, insists that her daughter be paid the full contracted fee in advance as well. As if to make up for her own disappointed life, Mrs. Kearney loses her composure completely; her pretensions to ladylike "ivory manners" and to support of the Irish Revival become no longer plausible. As a result Mrs. Kearney is "condemned on all hands" (149) by the Eire Abu society and her daughter's musical career in Dublin is ruined. Although Mrs. Kearney is the central character in the story, Joyce's condemnation of the Revival Movement's hypocrisy is not limited to rmnu The other peOple involved in the movement are guilty of hypocrisy and self-interest as well. Miss Healy is flirting with the journalist in order to get a 83 few extra lines of Injxua The journalist is bored with the aspirations for which the society is ideally designed, but he stays at the performance long enough to turn Miss Healy's flirtation to account. Madame Glynn's affectations to stylish singing are the center of critical ridicule by the narrator. Joyce's point is that the Irish Revival has lost its spiritual significance and is exploited pervasively by those whose goals are selfish. The irony of the story is that Mrs. Kearney's coarse display of self interest and affectation make her a scapegoat by which the other guilty people of the community can repudiate self-interest and affectation in theory but maintain self-interest and affectation in practice. It is well-documented that Joyce himself appeared in the recital whiCh he adapts for this story, and the violence which the self-interested artistes do to the aspiration of Irish revivalism rebounds back upon Joyce himself. Joyce had no desire to contribute to the Revival when he sang at this concert. Joyce's primary motive for singing was to impress Nora (JJ 174). However, within the context of the story alone, the narrator is capable of looking down upon the hypocrisy of these artistes and purging this public parody of the regeneration of Irish art. The story, "Grace," involves the Dublin community ostensibly trying to regenerate the soul of Tom Kernan, a hardened drinker. However, their efforts amount to a destructive parody of spiritual regeneration which only contributes to the violent commercial forces subduing Kernan's 84 soul. Stanislaus points out that James Joyce adapts Dante's three-part division of the Commedia as a basis for the plan of "Grace:" in the underground lavatory, llinferno; in bed at home convalescing, ii Purgatorio; in church listening tx> a sermon, i1 Paradiso. ("The Backgrounds of Dubliners" 526) However, unlike Dante's linear story in which the poet is led surely away from degradation and toward regeneration, Joyce's story is significantly circular--the central character in "Grace" is led, through misinformation and misleading accomodation, back to subjugation to the commercial forces which caused his downfall originally. The priest, whose teachings represent those of Beatrice in heaven, only teaches Kernan the way back into the inferno of Dublin commerce. The story begins with Kernan lying unconscious with part of his tongue bitten off on a filthy pub floor—-Kernan's inferno--after drunkenly missing his footing on the steps. Kernan is an all but ruined tea merchant--"modern business methods had spared him only so far as to allw him a little office on Crowe Street" (154)-—who has been recently keeping company with a loan shark named Harford. In obvious financial trouble, he puts on a front of commercial success by "passing muster," in a silk hat and a pair of gaiters. Kernan is trying to escape the anxiety of his business failure through his dapper facade and his drinking. The ironic epiphany of the story takes place when his friends, in an effort to save him 85 from alcoholism, take him to a religious retreat in which the priest's spiritual guidance suppresses the spiritual significance of the scripture which he uses as the text for his sermon in order to accomodate the commercial materialsm which primarily contributes to Kernan's spiritual ruin. When Kernan's friends first suggest the retreat to him, he is in bed during his convalescence in the story's purgatorio section. The idea of a: retreat conveys "little meaning to his mind," yet he considers it only dignified to "show a stiff neck" when "spiritual agencies [are] about to concern themselves on his behalf" (163). However, his friends present Kernan with a complicated tissue of misinformation about ecclesiastical history which they use as a way to ease into their proposal that he accompany them to the retreat. The precise blunders of misinformation made by his friends are exhaustively discussed by R.M. Adams (Surface and Symbol), Warren Beck (Joyce's Dubliners), and Don Gifford (Joyce Annotated). I will not reiterate or synthesize these researches but will simply point out that this tissue of misinformation signifies that Kernan's friends, who pretend to be leading through his purgatory like modern-day Virgils, are misleading him. Not only are they misinforming him about ecclesiastical history, but their sense of Christian doctrine and belief is facile and unreliable. They are leading him not to regeneration but to destruction. The Paradiso section takes place in the church; the "decorous atmosphere" makes Kernan feel as if he is responding 86 to a "religious stimulus." The irony is subtle here, for Joyce is using the word "decorous" in the late latin sense (decorus) to suggest material elegance, not spiritual salvation. In addition, the business community, being one of the the financial mainstays of the Church's material pomp, is handled with a diplomacy which makes a parody of spiritual regeneration. Father Purdon quotes from Luke 12. 8-9 as a text for his sermon: For the children of this world are wiser in their generation than (flue children of light. Wherefore, make unto yourselves friends out of mammon of iniquity so that when you die they may receive you into everlasting dwellings (173). Purdon is using this passage to suggest that Christ sets up worshippers of mammon as exemplars and encourages the pursuit of mammon (riches), and this is anu accomodation which Christ does not make. Christ simply uses commercial materialsm as an example which his hearers might understand, but immediately afterward, Christ; qualifies Ihimself' rigorously. Ike clearly states that one "cannot serve God and Mammon" (Luke 12.13), and Christ clearly’ distinguishes mammon. from "true riches"(Luke 12.11). Purdon leaves out the full context of the passage in order to suggest the Christ encourages the pursuit of mammon and that salvation is a matter of Opening up one's books to an accountant. Joyce, who always considered the Church and commerce to kmezhi a complicitous relationship which paralyses the soul of Ireland, vividly illustrates this spiritually 87 destructive complicity in this story in order to purge this community violence. I have saved time last two stories of "Mature Life" until now because these two stories, more than any other of the first fourteen Dubliners stories, anticipate the synergistic pacifism which Joyce expresses in "The Dead," Portrait, and Ulysses. As I've mentioned, in Dubliners Joyce expresses a far more sympathetic view of romanticism that he expresses in Stephen Hero because the rejection of romantic aspiration is experienced by the protagonists in Dubliners as a tragic loss, not as a triumph as in Stephen Hero. In most of the stories in Dubliners, the point of contact between romantic aspiration and common life results in the destruction of the characters' romantic aspirations; the common milieu of Dublin is an "old sow" that consumes and censors aspiration, reducing these aspiring voices to a common level. However, in "Clay" and "A Painful Case" the protagonists end tragically because they feel that they must censor the love which the Dublin landscape offers them in order to retain their own insularity. If romantic aspiration--love--can originate in Dublin life, then common Dublin life cannot be reduced absolutely to a sow that eats her own farrow;' and if the violence which results in hemiple-gia is an infection picked up from common Dublin life, then it is only because a character's own violent impulses reject the love which is offered by common life. Therefore, even the first fourteen stories cannot lead one to Hugh Kenner's conclusion that Dublin is absolutely a "city of 88 the dead" (Dublin's Joyce). This does not disrupt the unity of hemiplegia in the first fourteen stories because Maria and Duffy are still paralysed Dubliners. However, these two stories are probably instrumental in teaching Joyce that contact between aspiration and common life need not be destructive if such characters can make the leap of insight allowing them to accept the love which common life offers them. In reading "Clay," I must once again take issue with Warren Beck for claiming that this story about an aging, unattractive, and alienated spinster is not tragic (Beck 200). However, Beck's conclusion is useful because his argument is a clear indication of how a reading of Joyce's works will fail by not accounting for the tragedy of censoring a vocally endowed impulse within Joyce's works. Beck claims that, she has come to what terms she can with what she understands to be her present self and situation, and has taken on a role enough larger than reality to save her from being overwhelmed by melancholy (Beck 199) However, I find that Maria is overwhelmed by melancholy to the extent that she must deny her own impulse to love and marry as a result of frustration over not being chosen. It is true that she tells the woman at the laundry, a woman with "the notions of a common woman" (101), that she doesn't want "any ring or any man either" (101), yet when she goes to the bakery, she can't hear the clerk mention wedding cake without blushing; and when she meets a tipsy man on the 89 tram who is chivalrous toward her, she become so excited and pleased that she forgets her plumcake. Her delight at having met this man makes her momentarily believe "how easy it was to know a gentleman" (103). This moment is the birth of an infant hope in Maria. If Maria had convinced herself earlier that she was a participant in a larger reality by which she had come to terms with her self and her situation, this moment disrupts this easy resignation. But, I am inclined to believe that when she denies wanting "any ring or any man either," she is exercising a habit of denying her true desires, desires which are re—aroused by the Dubliner on the tram. Maria, who lives at the laundry, has taken the tram on this day to visit Joe, whom she had nursed when he was a baby. Joe is now a full-grown man with his own wife and children, and Maria has been anxiously thrilled at the prospect of spending the evening in this family atmosphere. Then, when she arrives Eu: the house and realizes that her confused and hopeful excitement over meeting the man on the tram had caused her to forget her plumcake which was to be a surprise for Joe's children, she feels shame. It is the shame, not childlike innocence as Beck implies, which begins to strangle Maria's infant hope that she might have discovered how easy it is to know a gentleman. She is ashamed of her pleasure in having met him since the meeting resulted in the spoiling of her surprise and the wasting of her money. The climax of Maria's impulsive strangulation of her hopes occurs when she sings the song "I Dreamt that I Dwelt," a 90 song which treats of a girl's dreams of wealth, courtship, and marriage. This is a song which Maria obviously knows well and Inns sung often because Mrs. Donnelly strikes up the accompaniment on the piano without being told what Maria will sing; everyone knows that this is the song Maria usually sings. However, when Maria sings the song, she leaves out the verses on courtship and marriage; she simply repeats the verse treating of hopes of wealth. Maria's censorship of the other verses is apparent to everyone in the room because they had become accustomed to her singing the entire song. Yet, no one points out her deletion because it would be indelicate at a party in which everyone treats Maria with extreme delicacy. Even the narrator calls her deletion an "error" out of delicacy because no stronger word is needed to point out the revelation that she has censored her own hopes. This censorship of her hopes has a tragic finality, for, in reaction to the events of the day, she has impulsively closed off the vocal expression of these hopes in her life. Maria also gets subtle but clear hints from Mrs. Donnelly to relinquish hopes of love and marriage when Maria plays a blindfold game with the family and they rig the game so that Maria wins a prayer-book; this gives Mrs. Donnelly the opening to claim that this is an omen that Maria will join a nunnery. Of course, Mrs. Donnelly's motive is run: to make Maria give Lu) on marriage so much as to discourage Maria from taking seriously Joe's earlier suggestion that Maria live with the family. However, the final censorship of Maria's desires originates not from outside, but from within 91 Maria's own impulse to deny the hope which the man on the train had made so accute. As Stanislaus Joyce notes, Mr. Duffly of "A Painful Case" is a "type of male celibate" (MBK 174). Throughout his life James Joyce considers celibacy to be a paralytic tendency. Joyce told Frank Budgen that Christ was an incomplete man because he had never lived with a woman (Budgen 15). In Finnegans wake Anna Livia Plurabelle answers the question of how to revive Ireland by stating, Here is the answer pigs and scuts . . . the Herewaker of our hame fame is his real name will get himself up and erect, confident and heroic when but, young as of old, for my daily comefreshenall a wee one woos. (FW 619) The flaccid and fearful paralysis of all Ireland is symbolized by the celibacy of Earwicker, and Ireland's regeneration will take place when Earwicker, as a representative of all men, "woos" a "wee one." Joyce considered his brother a decadent type of male celibate, and he formed many of Duffy's traits by adapting many of his brother's. Helene Cixous gives the most penetrating analysis that I have read of relation between Duffy's and Stanislaus' temperaments: Not only is Mr. Duffy's personality created from a number of Stannie's little idiosyncrasies, but also the moment of revelation when he discovers that he is nothing more than a dead man is adapted from a moving incident in Stannie's life, taken over, disfigured and desecrated by the 92 unscrupulous Joyce (Cixous 149). Some of the idiosyncracies which Stanislaus shares with Duffy are "intolerance of drunkenness, hostility to socialism, and a habit of noting short sentences on a sheaf of loose pages pinned together" (M85 174). The moving incident in Stanislaus' life is a meeting with a lady at one of the evening concerts at the Rotunda. The woman was more than twice Stannie's age and had cordially made his acquaintance without any ulterior motive. In "A Painful Case" James twists this into a tale of repressive celibacy in order to purge this violence of celibacy. Like Maria, Duffy does not experience the Dublin environment as hostile to romance; it is Duffy who is hostile to romance. This male celibate, Duffy, becomes an egoist who lives "without any communion with others" (109), performing perfunctorily only the most necessary social functions of visiting and burying his relatives. Life for Duffy is symbolized by the restaurant which he chooses for the "plain honesty" (108)of its bill of fare as opposed to the "feast" (117) of life chosen by those whom he disdains. Duffy lives as far away from Dublin as possible in order to be "safe" (108) from intercourse with the "gilded" populace of the city, considering the passionate life of common Dublin life to be pretentious. In his effort to escape the passionate life of Dublin, Duffy has placed himself symbolically in the most romantically named suburb of Dublin: Chapelizod, meaning the chapel of Iseult, named to recall the romantic adventures of Tristan and Iseult; this suggests Duffy's underlying romantic 93 tendencies operating in spite of his self suppression. Duffy's suppression of his own impulses is also evident early in the story in his distance from his body, "regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances." He increases this distance from his own impulses by an "odd autobiographical habit . . .of writing about himself containing a subject in the third person and a predicate in the past tense" (108). Duffy begins, essentially, where Maria of "Clay" ends 13» Duffy has, throughout his life, suppressed the words of the song in his life which treat of love and marriage. However, unlike Maria, Duffiy is not driven by frustration to censor this aspect of his life .. He censors his intercourse with others because he fears (jun: it will corrupt the self- contained order which he has constructed about his life. Any corruption of his ideal of order "which he held sacred" feels to him to have "attacked" and "degraded" him (115). When Duffy meets Mrs. Sinico, a nerried woman, at a szart concert, she appeal to him, not because she releases him from the constriction of his solipsistic ordering of his life, but because she enhances it: This union exalted him. . . emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascend to angelic stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable loneliness (111). Mrs. Sinico is simply a mediator between Duffy and himself. 94 Like Socrates' boy, Phaedrus, Mrs. Sinico's function is to listen and ask questions so that Duffy may see himself reflected in her eyes rising further above of the world of the flesh like an angel. He appropriates her fervency but does not expect to give anything in return. However, when Duffy learns that she has plans of her own that involve him as her lover, he is surprised and repelled; he insists upon breaking off the relationship and he avoids places where he might meet her, re- establishing the solipsistic order that he is used to. Then, four years later, a voice from the Dublin landscape disrupts Duffy's self-contained life. He reads a newspaper article which sensitively tells the story of Mrs. Sinico's degeneration into drunkenness, and her final death by impact from a slow-moving train. His initial reaction is to regard her more harshly than ever before, but soon he becomes filled with remorse at the thought that her loneliness had driven her to her final fate, a fate which Duffy might have averted if he had accepted her love. He reads the final line of the newspaper article-~"No blame attached to anyone" (115)-- ironically, feeling that he is to blame. He seems to feel her near him, and in this moment he, for the first time, "seemed to feel her voice touch his ear" (117). Her voice disrupts his solipsism, causing his moral nature to fall to pieces; his conscience tells him that he had sentenced her to death. At this point, other voices from the Dublin landscape--the "venal and furtive" lovers in the park whom he had previously disdained becaused he considered them mean and 95 pretentious--erupt though time breach 1J1 his self-containment. These voices fill him with remorse, not only over his sense of guilt for Mrs. Sinico's death, but also over his sense of having deprived himself of life and happiness: He knew that the prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and wished him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from life's feast (117). Having previously escaped from what he considered to be the pretentious society of Dublin's "gilded youth" by eating where there was a "certain plain honesty about the bill of fare" (108), he suddenly realizes that he had been wrong to consider the "feast" of life to be pretentious. True life now appears to be in the possession of these "venal loves" who feast upon the adventure of involvement. As he stands alone, he hears the sound of a train going by seeming to be "reiterating the syllables of her name" (117). Duffy realizes that the violence which originates in his own self containment is far more destructive than the commonplace Dublin life which he had previously resisted by distancing himself from it“ One might consider Duffy's realization a hopeful ending to the story, an ending which would leave Duffy open to the possibility of some future commitment to another. However, the story doesn't end here. In the final paragraph he "already began to doubt the reality of what memory told him" (117). His remorse is too much for 96 him to bear, so he exercises a self-censoring impulse, and as a result, "He could no longer feel. . .her voice touch his ear." By thus protecting himself from remorse he places the possibility of commitment to another once again out of his reach. These two stories are instrumental in Joyce realizing the violence of his own style of scrupulous meanness. As mentioned above, Joyce abandons his escapist romantic style in order to avoid the violence of censoring the uncompromising truth of reality. Reality, as he sees it at the time, is violent; the old sow of Irish reality would destroy romantic aspiration, so he adopts a style of scrupulous meanness as most appropriate to this vision. However, if regenerative impulses originate from common Dublin life, then the point of contact between aspiration and common life need not be violent if one can accept the offering of love which originates within common life. In fact, aspiration in "Clay" and "A Painful Case" is possible only by means of a fusion with common life. This realization is; instrumental 1J1 Joyce's understanding (ME the violence of his style of scrupulous meanness and the violence of Stephen Daedalus's destruction of his "hymns to extravagant beauty." Therefore Dubliners, lJlia sense, makes possible Joyce's later synergism between realism and romanticism, resulting in Joyce's recovery of his romanticism as a method of depicting reality. The recovery of romanticism as a method of depicting reality is precisely the project which Joyce begins in late 97 1907 when he begins his revised autobiographical novel, A Portrait 9: the Artist as a Young Man. "Clay" and "A Painful Case" also make possible "The Dead" (also begun in 1907) in which Gabriel Conroy learns to cwercome the violence against common Dublin life which originates in his own impulses. Gabriel makes the dramatic leap of insight to perceive and accept the gift of romance which originates in the common culture which he had previously disdained. As a result Gabriel discovers the romance within himself. He does not reject the love offered him by common life on the pretext of protecting his own insularity as Maria and Duffy do, but he accepts it, thereby enhancing his identity. Therefore, by relinquishing his own violent opposition to common Irish life he achieves a beneficial synergism between himself and common culture. The synergistic fusion of aspiration and common life culminates ultimately, for this study, in Ulysses in which, for the first time, the artist Stephen Dedalus achieves a synergistic fusion with the common life which he had consigned to absolute violence in the previous works in which he has a starring role. In very unorthodox fashion, I will postpone my discussion of "The Dead" until after my discussion of Portrait, and I will discuss "The Dead" and Ulysses together in the same section of my next chapter. I will do this for several reasons. First of all, the relentlessly ironic unity of Dublin hemiplegia which Joyce originally intended for Dubliners is complete after "Grace," and if not for Grant Richards' censorship, Dubliners would have appeared in unified form in 98 the first manuscript of twelve stories in November 1905 or in the second manuscript of fourteen stories in 1906. Secondly, except for revisions to the first fourteen stories, Joyce was finding it impossible to write ironic narratives about Dublin after he completed "A Little Cloud" in 1906. Joyce blamed Rome for his unproductivity (_J_J_ 238), but his letters during the summer and fall of 1906 reveal J0yce's growing sympathy for Ireland, and his sense that he may have written only a caricature which does reductive violence to Dublin's virtures in his first fourteen stories. Thirdly, in Septemper of 1906, Joyce planned "Ulysses" for inclusion in Dubliners, a story which Ellmann claims was to portray Mr Hunter "evidently with irony similar 11) that of 'Grace'" (JJ 230). IHowever, I find that the evidence of Joyce's own statements is against Ellmann. In "Conversations with James Joyce" (College English xy 325- 327) Georges Borach records Joyce's statement that Ulysses had fascinated Joyce as a character since boyhood because The most beautiful and human traits are contained in the Odyssey. . .When I was writing Dubliners, I intended to choose the title "Ulysses in Dublin" but gave up the idea. Therefore, as Joyce tells it, his plan to include "Ulysses in Dublin" 1J1 Dubliners would have qualified the ironic invocations of hemiplegia in the first fourteen stories. Joyce's use of Mr. Hunter as the Dublin Ulysses is meant to suggest the man who, as Ellmann heard from Dublin report, charitably befriended Joyce when he was in trouble at a time 99 when Joyce otherwise felt himself "hemmed in by indifference or hostility" (ii 162). Therefore, there is a natural link between "The Dead" and Ulysses as two stories originally planned to qualify the paralysis of Dubliners. Like Gabriel Conroy, the artist finds a point of contact with common Dublin life that does not censor, Inn: which makes possible his regenerative aspiration. I would like to discuss these two stories in the second part of my "Synergism" chapter as Joyce's initial two works in which he shows the hemeficial point of contact between aspiration and common Dublin life. In the first part of "Synergism," I will discuss the beneficial point of contact between classicism and romanticism in the sensibility of the artist as illustrated in Portrait. This synergism of classicism and romanticism is Joyce's revision of the violent point of contact between these two aspects of the artist in Stephen Hero. I am discussing Portrait first because although Joyce completed "The Dead" before Portrait, the artist in the autobiographical novel does not find the beneficial point of fusion between himself and common Dublin culture as he does in "The Dead." Therefore "The Dead" anticipates Ulysses far better than Portrait does. 100 Synergism: Part I Portrait In the preceding chapter, I focused upon Joyce's non- romantic work written from 1904 until the fall of 1907. In these works Joyce tries to overcome the reductive violence of his escapist romanticism by purging it in Stephen Hero; then in Dubliners, he more compassionately tries to overcome his tendency toward escapism by grappling with the ways in which common Dublin reality censors all eumuration, showing a relationship between romance and other aspirations. However, "Clay" and 'V\ Painful Case," are unusual stories because in these it is not Dublin reality which is hostile to romance but it is Duffy and Maria who fail to make the leap of insight which would allow them to accept the love which common life offers thereby suppressing the romance latent within themselves, partially paralysing the full range of their sensibilities. The meanness in the temperaments of Maria and Duffy (of course, presented much more compassionately in Maria) is instrumental in Joyce realizing the violence of his own style of scrupulous meanness. Their meanness, which Joyce intends txe purge, helps reveal to him that Stephen Daedalus' destruction of his romantic poems in Stephen Hero results not from his desire to render the uncompromising truth of reality, 101 but ixllrhs own violent suppression of the positive aspects of common reality. By staring 1J1 fascination only an: the censorship :hi common reality, lme commits violence txe it and correspondingly censors the romance within himself. Therefore, as opposed to Sgephen Hero and Dubliners which seek an escape from reality; Joyce is learning that he need not depict the censorship of romance in order to encounter the uncompromising truth of reality, since Dublin reality evinces a vital romance of its own. These insights contribute to Joyce's revision of Stephen Hero into Portraip. As opposed to Stephen Hero in whic Daedalus repudiates his romantic sensibility and destroys his romantic poems in order to oppose the violence of reality in a tragic style, in Portrait Joyce reveals that he has learned to counteract the violence of such a purgation of his youthful romanticism by rendering a vital reciprocity between the romantic and realistic aspects of his sensibility. Portrait is a revision of his autobiographical novel illustrating that the success of realistic narrative doesn't hinge upon a psychic repudiation of one or another vital aspects of the artist's sensibility, but upon the liberation of the multi-vocal psychic potential of the artist. The dramatic representation of the synergism between distinct voices within the artist is something which Joyce theoretically anticipates as early as 1904 in his original essay called "A portrait of the Artist:" The features cu? infancy are run: commonly 102 reproduced in the adolescent portrait for, so capricious are we, that we cannot or will not conceive the past in any other but its iron memorial aspect. Yet the past assuredly implies a fluid succession of presents, the development of an entity of which our present is just a phase only (The James Joyce Archive 34-1) Joyce chooses the word "portrait" in this essay and in the later novel to suggest that he is presenting more than the linear history of recollections by a mature artist. He is evoking the immediacy of a visual image, an image in which the actual face of infancy looks outward from the portrait of a young man. The past becomes more than an anticipation of the present; the past also implies "a fluid succession of presents" meaning that the narrative present is an expansion of the conventional "now." The mature voice doesn't dominate or repress the voices of his past, but the Joycean autobiography involves the synergistic collaboration of distinct voices from different times within the artist's life. The synergistic fusion of distinct voices within the autobiography of the artist is something which Joyce dramatizes in some of his earlier narratives as well. The critics who participate in the "MURGE" report distinguish two voices in the narrative line of "Araby:" one voice is the narrator looking backwards to his boyhood, and the other is the voice of the young boy whose romanticism is being threatened by an environment hostile to romance. As I mention in chapter one, the "MURGE" readers point out that in the last sentence of the story--"I saw myself as one driven and derided by vanity"--the 103 voices of older narrator and the boy fuse: The conceptual voice of "derided by vanity presupposes self-reflection, whereas "driven by vanity” ‘presupposes ii: absence. Hence, the combined phrases imply that the boy "saw himself" from two perspectives ("A Summary of the MURGE Project" 245). It is only in this last sentence that a reader can presuppose self-irony on the part of the boy, whereas previously the self- reflection is absent and the irony has been totally the province of the rmrrator looking backwards to his youth. Therefore, "the boy's self-irony is to be understood as the point in the narration at which the 'character' of the boy and the 'character' of time narrator are merged" (241). At this point time romantic voice's lyrical interpolations within the narration are decisively defeated by anguish and remorse. Portrait differs from the autobiographical narrative of "Araby" because the synergism of the mature voice with the voice of his youth does not culminate in the violent defeat of romanticism as in "Araby." In Portrait, the plain-spoken mature voice narrates the successive stages of the romantic artist's language acquisition until Emdalus' extravagant romantic voice is articulate in more than just infrequent lyrical interpolations within the narrative line. Then, in the final section of the novel, when Deadalus' romantic voice no longer needs the support of the mature narrator, the backward looking narrator generously gives over tflue narration to Stephen's fully articulate romantic voice. By this time, Stephen's prose in his journal evinces that 104 he has a narrative power to speak independently of the mature narrator who has carried Stephen's romantic voice to term. As opposed to the violence of Stephen Hero in which the artist's antipathy for his environment leads to his antipathy for his romantic verses--the soul (fl? his nation "was antipathetic to his own so bitterly as the indignity of a bad line of verse" (SH 146)--and as opposed to "Araby" in which the fusion of the romantic and realistic voices results in the destruction of the lyrical romantic voice, in Portrait the synergism of the opposing voices benefits pggg voices, and it censors neither voice, resulting in ii humane autobiographical novel of which neither voice would be capable independently or in violent opposition. The romantic poems which Daedalus burns in Stephen Hggg immediately suggest Joyce's romantic Moods (only one poem of which survives) and his romantic Chamber Music poems, almost all of which were written before Joyce began this first draft cu? his autobiographical novel. Joyce simply ignores and discards Moods, and although he doesn't burn his Chamber Music poems, his attitude toward his romantic poems parallels Daedalus' in the sense that Joyce begins Stephen Hero after he has developed a distaste for his romantic poems. In February 1905 he states that it would take a "damn fool" (SE 53) to publish his verses and in October 1906 (SE 121) he states that "a page from 'A Little Cloud' gives me more pleasure than all my verses;" however, in both letters he does hope that someone 105 will publish them so that they will serve as a "record of my past" (SE 121). Yet in 1907, Joyce begins to understand his early romantic poems and romanticism in general as something more than a youthful enthusiasm which he repudiates. In this year he begins to revise his "James Clarence Mangan" essay. In this revision he 1M) longer refers 1x3 Mangan's romanticism as inferior to Ibsen's classicism as he had in 1902, but he calls Mangan "the most significant poet of the modern Celtic world" (CW 178) while calling Ibsen a "destructive and fiercely self- centered" artist. Also, in March of 1907, he begins to re-think his attitude toward his pre-Daedalan romanticism; even though he "does not like the book" of his early verses, Chamber Music contains certain ideas I would like to give form to: not as a doctrine but as a continuation of the expression of myself which I now see I began in Chamber Music (SE 151). In 1907, Joyce conceives of his early Chamber Music poems as something more than simply a dead "record" of a phase in his life which he has outgrown. Now he describes his youthful romanticism as an aspect of himself which can continue alongside his mature sensibility. He is not attracted to romanticism as an absolute "doctrine,' but as a distinct, yet vital, voice within himself with which he is learning to negotiate a beneficial synergism. The main action of Portrait is the dramatic gestation and kflJfiji of Stephen Dedalus' romantic voice. The narrative 106 begins with some of Stephen's first linguistic utterances as an infant, and the novel proceed through successive stages of Dedalus' language acquisition until, in the final chapter, Stephen is trying to "forge out an aesthetic philosophy" (_P 180), he writes a romantic lyric, and finally he articulates his romantic voice in supple periodic prose within his journal. Some critics such as Hugh Kenner and Evelyn Scott draw the unhappy conclusion that Joyce should have ended the novel after chapter four. Kenner calls chapter five morally ambiguous: the themes of the last pages, though they give the illusion of focussing don't really focus" (Dublin's Joyce 121). Evelyn Scott claims that at the end of chapter four when Stephen casts off the thralldom of religion which has dominated his childhood, he becomes a man. . . by asserting himself in this negative sense. If only Mr. Joyce had possessed the artistic courage to end the book with these most intense paragraphs of emotional realization and had not diffused the effects of a priceless moment in some one hundred pages of brilliant but disintegrating comment! (Critical Heritagg 177) The conclusions of Kenner and Scott are regrettable because at the Gun} of chapter four, Stephen has only just resolved to be an artist, one of many resolutions which he adopts throughout the novel. This decision to be an artist must be more than a denial of those forces which Oppose him. Joyce cannot focus time moral point which he wants to make until he dramatically resurrects his past romantic voice, and morally counteracts the violence of his previous Daedalan self-destructiveness. In order to understand the development of Portrait, 107 one must firmly grasp the sense in which Joyce considered each phase of Dedalus' language acquisition to be a distinct self which is in many way irreducible to any other phase of the artist's deveIOpment in the narrative. As he theorized in his 1904 "A portrait" essay quoted above, the artist's actual present is a "phase" (The James Joyce Archive 34-1) in a fluid succession of other phases, and there is a "formal relation" between these distinct phases when they are all held in mind at once and construed as an emotional curve. In Portrait Joyce gives each phase a vocal power to influence the language of the narration, a power which is equivalent to that of the mature narrator looking backwards. The artist's phases of language acquisition are successive, but like the apostolic succession to which Joyce is fond of comparing the identity of the artist throughout. his career (particularly' in the "Scylla. and Charybdis" chapter of Ulysses), the autobiographical entity is one person composed of separate persons. One distinct self proceeds from (fine other like Jesus Christ proceeds from the Father and the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Son and the Father; and each Person is separate--as Stephen says when his past actions are held up against him, "I was not myself as I am now" (240). The collapse of time suggested by the "fluid succession of pmesents" ("A portrait" 34-1) does not destroy time separate temporal context of each phase; yet it allows all (If these separate context a voice in the present of narrative articulation. Before beginning to trace the successive stages of 108 Stephen's language acquisition which lead up the 1x) birth of his fully articulate romantic voice, it might be helpful to the reader ii? I briefly reiterated Joyce's sense of romanticism. Romantic aspiration is always a revolt against the restrictive violence of Dublin life, an aspiration to create with one's imagination a new reality which is larger, more adventurous and more beautiful than common life. In Joyce's most negative presentation in Stephen Hero and in his "Catalina" essay romanticism is a violent distortion of reality. Romance in his "James Clarence Mangan" essays enui in Dubliners is; more positively presented: not as a weak incapacity to face reality but a courageous idea borne "bravely above the accidents of lust and faithlessness and weariness" (CW 78). Without their aspirations characters 1J1 Dublineps languish iJI defeat, and without hope, they lapse into complicity with the violence and decadence which they had tried to oppose all along with their romanticism. The loss of romantic aspiration, when rendered as a tragedy, compassionately tempers the violence of Joyce's exclusive stare at Dublin hemiplegia and the violence of his Daedalan repudiation of romance. In ngtrait the romantic still revolts against the restrictions of common life by imaginatively reconceiving reality in ideal terms by means of which he refines away the repugnant details of reality. I realize that my reading asserts an unusual sense of what is generally understood as character development in fiction. If I eun right about Stephen's develOpment, then he essentially does not change; instead he successively adopts and 109 discards various strategies for maintaining his romantic distance from common reality. My reading opposes those of such critics as Edmund Epstein (The Ordeal pf Stephen Dedalus) or of Homer Brown James Joyce's Early Fiction) who claim that Dedalus develops away from his romantic revolt. Epstein states that when Stephen resolves to "press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world, " he "places his trust in chance. . .the worhd of physical facts, of warmth, darkness, odors that the young artist takes as his own" (Epstein 60). Similarly, Brown asserts that the novel is "the beginning of an acceptance of 'the odour of ashpits and old weeds and offal' which hangs around the stories of Dubliners" (Brown 111). However when, at the end of Portrait, Stephen resolves to "press into my arms the beauty which has not yet come into the world," he is not only rejecting "forgotten beauty" (3 251) of the past which preoccupies Yeats' Michael Robartes, but he is explicitly opposing' Joyce's understanding of £1 realist aesthetic which has preoccupied Joyce in numerous essays and fiction since 1898 (in such essays as "Force," "Drama and Life," "James Clarence Mangan," "Ibsen's New Drama," "Catalina," "The Bruno PhilOSOphy" and in the fiction discussed up to now in this dissertation). For Joyce, one comes to a spiritual understanding of "deep-seated thorough realities" (CW 21) by a method which "bends upon present things and so works upon them that the quick intelligence may go beyond them to their meaning" (CW 74). In other words, the beauty of the world is already present for the classicist/realist, and it is 110 his task to discern the spiritual significance of the details of reality. The "beauty which has not yet come into the world" is something which the poet looks forward to imagining. For Stephen, one "draws out the line of beauty" (P 181) upon the Irish myth by refining away its corruption and violence and creating not from the substance of reality but from the unsubstantial image discerned by the light of his imagination. A; Portrait. begins with Stephen's first linguistic utterances. They are the utterances of a barely articulate infant. These utterances, in the diction of the infant who already has the power to influence the technique of the narrative, is organized by the mature expository skills of the mature narrator: 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 down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo . . . His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face. He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down along the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt. O, the wild rose blossoms On the little green place. He sang that song. That was his song. 0, the green wothe botheth. The influence of the child's consciousness upon the diction and sentence structure in the passage is unmistakable, particularly when compared to the narration of the rest of the novel beyond 111 the first two pages. In the same narrative instant a mature narrator, who knows the original words to the song that the boy sings incorrectly, is looking backward in the third person to his own infancy. This narrator introduces the infant voice who is learning to manipulate the linguistic structures of identity and analogy by which he takes possession of the world of his experience. (Hue child takes possession of it, "That was his song." Then (flue infant takes ea more complex linguistic possession of the song; he linguistically alters the song by misunderstanding it, imposing a green rose within the song: "0, the green wothe botheth." This is the birth of Dedalus' romantic aspiration to imaginatively reconstruct reality, a capacity which becomes more important as he develops antipathy for the restrictiveness of the Dublin environment. This initial phase of infancy, lasting two pages (7— 8) ends with number one of the series of Joyce's "Epiphanies." most of which he wrote between 1900 and 1903. As discussed in my chapter on Dubliners, epiphany is a term used in Catholic theology to signify the showing forth of the spirit of God. However, Joyce uses the term heretically. Joyce's heresy involves his use of the word to signify a "sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or':U1 a memorable phase of the ndnd itself," as if spiritual life can emanate from the inner essential principles of a human thoughts and expressions. He composed them with a great deal of seriousness--in case of his demise Joyce wanted copies Of them sent to the great libraries of the world (My Brother's 112 Keeper, p.100)--and rue added ix) them and rearranged them several times. The meaningful arrangement of the Epiphanies becomes apparent when one notes that some of the separate epiphanies which Joyce reproduces (numbers 1,3,5,6,7,24,25,26,27,29, and 30) in Portrait essentially correspomd to the pmogression of these moments as originally composed in Epiphanies. As Scholes and Kain suggest (The Workshop pf Daedalus 3), Epiphanies becomes a kind of workshop for Joyce's creation of Portrait. Epiphanies is a mine of distinct manifestations of (fine artist's soul which Joyce can draw on for some of the epiphanic moments of artistic language acquisition in Portrait. For example, the first epiphany in Epiphanies is reproduced in the infant phase of Stephen's lang- uage acquisition in Portrait. Here is the original from Epiphanies: [Bray: in the parlour of the house in Martello terrace] Mr Vance--(comes in with a stick). . .0, you know, he'll have to apologise, Mrs Joyce. Mrs Joyce--O yes . . .Do you hear that, Jim? Mr Vance--or else--if he doesn't--the eagles'll come and pull out his eyes. Mrs Joyce--O, but I'm sure he will apologise. Joyce--(under the table, to himself) --Pull out his eye, Apologise, Apologise, Pull out his eyes. Apologise, Pull out his eyes, Pull out his eyes, Apologise. Now here is the epiphany as it is reproduced at the end of the 113 first section of Portrait, with the name of Stephen replacing Joyce's own name: When they were grown up he was going to marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said: --0, Stephen will apologise. Dante said: --0, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes [the dimeter lines follow as in the original epiphany] Only 51 few <1f the original Epiphanies which are reproduced in Portrait do not strictly adhere to the order of the original epiphanies. This indicates that at least in the final arrangement of Epiphanieg, Joyce conceives the series to suggest the irreducibly distinct, progressive phases of spiritual revelation through language in the artist's life, making each phase a unique spiritual manifestation of the artist's multi-vocal soul. The initial epiphany from infancy dramatizes the vulnerable infant phase of language acquisition under attack from the corrective forces of his culture; Stephen is under pressure to repent that self which disobeys. Section two of chapter one gathers up the theme of correction through Stephen's recollection of his green rose image by which he sang the song "that was his song:" he remembered the song about the wild rose blossoms on the little green place. But you could not have a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world you could. (12) By this point in the narrative, Stephen's imaginative alteration of the poem has been corrected, yet he displays an early stubborn anti-conventional tendency by insisting 114 conjecturally upon his own unworldly image. This conflict between the romantic artist and the mundane conventions which would correct and dishearten his imagination is sustained throughout the novel. The romantic searches his environment for those images which "his soul so constantly beheld," while the mundane elements of himself and his environment correct and dishearten him in his quest. Eventually Stephen comes to conceive "nationality, language, religion," (202) and many other Dublin voices to represent corrective and disheartening nets which he must fly in order to express himself with imaginative freedom. In section two of chapter one Stephen is away at Clongowes school. In this section he evinces a fascination with words as a means by which to escape from his mundane surroundings, surroundings which he finds increasingly repugnant. He feels rue excitement fOr (flue rough-and-tumble game of football with the other boys. In his 1904 "A portrait" essay, Joyce called all such sports examples of "mimic warfare," which the artist sees 11) be cultural strategies of instilling within youths the taste for adult warfare. However, on this day the boy does not think in such complex terms. He only knows that he is more frail than the other boys and that the day before, during another scrimmage, he had been shouldered into the square ditch by Wells. The square ditch is a vile place filled with filthy water which rats inhabit, and as a result of being covered with the scum from his dunking, the boy contracts an infection which 115 'uvqr gel" mi ... 9 .‘q.' . an: ». . FL) ( O ..(.. & (*3 Afiv ‘ FW‘V': Huh 5 4 .IA bub 4. I ‘3‘ ‘05! bv s.“ '1. r - L11 brings on a fever. This fever increases his sensitivity to the irritants in the world surrounding him: the white lavatory makes him feel "cold then hot" (10); the white tablecloth feels damp and cold like the irritating air in the school corridor. He wonders "whether the scullion's apron was damp too or whether all white things were cold and damp." Stephen is then physically irritated by the smell of the peasants as opposed to the "holy smell" in the chapel as he kneels for his prayers. All of mundane experience is converging upon his feverish body in a single sensation of antipathy. Feeling sick, not in "breadbasket" but instead feeling "sick in his heart if you couLd be sick in that pdace" (p.13), he identifies only with ideas and images which are removed from the cool, damp world of mundane experience. The boy turns to language as an escape from this irritating world. He wishes that he were by the fire reading the spelling lessons from Doctor Cornwell's spelling book which "were like poetry" (10). The boy formulates his position in the world in the form of a list which represents his imagination spiraling outward to where he can view the world from a point high above its damp, cold, irritating details: Stephen Dedalus Class of Elements Clongowes Wood College Sallins County Kildare Ireland Europe The World The Universe 116 Through this list of habitations Stephen places himself above the irritating world, imaginatively drawing a "thin thin line" around the universe by means of which to comprehend it all. He tries to think a very big thought about "everything and everywhere," in the effort to think like God and to think about God with words, "there were different names for god in all the different languages in the world." As he lay in the school dispensary he imagines his own funeral and suddenly feels as if he wants to cry, "but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music." (24) In section three of chapter one Stephen begins to acquire the language of adult conversation. Stephen is older now and is home from school for the Christmas holidays. This Christmas is an initiation for him since, as opposed to earlier congregations of the family at Christmas,he is for the first time old enough to sit down to dinner with the adults. Previously Stephen, as a young child had not been privy to the adults' serious and passionate expression of their ideas. He heard the adults arguing off in another room and they had only expressed their Opinions in patronizing terms: for example, Dante had previously described Parnell as a "bad man" (16) to the young Stephen in order to protect him from the full vehemence by which she expresses her opinion. When Stephen is old enough to sit with the adults in section three not only the vehemence, Inn: the rhythms (Hi "the spoken words thrilled [Stephen]" (38). He hears heresy, passion, and history such as he has never heard before. And he is simultaneously 117 "terrorstricken," (39) by their emotional impact: Dante almost spits in Casey's face, Casey denounces God (such a denunciation cannot be taken lightly in tine Irish context which the novel employs), and both Casey and Stephen's father end up in tears of grief and consternation for Parnell. Much later in the novel this thrill wears off and the vehemence of politics becomes another trap which the artist must fly in order to express himself as he is. By the fourth section of chapter one, disdain and disgust become Stephen's strategies for revolt against the hostile environment. After he is pandied he cannot eat his Lenten meal composed of anflmflesome looking fish fritters or the potato with the mark of the spade in it. There is a prideful disobedience signified in the rejection of the meagre lenten meal. (hi the other hand, whenever Stephen is happy he becomes obedient and humble; when he is unjustifiably pandied by Father Dolan, Stephen goes over Dolan's head to the rector and secures ens; own acquittal; then.:h1 his happiness he resolves that he would not be anyway proud with Father Dolan. He would be very quiet and obedient: and he wished that he could do something kind for him to show him that he was not proud. (59) As Stephen grows older he eventually sheds all but a protective Show of humility and obedience to any authority such as the Church, the State, or the family. By the end of the novel he rePudiates any identification with any of these authorities and 118 he denies to the classicist discipline of rendering the eternal significance within mundane life in the name Of his romantic yearning after "the unsubstantial image which his soul as constantly beheld" (65). The romantic image without substance originates in the romantic soul, not in the present world. In section one of chapter two, after the thrill of words which he experiences in the presence of an adult argument (in section three of chapter one), Stephen takes long walks with his Uncle Charles and his father, finding himself lending even more of an "avid ear" (62) to their words. Words which he does not understand he memorizes, catching "glimpses of the real world" through them. However, as rue trudges along the dusty road with his father and Uncle, as he takes comical running lessons from Mike Flynn, or as he rides along in the milk wagon on its daily run Stephen feels vaguely suspicious of the real world: He thought it should be a pleasant life enough, driving along the roads every evening to deliver milk, if he had warm gloves and a fat bag of gingernuts in his pocket to eat from. But the same foreknowledge which had sickened his heart and made his legs sag suddenly as he raced round the park, the same intuition which had made him glance with mistrust at his trainer's flabby stubblecovered face as it bent heavily over his long stained fingers, dissipated any vision of the future. (64) Although Stephen is fascinated with the language of adults and is constantly tagging along with his uncle and his father or with the milkman on his morning run, the glimpse of the real 119 world which he is receiving through their words eventually "sickened [Stephen's] heart" as everything in the cold and wet sensory world of Clongowes had sickened him when he was developing a fever. The fever left his body, but it never left leave his temperament. In; if he has fever, all mundane experience begins to irritate him. Even as he avidly memorizes words or strains to see the image of a "wellscrubbed kitchen or of a softlylighted hall and to see how the servant would hold the jug and how she would close the door," (13) a strange unrest begins to creep into his blood. Stephen is not sent back to Clongowes after Christmas because his father is in financial trouble, so Stephen now has ea lot of time to himself. When he is alone he tries to ease his unrest by escaping into the romantic world of the novel, The Count pf Monte Cristo. He builds a miniature island cave out of transfers and shiny paper into which his imagination may escape. Then when his model island cave no longer diverts him he begins living "in his imagination. . .a long train of adventures, marvellous as those in the book itself" (63), a world inhabited by the ideal female figure Mercedes under whose influence the boy would be "transfigured" into something uncorrupted by the real world of mundane Dublin life. As a result of his heart sickness he loses interest in the language and occupations of adults and begins to walk alone through Dublin in the conscious effort "to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly be- held" (65). He feels that it is something imagined and unsubstantial which draws his sympathy and 120 participation, and his annoyance with the mundane play of other children becomes as active as it does in "Araby" or "An Encounter." In section two of chapter two the Dedalus' must move from the fairly fashionable suburb of Blackrock into Dublin in which the boy begins to experience a "new and complex sensation" (66) of annoying disorder. Uncle Charles loses his wits and Stephen's father is losing control of the family finances. This change of fortune "was reshaping the world about him into a Vision of squalor and insincerity" (67). This bitter realization re-awakens the romantic vision of Mercedes with greater intensity than ever. As his solitary walks become longer, he becomes bitter toward the intractable Dublin landscape which will not manifest the ideal Vision that he seeks. He now memorizes the mundane Dublin landscape in disdain; in lieu of the vision, the only thing of which he is certain is his antipathy for his milieu: "He chronicled with patience what he saw, detaching himself from it and testing its mortifying flavour in secret" (67). Later Stephen. cuts 51 conspicuously sullen, silent figure at a party, dramatizing his detached, temperamental disdain for what he considers to be the "false and trivial mirth" (68) of those around rflmn He watches only Emma who becomes the object of his newly awakened sexual feelings. When he finally gets her alone, he awkwardly holds back, when he knows that she wants to be kissed; then he curses his failure on the way home. This only intensifies his 121 antipathy for the contingent world, for he must imaginatively revise the botched moment of intimacy to fit his fantasies. The next day when writing a love poem he abstracts her name inns two initials: E'-C-u Then he elimates all "common and insignificant" elements, leaving only "the night and the balmy breeze and the maiden lustre of the moon"(70); Stephen uses this abstraction to transform his irresolute failure to kiss her into a moment of ideal empathy: "the kiss, which had been withheld by one, was given by both" (71). It is through the poem that Stephen experiences the "moment of supreme tenderness" (65) by means of which he has for so long dreamed of being "transfigured" into am] ideal figure who has transcended "weakness and timidity"(65). The young artist has acquired language by which to do more than simply test in secret the "mortifying flavour" of mundane Dublin experience; the romantic has now begun to learn how to transform Dublin experience into an1 imaginative construct which resembles more closely the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. This section ends with Stephen's father jovially announcing that Stephen (RUl now attend 1x3 a good jesuit college, Belvedere, yet Stephen is disgusted, for as far as he is concerned this return to school will bring only a repetition of his disheartening experience at Clongowes. The next section immediately follows. Stephen is at Belvedere, and his soul is "still disquieted and cast down by the dull phenomenon of Dublin" (78). ,As a result Ina extends his tendency to 122 antipathetically repudiate "common" elements from his conscious development of his temperament by identifying the voices in his life which converge upon him and evoke within him the sensation of "disheartenment" (78). the constant voices of his father and of his masters, urging him to tme a gentleman above all things and urging him to be a catholic above all things. . . . another voice urging inmi to lxe strong and manly and heal—thy . . . another voice had bidden him to be true to his country and help raise up her fallen language and tradition . . . . a worldly voice would bid him raise up his father's fallen state by his labours and . . the voice of his school comrades urged him to be a decent fellow and shield others from blame or to beg them off and to do his best to get free days for the school. And it was the din of all these hollowsounding voices that made him halt irresolute in the pursuit of phantoms. He gave them ear only for a time but he was happy only when he was far from them, beyond their call, alone or in the company of phantasmal comrades. (83) As he identifies the "common" voices in his life which hinder Irhn from "pursuing intangible phantoms" (83), solidifying his antipathy for them: he rejects all voices besides his own and the "phantasmal comrades" which he has imagined; and the "self" which he acknowledges is, like his "comrades," a self without physical substance (the use of the word "phantasm" is no accident on Joyce's part, being aware that it is the latin word for the imagination). Like Duffy in "A Painful Case," he is trying to achieve angelic stature by refining away the impurities (M3 mundane reality from knee apprehension. Eventually he hears nothing from the world besides his own 123 desire and disgust: Nothing moved him or spoke to him from he real world unless he heard in it an echo of the infuriated cries within him. He could respond to no earthly appeal, dumb and insensible to the call of summer and gladness and companionship, wearied and dejected by his father's voice. (92) Stephen suppresses the voices within him capable of responding to mundane experience. He now has only antipathy for the words of his father which he had once avidly memorized. Stephen listens "without sympathy" (87) to his father's recollections of his youth; he "heard but could feel no pity." For the sake of the purified "adventure in his mind" (78) Stephen struggles to be "beyond the call" of this network of mundane voices. Stephen protects his "adventure" with Emma from the sexually suggestive banter of his schoolmates. Of course, the "adventure" which Stephen protects is not the awkward sexual moment in which Stephen fails to respond to his own and Eileen's sexual passion, but the "adventure in his mind," the idealized communion, which he composes afterwards in his romantic poem. Yet, by this time Stephen's angelic status is in more severe danger than ever because of his entrance into puberty. Ike is beginning to feel disheartened by the impulse of his sexual nature, an impulse which he identifies in the next section to be a "malady of his own mind." (90) All of Stephen's mundane physical experience either "disheartened him or allured" (78), and, whether disheartening or alluring, it 124 "filled him always with unrest and bitter thoughts." (78) For Stephen, his own and the world's physical natures are "selves" which "abase the intellect." For the sake of his imaginative ideal, he is unwilling to participate in human suffering and delight. He no longer listens avidly to his father's language, but now he memorizes the language of Shelley's poetry which to Stephen sounds like time voice (n? another alienated romantic; Stephen repeats to himself Shelley's lines: Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless. . . ? In Shelley's lines Stephen hears another voice for whom "An abyss of fortune or of temperament," (90) have made him as wearily detached and alienated from the world as the moon. "The voices of neither life nor youth stirred within him" (95) as they stir within others because he suppresses these sympathies. Until the end of section five (still in chapter two) Stephen has marginally succeeded in repressing his sexual nature tn? regarding i1:'with disgust. However, after he discovers that all (us his efforts, including his composition contest prize money--thirty-three pounds--is insufficient capital with which to build a "breakwater of order and elegance against the sordid tide of life without him and to dam up . . . 125 the powerful recurrence of the tides within him," (98) he succumbs to tflmeaa cruel lust which acknowledges only its own desire: "the cry that he had strangled for so long in his throat . . . . broke from him like a wail of despair from a hell of sufferers. . . a cry which was but the echo of an obscene scrawl which he had read on the oozing wall of a urinal" (100). Once again he feels the heartsickness to which he succumbed after being shouldered into the square ditch: "His very brain was sick and powerless." This despairing fever of sexual longing is a symbolic voice: a prostitute's kiss presses upon his brain "as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech." (101) Stephen has discovered a common principle between his own lusts and the voices of the same lust which he he found so offensive on bathroom walls of his father's old school. Throughout most of the first two chapters Stephen evinces a clear pattern of devising strategies for escape from common Dublin life followed by the collapse of these strategies, leading to the adoption of new romantic ideals. At this point, frequent recollections of the youthful voice of his ideal "holy" (99)love often erupt through Stephen's "cynical" (99) resignation to his lust. This tension between unique voices and principles dramatizes the conflict between the <3pposing aspects of Stephen's sensibility despite his efforts to suppress his full nature. By the end of the novel he resolves this conflict violently by translating his lust into an artistic idealization, thereby suppressing its physical 126 aspect. However, before he can newly formulate a language by which to translate mundane experience into an "unsubstantial image," in chapter three he must pass through the most intense conflict 1J1 the novel between his physical and romantic sensibilities. His secret sexual life becomes challenged by his attraction to Christianity. Because of his seriousness and his academic excellence Stephen is chosen to be the prefect who leads house prayers, an Office which Stephen initially carries off with casual hypocrisy, yet at the same time he "derived an arid pleasure in following up to the end the rigid lines of the doctrines of the Church . . .only to hear and feel the more deeply his own condemnation." (106) Through Stephen's constant exposure religion and through his cynical exercise with Church doctrines he is unwittingly allowing its language to infiltrate his temperament. Then, during the weekend of the college religious retreat, a retreat intended to be a withdrawal from the world (an aspect of Stephen's sensibility 11) which he has already shown a strong tendency), the eloquence of the priests brings a new conscience to power in Stephen's temperament, his Christian contrition. Stephen takes to heart the priests' words about the horrors of Christian punishment to the extent that he dreams of a version of his own hell; then, upon waking, he resolves to confess and "cast sin from him and repent the impulse that moved him" to sin (105). As I suggest above, the aspect of Christianity which is most attractive to Stephen is its abstract nature. It gives 127 r 1 «I; 1 J (—) . o»- H ...d . “.‘fiy 631‘ D A ..P a nu w "I; vuy «J (7) '1 a 4 .‘t (D (J W him hope for his urge to achieve a kind of angelic stature, removed from mundane reality. The prayers and fasting come easily to him, but the humble Christian acceptance of his human nature does not: "To merge his life in the common tide of other lives was harder for him than any fasting or prayer." (152) Stephen's use of religion and its imagery to withdraw from the world causes his adoption of religion to amount to little more than a continuation of his romantic resistance to the physical world and his own physical nature. The imagery and the symbolic acts of the priesthood please him by reason of their distance from worldly experience: In vague sacrificial sacramental act alone his will seemed drawn to go forth to encounter reality: and it was partly the absence of an appointed rite which had always constrained him to inaction whether he had allowed silence to cover his anger or pride or whether he had suffered only an embrace he had longed to give. (159) Christianity has become for Stephen an escape from sympathy with his own or others humanity. Through ritual Stephen gains a line of defense over the frightening contingency of the voices within him responsive to spontaneous human feeling. Like Mr. Duffy, Stephen's angelic stature makes him a willing, yet unhappy "outcast from life's feast." The height of the conflict between Stephen's mundane and aethereal natures takes place on his way to confession. In an agony of guilt for his fornication, he admits his incapacity to suppress the voices within him responsive to "earthly beauty" and asks the Virgin 128 to intercede and guide him to contemplation of only the eternal. (139) Then in a manner reminiscent of the way that he, during his romantic childhood, imaginatively suppresses the "common" elements of his adventure with Emma, during his Christian phase he iheginatively suppresses the physical aspects of his relationship with one of the women with whom he "had erred" (116). He imagines himself kissing her sleeve; their "hearts will love each other" (116) not their bodies. Stephen's sins (n3 pride are manifold in chapter four and it would be inappropriate to go into them in detail here; however, it is very evident that Stephen's attraction to Christianity is heretical by reason of his use of its concepts and imagery as pretexts for his prideful antipathy for humanity and the world. Then in chapter four, after the director of Belvedere offers him a chance to study for the priesthood, he is forced to examine his Christian commitment with more seriousness and he finds that the idea does not "touch him to the quick." The sensation of heartsickness at the thought of the restrictive order of the Church recalls the wretched sensation of the "warm moist air which hung in the bath in Clongowes above the sluggish turfcoloured water" (160); this time the sensation erupts in response to a voice within him "stronger than education or piety" (161) by which he conceives of himself "as a being apart in every order." The rigid conformity demanded in social and religious orders is something to which he cannot acquiesce. Furthermore, time "insistent voices (n? the flesh" (152) within him will not be denied. When he examines his soul 129 to discover whether or not he will join the priesthood he discovers the passionate selves within him which would be suppressed by this arid life: He was destined to learn his wisdom apart from others or to learn the wisdom of others himself wandering among the snares of the world. The snares of the world were its ways of sin. He would fall. He had not yet fallen but he would fall silently, in an instant. Not to fall was too hard, too hard: and he felt the silent lapse of his soul . . .(162) Stephen now conceives that the absolute repudiation of the voices of the flesh (as he conceives Christianity) is "too hard," meaning that it is as coldly detached from the human suffering and 3km; as Shelley's moon. This softening of Stephen's temperament causes Stephen to temporarily sympathize with plight of his surroundings and to fall from his aethereal height from which he refines out of existence the decay and weariness of mundane existence. His soul is painfully responsive to the tragic weariness which hears in the voices of his brother and sister as they endure the collapse of their father's house. He laughs to himself about his earlier disdain of "misrule and confusion of his father's house and stagnation of vegetable life" (162) now that they have won the day in his soul. However, this phase of Stephen's life does not last very long, for early in the next section of chapter four Stephen's antipathy for his surroundings has returned in the form of refined linguistic expression. Ike no longer follows 130 either the "voices of duties and despair" nor "the inhuman voice that had called him to the pale service of the altar" (169) with exclusivity. A new imaginatively ideal "voice from beyond the world" (167) calls to him to contemplation an "inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose" (167). During the moments in which he is most threatened by mundane, decaying Dublin existence he would draw forth a phrase from the "treasure" of his inner world, a phrase like "a day Of dappled seaborne clouds." This phrase is not only more supple and lucid than the "language of the marketplace" (188) which he hears around him, placing his temperament above the weary cares of the decaying world, but it is also has revolutionary overtones for Stephen because these words are an allusion to the thoughts of Satan--"a day of dappled, breeze-borne clouds" (The Testimony pf the Rocks; or, Geology ip Its Bearings pp the Two Theologies, Natural and Revealed 277)--as he watches the Creation of the world (Joyce Annotated 219). These words chime with his revolt against the Church and his family: "I will not serve" (P 239) says Stephen in direct allusion to Satan's Non Serviam when Cranly suggests that Stephen make his Easter duty for his mother's sake. Later, Stephen's Non Serviam is even more comprehensive: "I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church" (247). When he sees the disheartening (167) landscape of Dublin lying "prone in the mist" (like the prone figure of the giant, Finnegan, the symbol of Irish inertia in Finnegans Wake) 131 he once again recalls Satan's rebellion and raises his eyes to the sky. For the first time he conceives of the evocative correspondence between his name and the fabulous artificer from Greek legend. The name of the Greek who escaped the power of the land and sea through forbidden arts appears to Stephen as a prophecy of his lifetime as an artist, "forging anew in his workshop out of the sluggish matter of the earth a new soaring impalpable imperishable being" (169). His desire to forge an impalpable being from the details of experience suggests another repetition of his childhood "pursuit of phantoms" and "phantasmal comrades" (84). Through his art he knows that he is "purified and delivered of incertitude" (169) as he had hoped to become transfigured into an impalpable being and delivered from "timidity and inexperience" through the unsubstantial image which he sees in his soul, but not in the world, an image such as he had "forged" from his adolescent encounter with Eileen at the tram. Chapter four ends with Stephen commitment to the life of an artist, and the spiritual nature of tifie; commitment is; manifest 1J1 Stephen's imaginatively transforming, as if by Daedalan "magic", the girl at the strand showing her legs into "the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird." (171). Like Plato who transforms his physical passion for Phaedrus into his soul's stimulant, Stephen uses his erotic passion to stimulate an image from another world. Although Stephen is I“) longer committed to the 132 "inhuman voice" (168) of the Church which repudiates the life of the world, Stephen has never been more detached from mundane experience by the end of chapter four. Whereas during his Christian phase he could only go forth to encounter reality through the rituals of the Church, now Stephen encounters reality through the ideal refinements of his own periodic prose and image making. He is still repelled by the "dull gross voice of the world of duties and despair" (169) which comprises mundane reality for him during his short phase of sympathy for the disorder and weariness of the world around him and his father's house. The artist and his creation become impalpable absolute types like the figures created by romantic artists as Joyce describes in his early essays. To create a composite, magical seabird out of a simple girl wading in a rivulet is comparable to the "monstrous and heroic" absolute types in Ibsen's romantic play, "Catalina:" and the end of such a play cannot but savour of dogma-~a most proper thing in a priest but a most improper in a poet." (Critical Writings 100). The use of diction such as "holy," "transfiguration," and "prophecy" suggest Stephen's sense of his (NH) priesthood of the imagination imposing the landscape of another world upon the figures from reality, turning them into phantasms . Stephen's soul finally swoons "into some new world, fantastic, dim . . . traversed by cloudy shapes and beings" (172), as if he has received the ciborium. Ike feels his soul "spread in endless succession to itself" as he recalls all of his past encounters with reality, from infancy to the present, and he feels that he 133 has transcended them. Hours later lme awakes, recalling his ecstacy and committing himself to the new world of his imagination. In the final chapter Stephen is striving to "forge out an esthetic philosophy" (180). Having resolved upon the vocation to create an ideal image from the mundane world, he sets out to acquire the language by which to articulate it both theoretically and in practice. His decision to go to the university is germane to this goal; however, he quickly discovers his classes to be less pertinent than he thought, so he begins missing them by lingering on his walks through the city and identifying its details with specific works in the literary tradition (176), transforming mundane Dublin life into the totems of European literature. The refining forge of his imagination abstracts words from their contexts in language and the world of experience: "His own consciousness of language was ebbing from his brain and trickling into the very words themselves" (179), and through this process a word such as "ivory" shines "in his brain, clearer and brighter than any ivory sawn from the mottled tusks of elephants" (ibid). Stephen abstracts even physics from its physical context: It seemed a limbo of painless patient consciousness through which souls of mathematicians might. wander, projecting long slender fabrics from plane to plane of ever rarer and paler twilight, radiating swift eddies to the last verges of a universe ever vaster, farther and more impalpable. (191) 134 Stephen is acquiring the language by which to translate even physical laws into impalpable phantasms. Then Stephen searches "for the essence of beauty, amid the spectral words of Aristotle and Aquinas" (ibid.). In moments of insight during his meditations on the essence of beauty he feels as if the world had "perished about his feet as if it Imul been fireconsumed" (177). Ultimately, according to Stephen's "applied Aquinas" (207), the supreme quality of beauty (claritas or guidditas according to Stephen's "applied" use of Aquinas' terminology) is felt by the artist when "the clear radiance of the esthetic image is apprehended luminously by the mind which is arrested by its wholeness and fascinated by its harmony" (213). From this esthetic gestation the artist reproduces an image of "life purified in and reprojected through the imagination" (215). Therefore, Stephen's pleasure with finding himself in the midst of the "squalor and noise and sloth" (177) of common lives is a pleasure which he takes with the end in mind of forging from this "gross earth" (207) a poetic image purified of its innate squalor noise and sloth. Father William Noon's famous Joyce and Aguinas is the most detailed argument extant of Stephen's transmutation of Aquinas' theories of beauty into a romantic theory of art: Theories of la poesie pure are not easy to defend, and one may presume that Joyce would have been least of all likely to defend them. For Stephen the case is not so clear; his romantic version of the neo-Thomist aesthetic, couched as it is in literary language and not, as he tells us, in the language of the market place, sounds at times like 135 a plea for the refined essence of poetry, pure and distilled. (Joyce and Aguinas 53) Noon is referring primarily to Stephen's use of the words guidditas and claritas as analogies for what Stephen calls the moment at which the "esthetic image is first conceived in the imagination" (A Portraip 213). This Thomistic/Shelleyan "enchantment of the heart" (213) is not a Joycean epiphany in which the artist apprehends the soul of an entity as Daedalus theorizes in Stephen Hero; instead this Dedalan guidditas has a phantasmal quality' because the imagination. refines away' the worldly qualities of an Object of artistic contemplation in order to create a purified image of beauty. The phantasmal quality of Stephen's sense of artistic conception is borne out when Stephen experiences an "enchantment of the heart" and begins to write a poem based upon his "dream or vision" of "seraphic life" which translates his "bitter and despairing thoughts into a "eucharistic hymn" (217). Section two of the last chapter begins at the point at which the romantic poet's linguistic formulations of his aesthetic position reach a critical mass from which erupt the moment of pure "seraphic" (217) inspiration, so he writes a villanelle. Now 111 the "roselike glow" (Hf inspiration he creates a pure image which he distills from the world, an image whose beauty challenges God's "pale" beauty and lures the inhuman, bodiless seraphim who would withdraw from the world of the flesh and passion (as he would as a priest) to fall from 136 heaven. His poem, "Are you not weary of ardent ways," is reminiscent of Shelley's lines "Art thou pale for weariness/ Of climbing heaven and gazing on earth," in which Stephen found solace in his romantic childhood. In this phase of his life, Stephen is being critical of such alienated loathing of the flesh. Yet Stephen is still not a Joycean classicist concerned with uniting in a confederate will with the eternal human principles innate within experience. Like the romantic artists to which Joyce refers in his early essays, Stephen's life (like the lives of such romantics as Blake or Dante) takes "into its centre the life that surrounds it. . . flinging it abroad amid planetary music" (Critical Writings 82). The "planetary music" of Stephen's is not the Joycean classicist's intense contemplation of "the truth of its own being or the visible world." Instead he is concerned with transmuting mundane voices into a new, purified form ("pure as the purest water" [217]) surrounded by an "imaginative landscape" (Critical Writings 83) which refines away the common details of experience so that the "priest of eternal imagination" can create a phantasm. Stephen's creation of a poem shows his romantic voice gaining articulate strength, no longer keeping his sensibility withdrawn from the mundane aspects of himself and his surroundings, he now disdains his surroundings by altering their significance. Stephen's inspiration may be the "lure of fallen seraphim" because Of its initial basis in reality, however, he is no more tolerant of his physical self than he 137 ever was: "The life of his body, illclad, illfed, louseeaten, made him close his eyelids in a sudden spasm of despair" (234); so he imaginatively transmutes the lice falling off of his body into 61 refined image reminiscent of Nashe: "brightness falls from the air." He is still wearied and intolerant of the raw life (n5 mundane Dublin, and, likening himself ti) the earlier Daedalus soaring out of his captivity, he is preparing to leave for Europe. He still has in mind taking into himself the mundane world of dear dirty Dublin, and purifying it, but his antipathy for mundane reality is as accute as ever, although it has taken 51 different form. .As Cranly points out, Stephen's refusal to take his Easter duty, fearing the "malevolent reality" behind them, is a flawed revolutionary gesture because it demands a lack of pity for his mother. Stephen is now, more than ever, alone in life, striving for a new kind of angelic stature, suppressing the voices within him responsive to the unidealized reality in which he is immersed. At the end of section three, when Cranly admits his true affection for him, Stephen feels that a responsive chord has been struck deep within his nature (247), yet Stephen suppresses this response and although he knows what Cranly means, he coldly asks Cranly to clarify his statement. In section four the mature narrator looking backwards gives over time narrative completely 1K) Stephen's fully articulate romantic voice expressed in supple periodic prose in Stephen's own journal, free of any other voices. Unlike Joyce's own belief in the simultaneous vitality of all past and 138 future voices of an identity within the present of narrative articulation, Stephen believes in a present which consumes the past and lives only briefly enough to bring forth the future. This is characteristic of Stephen's character throughout the novel. He prefers to suppress contending voices within himself and his surroundings for the sake of his romanticism. For example, Stephen records in his journal how he "turned off the valve" (252) of his sympathy for Emma so that he can give ‘voice exclusively II) his "spiritual-heroic refrigerating apparatus invented and patented in all countries by Dante Aleghieri." In this reference also there is a connection to Joyce's early essays on romanticism in which Dante figures as a dominant western figure in a succession of romantic poets. To protect this romantic refrigerating apparatus Stephen leaves Ireland to "encounter the reality" of his experience imaginativelyu Mundane experience in time raw is too disheartening so his imaginative encounter must take place at a great distance from it. The smithy of his soul will be the forge for a "conscience" of his race, a conscience which does not derive from the experience of common Irishmen, but a conscience which is as yet an "uncreated" ideal. 139 Synergism Part II "The Dead" and Ulysses As is evident from his revision of Stephen Hero (in which Stephen repudiates his romantic sensibility and destroys his romantic poems) into Portrait (in which Joyce resurrects his romantic voice), after 1907 Joyce has learned to render a vital synergism between conflicting voices in his autobiographical novel. The distinct sensibility of the mature narrator looking backward to his romantic childhood and youth is not suppressed when it leaves the narrative of Portraipz instead the mature voice generously gives over the narrative to Stephen's fully articulate romantic voice. The success of the narrative doesn't hinge upon a violent repudiation of one or another vital fragment of the artist's sensibility, but upon the liberation of the multi-vocal psychic potential of the artist, resulting 1J1 a more humane, more tolerant, and more interesting autobiographical novel than would be possible in a conventional autobiography. Portrait is Joyce's synergistic answer to the violent Opposition between the romantic and classicist tendencies within the artist. Also, in 1906 Joyce begins to question his own violent Opposition to common Irish life which he enacts 140 through the unrelenting style of scrupulous meanness in the first fourteen stories of prliners. In this year he, more strongly than ever, suspects that scrupulous meanness may be an unnecessarily harsh caricature of Dublin life. Joyce originally intended his style of scrupulous meanness to be the style apprOpriate to a faithful representation of paralytic Dublin life in which the point of contact between common life and aspiration results in the Violent censorship of aspiration. His dawning sense that this scrupulous meanness is unfair to Irish life results partially from his creation of "Clay" and "A Painful Case" because common life offers Maria and Duffy a way out of self repression and it is only Maria's and Duffy's refusal of the love which common life Offers that confirms their paralytic deaths. The labor which Joyce devotes to his attacks on these two characters is, I think, instrumental in forcing Joyce to recognize that there is "beauty" and "comfort" (EC 109) in Irish life which the "perverse devil" of his own literary conscience has repressed. Another factor contributing to Joyce's move away from scrupulous meanness must have been Joyce's frustration over his literary unproductivity between April 1906, after having completed "A Little Cloud," and late summer 1907, when he begins "The Dead." This period of unproductivity comes after having completed most of Dubliners and over a thousand pages of Stephen Hero between 1904 and early 1906. Anyone who writes a great deal must recognize that a period of drought after a long period of productivity instills within one an urgent desire for 141 new avenues of inspiration. Richard Ellmann is probably the most influential critic to point out that Joyce found an avenue for discovering new ideas through a long letter writing battle with Grant Richards over the publication of the first fourteen stories of 9.29%. This letter writing battle lasted from late 1905 until the fall of 1906 (This development of Joyce's attitudes through these letters is detailed most thoroughly in William JOhnsen's "Joyce's 1_3__ubliners and the Futility of Modernism" and in Homer Brown's James Joyce's Early Fiction). Less important to Joyce's artistic develOpment were Richards' suggestions that Joyce omit obscene words or images, but Richards' statement Which most caught Joyce's imagination was Richard's vague Su99estion that Joyce write Dubliners "in another sense." RiChard's suggestion, while infuriating Joyce with its ambiguity, helps bring to a head Joyce's sense of having repressed the positive aspects of Irish life. In September of 190 6 Joyce writes, I have not be just to [Dublin's] beauty. . .And yet I know how useless thes reflections are. For were I to write the book as G.R. [Grant Richards] suggests "in another sense" (Where the hell does he get the meaningless phrases he uses) I am sure I would find again what you call the Holy Ghost in the ink-bottle and the perverse devil of my literary conscience sitting on the hump of my pen (§§ 110). RlcZl'lards' suggestion that Joyce write in another sense causes JOYCE to admit that at least some of the meanness of his style 0 ‘ . . . . . . . rlglnates Within his literary consc1ence, as opposed to his 142 earlier assertion (May 1906) that any other but a mean style would "alter in presentment" and "deform" (_S_I_. 83) what he has seen and heard in Ireland. In late 1906 and early 1907, Joyce's letters and essays begin to stress more and more of Ireland's Virtues. He :al 15 the Irish "the most civilised people in Europe (EI: 139) oecause he finds them to be the "least bureaucratic." His essays "Ireland, Island of Saints and Sages" (CW 153) and 'Ireland at the Bar" (CW 197) are efforts to recover the importance Of Ireland's position in the history of European Civilization and to defend its present importance in Contemporary Europe. In September 1906, Joyce plans a new story for Dillbliners called "Ulysses." As I mention earlier, Joyce's own Statements about his lifetime interest in the Greek hero refute 31 l mann's notion that "Ulysses" was intended to be as ironic as 'Grace." Retrospectively viewing his lifetime interest in lll’Sses as a character, Joyce tells Georges Borach that the ireek hero fascinated him because Ulysses embodies the most >eautifu1 and human subject in literature (College English 2(_V_ 326) However, by early 1907 he has not yet proceeded "any Eorrader than the title" (C11 145), yet some ironic stories Which he had planned for Dubliners--"The Last Supper," "The Street," Vengeance," and "At Bay"--get no farther than the titles either because, as he claims, "circumstances" aren't fa"’Orable (February 1907) . Yet, along with the unfavorable financial circumstances 143 which Joyce experienced in Rome, Joyce could not begin work on Ulysses until certain ideas had coalesced for him. Joyce's evolving suspicion, during this time, that Ireland has something more to offer than paralysis, is a factor inhibiting his writing of further ironic stories. He must give himself time to make the creative leap of insight necessary to write fiction rendering the beauty and humanity of common Dublin life which his new story, "Ulysses" would have demanded. Joyce had alt-ways intended the central character to be a man named Hunter who for Joyce stood out dramatically because he had generously aided the young artist (sometime around June 10 1904: _JC 161- 162 ) after Joyce had been beaten by a jealous boyfriend. As Ellmann states, Hunter was only distantly acquainted with JOYce, but The very lack of acquaintance was memorable since Joyce regarded himself as hemmed in by indifference and hostility and was more surprised that someone unfamiliar, of temperament and background Opposite his own, should have causelessly befriended him (CC 162). Such unexpected kindness becomes for the artist an epiphanic moment of beneficial contact with common culture. Another aspect of Mr. Hunter which had to coalesce With his good Samaritanism was the rumor that his wife was unfaithful to him. The reconciliation of the sundered husband and Wife, together with the reconciliation of the artist with Common life, are elements of the comprehensive Irish regeneration which must coalesce before the rich implications 01-: HLmter/Ulysses can take shape in Joyce's mind. One finds 144 Joyce '3 program for the regeneration of humanity involving the triumvirate of the husband, the wife, and the artist back in Joi’ce's artistic manifesto, the essay, "A portrait of the Artist." This essay, written when he was twenty-two is Joyce's earliest coherent anticipation of. the style which will t3:earlsform Joyce from the good but dissatisfied writer of escapist poems and purgative irony to the great writer of the Synergistic narratives, "The Dead," Ulysses, and Finnegans Weesg. The 1904 essay "A portrait," is Joyce's application Of his new understanding of Bruno discussed in my introduction. AS Opposed to his 1901 "Day of Rabblement" essay in which Joyce takes pride in maintaining a "hatred of the multitude" (_CW 69) , ir1 {once's "A portrait" essay he theorizes that the artist and the multitude must become interdependent parts of a synergistic qu ion before "mahamanvantara" or the re-awakening of nations ca 11 take place: To those multitudes not as yet in the wombs of humanity but surely engenderable there, he [the artist] would give the word. Man and woman, out of you comes the nation that is to come, the lightning (Hf your masses 1J1 travail; the competitive order is employed against itself, the aristocracies are supplanted and amid the general paralysis of an insane society, the confederate will issues in action (Cornell Manuscripts 34-1). The violently competitive order can be regenerated when men and WO“len become reconciled and bring forth a new generation which 13 not as infected as their parents are by the "general paI‘alysis of an insane society." The artist's role is to 145 create the "word" which will teach those "multitudes not as yet in the wombs of humanity but surely engenderable there" how to enact a non-violent confederate will, not a competitive will. However, men cannot become reconciled with women anti 1 they can overcome their rivalry against the others whom his wife has loved. The man's acceptance of the woman's other loves allows him to perceive and accept the love which she has to offer as opposed to the self-centered, imaginative love Which some forms of romance demand. Gabriel Conroy of "The Dead ," Richard Rowan of Exiles and Leopold Bloom of Ulysses are JOYce's artistic examinations of his own jealousy in his marriage. Joyce wanted to deck Nora in furs and lingerie; and he tried to make her drink cocoa so that she would gain larger breasts and thighs which he preferred; he went to sexual e1"I‘t::remes with her in order to be the one who initiated her love 1iII'Ee to some extent, and he needed her to verify that she had never had similar sexual experiences with the other men whom She had loved. When he would recall that she, as a young girl, had a lover in Galway (SC 45), he would claim that "the doubt assails me that even you are against me" (SE: 184). He begins to become reconciled with her when he can still rush at her With desire after imagining that "half the red-headed louts in the county Galway" (_S_L_ 183) had made love to her. Gabriel C01"IT—‘oy violently sunders himself from his wife, Gretta, by fa‘iling to recognize and accept the love which originates in he]: independently of him. He makes Gretta wear galoshes and trI‘Les to compete with the Galway boy who had loved her and 146 rcwnearitically died for her. He moves toward reconciliation with rneI: vihen he can recognize and accept the love which she offers t1) kliJn as it results from her romantic experience with the boy vahx: luad loved her as a young girl. Bloom/Hunter sunders kninnssealf from his wife by staying away from home all day because h€3 3Imdliation with his wife when he reacts generously to his Wi fe 's infidelity: If he had smiled why would he have smiled? To refect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be the first, last, only and alone, whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity. (2 731) Bloom at the end of the novel accepts Molly as one who comes to hleI ‘with an abundance of experience in loving, and he comes to rHEI? resolved to participate in the love that she has to offer. Itifis Iknowledge that she has loved others is no longer a pretext for him to wander away from his home; her vast experience of ICVV'Ligng now becomes a motive for him to stay at home and accept rKEIT love if she is willing to give it to him. After Joyce had completed "The Dead" in September 19()-7 : he wrote a letter to Stanislaus stating that the idea of V“:5~‘:£Lng "Ulysses" had once again taken hold of him: this time ii; ‘Vvas to be a short novel (Q; 264)- According to Stanislaus, James had profitted from certain of Stanislaus' suggestions akDCTUt making Hunter a Dublin Peer Gynt who encounters t'hreatening figures during extravagant excursions into 147 forbidden territory (gg 26S). Yet it might also be important that after examining the theme of infidelity in "The Dead," Joyce once again felt himself prepared to tackle Ulysses. However, the project had once again to be shelved because Joyce had to first of all work out the divided temperament of the artist in Portrait. It is not until Joyce had completed half of Portrait that he had understood that the position of Ulysses was to be that of a sequel to the revised autobiographical novel. Ulysses forms an apprOpriate non- violent sequel to Portrait since once Joyce has rendered a beneficial synergism between the Opposing romantic and classicist aspect of the artist's sensibility, he is left still to enact a synergism between Stephen Dedalus and common Irish life. In Portrait Stephen Dedalus' attitude toward common life is summed up in the words, "I will not serve" (P 246). No where yet in Joyce's canon has Dedalus resolved his opposition toward his country. Also, in Portrait, Joyce learns how one voice can act as a womb for another voice: like the mature voice which bears the youthful romantic voice until it can artistically speak on its own, Molly, as "Ghea Tellus" acts as a womb which accepts Bloom and allows the possibility of the reconciliation of the husband and wife. Finally, after Joyce renders the man's acceptance of the love which his wife has to offer in "The Dead," he must render the woman's acceptance of the man in order to complete the equation for the regeneration of Ireland which he theorizes in "A portrait." It is not enough for the Bloom to accept the 148 love which Molly has to offer; Molly must also accept Bloom for what he is before the reconciliation between husband and wife can be complete. Lying beside Molly in the foetal position at the end of "Ithaca," Bloom symbolically enters her womb as the pacifistic promise of the new generation freed from the violent nightmare of history, and after Molly rises from bed she meditates alone in the "Penelope" chapter, a meditation which leads to her loving acceptance of Leopold, culminating in one of the most famous affirmations in modern literature, her simple "yes. Hugh Kenner opposes reading this yes as a regenerative affirmation. Instead he refers to this "yes" as a consent that kills the soul has darkened the intellect and blunted the moral sense of all Dublin. At the very rim of Dante's funnel-shaped Hell is the imperceptible "Yes" of Paola and Francesca; they are blown about by the winds, but Molly lies still at the warm dead womb—like centre of the labyrinth of paving stones. Her "Yes" is confident and exultant; it is the "Yes" of authority: authority over this animal kingdom of the dead (Dublinis Joyce 262) Kenner means to say that Joyce presents Ireland as purely a kingdom of the dead and that Molly is a perverse approval of all 11mm: is dead le it. However, Kenner's assertion ignores, first (us all, that Molly doesn't indiscriminately accept all that Dublin has to offer: she criticizes Blazes Boylan for having "no manners or refinement" (U 776) when he slaps her on the behind as if she were a "horse or an ass" (U 741); she criticizes male violence and drunkenness--"wouldnt see women going and killing one another. . .and when do you see women rolling around drunk like they do"(g 778). One could hardly say 149 that Molly is authorizing these aspects of Dublin violence or consenting 11> them. Ln the second place, Molly is Inn: affirming Dublin life, she is affirming and accepting Bloom as the man, of all of the men, in her life. Stephen, having recognized and accepted the kindness whiCh Bloom offers, becomes responsive to rflmn anxi he learns more than was available through Dublin gossip about the true affection possible between Bloom and Molly, causing him to gain sympathy for Bloom and Molly as lovers and potential parents, symbolizing not that Stephen wants to adopt them as his own parents, but instead symbolizing his sympathy for all parents, including his (NHL. The artist discerns attraction and beauty in Dublin life where he previously experienced only alienation and perceived only violence. Stephen's acceptance of Bloom becomes a acceptance of the prophetic conscience of humanity as it must act under the violent conditions in which humanity must survive. It is true that Bloom and Molly do make some distasteful choices, Inn; of all (M? the characters, they are the ones who give and accept the forgiveness which makes possible the reconciliation of the violent sunderings constituting the Dublin's paralytic violence. This peaceful reconciliation of the artist with common life doesn't mean that Stephen goes forth to create Ulysses as Edmund Wilson asserts (Axel's Castle 202). Richard Ellmann correctly points out that the novel is not the work of Stephen any more than Shakespeare's Hamlet is the work of Hamlet (Ulysses 93 the Liffey 159). ‘All three--the artist, the man, and the woman-- 150 create the positive significance of Ulysses through their mutual recognition and acceptance of the love which they can offer each other, yet Stephen, Leopold, and Molly are as unaware that they are fulfilling Joyce's program for Irelands' tripartite regeneration as they are unaware that they participate in chapters that together constitute a symbolic living body. A fourth voice--the voice of the author who makes each episode a part of the body (as the Linati and Gilbert schema point out), and by slow accretion forms an archetypal man whose body the whole book limns--"outflanks" the characters (Ulysses on the Liffey 175) and writes the novel of which each of the characters is only a part. It is informative to note that some of the critics who consider Ulys§§§_1x> be absolutely a lesson in Irish futility, critics such as Harry Levin (James Joyce), Hugh Kenner (Dublin's Joyce), and Bernard Benstock ("Ulysses: The Making of an Irish Myth"), are usually the same ones who, at the cost of ignoring all that Gabriel Conroy learns about love, consider the style of "The Dead" to be simply an extension of the scrupulous meanness in the first fourteen stories of Qubligggs. All (Hf these critics are related In! an unwillingness to accept the increments of insight in Joyce's characters to be worthy of the name of action. Joyce staunchly refuses to take his characters beyond the point at which they learn to overcome the psychic violence of censoring a vital aspect of their sensibilities. Gabriel Conroy's acceptance of Irish life doesn't result in his radically giving up wmiting 151 articles for pro-British newspaper, The Daily Express; he doesn't resolwe to learn Irish, to join the fenians, or to relinquish rut; interest 1J1 continental languages either. Gabriel simply recovers a possibility, a voice, in his temperament which he had violently suppressed. Similarly, in Ulysses, Stephen doesn't create a work of art or move in with the Blooms, Leopold doesn't copulate with Molly or surrender his mistress, and Molly doesn't surrender the possibility of once again making love with Blazes Boylan. Instead, all three recover the affinities which their circumstances and inhibitions had suppressed. In overcoming the violence of sundering, Joyce does not induce action which closes off past possibilities and iflmulses, instead Ina simply dramatizes the insight which Opens up possibilities that had been suppressed and recovers voices which had been silenced, thereby overcoming the partial paralysis of the spiritual body. As evinced by Joyce's failed attempt to write Ulysses before he had begun "The Dead" (September 1906), and then his second failed attempt (November 1907) before having written Portrait, it appears that Joyce had to reconcile his attitude toward infidelity, toward the divided sensibility of the artist, and toward the artist's relationship to the common life of Dublin before the various themes embodied by Ulysses and Mr. Hunter could coalesce and take shape in Joyce's mind. "The Dead" is Joyce's first artistic reconciliation of men and women 0 152 "The Dead" Most critics agree that in many ways "The Dead" is a unique story i 1 Dubliners Richard Ellmann calls iJ: the "linchpin in Joyce's work" (James Joyce 252) through its position as an initial examination of infidelity as in Ulysses and as an initial examination of the interrelationship between the living and the dead as in Finnegans Wake. William Johnsen describes it as the one story in Dubliners which replaces irony with a "beneficial reciprocity or mediation willing to learn from contemporaries and predecessors as well as teach them" ("Futility of Modernism," 20). Critics such as Hugh Kenner (Dublin's Joyce) and Bernard Benstock ("'The Dead:' A Cold Coming" ) conclude that the story is a summation and extension of the paralysis of the first fourteen stories, but they do so at the cost of ignoring all that Gabriel learns of love at the story's end. In the late summer of 1907, Joyce begins writing "The Dead," a story about Gabriel Conroy who, like Maria and Duffy, tries to protect his insularity from the common life of Dublin which he is initially "sick of" (Q 83), and in the process Gabriel rejects the comfort and romance which are offered him by Irish life. However, Gabriel eventually makes the leap of insight which Maria and Duffy fail to make; Gabriel learns through his wife how to recognize the romance in Dublin life and to accept it. By accepting the love which common life 153 offers, Gabriel learns to relinquish that sense of identity which separates him from all other Irishmen and from distinct vital aspects of himself which can recognize and accept to the romance that teaches Gabriel to know love for the first time. Gabriel Conroy begins the story with a feeling of superiority over the provincial Irish because of his European education and his intellectual accomplishments. Gabriel's attitude toward the common Irish surrounding him overtly suggests the attitude toward Irish life which Joyce's style of scrupulous meanness is intended to reflect. The common Irishmen are, for Gabriel, the dead, those paralysed by the provincial limitations of their common Irishness, yet ironically, by the end of the story Gabriel learns the sense in which his self-conscious difference from Irish life makes him as spiritually dead, as spiritually outcast from life's feast, as Duffy of "A Painful Case." It is only when Gabriel can relinquish his distinction from common Irish life that he can resurrect himself, accepting that the synergism with the Irish dead is a much higher form of life than his previous disdain. In order to emphasize his superiority at the beginning of the story, Gabriel attempts to patronize the "simple" Irish at his aunt's party, yet he finds that in his lofty worldliness he is at pains to bring off any exchange with anyone without awkwardness. He tries to gain intimacy with Lily by suggesting that she might have a beau, but she embarrasses him with a knowledgable retort about the sexual opportunism of the Corleys of the world. He coarsely 154 embarrasses his wife by publicly telling her that if she wants to vacation in Ireland, she can go by herself. When Miss Ivors questions why he does not vacation in West Ireland as his wife would like, he answers gracelessly, "I'm sick of my own country, sick of it" (198). He feels comfortable at the head of the table while he expertly carves the turkey, but through his display of his carving skills he does not participate in the feast with everyone else. While the other guests consider his willingness to carve second helpings before serving himself to tmeaa generous gesture, the self-conscious comfort that he takes in exhibiting his skill is the motive which the narrative emphasizes; "He felt quite at ease ngw because he was an expert carver and liked nothing better than to find himself at the head of a well-laid table" (197). The italics are my own indicating that he is uncomfortable whennot exhibiting his talents and outside of the role of ostensible head of house. Like Duffy, Gabriel is outcast from life's feast while believing himself to be the center of the feast. Through his accute self-consciousness he is alienated from the communal event; he asks them all to "forget my existence" (198) when he begins to eat and will take no part in the general conversation. Speech for Gabriel is not communal but a self- conscious showpiece of his accomplishments He nervously worries about his formal after dinner speech in honor of his aunts; then he awkwardly avoids the eyes of his audience and his hands shake as he delivers it. He is in danger of failing to carry on in confidence until they show some approval. 155 Through all of this Gabriel is so busy thinking about the display of his achievements that he doesn't take note of Lily's generosity in saving him some potatoes; he doesn't notice the generosity of those who give encouraging responses to his speech; he doesn't take note of the genuine thoughtfulness of all of those who want to include him in the communal feast. He does not graciously accept Miss Ivor's compliment to his article in The Daily Express nor notice the conciliatory gesture of pressing his hand after she good- humoredly questioned why he did not expend some of his love for the continent upon Ireland, nor does he notice that she leaves the party because she is genuinely contrite about having caused him any discomfort--instead he is disappointed that she missed the ironic jab at her which he included in his after-dinner speech. However, the speech is well-received and Gabriel feels as if he is redeeming his earlier awkwardness. As the party is nearing its close, Bartel D'Arcy sings an old Irish song which causes Gabriel's wife to recall an Irish boy, Michael Furey, who had romantically died for her, while Gabriel, flushed with his success at the party, becomes frisky and affectionate. When she reveals why she is unresponsive, his first reaction is rivalry against this common Irish boy. He immediately evokes a comparison between himself and the boy: --What was he? asked Gabriel, still ironically. --He was in the gasworks, she said. Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony and by the evocation of this figure from the 156 dead, a boy in the gasworks. While he had been full of memories of their secret life together, full of tenderness and joy and desire, she had been comparing him in her mind with another Knowing that Gabriel married a woman beneath his class and education, this competitive comparison between himself and the boy is Gabriel's attempt to emphasize his superiority. He intends to imply that when he is making love it is ludicrous to think about a boy from the past who has no where near Gabriel's accomplishments. However, Gabriel's irony turns back upon him when in: doesn't win time struggle to dominate his wife's thoughts. In a rivalry, if one voice wins the other loses; therefore Gabriel plays the loser and assails himself: A shameful consciousness of his own person assailed rUmu He saw himself as a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy for his aunts,. . . . orating to vulgarians and idealising his own clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpse of in the mirror.(220) The self deprecation of the preceding passage gives way to terror as if "some impalpable and vindictive being was coming against him, gathering forces against him in its vague world" (220) when Gabriel realizes how romantically the boy died for Gretta. This voice from the past, evoked through a song, subverts Gabriel's moment of "triumph" (220): the triumphant display of his accomplishments at his aunts' party. The crown of his success, the evocation of his wife's passionate admiration, is a resolution which he is forced to abandon. However, eventually' Gabriel loses his resentment: a 157 "strange friendly pity for her entered his soul" (222). He strangely appreciates the "romance" (222) which she had had in her life; thereby he begins to recognize the romance which originates in common life; the boy had passed "boldly into that other world in the full glory of some passion" (223). Gabriel resigns his superiority: His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling. (223) Gabriel gives up his "identity:" the limited self by which he previously conceived himself to differ from the common Dubliners at the party. When he relinquishes his identity, it doesn't mean that he becomes absolutely indistinct from other Dubliners. He doesn't become his wife or Michael Furey, nor does he repress all that he was previously; that would simply repeat the violence of censorship in another form. The romance of the common boy reveals to Gabriel that his difference from the boy signifies Gabriel's own death in the sense that he is outcast from life's feast. Gabriel saves himself from this death by learning from a common Irish boy how to romantically sacrifice his superiority for his beloved. Rivalry becomes synergism and self congratulation becomes active "pity." As a result he feels love for the first time in his life (223). The "solid world" dwindles into an impalpable world in which a self which is not as easily or reductively different from (jug common Irish whom rm; had considered culturally and spiritually dead. The narration ends 158 with snow falling on both the living and the dead, emphasizing the unity between Gabriel and his "rival" Michael Furey, a unity which reveals the sense in which both are living and both are dead. Gabriel will never pass boldly in the full glory of some passsion but he can learn to love his wife for the woman that she is. He is no longer sick of his country. He is prepared tx> set out 'Rni his journey westward" (223), to acquiesce to his wife's request to visit the graves in Galway, to accept his own death, and to accept the love which common Irish life offers. When the snow falls on all of the living and the dead, it signifies the sense in which all are both living and dead, and it signifies the possibility of learning from the dead how to live. Ulysses Begun in 1914, after the completion of Portrait, Ulysses is Joyce's most ambitious expression of synergistic pacifism up to this point in his career. The two main characters, Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom, opposites in terms of education and background, consider themselves to be pacifists trying to awaken from the nightmare of the violent historic forces that repress Irish life, yet each must 159 recognize the violence that originates within his own impulses so that he may discern and accept the love which is being offered him, thereby adding his strength to the regenerative forces in common Irish life. When Bloom and Stephen look into the mirror together, each one sees the face of William Shakespeare in "rigid facial paralysis" (U 567). In other words, these two opposites begin to recognize that they are similar in regard to their repression of their exceptional creative potential. Each sees the paralytic violence which the other has imposed upon himself by allowing his sense that he has been betrayed (Stephen feels betrayed by common Irish life, and Bloom feels betrayed by Molly) to sunder him from love available in his home. Then later, when each recognizes himself in the other, they accept each other, beneficially forming "the reciprocal flesh of theirhisnothis fellow faces" (U 702). Stephen's vicarious identification with Bloom provides him with the [xfijn: of beneficial synergism between himself and common culture; thereby, he relinquishes the feeling that Ireland is exclusively a "sow that eats her own farrow," and he can artistically' return. home. Bloom's 'vicarious identification with Stephen evokes within Leopold the desire for a son of his own, providing Bloom not only with a reason to return home (on the pretext of pmotecting Stephen) but with a reason to seek the forgiveness of his wife. Molly, the woman necessary in Joyce's equation ikn: national regeneration (discussed above), spends the afternoon of June sixteenth in adultery with Boylan, 160 and after her adventure, when Bloom tells of his day and then humbly elicits her forgiveness with a kiss on the bum, she recovers her desire for her husband, deciding to "just give him one more chance" (780) and to "make him want me" (781). The reconciliation of husband and wife provide the possibility of a new generation engenderable within Molly's womb. Leopold Bloom--"the manchild weary, the manchild in the womb" (g 737)-- as he lies in the foetal position beside Molly, the earth mother ("Gea Tellus"), is symbolically both husband and child: the husband reconciled with his wife and the unborn pacifistic promise of the non-violent nation to come, awaiting the moment of his birth. According to the Gilbert and Linati schema of Ulysses, Molly's chapter--"Penelope"--takes place an: the temporal point of infinity, where extremes and parallel lines meet. Her acceptance of Bloom in this final chapter of the novel completes a symbolic fusion of the artist with the reconciled man and woman. Bloom's acceptance of his wife's love 1J1 the form iJ1\flxufl1 she offers it--an acceptance made possible by his aversion to violence and rivalry--combined with Molly's acceptance of him make possible the new generation to whom the artist can add his strength by giving them the "word" which will teach the new nation to transcend the violent sunderings that have paralysed Ireland. The synergism of the artist with the reconciled husband and wife fulfills Joyce's early equation for the regeneration of Ireland. It may seem strange that a Jew would be part of Joyce's embodiment of the regeneration of the Irish family, yet 161 Bloom is a Dubliner married to an Irish woman, and at the same time Joyce can exploit the adaptability characteristic of the legendary wandering Jewish exile and render Bloom as one whose adaptability has made him as much a participant in the soul of Dublin paralysis as any other Dubliner. Therefore he can be a true exemplar for the recovery of Irish regenerative paternity. Also Joyce had always believed that the Jews are "better husbands than we are, better fathers and better sons" (Frank Budgen, "James Joyce" 107). Therefore, Joyce imagines a Dublin Jew tn) embody tflma qualities of regenerative family relationships more naturally than the Dubliners about whom he had written previously. Furthermore, as Richard Ellmann points out (The Consciousness 9f Joyce 34), it was a commonplace notion in the early twentieth century to draw parallels between the Irish and the Jews; both were races maintaining their identity while under foreign domination. This identification between the two races became a commonplace as a result of a famous speech by John F. Taylor in 1901 which was published and distributed in large numbers in Dublin. I will discuss this speech further in my examination of the "Aeolus" chapter above. In Joyce's essay, "Ireland, Land of Saints and Sages" (CW 156), Joyce cites Vallencey's theory that the Irish were of Semitic origin. Finally one of Joyce's friends and language pupils in Trieste was a Jewish writer of genius named Italo Svevo (Ettore Schmitz). Svevo's books explored love relationships in a manner which Joyce admired and learned from: "Svevo gave Joyce the impulsion he needed to form a new character, a blend of 162 Svevo, himself, and other prototypes" (The Consciousness _o_f Joyce 34). The title of Ulysses alludes to the only hero of "The Illiad" and "The Odyssey" whom Joyce considered to be a pacifist. The modern day Ulysses in Dublin is to be embodied in the traits of both the artist, Stephen Dedalus, and in the Jewish Dubliner, LeOpold Bloom. However, T.S. Eliot 5 sense of Joyce's novel as ea "continuous parallel between contemporaneity and antiquity" ("Ulysses, Order, and Myth") distorts Joyce's use (n? the Homerien character and his story. As S.L. Goldberg states, "the Homeric parallel nowhere seems to emerge of necessity, dramatically realized in, and an integral part of, the action" (The Classical Temper 149). One must not expect to discern the lineaments or the actions of the Greek hero in these characters except in the specific traits of pacifism, paternity, and alienated wandering in which Joyce sees Ulysses' greatest dramatic potential: The most beautiful, all-embracing theme is that of the Odyssey. It is greater, more human, than that of Hamlet, Don Quixote, Dante, Faust. The rejuvenation of old Faust has an unpleasant effect upon me. Dante tires one quickly; it is like looking at the sun. The most beautiful, most human traits are contained in the Odyssey. . . Why was I always returning to this theme? Now in mezzo del cammin I find the subject of Ulysses time most. human lJI world literature. Ulysses didn't want to go off to Troy; he knew that the official reason for the war, the dissemination of the culture of Hellas was only a pretext for the Greek merchants, who were seeking new nmrkets. When the recruiting officers arrived, he happened to be plowing. He pretended to be mad. Thereupon they placed his little two— year-old son in the furrow. Observe the beauty of 163 the motifs; the only man in Hellas who is against the war, the father. . .After Troy there is no talk of Achilles, Menelaus, Agamemnon. Only one man is not done with; his heroic career has hardly begun: Ulysses. Then the motif of wandering. Scylla and Charybdis--what a: splendbd parable. Ulysses is also a great musician; he wishes to and must listen; he has himself tied to the mast. . . On Naxos, the oldster of fifty, perhaps bald-headed, with Nausicaa, a girl who is barely seventeen. What a fine theme! And the return, how profoundly human! Don't forget the trait of generosity at the interview with Ajax in the nether world, and many other beautiful touches. ("Conversations with Joyce" 325-327) Joyce had in mind to write a "beautiful," "human" novel, so he chose tflma most humane theme rm: could think of, embodying the attractive qualities of Ulysses in his modern protagonists. The irony which can result from the comparison between the ancient modern embodiments of Ulysses and his family-~such as Leopold's obliging and equanimous treatment of his wife's lover's as opposed to Ulysses' slaughter of them, not to mention the irony of Molly's infidelity as opposed to Penelope's ingenious fidelity--does not primarily make an ethically ironic "appeal to the past as normative," (Joyce and Aquinas 95) as Father William T. Noon suggests. As is evident from Joyce's own statements above, the repeated allegorical principles-~the "motifs" of pacifism, paternity, and alienated wandering—-are what is normative, not the Greek heroic ethic. Bloom is as eminently suited to regenerate his world by means of the humane qualities which he shares with Ulysses, as Ulysses is suited to regenerate his own world by means of the humane qualities which he shares with Bloom. As Goldberg 164 observes, "the gap of time. . .brings recurrence as well as change, fruition as well as decay" (Goldberg 151). For example, Bloom's non-violent confrontation with Molly's suitors displays the fruition, not the decay of Ulysses' pacifism. And, Molly's infidelity may indicate a decadent attitude toward marriage vows, but it also brings about a fruition of hard-won marital reconciliation which Ulysses and Penelope could not have realized. The quality of pacifism which Bloom shares with the Greek Ulysses (Ulysses is against going to the Trojan War in the first place)is evident when Bloom learns to equanimously overcome rivalry and to accept the love which Molly can offer him, in spite of his belief that she has shared this love with others. The motif of wandering is also intended to create resonances between Bloom and Ulysses. Ulysses, for a period of over twenty years is an exile from his home, spiritually and physically out of touch with his potential to regenerate the Greek family. He must traverse the entire known world in his effort to return to his family. And Bloom, while traversing the world of Dublin on June 16, 1904, spiritually returns from nearly eleven years of exile--"10 years, five months and eleven days during which carnal intercourse was incomplete without ejaculation of semen within the natural female organ" (U 736)--from reproductive sexual relations with his wife. Like Ulysses who weeps for Penelope while a Goddess is his lover, Bloom recalls that he and Molly had been happier earlier when he would "wildly lay on her" and she would return 165 his kisses hotly; this earlier self forms a stark contrast to the sexually parlysed self that he has become--"Me. And me now"(g 176)--in spite of Martha Clifford's desire to be his mistress. And the events of June sixteenth cause Bloom to strongly desire to recover his role as Molly's lover and as a father of a son. I do not mean that Bloom is impotent on June 16, 1904: while at the butcher's rm: lets his eyes linger on the hips of the "next door girl;" he masturbates on the beach as he gazes at Gerty McDowell's legs in the "Nausicaa" episode; and through the years he has made messes on his wife's drawers whenever she would let him. However, since the date of his son's infant. death, which corresponds exactly' with the beginning of Bloom's sexual paralysis, he has had an unexamined aversion to full sexual relations with his wife. Also, each adventure of both the Greek and the Irish hero symbolizes a stage in each hero's spiritual capacity to return from his wanderings and to recover his family. At significant points along the route of Bloom's travels on June sixteenth, the events or the surroundings evoke recollections- of his married life; and with each recollection he develops greater sympathy and respect for his wife, and he develOps a greater desire to have a son. During this day's adventures, certain recollections passing through his stream of consciousness dramatize for us the history of his married life. Similarly, in the internal monologue of the "Penelope" section, the scroll of their married life from Molly's point of view unrolls before us as she meditates alone during the early 166 morning of June seventeenth. This technique is Joyce's refinement of a technique of Ibsen's, i.e., the compression of the lives of a married couple into two days (CW 50), which had fascinated him since he had read the play When We Dead Awaken in 1900. Stephen Dedalus is a Ulyssean character as well in the sense that he is an alienated wanderer trying to recover the sources of his spiritual paternity. As is evident from Stephen's sense of himself as an artist, it is clear that although Stephen is the chief character of the "Telemachiad" (the first section of Ulysses) one cannot account for Stephen's actions by limiting him absolutely to the role of Telemachus looking for a father, as Edmund Wilson, Harry Levin, and Stuart Gilbert do. The only sense in which Stephen could conceive of Bloom as his own father is as a symbol of all Irish fathers. It is not Stephen who follows Bloom around throughout most of the novel. Stephen is with his companions and Bloom is tagging along. Also Stephen is certainly a wanderer, and Stephen symbolically encounters the Scylla and Charybdis. Yet, most importantly, Stephen does not spend most of the novel seeking out and failing to find a father—substitute in Bloom (the assumption to which such critics as T.S. Eliot, Edmund Wilson, Valery Larbaud, and Harry Levin inevitably find themselves reduced), but he is,instead, seeking out a symbol which will liberate his own paternity. Stephen's efforts are aimed at becoming a spiritual father to Ireland, a "lord giver of their life" (W 415)in his own right. He wants to father the "word" 167 ("A portrait," p. 34-8) which will teach the unengendered multitudes latent within the Irish family to overcome the paralytic violence of their parents. I don't mean to deny that Stephen is also an embodiment of Telemachus, the dispossessed son; the "Telemachiad" of Ulysses is about Stephen. Like Telemachus, before Stephen can take up his paternal role as the artist who fathers the spirit (ME his country, he must learn to symbolically add his strength to that of his parents from whom he has sundered himself so that together they can together overcome the violence surrounding them. However, Stephen's self-imposed violence involves not only Stephen's aversion to common Irish life, but also his related aversion to his parents' commonness. Remember that in Portrait, part of Stephen's repulsion from the common life of Dublin results from the gradual decline of his family's fortunes, and each time his family would suffer another financial or moral setback, Stephen would withdraw further and further away from them until Stumbling through the mouldering offal his heart already bitten by an ache of loathing and bitterness. His father's whistle, his mother's stutterings. . .were now to him so many voices offending and threatening the pride of his youth. He drove their echoes even out of his heart with an execration (P 176). This repulsion from family and common life in general causes Stephen to travel to Paris in hOpes of finding his own artistic voice away from the paralytic traps of common life in Ireland. However, travel does not overcome his self-imposed paralysis; 168 only a "capful of light odes call [his] genius father" (W 415) by the time Stephen has returned to Ireland. Therefore, in Ulysses, Stephen tries a new method of escape by formulating a theory by which to assert that the most important aspects of his nature were parented by himself. His theory, employing analogies to God and Shakespeare, asserts that the "instant of blind rut" (W 208) which results in physical parenthood cannot account for the spiritual nature of the artist. Stephen has concluded that the artist creates his own spiritual nature from artistic labor anml he denies that physical paternity is anything more than mere rutting. The essential system of inquiry from which Stephen derives, iJl a highly imaginative manner, this notion of spiritual self creation is based upon the philosophy of St. Thomas Aquinas whose "gore—bellied works" Stephen read "in the original" (W 205). According to Aquinas, humans are capable of spiritual creation without divine aid because of their nature as intellectual beings (Summa, Q. 109, art. 1): A concept, that is what ordinary usage calls the interior word contained in the mind. What is formed in the living womb is said to be physically conceived; the male gives and the female receives in such wise that the thing conceived, being of the same kind shares in the nature of both. what is formed in the mind is also conceived. The thing understood gives, as :U: were, and the understanding receives, and what is apprehended in and by the mind agrees with the quickening object of which it is a kind of likeness and existence in the mind because there it has intelligible reality. Consequently, what the mind knows is without strain described as a conception of the mind. 169 But this difference should be reckoned with. What the mind conceives seems like the offspring of the thing understood, showing its likeness and representing its pmesence. When the mind understands something other than itself, the thing understood is like the father of the word conceived in the mind, while the mind plays the part of the mother in whose womb conception takes place. But when the mind understands itself, the word conceived is related to the mind as offspring to father. The Aquinian theory of human spiritual creation is based upon Aquinas' sense of God as both wife and father to Christ. Having first examined his own nature as an object of knowledge, allowing the details which he gathers to perform the quickening function of the father, his mind like a womb conceives a radiant mental likeness or understanding of this nature. God then paternally predicates this understanding by creating the Word-~Christ--which proceeds from and shares substance with the inner maternal conception. By analogy, in order for there to be human spiritual creation, a person must maternally apprehend the world around him, forming within the mind the likeness of the world; thereby the thing understood performs the quickening function of the father. Then, once "the mind understands itself," the mind can predicate this mental likeness in the form of spiritual creation: the Word. Therefore, in Stephen's theory, Shakespeare is ka31 wife and father of his spiritual self by forming a mental likeness of his own life and of his complex nature. Then he performs the paternal act of creating his plays which proceed from and share substance with his maternal conception of himself. In this manner, Stephen can be, like Shakespeare and God, an "androgynous angel being wife 170 unto himself" (W 213) since the artist is mother and father of his spiritual nature. Despite the scholarly impressiveness of Stephen's theory, it is regressive in the sense that it does not allow him to add his strength to that of his parents and of common life; on the contrary, Stephen's theory is a solipsistic denial of the value of common life in the artist's endeavor to recreate in artistic form the soul of Ireland. Throughout most of the novel, Stephen asserts this theory in direct opposition to the aspect of common Irish life which is most threatening to his self-containment: his mother. The most fearful spectre of his personal history is his mother and the remorse which he feels for refusing to pray for her as she lay dying. The symbol of an "allwombing tomb" (W 48) becomes his most recent symbol of Ireland as a whole: the sow that eats her own farrow, the great sweet mother of the sea in which Stephen fears that he will drown. His remorse becomes so intense that it interferes with his artistic speculations. However, from the first chapter, thoughts cnfihis mother, of his remorse for his treatment of her, eumi of maternity in general become an ineluctable modality; initially the inescapability of his remorse for his mother is only a psychic force which impedes his ability to make his solipsistic theories of art work out neatly, yet eventually his "agenbite" begins to sensitize his self-contained aversion to common life. Leopold Bloom forms the catalytic agent of Stephen's acceptance of the love and beauty which he can learn from 171 common life. When Stephen gets into trouble in the "Circe" chapter, he is put in the position of needing the unselfish aid of a common Dubliner, Leopold Bloom. As a result of Bloom's good Samaritanism, Stephen is isolated in Bloom's company for the next two chapters; during these two chapters he gains sympathy for Leopold and Molly as potential parents, symbolically indicating his sympathy for all common men and women. Thereby, tin; artist is 511 a position tx: add his strength to that of all parents and common Irish life. As he leaves Bloom, Stephen chants the Catholic prayer for dying, as if he has finally found a way to give comfortable assent to common life, assenting specifically to his mother's wish that he pray for her ("Toward a Redefinition of Modernism" 552). The previous three times at which he chanted this prayer, he had done it as a way to dismiss her interference with his solipsistic theories of the moment. However, at this point, Stephen chants the prayer at a time when thoughts of her do not impede, but enhance his most fruitful meditations. This signifies ea previously unknown compassion toward her (n1 Stephen's part. His comfortable acceptance of his mother allows him to accept all mothers, including the Irish sow and, at the same time, to avoid being devoured by them. He has learned that Ireland can teach him what his mother had hoped that he would learn at the end of Portrait: she had hoped that away from family and friends, Stephen would learn what the heart is and what it feels. By accepting the kindness which Bloom offers, he symbolically becomes capable of sympathizing 172 with all Irish parents, and of relinquishing the reductive violence of scrupulous meanness. In chapter one (HS the novel, Stephen, is IN) longer the romantic poet who fled Ireland in order to create an imaginative work, but he has returned to Ireland as a classicist, bending his attention upon the present reality of Dublin and in hopes of recreating its spirit in artistic form; thereby, he hopes to become the father of his country's spirit. His resistance to romanticism is related to his resistance to his mother, for romanticism, as Joyce stated in his 1902 "James Clarence Mangan" essay, is conceived by the "imagination which [is]. . .the mother of us all" (WW 78) as opposed to classical art which is not imagined, but which is discerned in by piercing through tx> the motive center of Irish spiritual reality. His unproductiveness is partially the result of his withdrawal from the Irish life which he wants to spiritually embody in a work of art, and to some extent, he knows this; so unlike his movement of escape in Portrait, his project in Ulysses is to encounter the reality of Irish experience and to exhibit its spiritual significance in a work of art. Like Joyce who (through his friends and his brother) meticulously 173 sought out exact details of Dublin landscape and customs, Stephen spends the day memorizing and contemplating common Dublin life. However, Stephen's attitude toward Dublin life early in the novel is comparable to the style of scrupulous meanness with which Joyce wrote the first fourteen stories of Dubliners: 1H3 goes forth to encounter the nightmare of historical and contemporary Ireland in hopes that he may purge its violence by piercing through to the motive center of its paralysis; but at the end of the novel he discovers something far more important: the generous, non-violent hope of the future manifest in Leopold Bloom and his wife. By piercing through to the motive center of Dublin life and he eventually discovers the love which its common elements have to offer. Although the novel opens a full year after his mother's death, Stephen is still trying to repress a remorse of conscience--his "agenbit of inwit"--for his coldness toward her. During the first chapter of the novel he tries to displace the source of his anxiety by finding fault with Mulligan for saying (twelve months earlier) that his mother was "beastly dead," but Mulligan counters Stephen kn! reminding him cnf‘his inflexible rejection of his mother's final wish. Buck Mulligan's refusal to be Stephen's scapegoat throws Stephen back upon himself, and the voice of his sympathy for his mother begins to slowly wear down his disdain for common Irish life: Stephen. . .gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her 174 wasted body within its loose brown grave-clothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great mother . . .(W 5). The pain which Stephen feels in sympathy for his mother is "not yet the pain of love;" as yet it is only an irrepressible, gnawing anxiety within him; however, the narrator suggests that this agenbite of inwit is an anticipation of love. His frayed cuff symbolizes a frayed artistic sensibility, harried by his mother's spectre and by the pain of sympathy which he struggles to suppress. The look of reproach which he sees on the face of his mother's apparition is the look that she gave him as she lay dying and Stephen stood refusing to pray in a room full of praying relatives. This irrepressible pain causes everything that he sees, hears, and imagines to remind him of Imam As Mulligan shrugs off the "restraint" (W 8) of guilt which Stephen attempts to impose upon him, he walks away singing "Fergus' song," causing Stephen to recall that he himself sang that song at his mother's deathbed. Looking out toward the bay, Stephen recalls the china bowl that contained his mother's bile which she periodically vomitted up from her rotting liver: A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay behind him, a bowl of bitter waters (W 9). At the beginning of time novel the tension of Stephen's inner 175 conflict is already intense. Any body of water reminds him of his mother. The bay which the tower overlooks reminds Stephen of the china "bowl of bitter waters." Water and Stephen's mother have become obsessively linked in Stephen's mind, so much so that he avoids bathing and is ridden with lice. This link between water and his mother is compounded by the fact that Stephen's mother bathed him even as a young man attending the university in Portrait. In this early part of Ulysses he fights these recollections enki the feelings which they evoke ("No mother. Let me be and let me live" [W 10]) because he perceives the "duties and despair" (2 169) of family relationships to be a paralytic trap that would censor his aspirations. Stephen's disdain for his father is a source of far less anxiety for him. Not only is his father still alive, but his father continues to drag his family to financial ruin as a result of his drinking and carousing. With comparative ease Stephen manages an artistic theory by which he can deny any emotional obligation to his father. Buck Mulligan introduces this theory Jhl the first chapter, mentioning 1x) Haines that after a few pints Stephen will that very evening treat them to his unusual reading of Shakespeare's Hamlet: [Stephen] proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakepeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father. --What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself? (W 18) 176 Stephen's theory of Hamlet, which he explains in detail in the "Scylla and Charybdis" chapter, is a theory which, as Mulligan lightly points out, Stephen uses as an analogy to himself as an one who by means of his art becomes his own spiritual father. In chapter one, the theme of the general paralysis of Ireland is also introduced. One aspect of the general repression in Ireland is its role as servant to English Imperialists and to the Church: Stephen states, "I am the servant of two masters. . .an English and an Italian" (W 20). Stephen's image cfi? IriSh art--the "cracked lookingglass of El servant" Q1 6) signifies that the paralysis of Ireland, resulting partially from its status as a colonized servant to England and the Church, is part of the environment of violence that infects every Irishman, including the artist. And the artist, once infected, becomes an imperfect "cracked" medium by which to reflect the soul of his race. "It seems history is to blame," says Haines (W 20). The nightmare of history not only dominates the world, but infects the mind. It is in the mind that one must kill the priest and king, says Stephen at the end of "Circe." Ellmann states that it is against the violence of this nightmare that Stephen and Bloom have to muster their own forces (The Consciousness 9f Woyce 80). Stephen and Bloom have to muster their own forces not to destroy England and the Church but to transcend the suppression which is characteristic not only of nest of the Church's and State's influence in Ireland but also the suppression which infects their own impulses. 177 The theme of tdstory's violent nightmare is further ela-borated in chapter two where Stephen is teaching history to a class-room of boys. When the student, Armstrong, begins joyfully to play the fool, Stephen reflects silently upon Ireland's paralytic history of jester and servant to English conquerers, and 1m; draws a parallel between. the student and his own planned discussion of Hamlet that evening. He begins to consider that the discussion is being put on for the purpose of impressing the Englishman, Haines: "For Haines' chapbook (W 25). For Stephen, this is an example of the Irish artist lowered to the role of court jester for the English ruler: A jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? (W 25). The general Irish paralysis resulting from the historical conditions of servitude to the English empire is manifest in the microcosm of Stephen and his friends who have a servant- minded anxiety to impress the English master in terms defined by the master. Robbed of any power or identity which does not come by way of the conquerers, and therefore incapable of esteem in his own right, the servant learns to crave an audience with the master and to value himself in terms of the master's indulgence. This means that the servant must deny himself and thereby play the fool. fter Stephen dismisses class, he is called to Mr. 178 Deasy's office to receive his {mum Deasy, a hard-line Irish tory, is an even more extreme manifestation of the servant anxiety which suppresses Stephen and his friends. Deasy identifies himself wholeheartedly with Englishmen and English values. He even echoes the English anti-semitism which Haines voices in chapter one (both fear that the presence of successful Jewish merchants in England is a sign of English decline). Stephen is abashed to recognize in Deasy a sign of his own servant anxiety, and he can only respond to Deasy's imitation of English anti-fenianism and anti-semitism with the veiled comment: "History," says Stephen "is a rdghtmare from which I am trying to awake" (W 34). He must awaken those aspects of himself that he represses with his servant anxiety. One of the most frightening monsters of this historical nightmare for Stephen as a writer is the English language which is imposed upon the Irish by the conquerors, and as Stephen thinks to himself in Portrait, -—The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words home, Christ, ale, master, on his lips than on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of suflrit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech 11 have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. (2 189) The nightmare of historical conditions imposes a fretful, paralytic anxiety over the servant who must learn to express himself by means of parroting the signs of his conquerors. 179 Then he discovers that by learning the sign system he has unwittingly and simultaneously affirmed and complied with the servant-master relationship which these signs signify in their application tx> himself (For example, "sir" between people of the same status signifies mutual respect, while the same word between peOple of unequal status can affirm subservience.) Similarly, in trying to show their mastery of English letters, Stephen and his friends comply with and affirm their historically consigned status of servant to English conquerers by imitating their rulers and cmaving the rulers' indulgence and approval. Chapter two also develops Stephen's repression of his mother's role 2U) his spiritual identity. Like Freudian repression, Stephen's repression results in a nightmare, a nightmare of remorse for his previous coldness to his mother. While coaching a student in sums, the inescapable agenbite arises as he looks at a young student, seeing a manifestation of a mother 's conscious labor and care: Ugly and futile: lean neck and tangled hair and a stain of ink. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him under foot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother's prostrate body the fiery columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved 180 him from being trampled underfoot, and had gone scarcely having been (W 27). At this moment Stephen is not only being haunted by the spectre of all of the feelings for his mother which he represses, but this moment recalls to him the very words which Cranly used to admonish him in Portrait when Stephen refused his mother's request to perform his Easter duty: --Whatever else is unsure in this dunghill of a world a mother's love is not. Your mother brings you into the world, carries you first in her body. What do we know about what she feels? But whatever she feels, it, at least must be real. It must be. What are our ideas. . .? Every jackass going time roads thinks Ima has ideas (g 242). Stephen in Ulysses, finding his own haunting remorse to be inescapable, is beginning to allow himself to respond to this recurring nightmare with the question, "The only true thing in life?" If motherhood is inescapable, it must be real; and mothers do labor and nurture, providing him with something similar to a form of conscious begetting, as opposed to the "instant of blind rut" which appears to him to be the only participation of the male in human birth. As one continues on to Stephen's internal monologue in section three of the "Telemachiad" Stephen begins to accept the responsibility of his remorse of conscience. It's ineluctability convinces him that it must be at least one true thing in life. As a result, in section three Stephen begins to study symbols of maternity as signs of a positive truth which 181 he can read and interpret for the purpose of applying its regenerative principle, by analogy, to himself as a conscious spiritual parent. Like a mystic he goes to a symbolic place, the seashore, to be closer to "our mighty mother" (p. 37), the sea. Ike goes seeking to interpret the sea's signs--the tide, the flotsam on the beach, the sand--as guides in his understanding of conscious spiritual work: Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if nothing more. Signatures of all things I am here txa read, seaspawn and seawrack, this nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snot green, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane (W 37). Stephen tries to interpret the tide, the seaweed, and even the colors at the beach as signs of a conscious procreative principle. The limitations of his senses, which can initially only present to him the surfaces and not the souls of things ("the limits of the diaphane" [W 37]) cause his internal monologue to momentarilly leap to thoughts of Aristotelian arguments ("maestro di color che sanno" [W 37]) upon the nature of perception. He tries to see beyond the surfaces of the seashore's details, meditating upon maternity as a symbol of a conscious regenerative by beginning a sporadic mental catalogue of literary, religious, and mundane manifestations of maternal labor and care. He thinks of maternity as a sisterhood which includes midwifery ("one of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life"[W 37]), and then he is preoccupied with the monks who meditate upon the navel because of its link to the literal 182 and symbolic maternal cable which links all of life. Through this accumulation of maternial signifiers, he hopes to discover the soul of maternity which all of its signs share. When he is close to his maternal Uncle Walter's house, the thought of his family once again evokes within him thoughts of the general paralysis of Ireland: "Houses of decay, mine, his and all" (W 39). Both his father's and his mother's sides of the family are grinding into poverty through a mass of unpaid debts, and he recalls how at Clongowes, as a young boy, he was so ashamed of his family that he lied, telling the gentry that he "had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army" (W 39). He meditates upon the extent to which he has been infected by this paralysis as he reviews his early literary ambitions; there is emu ironic overtone to these meditations which exhibits a self conscious sense that his efforts to cmeate ea soul for Ireland have produced only superficial results: Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. 0 yes, W. Remember your epiphanies on green oval leaves, deeply deep . . . He refers to his early epiphanies as "deeply deep," indicating Stephen's realization (n? the shallowness CHE his earlier artistic endeavors. Previous his art had been more of an affectation than an effort to pierce to the motive center of the truth of his subject. This insincerity results in his own unproductivity. Throughout the later "Scylla and Charbdis" and the "Oxen in the Sun" chapters Stephen's friends also criticize 183 his lack of productivity. Sustained throughout these varied meditations, Stephen is pushing the "limits of the diaphane" as far he can in the effort to discern the eternal regenerative principle underlying the "signatures of things" at the seashore. All that he sees and all that he hears (he even closes his eyes to concentrate upon what he hears) are "language" to him: "These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here." (W 44) He must interpret this language in order to learn from it. Stephen tries intensify his meditations by trying to write something on the blank end of Deasy's letter to the editor of the Morning Post. By writing Stephen hopes to capture the essential maternal principle of rebirth which the sea symbolizes. However, after a few lines, Stephen's writing degenerates into eroticism and impressionism. As he looks at the swaying weeds in the maternal tide--"the loom of the moon" Q1 50) which like Odysseus's wife, Penelope, undoes at night what it accomplishes in the morning-~and with his own failed writing effort before him, he feels that his meditations have, as yet, been "To no end gathered," like his previous writings. Also these meditations can only temporarilly contain the pressure of his agenbite of inwit. He thinks of his own hydrophobia, concluding that once again he has failed to sustain himself in the maternal element, as opposed to Mulligan's rescue of a man from drowning. The thoughts of his mother's death erupt irresistably through his meditations: "I could not save her. Waters: bitter death: lost" (46). At the 184 end of the "Telemachiad" Stephen leaves off trying to write and walks toward Dublin. He will return again in the "Aeolus" chapter, inn: the next section after the "Telemachiad" begins the adventures of Bloom. Bloom's first waking hours, from eight to ten in the morning, in section two coincide temporarily with Stephen's first waking hours in the "Telemachiad." Most major critics of the novel tend to substantiate Joyce's assertion that LeOpold Bloom is "a good man. At any rate that is what I intend he shall be" (Budgen 17-18). Even Goldberg who agrees with Kenner that Molly's "Yes" at the end of the novel is an affirmation of all that is decadent in Dublin, doesn't include Bloom in this decadence. Goldberg states that Kenner's reading of Bloom placed far too much emphasis upon him as "a representative of general spiritual darkness and far too little upon his other function and significance, on the light that he bears" (Goldberg 123). For Goldberg, Bloom bears the light of rational and humane criticism upon the violence surrounding him. Goldberg interprets Bloom's criticism as one that is always in the spirit of an unselfconscious love of life, causing Bloom to sympathize with the poor boy smoking on the street, to visit Mrs. Purefoy in labour, and to protect Stephen (Goldberg' 136). R.P. IBlackmur praises iBloom's moderation :ha relation to Stephen's extremism: Ike is the best of everything Stephen says to Deasy—-about the distrust of big words, the nightmare of history, the shout in the street. . . Stephen has somehow to become Bloom or see the 185 need of it; but Bloom has no need to become anybody ("The Jew in Search of a Son" 112). Richard M. Kain also understands Bloom as one who brings to Dublin his "gospel of reason" (The Fabulous Voyager 203) and goodwill, and.rme is the critic whose statements most clearly address Bloom as an embattled pacifist: "It is not so much [Bloom's] ideal which is ludicrous as it is it incompatibility with the values of the modern world" (Kain 211). Germane to Bloom's embattled reasonableness and goodwill is his isolation. Kain states that , "it is this estrangement from family and friends that Bloom hopes to escape" (Kain 80). Bloom's jewishness contributes to his isolation; the anti-semitic comments of both Stephen and the citizen exemplify the violence against which Bloom must contend throughout his life. However, granting Kain's insights, I will focus less upon the violence threatening Bloom from the outside than upon the sense in which Bloom's isolation and paternal barrenness result from violence which he imposes upon himself by spiritually and physically sundering himself from the regenerative relationships which are available to him. Sundering is the active agent of hemiplegia in all of Joyce's works. Particularly in reference to legges, Mark Schechner states, Beneath the mock heroism, fetishism, nationalsim, oedipal drama, irony, anticlericalism, sexual perversity, stylistic virtuosity, cloacal obsessiveness, fraternal rivalry, guilt, wit, shame, messianism, masochism--beneath all other thematic, stylistic and deep-psychic materials, is 186 the fact of sundering. . . .Ulysses is a book of distances in which all things proclaim their isolation (Joyce lg Nighttown 245-246) In spite (ME Bloom's goodwill lme must recover his (mum severed personal and spiritual ties in order to rise above the violence of hemiplegia which constitutes the Dublin environment. In addition to examining his self-imposed violence, I will also focus upon the actions and experiences by which he gains the non-violent insight to overcome his self-imposed violence. One of the principal events which sundered him from his wife was the death of his son: "She twentythree when we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never be like that again after Rudy" (W 168). This sundering of sexual relations is certainly not Molly's fault, nor does Bloom blame her; as a result of Rudy's death, Bloom has developed an aversion to full sexual relations with his wife. Molly sees Bloom's self-imposed impotence to be the cause of her infidelity: I can't help it if Im young still can I its a wonder Im not a shrivelled hag before my time living with him so cold never embracing me (W 777) Then, in the complexity of human love which Joyce tries to present, Molly's infidelity is what keeps Leopold away from the house all day long. For Leopold, his return home at the end of the book is a physical and a spiritual return to his own sources of human interaction and family regeneration. 187 Chapter four establishes Bloom's general alienation and his paradoxical love and aversion for Molly. At the butcher's Bloom rmmfices ea pamphlet advertising a land development scheme in Tiberias, the place which was the center of Jewish learning under the Romans. He reads the ad with interest, considering :U: vaguely to tme an "ideal winter sanatorium" (W 59), suggesting a place of healing, a homeland for Bloom, where his barren and sundered spirit may renew its life-giving connections. This hope is suddenly overpowered in his mind when a cloud covers the sun. His mood changes; still staring at the pamphlet he recalls his personal and racial alienation: "The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to captivity“ (W 61). His vision of the homeland transforms as well, to a vision of the Dead Sea: the "grey sunken cunt of the world" (ibid.) which is no longer capable of bearing life, and the idea gives him an exaggerated feeling of horror. A symbol of barren womb associated with death strikes him with such horror because he is still grieving from the infant death of his son, and he relates the dead sea with Molly's womb which bore a child who could not flourish. Bloom doesn't examine his feelings so closely, but his thoughts throughout the day establish that whenever he thinks of parenthood he is thinking analogously of Molly and himself. Bloom's initial "morning' mouth Inna images" are paradoxically dispelled by the thought of the domestic pleasure of being comfortable near his wife's "ample bedwarm flesh. Yes, yes" (W 61) as his breakfast cooks. This comfortable 188 relationship with his wife helps Bloom suppress his involuntary sexual aversion for her. After Bloom returns home that night and approaches his wife with renewed affection, both of them become more conscious of the "limitations of activity and inhibitions of conjugal rights" (W 735) which has characterized the past ten years of their marriage. Bloom's hOpe of a homeland never leaves tflmn :fim: he carries this advertisement with him all day long. He does not relinquish it until, after he has returned to his own home and had satisfying interaction with Stephen, he views the furniture surrounding him as "significances of . . . supermanence" (W 706); then he ignites the pamphlet to light incense (W 707), as if, after what he learns throughout the day, he loses his feeling of alienation and resolves to equanimously keep his home in Ireland with Molly and to preserve his Jewish heritage in the form of "aromatic Oriental incense" (ibid). Chapter four also establishes the fact that a young, attractive man named Blazes Boylan, is coming to visit her that afternoon. Although Bloom tries on the whole to repress his thoughts upon her infidelities, he does note the "bold hand" (W 63) of Boylan who dares use Molly's first name. As the novel progresses, this underlying tension which Bloom's knowledge of this meeting causes within his internal monologue becomes increasingly difficult for Bloom to keep under control until he finds a way to encounter and resolve it without violence. Chapter five i1; appropriately' called tflme "Lotus Eaters;" in this chapter, Bloom and the reader pass through 189 forms of fantasy and mummery which seduce the spirit away from encountering and attempting to resolve the ineluctable tensions of life and toward sleep and dreams. According to the Linati schema the technic of the chapter is "Narcissism," after the Greek Narcissus whose admiration for his image causes his resignation from life; Bloom's dream of himself is not of his physical body, but Of himself as one with an exotic sex life. Bloom leaves the house well ahead of the scheduled time of Paddy Dignam's funeral. This gives him enough time to go to the post office and pick up a letter from Martha Clifford, the woman with whom he is carrying on a furtive, unconsummated affair. He thinks Of her as his "elegant courtesan" upon whom he can exercise his fantasy of "virile power" (W 722). She fulfills his exotic fantasy for forbidden delights and at the same time she appeases his vanity, dreams which inhibit his regenerative sexuality. Bloom takes exaggerated delight in the clandestine nature of this affair, exaggerating the secrecy necessary in handling Martha's letter in order to more fully enjoy this furtive sexual affair: while walking alone as he leaves the post office, he hides the letter in his pocket; then he gropes ridiculously around in his pocket to rip the letter Open in jerks, to withdraw the letter, and to crumble the envelope; finally, Ime tears ijme envelope into small pieces beneath a railway overpass, but he keeps the letter. McCoy interrupts him before he can read the letter, and while Bloom is half-listening to him, he develops another fantasy adventure for himself while watching an elegant looking woman getting 190 out (MS a carriage. He imagines himself corrupting her: "possess her once and take the starch out Of her" (W 73), and then his fetishistic fascination for women's underwear is stimulated by his anticipation of catching a glimpse of her silk stockings as she steps down; he mentally curses a tramcar when it suddenly rolls past, blocking his view. Once he gets rid of McCoy, Bloom finally reads Martha's letter. Amid its errors, the letter is calculated to tickle his vain fantasy that in the "love scrimmage" (W 78) his male power has subdued her previous hesitance (this letter is a response a previous letter in which he enclosed stamps and implied that he was angry at her neglect of him). The letter is filled with slightly coarse feminine enticement. She asks teasingly if he is unhappy in his home and Offers to do anything to make him happier. She refers to how much she loves his name (for their clandestine correspondence they use the name Henry Flower as a cognate Of the name Bloom) and Bloom heightens the sexual pun which she implies (this pun resonates back to Molly's pornographical book The Sweets pf Sin written by Paul de Kock: "Nice name he has," (W 66) says Molly when she asks Bloom to pick up another of his books) by means of translating the letter into his own self-stimulating flower language: Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone rmxfi: all naughty nightstalk Martha's perfume. (W 78) 191 As this passage illustrates, Bloom's autoerotism is certainly clever, establishing that there truly jrsaa bit Of the artist within him. And, his autoeroticism is certainly effective, arousing the "weak joy" (W 78) of erotic arousal. He anticipates pursuing his fUrtive affair further and feels a slight twinge of conscience at the cruelty of such sexual exploitation, but Ime is developimg a perverse taste for cruelty: "Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time" (W 78). In fancying himself a.rmn1 of the world, Bloom is beginning what IDJJ. Lawrence would call time endless degeneration of ego centered eroticism. The more refinements of unproductive eroticism Bloom experiences, the more selfish he becomes for the experience of new refinements. It is only through the anticipation Of refinements of purely erotic sex that one can enjoy the present one, although each refinement is more destructive than the last. The chapter ends ironically with Bloom foreseeing the pleasure of a bath before the funeral. Imagining himself naked and relaxed in the bath, he thinks euphemistically of his "flower" floating languidly in the hot water; he mentally refers to it as "the father of thousands" (W 86). The irony, of course, rests in the totally unreproductive purposes to which he has turned his sexuality and in the fact that a full decade has passed since he has been spiritually capable of fathering. Goldberg is correct to point out that Bloom is capable of directing penetrating criticism at the cultural opiates surrounding him--the latin of the church service that "stupefies" (W 80), the drugs which bring lethargy 192 after mental excitement (84): however, Bloom stupefies himself with the dream of exotic sex. His meditation upon his genitals as "father of thousands" (W 86) is only a dream; it might be the best dream he could have at the moment--a "contemplative receptivity t1) Weigg" (Goldberg 125), Inn: his receptivity is drowned in his fantasies. The next chapter is apprOpriately called "Hades" since Bloom visits the cemetary as part of Dignam's funeral. He does not speak with the dead as Odysseus does, but his thoughts are preoccupied with the dead. He recalls Mrs. Sinico's funeral: her death is recorded in "A Painful Case." Bloom considers of the numbers of the dead buried every day, their effect upon the soil, the abundance of worms which they must produce; he thinks of the gravediggers in Hamlet, and these thoughts of death find stimulus when carriage passes Our Lady's Hospice for the incurables. Bloom's thoughts dwell particularly on his dead son, Rudy, and on his dead father, Rudolph. Like Odysseus, it is through his experience in Hades that he learns that a simple, productive human life is more glorious than the fantasy of heroism and adventure. The thoughts of his dead son come to him as the funeral carriage passes Stephen Dedalus. Simon Dedalus, Stephen's father, 11; in the funeral carriage with Bloom Mr. Power and Martin Cunningham, and when Bloom calls Simon's attention to his son, Simon begins a tirade against the bad company which Stephen keeps, particularly Buck Mulligan (This is ironic because Mulligan's aunt considers Stephen a bad 193 influence upon Mulligan because of his impiety). This tirade from Simon evokes Bloom's unmalicious envy; he is jealous of Simon's fatherly pride: "Full of his son. Ike is right. Something to hand on" (W 89). This envy stirs within him his own latent desire for a son. This latent desire is enough to allow him to think of his wife as the mother Of his dead son without the excessive grief and horror which he exhibited when thoughts of the Dead Sea suggested to him his son's infant death: If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. His voice in the house. . . My son. Me in his eyes Strange feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance (W 89). The double evocation of the dead suggested by the name Rudolph, which is the name of Bloom's son and of his own father, signifies the theme begun with Mulligan's mention of Stephen's theory on Hamlet. Bloom, like Stephen and Shakespeare, has the potential to create his own father by means of sustaining him through his cmwn paternityu The father generates the son, and if the son produces a son, then the father's life is reproduced as well. IReproduction, then, becomes a timeless act and all unique paternal figures, each in his own unique historical context, are also part of a timeless regenerative principle in which each father is involves and fulfills every other father. However, if the son dies without issue, the father dies as well. Bloom's mental communion with his dead son and father, impresses upon him his own sterile spiritual death in the sense that he has allowed his exotic fantasies to paralyse his simple 194 regenerative paternal relationship with his family. Continuing his ride in the funeral procession, Bloom peruses the Obituary pages to find a memorial speech written in honor of Paddy Dignam. In the Obituaries he comes across a memorial poem to a man name Henry. This poem which is about a family who grieves the loss of the father who has "fled" into the ideal realm of heaven: "dear Henry fled/ To his home above in the sky/ While his family weeps and mourns his loss" (W 81). This poem suggests to Bloom not only the alias that he uses in his clandestine affair with Martha, but it also suggests to him the unregenerative flight which he is making away from his own family and toward the abstract pursuit of exoticism. In this passage from his internal monologue "Dear Henry fled. Before my patience are exhausted," he psychically conflates a line from Martha's letter, stating her impatience to meet with him, with the clause of the poem about "dear Henry's" flight to heaven and abandonment Of his family. The conflation of the two texts in Bloom's thoughts and the coincidental evocation of his own alias in the Obituaries suggests a connection between dear Henry's death and Leopold's flight into sexual death. On at least this thematic level, Bloom is reading his own obituary as he reads of "dear Henry's" flight. In the next chapter, "Aeolus," the paths of Stephen and Bloom converge upon the newspaper Office Of the "The Great Daily Organ" (W 118), the Freeman's Journal. The predominant voice in the chapter is a narrator who makes his presence felt by interjecting the headlines throughout the chapter. This 195 narrator 1&5 the ironic voice (M? the newspaper as an institutional entity with its own history--—"Links of Bygone Days of Yore" (W 139)-—composed Of avid newspapermen like the editor and Of reporters like Gallaher whom the editor calls "all their daddies" (W 137) the supreme manifestation of newspaper reporters. This narrator also mediates two Opposing visions of the relationship between the Irish and the Jews. One'of these visions is that created by nationalistic anxiety, and the other involves the visions Of Stephen and Leopold. Stephen's and Bloom's ironic rejections of the nationalism suggested in Taylor's analogy between the Irish and the Jews in his speech "The Language (M5 the Outlaw," allows the regenerative connection between the Irish and the Jews which the development of time novel ultimately creates. However, at this point in the novel they cannot enact their fusion; they can only perceive the inadequacy of nationalism. According to charts Of the novel which Joyce sent to Carlo Linati and Stuart Gilbert, the symbolic organs of this chapter are the lungs. The breath, being one Of the traditional symbols of the spirit and one source Of the voice, allows Joyce to use the juxtaposition of the lungs (which produce the breath) with the "Great Daily Organ" (which produces the daily written word) to suggest his sense of the state of Ireland's spiritual paralysis an; it exists through language, sustaining the theme of the general paralysis of the insane which infects all of Dublin's spiritual life. Within this Office Bloom is involved in the paralytic language of the marketplace and 196 Stephen encounters people who valorize language which, in spite of the seductive grace of its periods, is fundamentally empty or else asserts paralytic values. The newspaper is in one paralytic sense a dispenser of mere history, and history alone has always been a "denial of reality" (WW 81) when it is limited ti) superficial historical events anui ignores the timeless paralytic and regenerative principles underlying them. Ignatius Gallaher (the successful newspaperman of the Dubliners story, "A Little Cloud") is the ideal reporter according to the editor because Gallaher's daring investigative reporting revealed the escape route (H? the Phoenix Park murderers (In 1882 the Chief Secretary for Ireland, Lord Frederick Cavendish and the Permanent Under-Secretary, Thomas Henry Burke were murdered in Phoenix Park by a militant Irish organization called The Invincibles. ‘These murders impeded the Irish Nationalist movement led by Parnell and were used by the members of the English Parliament in an attempt to implicate Parnell). This valorization of history is part of the historical nightmare from which Stephen is trying to awaken in order to regenerate the spirit of Ireland. This is not writing which regenerates the spirit of Ireland; instead this is writing which lines shelves and wraps fish as soon as it is a day Old. Through the unregenerative commercial and political practices of the newspaper, the organs of the regenerative dispensation of language have been infected with paralysis. Also, as mentioned early in this chapter, Irish Obsessive preoccupations with the "injustices of the despoilers" (WW 81) 197 do not bring forth the word which will liberate future generations; instead it establishes upon the future an intimate and far more cruel tyranny of "sorrow for the sake of sorrow and despair and fearful menaces" (WW 83). When Professor MacHugh recites John F. Taylor's speech called "The Language of the Outlaw" (W 143) which asserts the revival of the Irish language by drawing a parallel between the Irish and the ancient Jews who tenaciously preserved their language and customs in the face of the Egyptian highpriest who admonished Moses to adopt Egyptian gods and culture, Joyce attacks it with statements from Stephen and Bloom. Taylor praises the Jewish tenacity by stating, --But, ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and accepted that view of life . . . he would never have brought the chosen people out of their house of bondage nor followed the pillar of cloud by day (W 143). As Richard Ellmann points out (Ulysses 22 the Liffey 69), Bloom has already set the stage for a counter attack to this vision earlier in "Aeolus" when he thinks of the Passover service: according to Bloom Moses did not free the Jews from bondage, but "brought us out of Egypt and into the land of bondage" (W 122). Also, in the "Calypso" Bloom has thought of the Jews as a people going from "captivity to captivity" (W 61). Stephen responds to Taylor's speech by saying "I too have a vision" (W 144). Stephen's vision involves overcoming these anxiety reactions to British colonialism. He is trying to awaken from his historical nightmare through his efforts to create an image 198 refined. from living language. Although Stephen :hs very discouraged in this chapter, thinking to himself, at this point (W 137), that history is a nightmare from which he will ggygg awaken (as opposed to his earlier statement to Mr. Deasy in chapter two when he says that history is a nightmare from which is is trying to awaken), as soon as he hears the shout of the paperboy running out into the street announcing the racing special for sale, he recalls his own vision. At this point in time novel Stephen realizes that 1J1 order tx> escape the nightmare of history that he is resisting, he still has "much, much to learn" (W 144) from the voices in the mundane Dublin streets. Stephen gives his own rendition of the parallel between the bondage of the Jews and of the Irish in his short "Parable of the Plums" or "A Pisgah Sight Of Palestine"which he improvises on the spot when the editor suggests that he write "something with a bite in it" (W 135) for the newspaper. Stephen complies by giving his story an ironic bite. The characters of Stephen's story are entities who, like the newspaper' which turns regenerative dispensation of language into garbage, symbolically wasting their regenerative human potential. Two barren Dublin vestals of Stephen's story gaze at the statue of Lord Nelson, the "one-handled adulterer." Lord Nelson was one-armed and he was an adulterer (Allusions in Ulysses 127) who fathered a child by his mistress. However, in the context of this chapter, Nelson is a symbol of the general paralysis of Ireland in a very sexual context. While staring 199 at his statue, the vestals, paralysed through virginity, spit the pits Of their plums onto the pavement from a phallic statue, forming a kind of phallic sight gag signifying Irish paralysis as a form of syphilis, a genital discharge instilling a "hemiplegia of time will" which Joyce 1J1 1903 had told Stanislaus that he would make public knowledge (WW 140). Kenner points out that this sight gag is elucidated in part later when Bloom considers his own sterility: Boylan "gets the plums and I the plumstones" (W 377). However, plumstones are not supposed to be waste products, although they lack the sweetness of the fruit. I think that Stephen is referring more tm> his sense (if the seeds of Ireland's future being destroyed by paralytically chaste Irish virgins who serve the English conquerers like the "cuckquean" which Stephen disdains in chapter one. Stephen's alternate title for his "Parable of the Plums," i.e., "A Pisgah Sight of Palestine," alludes to Moses who can only view the promised land from Pisgah Mountain, for God prOphesied he would lead the Jews to it but never reach it himself. This title intensifies the irony of the story by giving the Dublin vestals a vision of human regeneration which they can only View from a distance; also this title is Stephen's correction of the analogy between the Jews and the Irish evoked by Taylor's speech. Stephen's vision is not based upon an anxiety reaction to English colonialism, but upon what he perceives to lie the spiritual violence which Ireland imposes upon itself. At this point in the novel, he perceives that there is no promised land for the Irish to escape to 200 until the Irish learn not to waste their hOpes for the future. Bloom's internal monologue is the primary voice of the next chapter entitled "Lestrygonians." Many critics such as Kenner (Dublin's Joyce), Ellmann (Ulysses 9.1.1 the Liffey), and Goldberg (The Classical Temper) discuss Bloom's lunch of a cheese sandwich, a glass of wine, and a piece of bread as his pacifistic rejection of the two extremes of on the one hand, murderous meat eating ("Eat or be eaten. Kill! Kill!" [W 170]) which he relates to Christian blood sacrifice ("God wants blood victim" [W 151]) and on the other hand, of the other extreme of "Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic" (W 166) vegetarianism. II would like to focus my dis-cussion, instead, upon Bloom's anxiety created by his self-imposed violence and his psychic evolution away from it in this chapter. In the previous chapter, while Bloom is fumbling around in his pockets with the soap that he bought, he remembers that in Martha Clifford's letter she asked him about Molly's perfume. His thought of this letter arouses a brief desire within Bloom to return home: "I could go home still" (W 123), but Bloom goes Off in pursuit of an advertisement for the newspaper. However, in "Lestrygonians," Bloom has already tried to sell his ad, but he still lacks the courage to go home, so he decides to eat lunch in a restaurant. Incapable of encountering his wife he lapses into an "indulgent sensual languor in which his longing for love develops into erotic fantasy" (Goldberg 129): 201 Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all. A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore (W 168). This yeilding to a fantasy effectively displaces the necessity of returning to his wife. He Obscurely tells himself that her infidelity somehow "had to be," although it has not yet taken place. However, his psychic redemption is CKWUJK} about partially through regret for what he has lost and partially through arousing greater sympathy for Molly within him. He once again lets himself recall the happier times in his marriage: "Happy. Happier then." (W 155) before Rudy's death. When told by Mrs. Breen about Mrs. Purefoy who is at that moment suffering her third day of labor, he feels a sympathy for Molly as a mother which is a development away from his previous involutary analogy between her womb and the dead sea ("the grey sunken cunt of the vmmld" [W61]). His admiration for Molly broadens to include an appreciation of her wit, whereas he previously considered her to be "not exactly witty" (W 154), he appreciates the clever pun ("bass barreltone") by which she once described Ben Dollard's deep voice. When he thinks of the library museum, even the Greek statues remind him of Molly's plump beauty which he has always admired. Even more importantly, he recalls the times before her pregnancy in which he was a more passionate lover: Softly she gave nme:hn my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. . . Wildly I lay on her, kissed her; eyes, her 202 lips, her stretched neck, beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse Of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me. Me. And me now. (W 176) Bloom's comparison between his past and present selves is meant to be ironic. He feels himself to be a far less happy man now that his fruitful sexual life with his wife has decayed: "something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy" (W 168). Richard Ellmann beautifully discerns a parallel between the apple which Eve passed to Adam and the seedcake which Molly passes ti) Bloom (repeated again 511 Molly's thoughts 1J1 "Penelope") as two forms of the fortunate fall, "happy not because it brought about redemption by Christ, but in itself" (Ulysses SE1 the Liffey 169). Such recollections are bringing Bloom psychically closer tO his home and-to his own redemption from his self-imposed violence. Although these thoughts form a major theme sustained throughout Leopold's thoughts, they come to him in snatches. Bloom does not in a moment eliminate the habits which he has acquired over a number of years, and his thoughts never coalesce into what one would call a permanent resolve. Sporadic moments amid the whorl of Bloom's internal monologue must be held in mind at once by the reader, and Bloom's redemption must be discerned from the accumulated resonance of these moments. Late in time novel, in the "Ithaca" chapter, during one Of Bloom's most vain moments (thinking about how many women had found fflfi1‘h3 be attractive during the daY), he meditates 203 the possibility of a rendevous with Martha, but his failure to establish a meeting with her (although he does send her some money and promise the schedule a meeting) suggests that Bloom's fascination with her is waning, while at the same time Bloom's admiration for his wife grows stronger as the day progresses. In the next chapter, entitled Scylla and Charybdis, both Stephen and Bloom are in the library at the same hour, yet they do not meet until the end of the chapter. Stephen is there with John Eglington, Mr. Best, Cranly, and A.E. Russell, telling them his theory of Hamlet. This event is ironic from the start because Haines, the Englishman, for whose "chapbook" this discussion is taking place, prefers to absent himself so that he may buy a book of poems. As ‘William Schutte (Joyce and Shakespeare) points out, Stephen's discussion in the library is in the vein of the fashionable nineteenth century discussions of Shakespeare's works based upon biographical evidence. Stephen ostensibly assumes this fashionable guise for his discussion in order to get the discussion published in The Irish Homestead. However, as the discussion proceeds it is increasingly evident that Stephen is using the it to work out his own artistic problems. .As Stanley Sultan states, when Fuuligan introduces Stephen's discussion to Haines back in chapter one, "Mulligan knows that it presents Stephen's attitude toward the nature of fatherhood as well as his attitude toward the nature of Shakespeare" (Sultan 166). In other words, when Stephen mentions Shakespeare's methods Of artistic creation, he is thinking 204 about his own artistic problems. Stephen's theory asserts that the ghost of Hamlet's father is Shakespeare himself and that the entire play is Shakespeare's ea symbolically' autobiographical examination «Of the circumstances of his own paternity resulting in the transformation of his own fatherhood into a spiritual creation. The artist fathers a soul for the mundane details of his experience, and thereby becomes not only his own spiritual father, but he endows the paternity of his own father and of his grandfathers with a soul, making himself the father of his own fathers and the father of his country: he was not the father of his own son merely but, being no more a son, he was and felt himself the father of all his race, the father of his own grandfather, the father of his unborn grandson. . As Mulligan notes an: the beginning of Ulysses, Stephen's argument is part of his effort to prove that he does not owe his spiritual life his father's unconscious "instant of blind rut," but that as an artist, like Shakespeare, he is spiritually self created. When at the end of the discussion, Eglington asks lflmt if he believes his own theory about Shakespeare, Stephen has no difficulty saying, "No," because he is positing a parable of art which uses Shakespeare as a mere starting point for his on-going examination of his own artistic problems. Stanley Sultan in The Argument 9: Ulysses and Richard Ellmann in Ulysses er; the Liffey explain how in this chapter Stephen's argument navigates between the extreme of A.E. 205 Russell's ethereality and Mulligan"s extreme brutality. Russell argues that Shakespeare's characters are "formless spiritual essences" Q; 185), bodies used as conveniences for the channeling of deep thoughts. This ethereality represents the Charybdis, appearing to Stephen to be a watery "engulfer" (W 192) of Ireland's youth. When Richard Best plays the role of A.E.‘s disciple——"Mr Best's face appealed to [by Russell], agreed" (W 189), Stephen thinks of Russell in terms of lines from Russell's play Dierdre: Flow over them with your waves and with your waters, Mananaan, Mananaan Maclir (W 189) As Sultan points out Stephen has up to now consorted with the physical Scylla-like Mulligan in order to escape the whirlpool of ethereality. Mulligan's extreme physicality is most evident in his gluttony and his cynical sense Of death in chapter one. Mulligan refers to Stephen's mother as "beastly dead" (W 8). He excuses his brutality by pleading his medical training: he sees them "pop Off every day" and "cut up into tripes" in the dissecting room." Who me its all mockery and beastly," says Mulligan, a statement which fairly estimates Stephen's regard for him. However, beyond their agreement that Stephen negotiates between the extremes of Russell's extreme idealism and Mulligan's extreme brutality, Sultan and Ellmann come to very different conclusions about this chapter. Sultan concludes that Stephen walks a tightrope between both extremes 206 and survives his encounter with the Scylla and Charybdis, ending up accompanied by Bloom who serves as an augury of Stephen's future creativity. (hi the other hand, Ellmann concludes the Stephen enacts the interpenetration of the Scylla and Charybdis, thereby fulfilling already the ultimate artistic act: Having consummated the marriage of the Scylla and Charybdis, Stephen has overcome the danger which they represented so long as they were separated. . the augury has been fulfilled already. The calm is post-coital. . . .The answer ti) the Sphinx's riddle was man, the answer to Scylla and Charybdis is the act of love (Ulysses ee the Liffey 88-89). I initially incline toward Ellmann's argument because it provides ea way for time romantic imagination which Jche describes as the "mother of us all" (WW 81) to fuse with the classicist who "pierces to the motive center" of reality. However, I don't think that there is sufficient evidence to prove that Stephen achieves the coupling of aethereality and physicality or romance and classicism within this chapter: I think that the synergism of these opposites takes place later. Stephen needs Bloom in order to discern the romance of common life with the eye of the classicist, and therefore, Bloom in this chapter is a kind of augur of all that Stephen must eventually learn about the love which common life has to offer. In my discussion of this chapter, I won't add much to Sultan's and Ellmann's development of Stephen's precarious mediation of these two extremes in the main body of his argument. Instead, I will focus upon the significance of 207 Stephen's digressions from the main body of his argument. At several points in his discussion Stephen is interrupted by what are inescapable eruptions of repressed feeling for his parents, feelings which force lflht Us digress from his ostensible exposition of Hamlet and Shakespeare. Although the disruptions mar the unity of his presentation, they are the most important parts of his discussion because they serve to once again demonstrate the inescapable reality of common human parents in the life of the artist who tries to repudiate their role in his making. The inescapability of common parentage interfering with Stephen's thoughts throughout the novel sensitizes Stephen to the spiritually regenerative qualities which he will encounter and learn to accept when he spends time with Leopold Bloom. Russell, having come prepared~ to .refute Stephen's theory, Opens the discussion with an idealistic argument, i.e., that the important vunic of the artist deals with ideas which have absolutely no connection to the life of the artist. Russell refers to Stephen's theory as the impertinent "prying into the life of a great man" (W 189), denying that one can learn anything about Shakespeare's plays from an understanding of his life: -All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of his shadow. I mean, wheteher Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex. Clergymen's discussions of the historicity of Jesus. Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. . . the painting of Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry Of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our 208 mind into contact with eternal wisdom, Plato's world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys. In opposition to Stephen's notion that the play, Wamlet, manifests Shakespeare's spiritual self creation, Russell implies that any identification between Shakespeare's life and his art is tantamount to staring at the shadows of Plato's cave when one might easily turn and see the ideas which cast them. He considers Stephen's "schoolboy" speculations to be impertinent to an understanding of Shakespeare's art. Stephen counters him by evoking Aristotle, Plato's schoolboy, who counters Plato's idealism by asserting that one learns Of the infinite by observing the world, even to the point of studying and classifying the smallest insect or aquatic life. Stephen"s method (n? refutation is jprimarily dialectical, countering Russell's extreme position by attempting to to show how each character in Hamlet is a manifestation of someone or some event in Shakespeare's life: Is it possible that the player Shakespeare, a ghost by absence, and in the vesture of buried Denmark, a ghost by death, speaking his own words to his own son's name (had Hamnet Shakespeare lived he would have been prince Hamlet's twin) is it possible, I want to know or probable that he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of these premises: you are the dispossessed son: I am the murdered father: your mother is the guilty queen. Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway? Citing putative events from Shakespeare's life, such as his wife's infidelity with Shakespeare's brother, Shakespeare's 209 frequent absence from home, and the similarity between the name Hamlet and the name of Shakespeare's first son, Hamnet, Stephen asserts that Shakespeare could not have failed to see the analogies between these events in his own life and the similar incestuous infidelity, paternal absence, and filial dispossession of inheritance within the play, Hamlet. A ghost by absence, Shakespeare, who spent twenty years in London as a celebrated plawright, returns home (like the ghost of Hamlet's father) accusing his wife Of adultery and incest with his brother, and blaming her for the death of his son. The next major objection to Stephen's argument comes from Eglington who denies that Shakespeare identifies himself with the absent father; instead, he asserts that Shakespeare is examining his own experience through the character, Hamlet. Therefore, the play would not be an examination of Shakespeare's sense Of his own paternity, but an examination of Shakespeare's sense of himself as the dispossessed son: "if you want to shake my belief that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before you" (W 194). Then Stephen retorts that Shakespeare was a greying man with two marriageable daughters when he wrote Hamlet, making it absurd to identify him with the "beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg," (W 207) Hamlet. Then Eglington impatiently reiterates Russell's objection to Stephen's theory—-"I feel that Russell is right. ‘What do we care for his wife and father?"--and Stephen's thoughts begin to drift back toward the thoughts which have 210 preoccupied him all day and loses the thread of his argument about Shakespeare. He begins ranting about the unimportance of fathers: "Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father Of any son that any son should love him or he any son?" (W 207). The nurturing of motherhood—-"With her weak blood and whey-sour milk she had fed him and hid him from the sight of others" (W 28)--may be, according to Stephen, "the only true thing in life" (W 207). At this point Stephen realizes that he is lost: —What the Hell are you driving at? -I know. Shut up. Blast you! I have reasons. -Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea (W 207). He notices that he is digressing to the point at which he has lost the thread of his argument about Shakespeare's self- creation through the play, Hamlet: "What the Hell are you driving at?" However, he forces himself to carry through his prepared proofs, calling upon the winds of rhetoric to carry him further: "Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea." Eglington retorts that Shakespeare is creating a world of purely imaginative characters such as Iago (W 212) who are apparently characters vim) cannot kme identified with Shakespeare. Stephen tries to fashion his response in a way that takes jJHK) account 61 maternal principle within Shakespeare's creation of himself: that Shakespeare, like the God of creation, is comprised of an infinity of distinct selves, and that upon an examination of his own complexity he 211 conceives an understanding of it which he hears like an unborn child until he can translate this passive understanding into an act of creation: therefore, Shakepeare is both father and mother to himself: He [Shakespeare] found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible. Maeterlinck says: "If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sage seated on his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps will tend. Every life is many days, day after day. we walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves. The playwright who wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly (He gave us light first and the sun two days later), the lord of things as they are whom the most Roman of catholics call Q12 boia, hangman god, is doubtless all in all in all of us, ostler and butcher, and would be bawd and cuckold too but that in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, there are no more marriages, glorified man, an androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself (W 213). Like God who "created the folio of this world," Shakespeare not only fathered himself by giving a spiritual significance to his identity, but Shakespeare also was wife to himself by discerning the range of potential selves which comprise the complexity of his identity, a range which is as vast as all humanity, and by bearing the seed of his own complexity which he has discerned until he can father himself by understanding his complexity and translating it into a work of art. Therefore, he is an "androgynous angel," since he is both father and mother to himself. According to Sultan, the basis for Stephen's argument here is the Sabellian heresy which 212 states that the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are not distinct beings but modes of a single being, and although Stephen does mention the Sabellian argument--"Sabellius. . .held that the Father was Himself His own Son"--he refutes this subjective modalism in the next line with an argument from Aquinas: "if the father who has not a son be not a father can the son who has not a father be a son?" (W 208). I think that Ellmann is more correct about Stephen's intentions here when he points out that Stephen is propounding here not subjectism, but Vico's notion that the human world is made by man that we can only encounter in it what is already implicit in ourselves. Put another way, Shakepeare's plays are a record of what was possible for him and so are his experiences. Life coexists with art em; a representation of self(Ulysses 22 the Liffey 84). Stephen's theory does not, in a Sabellian manner, posit a nuclear identity of the personality that reproduces itself over and over again after having conveniently cast its opposite, such as Satan, out of the realm of possibilities for one's identity. Instead, Stephen is suggesting that Shakespeare confronted all of life's experiences and accepted them as possibilities which involve and fulfill one's own sensibility. He does not abolish exteriority but he embraces it. Therefore, the artist becomes father of himself and father Of his country through synergism vdtii all possibilities. Stephen states, "He [Shakespeare] found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible" (W 213). Of course, Stephen still has two more antagonists to his theory: one is Buck Mulligan and one is himself. Mulligan, 213 devises his own scheme for a pday which would mock Stephen's theory and reduce it to pure brutality. Mulligan calls his play, Every man His Own Wife or 5 Honeymoon We the Hand We national immorality We three orgasms). Stephen, who appreciates Mulligan's wit, even though he realizes that Mulligan will be forever his antagonist--"My will: his will that fronts me. Seas between" (W 217), seeks out the source of Mulligan's misunderstanding by mentally reviewing his argument again: If Socrates leave his house today [he will find the sage seated on his doorstep], if Judas go forth tonight [it is 1i) Judas his steps will tend]. Why? That lies in space which I in time must come to. (W 217) Realizing that there is something unclear in his argument, he instills himself once again with the resolve to seek out his answer. Besides Mulligan, Stephen still has his own rejection of his parents to contend with. The digressions in his argument are the most important events (is the discussion, because they are ireluctable possibilities which erupt through his intellectualizing, and it takes all of his will to repress them. The acceptance of his parents is the possibility that lies in space waiting for him; and as Stanley Sultan points out, when Stephen looks into the sky for the augury of his future--"Here I watch the birds for augury. . . .You will see" (W 217), the first thing he encounters in the very next line is Bloom, "The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered." 214 However, Stephen is too preoccupied with Mulligan's mockery at this point: "Offemd me still. Speak on" (W 217). It is not until Stephen and Leopold are isolated together that Stephen will understand Bloom as the augury of his own future. Throughout this discussion, Stephen's internal monologue has been measuring the applicability of his theory to himself as an artist. As the discussion ends he asks himself, "What have I learned? Of them? Of me?" These questions signify that Stephen is reviewing the course Of the discussion and attempting a new understanding of himself from it. As in the "Proteus" chapter in which he has all of his senses and his consciousness alert to the limits of his understanding and to the extent to which his experience can contribute to his self knowledge, Stephen ire still pushing the lihuts rm2 that the tone of the chapter suggests, as Stanley Sultan states, that the masturbation is a "consummate act of negation" (Sultan 264) and that Gerty is "pathetically obnoxious" (Sultan 267); nor do I think that the masturbation is, as Ellmann states, an heroic act which "brings Bloom back to goodwill and away from indifference" (Ulysses on the Liffey 133). Although the masturbation is pathetic, it is not wholly destructive; and although it reveals to Bloom the ways in which one fails to live up to one's ideals, he needs Gerty's look of forgiveness in order to learn from his act how to look upon his ten years of sexual regressiveness with equanimity. Gerty becomes apotheosized into a merciful virgin in her own right through the language of the narration. The imagery of the narration instills within her details which suggest her resemblance to time Holy Virgin, and in full knowledge of what Bloom has done, she turns a forgiving smile toward Leopold at the moment of his shame. Bloom recognises that in her eyes there "was an infinite store of mercy" even though he had "erred and sinned and wandered" (g 367). Gerty's forgiveness also teaches Bloom 11) forgive time citizen, "Look at i1: other way around. Not so bad then. Perhaps not to hurt he meant" (g 380). But most importantly, she teaches him that a woman can forgive strange male sexual behavior, implying the possibility of Molly's forgiveness. 237 Gerty instills within him the hope that if Bloom returns home, he may be accepted by his wife, that perhaps it isn't true that "aLl is lost" (2 273) as he thought while listening to Simon Dedalus' song in the Ormond Hotel saloon. Bloom, unlike the congregation of the men's temperance retreat, is not a serious Christian. He considers the mass to be nothing but hynotic mummery to attract the simple-hearted, and he cannot seriously consider the notion of the Virgin Mary whose mercy leads men to the an understanding of God's forgiveness. Bloom must experience forgiveness from a human source in order to understand its function in his own spiritual regeneration. He is not aware of the celebration of the Holy Virgin which is taking place throughout chapter, yet Gerty knows the service so well that she "could picture the whole scene in the church" (g 358): the men in church worship at the Virgin's altar as Bloom worships at Gerty's. The juxtaposition of these two events prepares her symbolic transfiguration into an image of the Holy Virgin, and her literal apotheosis into a woman who understands the errors of men and forgives them. (hue conspicuous juxtaposition is the prayer to the Virgin as symbolized in the rose: Through the open window of the church the fragrant incense was wafted and with it the fragrant names of her who was conceived withough stain of original sin, spiritual vessel, pray for us, honourable vessel, pray for us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us, mystical rose (9 356). The image of the rose returns when Gerty has realized that she 238 has excited Bloom: "at the thought a burning scarlet swept from throat to brow till the lovely colour of her face became a glorious rose" (2 360). The colour of her face becoming a rose signifies Gerty's transfiguration into the Dantesque virgin saviour. Then Gerty's apotheosis is punctuated as a Roman camdha (as Richard Ellmann points out, the Roman candle signifies a symbolic conflation of Catholic religiosity and pagan phallicism) rises and then explodes in the air above Bloom and Gerty. As the long Roman candle rises in the air her face becomes "suffused with a divine, and entrancing blush" (g 366). Then after Bloom has ejaculated she looks reproachfully at him, and he "colours like a girl" (g 367) in shame. However, her eyes are full of the mercy of a nmdonna statue: "she smiled at him wanly, a sweet forgiving smile, a smile that verged on tears" (g 367). Soon afterward Gerty leaves with her friends Cissy Caffrey and Edy Boardman, and Bloom is alone on the beach. Before the fireworks had begun Cissy had -asked Bloom the time and Ina had discovered that his watch had stopped at four thirty. Now that he is alone he wonders if the watch might have stopped as a result of some "magnetic" influence exerted by the moment of Molly's and Boylan's sexual consummation. However, in spite of his consciousness of the possibility that Boylan is sleeping with his wife, Bloom thinks of Molly admiringly, finding her superior to the women who can't keep their husbands out of the 239 pubs because of their sexlessness: "That's where Molly knocks the spots of them. It is the blood of the south. Moorish" (g 373). Bloom also discovers that his route toward Martha Clifford, with her address in Dolphin's Barn, is a circular one which leads him back to the place where he had played a game of charades with Molly seventeen years earlier at an address in the same section of town: So it returns. Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home. And just when he and she. (g 377). In recalling the better years with Molly, Bloom feels a return of the feelings for his wife which he thought he had lost. The escape from home only leads one back to the self which one has tried to escape through repression. However, Bloom's restored feeling for Molly comes at.aa time when he thinks she is sleeping with Boylan, and Bloom has not yet sufficiently learned the lesson of forgiveness well enough to be capable of overcoming the jealous enmity which he feels for both his wife and her apparent lover. Bloom's enmity is never violent, yet it makes him sad and he feels a need to confess to Gerty, his virgin intercessor, in order to receive her comfort. He begins to write on the beach: "I am a" then he effaces it because he feels the message will never reach her. However, in a moment of insight brought on by a cuckoo clock's striking of the hour, Gerty intuits his confession and knows him to be a unhappy 240 because he is a cuckold. There are at least three major narrators in this chapter: a third person narrator who renders Bloom's thoughts in Bloom's diction, (I inn not counting Bloom's internal monologue as a narrator), the third person narrator who renders Gerty's thoughts in Gerty's diction, and a narrator speaking with the purple prose of nineteenth century romantic novels who is in complicity with Gerty's sexual romanticism. Gerty is a virgin just beyond her teens and the intense itch of her sexual awakening and her romantic notions of love derived from romantic novels and poems have combined within her into an emotion of langourous discontent reminiscent of Flaubert's Emma Bovary. However, Emma Bovary never aspired to a literary life, whereas Gerty feels that she has some beautiful thoughts which she might express through poetry "if only she could express herself like that poem which appealed to her so deeply that she copied out of the newspaper. . . 'Art thou real my ideal?' it was called by Louis J. Walsh" (g 364). The third narrator in the "Nausicaa" chapter, like a kindred soul, lends his mastery of romantic novelese to the narration of the chapter, adding the emotionally elevated and sexually suggestive tone to the chapter that complies with Gerty's desire to express the "beautiful" (g 364) thoughts for which she herself lacks the words: The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of the all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on the sea and 241 strand, on the proud promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, (M1 the quiet church whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillness the voice of prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the storm-tossed heart of man, Mary. . . The personifications and the ornate grammatical inversions ("a beacon ever to the storm tossed heart of man, etc.") are characteristic of no other narrator in this chapter. However, despite his stylistic distinctness, he is in complicity with the pretentions and longings of Gerty. Her sexual longings appear in the suggestive embrace of the sky and the world and in the suggestive union between the bay and the promontory. Through the union of this sexual imagery with the prayers to Mary rising from the men at the temperance retreat, this narrator complies with Gerty's romantic pretentions to being the feminine object of worship. As with the florid and technical narrators in the "Cyclops" chapter, this romantic narrator does not lie, he only releases a truth of Gerty's character into the narrative which would be repressed if the narrative were told solely in Bloom's or Gerty's language. Most of the next chapter, "Oxen in the Sun," is narrated by a voice who uses the action of the chapter as a context in which to preach the virtues of human parentage: "by no exterior splendor", asserts the narrator, "is the prosperity of a nation more efficaciously asserted than by the measure or how far forward may have progressed the tribute . . .for that 242 proliferent continuance which . . .constitutes the sign of omnipollent nature's incorrupted benefaction" (g 383). In other words, a nation is rich to the extent that it pays tribute to the reproduction of human life. Like a presiding deity of the temple of human birth, this voice emanates from out of the spirit of of Horne's maternity home, condemning those who sin against human reproduction such as Malthusiasts and masturbaters, and hailing exemplars of human reproduction such as Theordore Purefoy, the "remarkablest progenitor barring none in this chaffering allincluding most farraginous chronicle" (g 423). As soon as the characters leave Horne's House this preaching voice stops and the voices of all of the characters erupt in juxtaposition in the linguistic space left by the narrator's silence. This narrator's manner of speaking is consistent with his theme: his narration symbolically reenacts, through the progression of prose styles, the "natural stages of development in the embryo and the periods of faunal evolution in general" (§L 252). Joyce means that each prose style represents a stage in the develOpment of the fetus, beginning with the "Salustian- Tacitean prelude representing the unfertilized ovum," proceeding to the "earliest alliterative and monosyllabic and Anglo-Saxon," representing’ the conceived fetus and, through many more linguistic transformations representing progressing stages of faunal development, ending with the rich afterbirth of voices liberated from form or style, evoking an expanded 243 moment in which all of the contemporary styles of voices in the streets and the pub speak simultaneously. Although the voices in this placental segment cannot be read except consecutively, the juxtaposition of the multitude of unstructured voices suggests that these voices speak simultaneoushy as one hears them on the street or in a pub (the most thorough attempt to relate each of these consecutive styles to a stage in faunal development is J.S. Atherton's chapter of Hart and Hayman's James Joyce's Ulysses). This stylistic variation suggests that all styles are limited to the historical conditions that shape them, and even when examining the same subject the "exterior splendor [of any single style] may be [merely] the surface of a downwardtending lutulent reality" (g 383). Therefore the limitations of each style are exposed through a sort of historical survey, and the aspects of maternity that are concealed by each style are liberated by the juxtaposition of styles. Therefore, the narrative opposes the the nightmare of history by turning the possible suppressiveness and distortions of individual historical conditions into a beneficial plurality which exploits all european historical conditions. The action of the chapter takes place in the hospital dining hall in which Stephen and his friends are having a drinking party. Afterward Bloom arrives to pay his respects to Mrs. Purefoy and when Dixon sees Bloom he insists that Bloom join the drinking party. In the course of this drinking party the central topic is procreation, and the narrator points out 244 the ways in which the members of this group profane the temple of procreation through their words and conduct. Like Odysseus' crew who slaughter the sacred oxen, the roistering group profanes what is holy through mockery and denial. The coarseness of some of the mockery is offensive to Stephen and Leopold, but this doesn't mean that they also haven't sinned against the light. Stephen still denies the spiritual importance of procreation by maintaining the theory that through spiritual creation, i.e. postcreation, one becomes one's own parents. According to Stephen, the Virgin Mary, "the second Eve," has an "almightiness of petition" because she won us a spiritual life, becoming the spiritual mother of the first Eve. In this way, Mary is the spiritual mother of her great great, etc., grandmother and Stephen can deny his own mother while still easing his remorse of conscience by accepting the importance of motherhood in general. However, as a result of Stephen's denial he is, once again, haunted by the spectre. As the voice of the presiding deity of Horne's house notes, Stephen suddenly grows uncomfortable. The narrator apprehends the source of this discomfort and accuses Stephen of his sin of denial: There are sins. . . which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart but they abide there and wait. . . Yet a chance word will call them forth suddenly and they will rise up and confront him. . .Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies under her wrath, not for vengeance to cut off from the living but shrouded in piteous vesture of the past, silent, remote, reproachful (U 421). 245 The narrator sees in Stephen's sudden discomfort the recurrence of Stephen's agenbite of inwit. While trying to appear unflustered, Stephen "must needs glance at whiles towards where his mother watches from the piazzetta giving upon the flower-close with a faint shadow of remoteness or of reproach" (U 422). Stephen's spiritual paternity is also attacked by Vincent who refutes Stephen's claim to the name "lord giver of their life" by pointing out that "something more, greatly more than a capful of light odes" (U 415) must call his genius "father" before Stephen will deserve the name. The narrator also accuses Bloom of obliterating his heritage by allowing the death of his son to instill within him an aversion to normal sexual relations with Molly which led to his unregenerative fetishism: There is none now to be for Leopold what Leopold was for Rudolph. . . swiftly, silently the soul is wafted over regions of cycles of cycles of generations that have lived. . . They fade, sad phantoms: all is gone (U 414). According to the narrator, as a result of Bloom's lack of a son and of his present unregenerative sexual habits, Bloom's family in all of its generations is fading into nothingness. The common regenerative principle which both Rudoph Virag and his father shared and sustained has been paralysed in Bloom, and the death of the eternal principle is coeval with the death of the son's ability to sustained and fulfilled it. 246 Near the end of the chapter, the narrator announces the birth of the "word." There is, within the birth of the word, an obvious suggestion of the birth of the word of God in Christ, and le the context (us the chapter i1: signifies Stephen's artistic sense of post-creation as mentioned above ("In woman's womb the word becomes flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that paSses becomes the word which shall not pass away" [U 391]). Yet the announcement of the birth of the word is followed by Stephen's pronouncement of the name of a pub: "Burke's!" One must not be put off by the sarcasm of pronouncing the name of a pub as the spiritual word, for it is in the pub that the parturition symbolized by the progression of English prose styles culminates in the unmediated (the voice of Horne's House ceases to narrate once the group is beyond its influence) voices of all of the patrons of the pub speaking at once. The din of voices is certainly bewildering in its multiplicity, and it often results in critics dismissing the these pages as evidence of Joyce's solipsistic despair at his own failure to communicate. However, this din of voices, released from the judgments of the narrator of Horne's House, and ostensibly unbound by any single voice or formal manipulation (such as the technique of the fuge in "The Sirens," the technique of complicitous sylistic exaggeration in "Cyclops," the antiphonal technique of the "Ithaca" chapter) illustrates not only a kind of liberation of all voices which is the ultimate end of the development of Joyce's language, but 247 it also points out the suppressiveness of formlessness; one does equal violence by abjuring form as one does by slavishly limiting oneself to a single one. It is appropriate that the paternal wishes of both Stephen and Bloom come under attack most intensely in a maternity hospital which is sanctified by the exhortations of a narrator who preaches the holiness of human procreation and condemns the sterilizatith of one's regenerative potential. The influence of Horne's House intensifies the feeling of failure which has troubled the two heroes throughout the novel. The intensification of the feeling of failure dramatically insures that Stephen and Leopold will continue to be preoccupied with thoughts of physical and physical regeneration. In the "Oxen in the Sun" chapter, Bloom feels very paternal toward these young men: "these_about him might be his sons. Who can say?" (g 413), yet these paternal feelings do not leave Bloom satisfied to adopt these young men; on the contrary, they intensify his desire to have his own child: "The wise father knows his own child." Also, when Vincent reminds Stephen of his paralysed artistic potential, Stephen is visibly distressed. This only intensifies Stephen's sense of failure and his desire to create. From this point on, Bloom tags along with Stephen and his friends until Stephen's friends abandon the (an) of them. When alone with him, Bloom does not cease to feel paternal and protective toward Stephen; he even offers Stephen a room in his 248 house rent free. However, he likes to be near Stephen because Stephen is intellectually stimulating and arouses within him desires for a son of his own. Stephen re-arouses the envy which Bloom felt during Paddy Dignam's funeral, when he noticed that Simon Dedalus was "full of his son." Bloom undeniably gets some surrogate pleasure in playing the role of the father for Stephen, but his desire for a son is not limited to this kind of symbolic relationship. Bloom does have a "bit of the artist" about him, but it is simply not in his character for him to take this kind of symbolism as seriously as many previously mentioned critics surmise. According the the Gilbert schema, the technique of the next chapter, "Circe," is "Vision animated to the bursting point." Ihi this chapter, the fears and impulses in consciousness burst the usual confines of self control and become manifest not as fancy or recollection, but as vision: immediate unavoidable confrontation with one's most extremely destructive thoughts in a nightmare from which one has no assurance that he will awaken. The visions in this nightmare are capable of subjugating the soul, so the protagonists have to muster all of their spiritual resources in order to resist domination from these phantasms. For example, the spectral visage of Stephen's mother exhorting lmhn to save his soul through the Church, takes a form insistently tangible enough for Stephen to strike out at it with his ashplant. He uses this ashplant, the material 249 manifestation of the lancet of his art as he understands it, to repress a voice which has become animated far in excess of the bounds of impulsive thought. Also, the repression which Stephen earlier felt emanating from the military power of England ("I am the servant of two masters, an English and an Italian" [U 20]) becomes manifest in the form of a redcoat who very tangibly knocks Stephen unconscious, leaving him sprawled out in the street. Bloom's flirtation with masochism which he expresses through his letters with Martha Clifford takes on phantasmal reality fix: the form cu? Bella Cohen. The transformations through which both Bloom and Bella pass may be phantasmic, but Bloom experiences them as phenomena to which he must respond as if they are real in order not to be subdued by them. Also, Bloom's sense of paternal failure takes tangible form, manifest in the spectre of his father and his dead son who accuse him of destroying the generations of his family through his unregenerative sexual fetishism. It is appropriate to place the adventure in the red light district of Dublin and in a bordello, places where "anything goes;" any sexual impulse which one would not dare reveal to one's wife can achieve tangible form here. One can be a sultan, a transvestite, or a slave, and an adept madam can sniff out even those fantasies which one has not clearly articulated to oneself. Like the maternity hospital whose spiritual influence is responsible for a certain kind of pressure upon the paternal aspirations of Stephen and Leopold, the bordello is a natural staging area for acting out the 250 impulses of what Freud would call the id when it is released from the restrictions of the superego. II use these Freudian terms purely in order to describe the effect of these repressed thoughts in conscious thoughts of Stephen and Leopold, not to assert that Joyce had Freud in mind in the most important construction of this chapter. All of the fears and impulses in the chapter are in evidence earlier in the novel in the conscious thoughts of Stephen and LeOpold, yet in the red light district the usual moderations of the superego are lifted; therefore, these fears and impulses erupt. into consciousness in extreme forms and with an intensity which Stephen and Leopold cannot diminish by merely diverting their thoughts as they had earlier done successfully. Of course, i1: is undeniable that not only the influence of the bordello, but also drunkenness has lifted the normal restraints upon conscious impulses. Stephen is drunk at the beginning of the "Oxen in the Sun" chapter and continues drinking throughoutg Bloonl breaks his usual abstemiousness, having his first drinks. This usual abstemiousness--for Bloom "the second drink does it. Once is a dose" (2 452) in combination with Bloom's exhaustion from twelve hours of wandering cause Bloom to be easily affected by his few drinks. However, as Sultan points out "drunkenness does not cause [their *visions]. ERR: great. majority' are preoccupations of their (”“1 minds which are sufficiently powerful that almost anything will serve to set them off" (Sultan 303). 251 The first of the two protagonists that we meet in "Circe" is Stephen who is present in the familiar scene (present earlier in Stephen Hero and Portrait) of expounding his theories of art while walking with Lynch (Cranly in the earlier novels) through the Dublin streets. Stephen is trying to discover the underlying structure, the "first entelechy," (U 432) of language, as he tries to discover the underlying, epiphanic structure of all experience. He postulates that gesture, run: words, music, cu: odours would reveal this underlying structure and be the source of a universal language. He reveals an unusual lack of restraint right away by embarrassing Lynch when he begins to demonstrate the gestures illustrating a "loaf and a jug of bread and wine." Earlier, before his trip to Paris (in Stephen Hero 184), Stephen had jokingly prophesied to Cranly that he would one day stand in the middle of the street gesturing, and it takes this release from restraint in order for Stephen to actually attempt it. Lynch is Stephen's heckler during the discussion and denies that Stephen's gestures and his grammar are intelligible: "Which is the jug of bread? It skills not" (Q 433). Lynch's heckling returns to discomfit Stephen later in the phantasmal section of the chapter in the form of Lynch's cap which suddenly develops a phantasmal voice of its own. In the face of this heckling, Stephen returns to music to try and discover his first entelechy: Stephen the fundamental and the dominant are separated by 252 the Greatest possible interval which. . . . The Cap Which? Finish. You can't. Stephen (With an effort.) Interval which. Is the greatest possible elipse. Consistent math. The ultimate return. The octave. Which The Cap Which? (Outside the gramophone begins to blare "The Holy City.") Stephen (Abruptly.) What went forth to the ends of the world to traverse not itself. God, the sun, Shakespeare, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself, becomes that self. . . Self which i1; itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. (2 505) Richard Ellmann points out the passage from Croce's work on Vico which Joyce evokes above: Man creates the human world, creates it by transforming himself into the facts of society: by thinking it he re-creates his own creations, traverses over again the paths he has already traversed, reconstructs the whole ideally. (Ellmann 340) As in the "Scylla and Charybdis" chapter where Stephen tries to prove that Shakespeare is not only Hamlet's ghost, but that he is all of the characters in all of his plays, even the extreme character, Iago, Stephen asserts that the soul of experience 253 and identity can be read in the fullest extent of one's conscious encounter with the expression of the human soul evident in society. Then, one does not passively limit oneself to gathering perceptions, but, beyond this collection of phenomena, one's own thoughts conceive a new self which results from a new understanding of the collected experience. Therefore, in the encounter with the most extreme departure from one's preconceived identity, one becomes that experience, and when one reconceives himself in his own soul as a result of all of this experience, the form that the experience takes in the mind also takes form in the world, becoming tangible experience once again. Although this is, as Lynch points out, quite a "learned speech," it does not ring true because Stephen still represses certain aspects of his experience for the sake of his pride. One paralyses one's soul by denying the voices innate within experience, even if these voices are distasteful. One does not free oneself from a paralytic agent through the denial of it, for denial is merely imitation of the enmities innate within the suppressive competitive order. One frees oneself by encountering opposing voices, and realizing their role in the creation of one's own voice. In fact, Stephen becomes violent by striking out with his ashplant at the voice of his mother which erupts into his consciousness exhorting him to humble his soul to the Church. However, from this violence Stephen learns of the futility of violence. He realizes that he is no more free of the Church now than he was 254 before, and when he encounters a British soldier he knows that it is in his mind that he must free himself from the domination of the priest and king, not through violence. However, the soldier misunderstands, considering Stephen to be meditating regicide, EM) the soldier threatens to pommel Stephen, yet in spite of the soldier's threat which is more tangible to Stephen than the spectre of Mrs Dedalus, Stephen does not react violently, nor does he leave. "I don't avoid it” He provokes my intelligence" (U 592), says Stephen. The phantasmal Gummy Granny whom Stephen calls "The old sow that eats her own farrow" (g 595) even tries to provoke Stephen, thrusting a dagger into his hand; the appelation that Stephen gives her evokes his sense of her as a manifestation of violent Irish paralysis, and when she gives him the dagger, she is acting as a representative of the violent Irish Nationalist Movement: "Remove him acushla, at 8:35 a.m. you will be in heaven and Ireland will be free" (U 600). Yet Stephen resists her call to patriotic violence. As opposed to his earlier repression of his mother's voice, Stephen tries to debate with the soldier, letting the private have his say, and he bravely takes a punch in the face for his trouble instead of striking a blow of his own to silence the man. Stephen has learned the lesson which the Joyce learns when he abandons Stephen Hero and begins writing Portrait: that one fruitfully encounters the soul of experience by refusing to repress even those voices which aren't to one's taste, while at the same time refusing to be repressed by them. According to 255 the Gilbert schema "poison" and "antidote" constitute part of the chapter's symbolism. Inn Stephen's case, the antidote for the poison of his repressiveness is non-violent confrontation with the voices which oppose him. In Bloom's case the potato, Joyce's symbolic version of Odysseus' talisman against enchantment--Moly, is the antidote to the erotic fantasies and fetishes which paralyse his capacity to recover his role as a father and husband. The usually unsuperstitious Bloom believes enough in the legendary power of potatoes to absorb disease that he carries one around in his pocket all day long. Then, in the midst of the animated visions of his unregenerative masochistic eroticism ("Exuberant female. Enormously I desiderate your domination," says Bloom to Bella Cohen's fan), Bloom has his potato taken from him by one of his erotically domineering "mistresses," Zoe. When late in the chapter he realizes that he has been "a perfect pig" (2 551), he demands that his potato be returned, signifying that he has broken the spell of this enchantment. With the recovery of his potato Bloom awakens from his masochistic vision. It may be 21 propitious accident that Hermes' Moly, the ancient antidote to Circe's enchantment and Molly Bloom's name are homonyms, yet Joyce uses it for all its worth to thematically suggest that Bloom's demand for the return of his modern Moly-- the potato (U 555)--signifies that in the last resort, he will not completely relinquish his reproductive sexuality with his wife for the sake of his erotic fantasies. In Homer's Odyssey, Circe gives Odysseus' crew enough 256 food and wine to gorge themselves with swinish gluttony, and in the context of Homer's epic, their transformation into pigs symbolizes their spiritual state of being. Similarly, in the red light district of Dublin, Bloom's transformations of physical form (he becomes a turtle, a woman, and an antlered-- cuckolded--man) and his seventeen changes of clothing symbolize his spiritual state of being as it has been manifest in his thoughts throughout this day of wandering. Most of the conscious thoughts which preoccupied Bloom throughout his wanderings of this day appear before him in animated form as he enters the red light district and sits drunkenly in the bordello with Stephen and his friends. Not only Bloom's masochistic fantasies of Martha Clifford, ‘but also his preoccupation with Molly's possible infidelity with Blazes Boylan, his grief over his loss of a son, and his sense of himself as a purveyor of a universal love doctrine (from the "Cyclops" chapter) appear before him in animated form and transform him into the spiritual shape of these thoughts. Bloom's vision begins after Stephen and his friends challenge him to a foot race so that they can give him the slip in the red light district. Bloom follows out of genuine concern for Stephen, fearing that Stephen will "lose that cash" (U 452) which he is waving around before his untrustworthy friends. Bloom gets a stitch in his side trying to keep up with them and when he is alone his vision commences. Initially a variety of figures appear and accuse Bloom of various crimes which are primarily sexual. His first accuser is the spectre 257 of his father accusing him of wasting money; then the sexual guilt lurking in Bloom's consciousness takes animated form. A phantasm of Gerty MacDowell limps forward with her dress lifted showing her "bloodied clout," accusing him of corrupting her, "Dirty married man! I love you for doing that to me" (Q 442). Then Martha Clifford appears accusing him of breach of promise and phantasmal officers of the watch arrive and exaggerate this accusation, charging him ‘with vague sexual misconduct, "Unlawfully watching and besetting" (g 455). Then the vision shifts to the scene of a courtroom in which Bloom is on trial and several women accuse him of writing obscene letters and forcing his sexual attentions upon them. As the women's accusations become more vociferous they threaten to give Bloom a good whipping, a suggestion to which Bloom looks forward with erotic anticipation: Bloom (His eyes closing, quails expectantly. ) Here? (He squirms.) Again! (He pants cringing.) I love the danger. (U 467) With the air of pleasure in submission Bloom obeys Mrs. Talboys' domineering command to come and receive his flogging. These visions predispose him to the domination which the whores in Bella Cohen's impose upon lflhu As he arrives at the Bordello he inquires after Stephen and he enters once he learns that Stephen is there. Zoe, who answers the door, discovers Bloom's potato when she thinks that the bulge in his pants is his genitals. She puts her hand in his pocket and, upon 258 discovering that it is his grandmother's specific against disease, she keeps it for herself, initiating a series of attempts to sexually dominate Bloom. When Zoe asks Bloom for a cigarette and Bloom makes "a stump speech" (U 478) of his reason for not having any, another vision suddenly erupts into his consciousness. This is not the masochistic vision which will return later in the chapter, but it is the vision of Bloom's sense of himself as an important speaker with the message of universal love, the fantasy self which was dramatized in the "Cyclops" chapter by Bloom's pedantry and the complicitous voice of the narrator. Bloom is proclaimed the Lord mayor of Dublin by public outcry, and the late Lord Mayor Harrington orders that Bloom's speech on cigarette smoking be published at the city's expense. There is a parade for Bloom which is attended by all of Dublin and is also attended by the Old Testament incarnation of God in the pillar of cloud (U 480). In this vision everyone agrees with Bloom's notions universal love--"union of all, jew, moslem and gentile" (U 489) and John Howard Parnell embraces Bloom, calling him the successor to his brother as the father of Ireland's regeneration. 'The Pope places Bloom in direct succession with Moses, the father of his country, and the Pope then declares Bloom to be Emmanuel, the redeemer (U 495-496). However, his phantasmal rise precedes a fall begun when a vision of Theodore Purefoy, the "remarkablest progenitor barring none in the allincluding most farraginous chronicle" (U 259 423) from the "Oxen in the Sun" chapter accuses Bloom of using a "mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature" (U 491). Attacking Bloom's unregenerative sexuality, he sets a mob against him which accuses him of being another Parnell (g 492) in a different sense than that to which John Howard referred. The mob is making Bloom into a scapegoat, accusing him of being the antichrist. Thereafter, Bloom next appears as the Antichrist: "Reuben J. Antichrist, wandering jew" (U 506). Coinciding with the coming of the antichrist is also the second coming (n5 Elijah. Elijah interrupts Bloom's transformations with a message exhorting all peOple to prepare for Elijah's coming by allowing one's life to exhibit the diversity of the world and of one's own nature: Elijah If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Florry Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, it is up to you to sense that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? No. Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have something within, the higher self. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll (g 507-508) Elijah suddenly interrupts the action at the phantasmal end of the world by exhorting them to recognize their roles as redeemers when they allow themselves to become "a prism," that is to be instruments by which to express the multi-faceted variety experience and its otherwise unexplored possibilities. Becoming a "prism" allows one to "rub shoulders" with not only Christ, but Gautama (Buddha) and Robert Green Ingersoll (the famous American orator and agnostic). Contact with the 260 diversity of being transfigures one's voice into a "higher self" which overcomes the suppression of conventional thought, belief, and action. After the \Nfiflxfll of Elijah, Bloom's phantasmal accusers return, concurring with Theodore Purefoy's accusation that Bloom has frustrated the sacred ends of nature through his fetishistic eroticism. The spectre of Bloom's dead father returns stating that, "the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses of lingerie appealed to you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity" (U 512). Then, when Bella Cohen becomes transformed into a vision of Bloom's desire for a sadistic mistress to punish him, she taunts him with his impotence, telling him that the son which he wants is being sired in Molly by Blazes Boylan: Bloom Eccles street. . . Bello (Sarcastically.) I wouldn't fund: your feelings for the world by there's a man of brawn in possession. . . .He shot his bolt, I can tell you! Foot to foot, knee to knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! He's no eunuch. A shock of red hair he has sticking out of him behind like a furze bush! Wait for nine month, my lad! Holy ginger, it's kicking and coughing up and down in her guts already! That makes you wild don't it? Touches the spot? (2 541) Although in the vision Bloom and Bella have switched sexes, Bella (as Bello) still taunts Bloom's failed masculinity. Bloom's phantasmal assumption of the role of a woman is simply 261 his refinement of his erotic fantasy for submission to a sexually dominant woman, his desire for a woman to completely "unman" funk Yet Bella's taunt that Boylan may have fathered the son that Bloom wants so much does "touch the spot" in Bloom and he cries out to Molly to forgive him for his unloving absence: "Moll! I forgot! Forgive! Moll! . .. . We . . .Still. . ." Bloom's reaction to this thought of having a son by another man is the strongest argument against William Empson's notion that Bloom shows Molly's photograph to Stephen because he "is desperate to have a son even if by the agency of another man." Bloom wants a son who is consubstantial with him and who is a product of his relationship with Molly. The desperation which Bloom feels at the thought of Boylan causing _Molly's pregnancy is qualified by what he has learned of woman's forgiveness in his episode with Gerty MacDowell. Although part of his consciousness condemns him (as he had condemned himself by thinking, "all is lost" in "The Sirens" chapter) by animating this self accusation into the figure of Bella Cohen who compares his absence from his role as a husband and father to the twenty year sleep of Rip Van Winkle (U 542), another voice within him qualifies his tendency toward resignation, erupting ijx an automatic shout 1%”: Molly's forgiveness when convinced that Molly might bear Boylan's son. "Your epitaph is written. "You are down and out and don't forget it, old bean" (U 543), says Bella, trying to convince Bloom that he is beyond redemption and offering him a glass of poisoned wine. Although Bloom begins to crawl in despair, he 262 does not drink the poisoned cup and when a nymph tries to castrate him he prevents her (2 553) and awakens from the spell of the vision, recovering his potato from Zoe. Bloom's capacity to resist total despair results partially from his inner strengths, but his inner strength would be insufficient without some faith in Molly's forgiveness and acceptance. Once Bloom has recovered from his vision, he proceeds to protect Stephen's money as he had planned. Stephen is recklessly offering money to everyone in the bordello and Bloom offers to hold Stephen's money for him until the night is over. Then, after Stephen hits the chandelier with his stick and everyone must escape the bordello, Bloom remains with him, keeping the artist out of trouble with the police after Stephen is knocked out by the soldier and refusing to leave Stephen alone lying on the street unconscious after his friends have deserted him. Although Bloom is being very protective of Stephen here and has even imagined the possibility of Stephen and the other boys being his own sons in the "Oxen in the Sun" chapter, the very last paragraphs clarify that Stephen is not Bloom's idea of a substitute for the son which he desires for himself. As Bloom stares an: Stephen's unconscious face, he discerns the image of Stephen's dead mother with whom Bloom had been acquainted. Then the spectral vision of what his own son, Rudy, would have looked like had he survived becomes animated before Bloom's wonderstruck eyes. Bloom's generosity to Stephen may be a catalyst for Bloom's spiritual capacity to encounter his memory of his son without panic-stricken grief 263 which he had experienced early in the novel, and it may be a catalyst for Bloom's spiritual recovery of the hope of having a son of his own, but Bloom's sense of his own paternity will evidently not be satisfied by imagining himself the father of Stephen. After the "Circe" chapter begins section three of Ulysses. Ind the Gilbert and Linati schema Joyce states that this final section enacts the fusion of Bloom and Stephen. Immediately afterwards Joyce tun; written (Hi the schema, "Ulysses and Telemachus." The significance of the time that Stephen and Bloom spend together is one of the issues in the novel which critics debate most hotly. Stuart Gilbert (James Joyce's Ulysses) and Harry Levin (James Joyce: 3 Critical Introduction) claim that no satisfactory fusion takes place between the artist and Bloom, asserting that their meeting enacts the innate alienation of individuals in the modern world. Gilbert, in trying to reduce Stephen to a Telemachus looking for a father, asserts, "[Stephen] has not lost a father, like Telemachus, but he can never find one" (Gilbert 64). Levin states that "Bloom and Stephen would lose half their poignance if they had any reprieve from the soul's incurable loneliness" (Levin 131). William Tindall (A Reader's Guide to James Joyce) opposes these views of alienation "Discovering Bloom (Everyman cnr‘Noman) Stephen discovers mankind. Joining Bloom, he becomes himself . . . .Still Opposites, they are united for the moment by Bloom's love and Stephen's apprehension" (Tindall 221-222). Stanley Sultan 264 asserts that "by Bloom's agency Stephen shall achieve atonement with God . . .. . Stephen recognizes God's true mercy and the adolescent folly of his condemnation of Him" (Sultan). There are certainly many more different readings of their meeting, but instead of writing a complete chapter on these varied readings I present the four above to give some idea of the range of possible readings which critics have come up with. What is most striking about those critics whom I've cited is the extent to which they all contain an element of the truth. For example, it is undeniable that when in the "Ithaca" chapter Stephen rises to leave Bloom's house, Bloom is disappointed and forced to accept the "irreparability of the past"--that the loss of his own son cannot be redeemed by Stephen--and the "imprevidibility of the future"--the impossibility of predicting whether or not Stephen will ever even return. However, the poignance of their parting is not at all independent of their fusion; furthermore, although they part physically, they do not part spiritually because the beneficial effects of their fusion remain. Stephen learns to see Odyssean qualities of pacifism, paternity, and generosity through Bloom's exterior of foolish, uninformed pedantry, perceiving the hope for Bloom's recovery of his regenerative sexual relationship with Molly. S.L. Goldberg states that Bloom's "mature sanity is almost instinctive, or more accurately, habitual; his self is continuously and objectively realized in virtuous action" (Goldberg 186). It is even possible to agree, to some extent, with Stanley Sultan's 265 assertion that Stephen recognizes an agent of God in Bloom. However, this does not mean that Stephen accepts that the God of the Church or of the Bible "ordained" (Sultan 379) this revelation. Bloom is the emissary or mediator of no divine force; instead he is a sign of human spiritual grace as it emanates from a human world without divine aid. Also, if Bloom were a revelation about the God who ordained his presence, his significance would kn: complete in himself. Bloom's significance is not complete without the presence of the artist and his wife comprehended within the entire novel. Bloom needs the active will of his wife who will affirm him and the active labor of the artist who has the will to transfigure him into the intelligible word before he is complete as a spiritual sign the possibility of Irish regeneration. Stephen begins to recognize Bloom's positive qualities in the first chapter of this section, "Eumaeus," when Leopold tells his story about his meeting with Parnell. At this time, Parnell had fallen from his pinnacle of popularity in Ireland as a result of his scandal with Kitty O'Shea, and he is buffetted knraui insulting crowd and someone knocks off his hat. Ln an "orthodox Samaritan fashion" similar to his unselfish concern for Stephen, Bloom had recovered Parnell's hat and returned it to him. This courageous and kindly act brings into symbolic unity the figures of Parnell and the artist as potential fathers of their country who are scorned by the rabblement and aided by the foreigner. Of course the exceptional quality of Bloom's 266 character, illustrated by the resonance of these two acts of good samaritanism, rings with some difficulty through his usual foolish sounding, long winded, and uninformed synopsis of things in general; yet these qualities are conspicuous enough so that his pose of a man with an educated opinion on everything is aa regrettable, tiresome folly in a pacifistically exemplary character. It is after Stephen learns of Bloom's adventure with Parnell that he begins to drOp his sarcasm and rudeness toward Bloom, allowing the "fusion" which Joyce refers to in his schema to begin. Whereas at the beginning of the chapter Stephen's responses to Bloom's efforts to make conversation were abrupt and impatient, at the end of the chapter the two are truly speaking "té‘te-a-téte" (U 665), walking comfortably' arm-in-arm vwhfll the "enclosures of reticence" (g 682) removed, and speaking freely about a range of topics. At the beginning of the next chapter the two fuse into a "duumvirate" (U 666). On the literal level they are allied by a growing mutual respect, and on the symbolic level Bloom's Ulyssean qualities are the hopes of the future and Stephen is the artist who witnesses the personification of these hopes and who can translate these hopes into the word which will teach the yet unborn generations to be free from the suppressive enmities of their parents. Incidental to the discussion of the fall of Parnell in which Bloom participates (and incidental to most of the conversations in which he has participated throughout the day) are Bloom's thoughts on Molly's assumed infidelity with Blazes 267 Boylan. When thinking of Kitty O'Shea's husband, Bloom assumes him to be a man who was not "up to scratch," with nothing in common with his wife beyond the name. Then, when a "real man" (g 651) arrived on the scene in the form of Parnell, Kitty naturally used her charms to win him. Such thoughts cause Bloom to wonder whether or not Molly would be home when he returns. Bloom's fears (n? losing Molly, which have grown more and more accute throughout the day are finally alleviated in the next chapter, "Ithaca," when, as Stephen is leaving Bloom's house after a (nu) of Epps Cocoa, Bloom notices that there is a light on in her room. This light in the window reassures Leopold that his worst fears have not yet been realized, his wife has not left him for another man, and he has hope of winning back his place as her husband and as the father of a son of his own. This signals the contingent reconciliation between husband and wife which will be elaborated by their thoughts and actions in the two final chapters. The narrator (n? the "Ithaca" chapter, in cold, objective prose dramatizes the warmest fusions within the novel, and places these fusions activated in the microcosm of Bloom's house in the context of the macrocosm of infinite space and time. Joyce called the style a "mathematical cathechism. All events are resolved into their cosmic physical, psychical etc equivalents" (Letters, I, 146-147). According to Walton A. Litz's chapter on "Ithaca" in Hart and Hayman's James Joyce's Ulysses, the source of the catechistical style is, to a great 268 extent, a nineteenth century encyclopedia called Historical and Miscellaneous _Qfiuestions by Richmal Mangnall, "questions that any child might ask are phrased in simple form, while a voice of hectoring authority responds with a surfeit of information and misinformation" (Hart and Hayman 394). This style is not designed to demolish Stephen and Bloom into scattered fragmentary facts, lmwt rather t1) show their ultimate invulnerability to this view of them (Goldberg 130). Not only does Bloom enact a tender psychic and physical reconciliation with Molly, but the "duumvirate" (g 666) of Stephen and Leopold enact a psychic fusion of their disparate natures. Tindall is famous for having pointed out that Stephen's acceptance of Bloom's cocoa in "Ithaca," as opposed to his rejection of the coffee and roll which Bloom offered in "Eumaeus," is an indication of communion finally achieved between the two men. It is not unlikely that Joyce intended a symbolically religious meaning in this scene, as Tindall implies; however, it is the human warmth on the literal level upon which the chapter's significance must depend. Stephen is now eager to follow up every possible similarity between himself and Leopold as if to establish a basis for a relationship. Such warmth from Stephen indicates not only a shift in his relationship with Bloom, but Stephen has not shown such warmth to any character previously in Ulysses or, for that matter, in any of the novels in which he has been a character. Speaking freely and intimately together, both Stephen and Bloom "professed their disbelief in many orthodox 269 religious, national, social and. ethical doctrines" Q; 666), recognizimg their common atheism. Their "mutual reflections merge" also in their common interest in the sources of Celtic and Semitic languages and races, both traceable to the single root: "their antiquity, both having been taught on the plain of Shinar 242 years after the deluge in the seminary instituted by Fenius Farsaigh, descendant of Noah, progenitor of Israel, and ascendant of Heber and Heremon, progenitors of Ireland" (U 688). There are many more incidental connections between their lives: for example Stephen's godmother, Dante Riordan, who furiously disrupts the Christmas dinner in Portrait was the same woman that Bloom would kindly divert by pushing along on warm evenings in her bathchair when she became an invalid. Then as Stephen is leaving, the two men urinate together. Tindall refers to this moment as another communion, an "inconsiderable creation celebrating all creation" (Tindall 225), while Sultan refers to it as a kind of competition by which Bloom wins Molly. I think that, since Stephen suggested it, he had no competition in mind; and in spite of the symbolic communion which Tindall suggests, it is far more certain that their urinating together indicates trust and openness between the two men. The unlikely fusion of "Bloom Stoom" and "Stephen Blephen" (U 682) culminates in their handshake, an affirmation of mutual humanity and respect. Despite their fusion, Stephen refuses 1x) accept Bloom's offer 1x) stay rent free in the Bloom's "extemporized cubicle" (U 695), resulting 270 iJI Bloom's initial disappointment, Inn: ultimate equanimity. Stephen's refusal of domicile does not indicate that he absolutely rejects Bloom, but that he has learned to "separate in Bloom what he wants from what he doesn't want, redeem whatever is worth redeeming and let the rest go" ("Toward a Redefinition of Modernism" 552). This negotiated peace is indicated by the counterproposals that were "advanced, accepted, modified, declined, restated in other terms, reaccepted, ratified, reconfirmed" by the two men; in the spirit of true reciprocity the two agree to a kind of treaty, the text of which is dominated by neither one. Stephen, like Joyce, carries with him the knowledge of the beauty and love which common Dublin life, through its emissary Bloom/Hunter, can offer. This negotiation of a peace with common life allows him to generously say the prayer for the dying-~"Liliata rutilantium. Turma circumdet./ lubilantium te virginum. Chorus excipiat" (g 704)--in honor of his mother; and he can say this prayer without fear of her domination, for he can separate the love which she has given him from the debilitating demand to repent and serve God that the prayer had previously implied. After Stephen has left, it is now up to Leopold to negotiate a reconciliation with his wife by spiritually encountering her suitors. R.M. Adams (Surface and Symbol 35- 43) has made a very strong case for the fact that the twenty- five men which Bloom assumes that Molly has made love to during their marriage were, for the most part, not actually but potentially men who could have been her lovers. But, like the 271 phantasms of the "Circe" chapter, they can become debilitating obsessions if Bloom doesn't psychically come to terms with them as if they were real. He routs them by using what he learned from his encounter with Stephen, i.e., that he cannot dominate but must negotiate his peace with his wife. He is no bronze age warrior and there is no question of his exacting any retribution from Molly or Boylan; furthermore, violent retribution would not solve his problem. Instead he accepts that the domination of his wife's love life is meaningless: "each one who enters imagines himself to be first. . . whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone leéi series originating in and repeated to infinity" (U 731). More importantly, though, he is satisfied with Molly because her "adipose posterior female hemispheres redolent of milk and honey" provide him with satisfying food for thought, eliciting "An approximate errection. . . .a tentative revelation; a silent contemplation" (g 734). He appears to equanimously defeat his obsession with Molly's infidelity by agreeing to participate in love's old sweet song, and accepting that he cannot dominate it. As his appreciation for his wife increases Bloom leans over her sleeping form and kisses her bum with "prolonged osculation." His kiss awakens Molly, and both Leopold and Molly feel unusual sexual excitement; as a result spiritual fusion takes place between them. Their thoughts independently travel along the same psychic lines, each recalling how long it has been since full mental and physical intercourse has taken 272 place between them ("10 years, 5 months, and 18 days" [U 736]). An undeniable longing emanates from the cold, analytical language of this psychic reconciliation of sexual and mental barriers between them. The genuineness (HE this kiss is emphasized in the next chapter when Molly thinks that this kiss is the result of Leopold's guilt for his affair with Martha Clifford (although Molly doesn't know to whom he is writing letters, she knows that there is another woman). As Bloom's thoughts make clear, his kiss results not from guilt but from overwhelming affection. Despite the overwhelming affection which brings about Bloom's kiss, I have found very few people besides myself convinced that this is a decisive manly act (Sultan 412) on Bloom's part. However, at any rate, the chapter can very defensibly be said at least to end ambivalently, for Bloom, the "childman weary, the manchild in the womb"--the symbol of human possibility--has made his successful return home in the face of hardships and obstacles: "He rests. He has travelled" (U 737). Bloom's return is conflated with the successful return of Sinbad the Sailor to his home. Bloom's return "with" Sinbad the Sailor also takes place "when" the "Roc's auk's egg" of Sinbad is in his bed. The roc's egg in the nineteenth century signifies something marvelous and unattainable (See Thackery's The Newcomes, chapter xlvii). The egg is "square-round," indicating the impossible achievement of squaring the circle which he meditated earlier (U 718). In other words, Bloom has succeeded in overcoming the obstacles which stood in the way of 273 his realizing his own infinite possibilities, and he shall emerge the next day vfi131lall the fresh possibilities of humanity Open to him. Although he has not made love to Molly, it is also clear that he is no longer unmanned in the sense that he has not failed to make an act of reconciliation. Bloom's recovery from self-imposed paralysis, although provisionally successful, is not complete without Molly's acceptance of him. At the end of "Ithaca" Molly emerges as "Gea-Tellus, fulfilled, recumbent, big with seed" (2 737). It is true that on the literal level, Molly is full of the seed of Blazes Boylan, not the seed of Leopold. However, Boylan's seed is soon to be purged by Molly's menstruation in the final chapter of the novel. On the spiritual level, however, Molly is big with the seed of reconciliation begun by Leopold's prolonged kiss on lmnrlmun, a seed which fecundates Molly's capacity to rebear Bloom by affirming his role as her husband. Her "incipient excitation" (U 735) after Leopold's kiss, puts forth a shoot of sexual feeling which in the final chapter, "Penelope," symbolically flowers into 51 desire conflating the lovers whom she has had or imagined since she was sixteen, from Lieutenant Mulvey who shared her first kiss beneath the Moorish wall to the last kiss which she has just received from Leopold, and, of course, including her recent adventure with Boylan. This efflorescence also includes Stephen Dedalus whom she has, only in passing, imagined sleeping with, a: fantasy resulting mostly from her embarrassment upon hearing that Bloom has shown Stephen her 274 photograph, and it includes a fictional Spanish prince, Don Miguel de la Flora, to whom she had claimed to be affianced when Mulvey was courting her. From her reminiscences and her present sexual stimulation issues forth the image of Bloom as the man to whom her thoughts most frequently return, signifying her exuberant acceptance of her husband. One should not be misled into thinking that the presence of other men in her thoughts is a threat to Leopold. Her upsurge of passion for Bloom is partially the result of her having been so brutally ploughed by Boylan and so deeply kissed by Lieutenant Mulvey. As with all of us for whom the love that we feel for one person results to a great extent from the love that we have known for ourselves and others throughout our lives, Molly's acceptance of Leopold results partialLy from the love which she has experienced previously. I am not limiting Molly's regenerative role, as Richard Ellmann limits it (Ulysses on the Liffey 172), in the novel to her menstruation as Joyce's idea of the symbolic consecration of love, although her menstruation conteracts Leopold's nightmare vision of the "Circe" chapter in which Boylan impregnates Molly. I am claiming that Molly is much more conscious than this, that she consecrates her love for Leopold with her judgement; she compares and she contrasts; finally, she imaginatively fuses the details of her experience into a symbol as Stephen and Leopold do; for example she conflates her first kiss with Lieutenant Mulvey on the Rock of Gibraltar with the passionate moment in which Leopold "wildly 275 lay upon her" on the Hill of Howth and she conflates her fictional lover, Don Miguel de la Flora, with Leopold--"Don Poldo de la Flora" (g 778). This conflation does not indicate indiscriminateness; although she is less inhibited than any other character in the novel, she is not a naturalistic force of "unconscious undifferentiating animation" as S.L. Goldberg claims (The Classical Temper 297). She is capable of preferring Bloom to other men--Poldy has more "spunk" than Boylan, more brains than Henry Doyle, and more responsibility than most of the Dublin barflies such as Martin Cunningham, Fanny McCoy's husband, or either of the Dedaluses--and within her sphere of experience she is as imaginatively conscious as Stephen, Bloom, or Joyce himself. She is capable of selecting the best instants of her love life and rejecting those she dislikes, and from her meditations she spiritually rebears Leopold as the one who embodies the best of all of the love she has known. Her incipient excitation which Leopold initiated out of love in the "Ithaca" chapter sets in motion within Molly's imagination a fusion of all of the best moments which she can recall from her love life, a fusion which bursts full blown into her passionate renewal of love for flowers in general, and for Bloom in particular: among the rhodedendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes. . .he said I was the flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life . . . yes that was why I like him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is (U 781) 276 In spite of the digressions in her thoughts which I indicate by elipses (digressions are IN) less characteristic (us both Leopolds' and Stephen's internal monologues) her thoughts have a definite direction which is qualified as she meditates. The direction of her thoughts is undeniably her emotional acceptance (If Leopold. Stephen's mother at the enui of Portrait had hoped that he would learn what the heart is and what it feels; this is something that Bloom has known all along according to Molly, and for that reason she accepts him. Joyce said that by the end of the day Bloom should overshadow them all, and Bloom does. He is the end of Stephen's quest for an understanding of the human heart and he is the end of Molly's quest for a man who can understand her and ultimateLy want her; However, the full regenerative potential for Ireland i1; represented lJl the mutual reconciliations of all three major characters: Molly, Leopold, and Stephen. Stephen overcomes his resistance to the regenerative spirit which originates in the mundane reality of his family and his country. Leopold has learned to recover his desire for his wife and his role as a husband and father. Molly has reviewed the limitations of her marriage and has decided to "just give him one more chance" (U 780). She decides to "make him want me" (Q 781), so that her desire for Leopold corresponds with his renewed desire for her. Although Molly thinks that Bloom's expression of desire is merely a ruse to hide his guilt, the reader knows that Bloom's desire arose 277 from sincere feeling, and the propitious coincidence of mutual passion signals the dawning of a possibility for intercourse which had lain asleep for over ten years. "Man and woman, out of you comes the nation that is to come" stated Joyce back in 1904; and "to those multitudes not as yet in the wombs of humanity but surely engenderable there, he [the artist] would give the word." This word would supplant the suppressive "paralysis of an insane society" and cause a "confederate will to issue forth in action" ("A portrait" 34-8). This plan for the regeneration of Ireland is a human one, enacted without divine aid. This plan is a non- violent one which depends upon a confederate will and supplants the insane competitive will of those who would close off the regenerative variety of human life. This confederate will involves the reconciliation of men-with women and the reconciliation of the artist with common life. In Ulysses these reconciliations are earned through the main characters' confrontations with the violence of their surroundings and with the violence of their own impulses. No, Molly and Bloom do not make love; Stephen does not create a work of art. It is not Joyce's style to violently close off the possibilities of which distinct lives are capable; instead it is Joyce's style to remove the inner and outer obstacles which suppress their possibilities. This is the success of Ulysses. Without their acceptance of each other Bloom's despondency, Stephen's bondage to remorse, and Molly's restriction to the brutal lust of Boylan would form prisons that would not allow them to realize 278 the love that could free them once they accept it. They progress from rejection to acceptance, from refusal to affirmation, from self-containment to synergism. None of the characters knows that rue is part of this overall scheme, just as none knows that he is a participant in chapters which together form a human body. Stephen is not the artist who creates the novel, he is only the artist who is reconciled with common life. The artist who creates the novel knows more than Stephen or any other character; he outflanks the characters and makes them part of a scheme of which they have no idea. Their synergism causes the separate organs which, according to the Gilbert and Linati schema are active parts of each chapter of the novel, to fuse into one vital body which rises whole amid the paralysis constituting the Dublin milieu. Together, through their active synergism, they achieve, through the novel a fruitful body of which none would have been capable independently, just as the synergism of Stephen, Leopold, and Molly liberates each of them from their limitations. The body which has been symbolically assembled, organ by organ, throughout the novel, having been charged with feeling, defeats all of the suppressive inertia which threaten the body of Dublin throughout the novel. According the Gilbert schema, the color of this chapter progresses from "starry milky" to "new dawn." From the long night, haunted by the spectres of these Dubliners' suppressed feelings and relationships, awakens a living body composed of the voices whose inhibitions and enmities have been liberated. 279 CONCLUS ION What I find most impressive about Joyce's artistic pacifism is its sincerity which is evident in his willingness to discern the violence of his own opposition to violence and to pick that beam from his eye. As his career advances, he becomes more introspective, but this doesn't mean that he becomes solipsistic. Instead, he incrementally pushes himself toward the goal of arguing against violence without becoming violent himself, and by seeing the violence which originates within himself, he becomes more receptive to the beauty and grace of Dublin life, allowing him the means by which the artist may fuse with Dublin life without becoming subject to its violence. Such a program of introspection is not easy to follow, and as Joyce's career makes evident, it is far easier to theorize a true pacifism than to enact it within the complexities of human interaction. In; I have discussed, Joyce's Opposition to violence in his art is at first escapist, then purgative, then synergistic. Each new phase is a criticism of the previous phases. In my chapter on Dubliners, I discuss Joyce' s purgative irony which the narrative voice directs toward the Dublin community. Joyce eventually discovers that this ironic technique of modern rivalry permits the artist to Oppose violence in theory while complying with it in action. Then "The Dead" dramatizes a synergism between the ironic sophisticate and the Dublin paralytic community; this synergism 280 results in the reciprocal regeneration of both the sophisticate euxi the community; In chapter two I discussed Joyce's change from an purgative to a synergistic opposition to the violence cfif his earlier romanticism. In Portrait rma creates an autobiographical novel in which the synergism of Opposing sensibilities within the artist is so far superior to the purgation of an opposing sensibility that the novel forms a criticism of his purgative novel Stephen Hero. Not only does he give renewed life to his romantic voice in Portrait through his synergistic technique, but twenty years after he had abandoned Stephen Hero, Joyce gives Sylvia Beach (fig 683) permission to publish Stephen Hero (he had earlier tried to destroy it) in spite of his distaste for it, showing his evolved non-violent attitude even toward his purgative irony-~for denial of his Daedalan voice would repress that phase of his artistic life. Also, in 1907 Joyce had shown the same non-repressive attitude toward his romantic Chamber Music poems: "I don't like the book [Chamber Music]," said Joyce, "but I wish it were published and be damned to it" (SE 153). In my discussion of Ulysses, I discuss Joyce's detailed dramatization Of the artist who sheds his violent resistance to the common life of Dublin; and I discuss the paradigmatic husband and wife who shed their resistance to each other. As each paradigmatic element in the novel sheds his own violence, he creates the conditions which make synergism possible, and learns to recover his regenerative potential. 281 All of this work anticipates Finnegans Wake, a work which as Harry Levin states, I enjoy reading about far more than enjoy writing about. However, without analyzing the work in detail it is evident that Joyce is working toward the pacifistic synergism (n5 opposites on ea universal scale. Despite the welter Of detail and the polyglot reverberations of the language, the end product of the work is always fusion rather than fragmentation. Humanity in (fine Wake is "hemiparalysed" (177.5) ln( being divided against itself, and Joyce's artistic act is to reconstitute the disparate elements. As opposed to his previous works in which he selected the most paradigmatic examples of violence, in the Wake, Joyce elaborates his synergistic pacifism with every conceivable trope. The opening battle of the Wake is only a foreshadowing of the struggles that take place throughout the novel. From the Crimean War and the war between God and Satan on the macrosmic level, to 13m: primal conflict between the brothers Shem and Shaun, the violence of all human experience forms the material upon which Joyce cumulatively dramatizes his synergistic pacifism. As Bernard Benstock states, "This is the mankind with which the sensitive rebellious exile artist chose to ally himself during his mature years; this is the cast of his epic portrait of his age as he felt himself living it" (Joyce-Again's Wake 263). At the opening of the final chapter, Joyce concedes that only through an alliance with mankind can the artist fully realize himself; in the line "Securest jubilends albas Temoram" (598.13-14), Joyce is quoting St. 282 Augustine's line securus iudicat orbis terrarum, which means essentially that those men cannot be good who cut themselves off from the rest of the world. The world needs the artist and the artist needs the world; and more generally, following Vico's notion that "every power in nature must evolve an opposite in order to realize itself and opposition brings reunion etc etc" (SL 306), antagonists need to non-violently relinquish their antagonism and to fuse with each other in order to realize their full potential and regenerate the world. 283 WORKS CITED Adams, R.M.. Surface and Symbol. New York: Oxford University Press, 1967. Beck, Warren. Joyce's ‘Dubliners: Substance, ‘Vision, anxl Art. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1960 Beja, Morris. 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