I’m going to tell you something. An admission so dark, so profane, it just might cause you to question my moral integrity. Are you ready? Here it is: I’ve finished reading Part One of Lolita and...I LIKED IT.
Now, I know what you may be thinking. How can you like that book? Don’t you find it repulsive? Don’t you find it to be at least slightly pornographic? Considering the novel’s subject matter, these are perfectly valid questions. I, too, might be a little concerned about someone who went around admitting he (or she, but more so a he) liked Lolita. But before you navigate away in disgust–if you haven’t already–please allow me a chance to explain.
In no way am I trying to suggest that reading the first half of Lolita caused me no discomfort whatsoever. Quite the contrary, in fact. There were several scenes which caused me to squirm in my seat and provoked my eyes to scan the page a bit faster than normal. Take, for example, the scene in which Humbert Humbert, Lolita’s perverse narrator, spies Lo for the first time and is instantly reminded of his former “nymphet” lover, Annabel:
It was the same child–the same frail, honey-hued shoulders, the same silky supple bare back, the same chestnut head of hair...I recognized the tiny dark-brown mole on her side... I saw again her lovely indrawn abdomen where my southbound mouth had briefly paused, and those puerile hips on which I had kissed the crenulated imprint left by the band of her shorts.
For obvious reasons, this is not an easy passage to read. But for every uncomfortable scene such as this, there are seemingly dozens more that contain examples of Nabokov’s literary prowess. Evocative phrases such as “in a princedom by the sea” or “Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons.” Homonymic wordplay such as “Our Glass Lake” versus “Hourglass Lake.” An impressive vocabulary that includes words such as “procrustean,” “cantrip,” and “tendresse.” And don’t forget that famous opening line: “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”
I guess what I’m trying to say is that thus far the good far outweighs the bad. Yes, there are scenes in Part One of Lolita that many readers might (should?) find objectionable and not so easy to read, but they are relatively few and far between. Ultimately, readers are rewarded for their fortitude with glimpses of Nabokov at play, which is truly a joy to experience.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Chapters II & III
Chapter II
In Chapter I of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, we saw Stephen Dedalus morph from a “small and weak” and, in some ways, sheltered boy into a bright student whose awakening to the world around him leads to the formation of his worldview. In Chapters II and III, on the other hand, Stephen’s freshly shaped worldview is altered by events beyond his control leaving him restless in his heart and in his soul. These chapters chronicle Stephen’s loss of innocence and his decline into sin.
Chapter II opens with Stephen and his family spending what will be their final days of “comfort and revelry” at the family home in Blackrock, a suburb of Dublin. His innocence still intact, Stephen views the world through the eyes of a romantic. Each night, Stephen reads from Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo, while forming a strong association with the novel. Edmond Dantes, Dumas’ protagonist, “stood forth in his mind for whatever he had heard or divined in childhood of the strange and terrible.” Taken with the notion of romantic love, Stephen envisions “another Mercedes” (Mercedes being Edmond Dantes’ fiancé) living in a white house just outside of Blackrock. Furthermore, Stephen believes his first sexual experience will occur with this real-life equivalent of Mercedes: “They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst...and in that moment of supreme tenderness...he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment.”
However, Stephen’s worldview, the source of his innocence, begins to crack under the strain of his family’s financial misfortune. “For some time he had felt the slight change in his house; and those changes in what he had deemed unchangeable were so many slight shocks to his boyish conception of the world.” Forced to give up the estate in Blackrock, the Dedalus family takes up residence in Dublin proper and Stephen is enrolled in Belvedere College, another Jesuit-run school.
For Stephen, Dublin is a “new and complex sensation.” With his Uncle Charles now too “witless that he could no longer be sent out on errands” and the rest of his family busy settling into the new house, Stephen finds himself free to wander the city. Walking near the docks “wakened again in him the unrest which had sent him wandering in the evening from garden to garden in search of Mercedes.” Disillusioned and angry with “the change of fortune which was reshaping the world about him into a vision of squalor and insincerity,” Stephen begins walking the city at night in an attempt to “appease the fierce longings of his heart.” After wandering into “a maze of narrow and dirty streets” in Dublin’s brothel district, Stephen’s romantic vision of love turns into pure lust as he lays eyes on the “leisurely and perfumed” women. Relinquishing the chastity he was saving for his Mercedes, he succumbs to sin and loses his virginity to a prostitute.
Chapter III
The end of Chapter II marks Stephen’s passage from innocence to a life of sin. Now 16 years old and a student of Belvedere College, Stephen possesses a “sin-loving” soul in which a “cold lucid indifference” reigns. He is now visiting the brothels regularly, despite knowing that “while he stood in danger of eternal damnation for the first sin alone, by every succeeding sin he multiplied his guilt and his punishment.” Initially, Stephen feared his dalliances with Dublin’s women of the night would leave his body or his soul “maimed by the excess.” Instead, he finds “a dark peace” has been established between the two planes.
Stephen is finally forced to re-evaluate the state of his soul by an unexpected visit from Father Arnell, his “old master” at Clongowes. The sight of Father Arnell brings back childhood memories of the old school. As Stephen recounts these memories, his soul becomes “ a child’s soul.” For the first time since his sins began, Stephen realizes he has “sunk to the state of a beast” and that his soul was “fattening and congealing into a gross grease.” At last, fear begins to creep into Stephen’s mind as he contemplates the consequences of his actions.
While listening to a fire and brimstone sermon delivered by Father Arnall, Stephen’s piety is suddenly renewed. He flees the chapel with “his legs shaking and the scalp of his head trembling as though is had been touched by ghostly fingers.” Later that night, Stephen is gripped by the sudden urge to confess each and every sin. Not wishing to admit his trespasses among his schoolmates, Stephen finds a chapel away from the campus and makes his first confession in eight months. With his soul finally purged, Stephen takes the sacrament and commits himself to a life of “grace and virtue and happiness.”
In Chapter I of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, we saw Stephen Dedalus morph from a “small and weak” and, in some ways, sheltered boy into a bright student whose awakening to the world around him leads to the formation of his worldview. In Chapters II and III, on the other hand, Stephen’s freshly shaped worldview is altered by events beyond his control leaving him restless in his heart and in his soul. These chapters chronicle Stephen’s loss of innocence and his decline into sin.
Chapter II opens with Stephen and his family spending what will be their final days of “comfort and revelry” at the family home in Blackrock, a suburb of Dublin. His innocence still intact, Stephen views the world through the eyes of a romantic. Each night, Stephen reads from Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo, while forming a strong association with the novel. Edmond Dantes, Dumas’ protagonist, “stood forth in his mind for whatever he had heard or divined in childhood of the strange and terrible.” Taken with the notion of romantic love, Stephen envisions “another Mercedes” (Mercedes being Edmond Dantes’ fiancé) living in a white house just outside of Blackrock. Furthermore, Stephen believes his first sexual experience will occur with this real-life equivalent of Mercedes: “They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst...and in that moment of supreme tenderness...he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment.”
However, Stephen’s worldview, the source of his innocence, begins to crack under the strain of his family’s financial misfortune. “For some time he had felt the slight change in his house; and those changes in what he had deemed unchangeable were so many slight shocks to his boyish conception of the world.” Forced to give up the estate in Blackrock, the Dedalus family takes up residence in Dublin proper and Stephen is enrolled in Belvedere College, another Jesuit-run school.
For Stephen, Dublin is a “new and complex sensation.” With his Uncle Charles now too “witless that he could no longer be sent out on errands” and the rest of his family busy settling into the new house, Stephen finds himself free to wander the city. Walking near the docks “wakened again in him the unrest which had sent him wandering in the evening from garden to garden in search of Mercedes.” Disillusioned and angry with “the change of fortune which was reshaping the world about him into a vision of squalor and insincerity,” Stephen begins walking the city at night in an attempt to “appease the fierce longings of his heart.” After wandering into “a maze of narrow and dirty streets” in Dublin’s brothel district, Stephen’s romantic vision of love turns into pure lust as he lays eyes on the “leisurely and perfumed” women. Relinquishing the chastity he was saving for his Mercedes, he succumbs to sin and loses his virginity to a prostitute.
Chapter III
The end of Chapter II marks Stephen’s passage from innocence to a life of sin. Now 16 years old and a student of Belvedere College, Stephen possesses a “sin-loving” soul in which a “cold lucid indifference” reigns. He is now visiting the brothels regularly, despite knowing that “while he stood in danger of eternal damnation for the first sin alone, by every succeeding sin he multiplied his guilt and his punishment.” Initially, Stephen feared his dalliances with Dublin’s women of the night would leave his body or his soul “maimed by the excess.” Instead, he finds “a dark peace” has been established between the two planes.
Stephen is finally forced to re-evaluate the state of his soul by an unexpected visit from Father Arnell, his “old master” at Clongowes. The sight of Father Arnell brings back childhood memories of the old school. As Stephen recounts these memories, his soul becomes “ a child’s soul.” For the first time since his sins began, Stephen realizes he has “sunk to the state of a beast” and that his soul was “fattening and congealing into a gross grease.” At last, fear begins to creep into Stephen’s mind as he contemplates the consequences of his actions.
While listening to a fire and brimstone sermon delivered by Father Arnall, Stephen’s piety is suddenly renewed. He flees the chapel with “his legs shaking and the scalp of his head trembling as though is had been touched by ghostly fingers.” Later that night, Stephen is gripped by the sudden urge to confess each and every sin. Not wishing to admit his trespasses among his schoolmates, Stephen finds a chapel away from the campus and makes his first confession in eight months. With his soul finally purged, Stephen takes the sacrament and commits himself to a life of “grace and virtue and happiness.”
Thursday, November 12, 2009
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Chapter I
Chapter I of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce’s first novel, focuses on the most impressionable years of its protagonist, Stephen Dedalus. The novel opens with a series of Stephen’s earliest memories, presented in snapshot-like recollections as told by a child. Stephen remembers his father telling him the story of a “moocow” and a “nicens little boy named baby tuckoo.” Then, in rapid succession, Stephen goes on to remember the feel of wetting the bed (“first it is warm then it gets cold”), recalls singing and dancing while his governess Dante and his Uncle Charles clapped, and his proclamation that he will grow up to marry Eileen Vance, the neighbors’ daughter.
From there, we fast-forward to Stephen’s days at Clongowes Wood College, the same Jesuit boarding school Joyce himself attended as a boy. Here the narrative of the story evolves into a more mature tone in order to reflect Stephen’s age. Having said goodbye to his mother and father, Stephen watches his schoolmates playing a game of soccer. Feeling “small and weak” in comparison, he does not participate in the match, and instead observes from the sidelines, “feigning to run now and then.” Stephen’s physical inferiority is both a blessing and a curse. The inability to assimilate himself into the athletic realm forces Stephen to seek comfort and success in the academic realm. However, as a result, Stephen is subjected to some mild bullying from his schoolmates.
In this chapter, it is made clear that Stephen possesses a stronger moral fiber than the other boys at Clongowes. In one scene Stephen is pushed into a cesspool by a boy named Wells. Remembering his father’s admonishment to never “peach on a fellow,” Stephen remains quiet and lets the incident slide, thus sparing Wells from punishment. In return, Stephen contracts an infection and must spend some time recuperating in the infirmary. In Stephen’s mind such actions are saint-like; however, his innocence and sense of morality, both products of his devout beliefs, leave him open to manipulation.
Near the end of the chapter, Stephen’s eyeglasses are inadvertently broken as he is jostled by a careless schoolmate. While he waits for a new pair to arrive from his parents, Stephen has been excused from his studies by Father Arnell, a prefect at Clongowes. As Stephen sits quietly while the other boys work, Father Dolan, a much more rigid prefect, pays an unexpected visit and chastises Stephen for not working. Convinced Stephen broke his own glasses in order to avoid schoolwork, Father Dolan punishes him with a rap on each hand from a “pandybat.” Father Dolan’s accusation of lying stings Stephen’s heart just as much, if not more, than the pandybat stung his hands. Though angry, he is willing to remain silent and simply forget the matter. However, his classmates, who have received similar punishments from Father Dolan, are able to convince Stephen that the punishment was not only unjust but excessive and that the incident should be reported. Fearing further reprimands from Father Dolan and seeing an opportunity to gain the respect of his schoolmates, Stephen ignores his father’s warning to never tattle and reports the incident to the rector, Father Conmee. As he re-emerges from Father Conmee’s office, Stephen is suddenly seen as a hero in the eyes of his schoolmates. Celebrating the only way they know how, the boys hoist Stephen onto their shoulders as if he had just scored the winning goal in a heated soccer match.
Early in this chapter , we see that Stephen views the world from the eyes of a poet, even as a young boy. As he watches the “rough boys” at play, he sees the ball as a “greasy leather orb” that flies “like a heavy bird through the grey light.” As an aspiring poet, wordplay becomes important to Stephen and he revels in the ambiguity of the English language: “He kept his hands in the side pockets of his belted grey suit. That was a belt round his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow a belt. One day a fellow had said to Cantwell: I’d give you such a belt in a second.” His romance with words and language will ultimately bring Stephen recognition (and a small bit of wealth) not as a poet, but as an essayist.
As a young scholar, Stephen is happiest when engaged in academic pursuits. This may be seen in the contrast between the interior (mental) and the exterior (physical) worlds in which Stephen moves. The interior of Clongowes is often associated with images of fires or fireplaces, symbolizing warmth or happiness. Conversely, the exterior of Clongowes is usually depicted as “cold” or “grey,” symbolizing isolation, alienation, and unhappiness. “It would be better to be in the study hall than out there in the cold,” Stephen notes. “The sky was pale and cold but there were lights in the castle.”
Chapter I ends on a victorious and optimistic note for Stephen. His confession to Father Conmee regarding Father Dolan’s unjust punishment has earned him some respect and acceptance among his peers and the act has left him feeling “happy and free.” However, Fate is about to deal the Dedalus family a bad hand which, for Stephen, will destroy “any vision of the future.”
From there, we fast-forward to Stephen’s days at Clongowes Wood College, the same Jesuit boarding school Joyce himself attended as a boy. Here the narrative of the story evolves into a more mature tone in order to reflect Stephen’s age. Having said goodbye to his mother and father, Stephen watches his schoolmates playing a game of soccer. Feeling “small and weak” in comparison, he does not participate in the match, and instead observes from the sidelines, “feigning to run now and then.” Stephen’s physical inferiority is both a blessing and a curse. The inability to assimilate himself into the athletic realm forces Stephen to seek comfort and success in the academic realm. However, as a result, Stephen is subjected to some mild bullying from his schoolmates.
In this chapter, it is made clear that Stephen possesses a stronger moral fiber than the other boys at Clongowes. In one scene Stephen is pushed into a cesspool by a boy named Wells. Remembering his father’s admonishment to never “peach on a fellow,” Stephen remains quiet and lets the incident slide, thus sparing Wells from punishment. In return, Stephen contracts an infection and must spend some time recuperating in the infirmary. In Stephen’s mind such actions are saint-like; however, his innocence and sense of morality, both products of his devout beliefs, leave him open to manipulation.
Near the end of the chapter, Stephen’s eyeglasses are inadvertently broken as he is jostled by a careless schoolmate. While he waits for a new pair to arrive from his parents, Stephen has been excused from his studies by Father Arnell, a prefect at Clongowes. As Stephen sits quietly while the other boys work, Father Dolan, a much more rigid prefect, pays an unexpected visit and chastises Stephen for not working. Convinced Stephen broke his own glasses in order to avoid schoolwork, Father Dolan punishes him with a rap on each hand from a “pandybat.” Father Dolan’s accusation of lying stings Stephen’s heart just as much, if not more, than the pandybat stung his hands. Though angry, he is willing to remain silent and simply forget the matter. However, his classmates, who have received similar punishments from Father Dolan, are able to convince Stephen that the punishment was not only unjust but excessive and that the incident should be reported. Fearing further reprimands from Father Dolan and seeing an opportunity to gain the respect of his schoolmates, Stephen ignores his father’s warning to never tattle and reports the incident to the rector, Father Conmee. As he re-emerges from Father Conmee’s office, Stephen is suddenly seen as a hero in the eyes of his schoolmates. Celebrating the only way they know how, the boys hoist Stephen onto their shoulders as if he had just scored the winning goal in a heated soccer match.
Early in this chapter , we see that Stephen views the world from the eyes of a poet, even as a young boy. As he watches the “rough boys” at play, he sees the ball as a “greasy leather orb” that flies “like a heavy bird through the grey light.” As an aspiring poet, wordplay becomes important to Stephen and he revels in the ambiguity of the English language: “He kept his hands in the side pockets of his belted grey suit. That was a belt round his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow a belt. One day a fellow had said to Cantwell: I’d give you such a belt in a second.” His romance with words and language will ultimately bring Stephen recognition (and a small bit of wealth) not as a poet, but as an essayist.
As a young scholar, Stephen is happiest when engaged in academic pursuits. This may be seen in the contrast between the interior (mental) and the exterior (physical) worlds in which Stephen moves. The interior of Clongowes is often associated with images of fires or fireplaces, symbolizing warmth or happiness. Conversely, the exterior of Clongowes is usually depicted as “cold” or “grey,” symbolizing isolation, alienation, and unhappiness. “It would be better to be in the study hall than out there in the cold,” Stephen notes. “The sky was pale and cold but there were lights in the castle.”
Chapter I ends on a victorious and optimistic note for Stephen. His confession to Father Conmee regarding Father Dolan’s unjust punishment has earned him some respect and acceptance among his peers and the act has left him feeling “happy and free.” However, Fate is about to deal the Dedalus family a bad hand which, for Stephen, will destroy “any vision of the future.”
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: A Brief Overview
James Joyce published A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in 1916, after re-working a stalled manuscript titled Stephen Hero. Portrait, Joyce’s first novel, chronicles the intellectual awakening of Stephen Dedalus (a.k.a. Joyce’s alter-ego), one of the protagonists of Ulysses. As the title suggests, Portrait is the most autobiographical of Joyce’s works. The novel is a fictionalized and highly condensed version of Joyce’s boyhood education in the Jesuit schools of Clongowes Wood College and Belvedere College. It might also be noted that Portrait serves as a prequel of sorts to Ulysses.
Portrait is a prime example of the Kunstlerroman, (novel of the artist), which is an offshoot of the Bildungsroman (coming-of-age novel). Typically, the Kunstlerroman examines the artist’s development from childhood to the point at which his or her artistic potential is realized. Other examples of the artist’s novel include Richard Wright’s Black Boy, Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, and Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield. What is interesting about Portrait, however, is that this development occurs in the mind of its protagonist, Stephen Dedalus. Through a series of epiphanies, Dedalus’ intellect gradually develops, and this process is reflected in the novel’s narrative style. Beginning with snapshot-like memories of a schoolboy and ending with the theoretical musings of a young university student, we witness the metamorphosis of the introspective and philosophical Stephen Dedalus.
Unlike Ulysses, I will not be reading Portrait for the first time. My initial encounter with the novel occurred a few years ago in college. Back then, I studied the novel in relation to the Modernist period of literature and the ways in which it compared and contrasted with its contemporaries. However, this time around I am interested in seeing how the novel leads up to Ulysses as well as seeing if Portrait helps shine some light on Joyce’s more difficult work.
Portrait is a prime example of the Kunstlerroman, (novel of the artist), which is an offshoot of the Bildungsroman (coming-of-age novel). Typically, the Kunstlerroman examines the artist’s development from childhood to the point at which his or her artistic potential is realized. Other examples of the artist’s novel include Richard Wright’s Black Boy, Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, and Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield. What is interesting about Portrait, however, is that this development occurs in the mind of its protagonist, Stephen Dedalus. Through a series of epiphanies, Dedalus’ intellect gradually develops, and this process is reflected in the novel’s narrative style. Beginning with snapshot-like memories of a schoolboy and ending with the theoretical musings of a young university student, we witness the metamorphosis of the introspective and philosophical Stephen Dedalus.
Unlike Ulysses, I will not be reading Portrait for the first time. My initial encounter with the novel occurred a few years ago in college. Back then, I studied the novel in relation to the Modernist period of literature and the ways in which it compared and contrasted with its contemporaries. However, this time around I am interested in seeing how the novel leads up to Ulysses as well as seeing if Portrait helps shine some light on Joyce’s more difficult work.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Great Gatsby Quotes
"In my younger and more vulernable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.
'Whenever you feel like critizing anyone,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.'" -- Nick Carraway, Chapter 1
"Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 1
"Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction--Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life..." Nick Carraway, Chapter 1
"No--Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it was what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 1
"I'm p-paralyzed with happiness." --Daisy Buchanan, Chapter 1
"It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it..." --Nick Carraway describing Daisy, Chapter 1
"'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.'" --Daisy, on the birth of her daughter, Chapter 1
"This is a valley of ashes--a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens, where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air." Nick Carraway, Chapter 2
"Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtures, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever met." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 3
"On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages along shore the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby's house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 4
"No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 5
"'Can't repeat the past?' he cried incredulously. "Why of course you can!" --Gatsby, Chapter 6
"'Her voice is full of money,' he said suddenly." --Gatsby describing Daisy, Chapter 7
"So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 7
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." Nick Carraway, Chapter 9
'Whenever you feel like critizing anyone,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.'" -- Nick Carraway, Chapter 1
"Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 1
"Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction--Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life..." Nick Carraway, Chapter 1
"No--Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it was what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 1
"I'm p-paralyzed with happiness." --Daisy Buchanan, Chapter 1
"It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it..." --Nick Carraway describing Daisy, Chapter 1
"'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool--that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.'" --Daisy, on the birth of her daughter, Chapter 1
"This is a valley of ashes--a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens, where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air." Nick Carraway, Chapter 2
"Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtures, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever met." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 3
"On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages along shore the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby's house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 4
"No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 5
"'Can't repeat the past?' he cried incredulously. "Why of course you can!" --Gatsby, Chapter 6
"'Her voice is full of money,' he said suddenly." --Gatsby describing Daisy, Chapter 7
"So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight." --Nick Carraway, Chapter 7
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." Nick Carraway, Chapter 9
Sunday, November 8, 2009
From Ulysses to The Great Gatsby
A number of years ago–never mind how many exactly–I was walking home from school when suddenly the idyllic autumn afternoon was disrupted by a strong, hindering wind. For several seconds, it felt as though a large, invisible hand was pushing me backwards. By leaning forward and squinting my watery eyes, I managed to take several strained steps forward before the wind died down. For the few moments it took my body to adjust to the sudden lack of resistance, I felt weightless and fleet of foot. Though still walking, I felt as if I were sprinting home.
That same feeling returned to me as I transitioned from Ulysses to The Great Gatsby. For six nights I had been bogged down by James Joyce’s allusions and chaotic stream of consciousness narrative. By the time I finished the novel, I was exhausted. I felt as though as I had executed the mental equivalent of walking a mile through knee-deep muck. As I began reading Gatsby, however, I felt like an Olympic sprinter. My steps were quick and light as I burned through half the novel in one sitting.
That is not to say that Gatsby is inferior to Ulysses. Both are carefully crafted masterpieces. Both works encompass and embody their respective countries. Both Joyce and Fitzgerald were masters of fiction and to this day remain influential authors. Where the two authors (and their novels) seem to part company, however, may be seen in the means by which they chose to tell their respective tales. Joyce’s account of a day in the life of Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom is a dense and indulgent exploration of the boundaries of English prose. Gatsby, on the other hand, is sparse and assuming, but by no means insubstantial.
Unlike Ulysses, I have read The Great Gatsby before–once in high school and twice now for pleasure. In some ways, the novel was new to me this time around. For example, the character of Jay Gatsby is younger than I remembered. I had previously envisioned him as a silver-haired, distinguished gentlemen in the twilight of his life. In actuality, the character is thirty-something but possesses the air of a much older man.
Needless to say, I was quite relieved to proceed to The Great Gatsby. Having been thoroughly challenged by Ulysses, I was in desperate need of a more enjoyable reading experience. Something that would rejuvenate my spirit and kick-start my enthusiasm. However, as I breezed through Gatsby, I couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty. Should I even be reading a novel this accessible, a novel this enjoyable? Am I failing to find the deeper meaning of Fitzgerald’s words? Should I somehow be further challenging myself as reader? However, as I read on, I realized it is perfectly acceptable to just sit back and admire the craftsmanship of a master storyteller. Besides, compared to Ulysses, the rest of the books on my list are all “quick reads.”
That same feeling returned to me as I transitioned from Ulysses to The Great Gatsby. For six nights I had been bogged down by James Joyce’s allusions and chaotic stream of consciousness narrative. By the time I finished the novel, I was exhausted. I felt as though as I had executed the mental equivalent of walking a mile through knee-deep muck. As I began reading Gatsby, however, I felt like an Olympic sprinter. My steps were quick and light as I burned through half the novel in one sitting.
That is not to say that Gatsby is inferior to Ulysses. Both are carefully crafted masterpieces. Both works encompass and embody their respective countries. Both Joyce and Fitzgerald were masters of fiction and to this day remain influential authors. Where the two authors (and their novels) seem to part company, however, may be seen in the means by which they chose to tell their respective tales. Joyce’s account of a day in the life of Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom is a dense and indulgent exploration of the boundaries of English prose. Gatsby, on the other hand, is sparse and assuming, but by no means insubstantial.
Unlike Ulysses, I have read The Great Gatsby before–once in high school and twice now for pleasure. In some ways, the novel was new to me this time around. For example, the character of Jay Gatsby is younger than I remembered. I had previously envisioned him as a silver-haired, distinguished gentlemen in the twilight of his life. In actuality, the character is thirty-something but possesses the air of a much older man.
Needless to say, I was quite relieved to proceed to The Great Gatsby. Having been thoroughly challenged by Ulysses, I was in desperate need of a more enjoyable reading experience. Something that would rejuvenate my spirit and kick-start my enthusiasm. However, as I breezed through Gatsby, I couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty. Should I even be reading a novel this accessible, a novel this enjoyable? Am I failing to find the deeper meaning of Fitzgerald’s words? Should I somehow be further challenging myself as reader? However, as I read on, I realized it is perfectly acceptable to just sit back and admire the craftsmanship of a master storyteller. Besides, compared to Ulysses, the rest of the books on my list are all “quick reads.”
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
The Completion of Ulysses
NOTE: For this final post, I have decided to dispense with the episode summaries of Book III, which can be found online. I recommend sites such as Wikipedia, Gradesaver, and Sparknotes for useful, though not authoritative summaries.
“Ulysses is not an easy book to read or to understand. But there has been much written about it, and in order properly to approach the consideration of it it is advisable to read a number of other books which have now become its satellites. The study of Ulysses is, therefore, a heavy task.” –Judge John M. Woolsey, writing in 1933, after his historic decision to lift the Federal ban on Ulysses.
Last night, Terry and I were sitting in the room of our house we refer to as the studio. She was at the computer, working on her own blog, and I was sitting in the chair across from her, reading. Even though she was tired and hard at work, she still appeared to be having a lot more fun than I was at that moment. Unlike me, she wasn’t reading Ulysses. Unlike me, she hadn’t spent the past six nights–a total of some eighteen to twenty hours–wrestling with the most challenging novel ever written, which also happened to be the book with which I chose to begin The 100 Best Novels Project.
“Am I crazy for starting this project?” I asked, setting my book aside for the night.
“Yes,” she said, smiling, “but I’m proud of you.”
Her words provided the timely encouragement I so desperately needed in my darkest hour. With three chapters left to go, I had yet to complete the first novel in my 100Best Novels Project and already I was questioning my decision to commit myself to such an ambitious undertaking. I was frustrated with James Joyce and his accursed masterpiece of modern literature. I was shamelessly casting flirtatious glances at my copy of The Great Gatsby, the book lying in wait for me upon my completion of Ulysses. I longed to hold the slender, sexy volume in my hands and run my eyes over its sensually uncomplicated prose. Feeling jilted, I was entertaining malicious thoughts of throwing Ulysses into the fireplace and sentencing the novel to a fiery death, all the while laughing maniacally as charred bits of paper fluttered up the chimney. Worse, I considered abandoning the project altogether, like so many prior endeavors to which I thought I was committed.
To use a cliche sports metaphor, reading Ulysses was like going twelve rounds with the reigning heavyweight champ. Though I was fighting outside of my weight class, I felt I could hold my ground on heart and determination alone. In no time, James Joyce had me on the ropes with a barrage of quick body blows and uppercuts to my intellect. It was all I could do to keep my guard up and make feeble attempts at landing counter punches. Before I knew it, I was on the mat awaiting the ten count. Just then, words of encouragement from my supporters echoed in my grateful ears and gave me strength. I rose to my feet a determined man, swinging with everything I could muster. I hung in there, I kept my feet moving and my head down, and I staged a valiant comeback.
I finished Ulysses with a sense of relief, but also with a sense of accomplishment–a sense of redemption, even. At long last, I had read the one book that had plagued me as a reader more than any other, the one book I had picked up and set down more times that I care to admit. Reading the final words of Molly Bloom’s soliloquy, I felt instilled with a sense of belonging. I now numbered among the brave souls who refused to back down from the tyrannical pen of the Irish master.
Did reading Ulysses make me a better reader? Maybe. Am I a smarter person for having read it? No. Will I read it again? I don’t know. Am I glad I read it? Definitely. Ulysses tested me in more ways and made me experience more emotion–from depression to euphoria-- than any other work of fiction ever has or ever will. More so than any other book, Ulysses made think about the ways in which literature can influence the world. Few books have pushed the limits of literary conventions and the sensibilities of its contemporaries as did Ulysses. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I can think of no other piece of literature that explores more realms of mankind’s world than does Ulysses.
Come to think of it, Ulysses does all the things great literature is supposed to do, which is why it deserves a top spot on anybody’s list of great novels.
“Ulysses is not an easy book to read or to understand. But there has been much written about it, and in order properly to approach the consideration of it it is advisable to read a number of other books which have now become its satellites. The study of Ulysses is, therefore, a heavy task.” –Judge John M. Woolsey, writing in 1933, after his historic decision to lift the Federal ban on Ulysses.
Last night, Terry and I were sitting in the room of our house we refer to as the studio. She was at the computer, working on her own blog, and I was sitting in the chair across from her, reading. Even though she was tired and hard at work, she still appeared to be having a lot more fun than I was at that moment. Unlike me, she wasn’t reading Ulysses. Unlike me, she hadn’t spent the past six nights–a total of some eighteen to twenty hours–wrestling with the most challenging novel ever written, which also happened to be the book with which I chose to begin The 100 Best Novels Project.
“Am I crazy for starting this project?” I asked, setting my book aside for the night.
“Yes,” she said, smiling, “but I’m proud of you.”
Her words provided the timely encouragement I so desperately needed in my darkest hour. With three chapters left to go, I had yet to complete the first novel in my 100Best Novels Project and already I was questioning my decision to commit myself to such an ambitious undertaking. I was frustrated with James Joyce and his accursed masterpiece of modern literature. I was shamelessly casting flirtatious glances at my copy of The Great Gatsby, the book lying in wait for me upon my completion of Ulysses. I longed to hold the slender, sexy volume in my hands and run my eyes over its sensually uncomplicated prose. Feeling jilted, I was entertaining malicious thoughts of throwing Ulysses into the fireplace and sentencing the novel to a fiery death, all the while laughing maniacally as charred bits of paper fluttered up the chimney. Worse, I considered abandoning the project altogether, like so many prior endeavors to which I thought I was committed.
To use a cliche sports metaphor, reading Ulysses was like going twelve rounds with the reigning heavyweight champ. Though I was fighting outside of my weight class, I felt I could hold my ground on heart and determination alone. In no time, James Joyce had me on the ropes with a barrage of quick body blows and uppercuts to my intellect. It was all I could do to keep my guard up and make feeble attempts at landing counter punches. Before I knew it, I was on the mat awaiting the ten count. Just then, words of encouragement from my supporters echoed in my grateful ears and gave me strength. I rose to my feet a determined man, swinging with everything I could muster. I hung in there, I kept my feet moving and my head down, and I staged a valiant comeback.
I finished Ulysses with a sense of relief, but also with a sense of accomplishment–a sense of redemption, even. At long last, I had read the one book that had plagued me as a reader more than any other, the one book I had picked up and set down more times that I care to admit. Reading the final words of Molly Bloom’s soliloquy, I felt instilled with a sense of belonging. I now numbered among the brave souls who refused to back down from the tyrannical pen of the Irish master.
Did reading Ulysses make me a better reader? Maybe. Am I a smarter person for having read it? No. Will I read it again? I don’t know. Am I glad I read it? Definitely. Ulysses tested me in more ways and made me experience more emotion–from depression to euphoria-- than any other work of fiction ever has or ever will. More so than any other book, Ulysses made think about the ways in which literature can influence the world. Few books have pushed the limits of literary conventions and the sensibilities of its contemporaries as did Ulysses. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I can think of no other piece of literature that explores more realms of mankind’s world than does Ulysses.
Come to think of it, Ulysses does all the things great literature is supposed to do, which is why it deserves a top spot on anybody’s list of great novels.
The Quotable Ulysses
Before posting my final entry regard James Joyce's Ulysses, I thought I would share a few quotes I find notable. They are in no particular order.
"Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:
- Introibo ad altare Dei."
"History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake."
"Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls."
"That is God...A shout in the street."
"I am a man misunderstood."
"A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery."
"Aren't thou there, truepenny?"
"Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:
- Introibo ad altare Dei."
"History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake."
"Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls."
"That is God...A shout in the street."
"I am a man misunderstood."
"A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery."
"Aren't thou there, truepenny?"
Ulysses: Book II, Episodes 13-15
I am now in the homestretch. I have slogged my way through fifteen episodes--roughly 600 pages--of Ulysses, James Joyce’s behemoth of a masterpiece. I found Books I and II frustrating, as they are rife with unrecognizable allusions, confusing shifts in points of view, and a sometimes hard to follow stream of consciousness narrative.
However, Ulysses, at least thus far, is not without its merits. For example, I admire Joyce’s wordplay and sense of adventure a great deal. Perhaps more so than any other author (with the possible exception of William Faulkner), Joyce challenged both the conventions of modern narrative and the sensibilities of his readers. With episodes 13-15, the frustration and admiration continued. Unfortunately, frustration got the upper hand once again.
Episode 13 is notable for two main reasons. First, it is written in a more conventional prose style–or at least as conventional as it gets in regards to Joyce. Second, this episode contains the now famous (or perhaps infamous) “masturbation scene,” which takes place midway through the episode.
The first half of Episode 13 is told through the viewpoint of Gerty MacDowell, a seemingly sexually frustrated young woman who longs to fall in love. Gerty, along with her friends Cissy Caffrey and Edy Boardman, and Cissy’s little brothers Jack and Tommy, have come to Sandymount Strand to enjoy an afternoon on the beach and to watch a fireworks display put on by a church retreat group.
Flushed by the amorous flirtations of Canon O’Hanlon, a member of the church group, and daydreaming of love, Gerty makes her way to the fireworks show as the first blooms appear in the night sky. Off to the side, she sees a dark figure leaning against a rock. Though she does not know him, this mystery man is Leopold Bloom. A stranger dressed in black, Bloom embodies the sort of dark and enigmatic man Gerty has fantasized of meeting.
Intent on asking this stranger for the time, an excuse to break away from her group, Gerty approaches Bloom to find him with one hand in his pocket, masturbating. Seeing “whitehot passion” in Bloom’s face, Gerty succumbs to a sudden urge to assist him in his pursuit of self-pleasure. Pretending to gain a better view of the fireworks above, she leans far back. In doing so, she raises and clasps one knee for support, a move that exposes to Bloom her “graceful beautifully shaped” legs.
The fireworks display coincides with and symbolizes Bloom’s masturbation:
"And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lively! O so soft, sweet, soft!"
I will leave it to my readers to work out the symbolism behind the Roman candle and the “stream of rain gold hair threads” for themselves. No doubt, this scene played a major role in the book being banned by federal law.
In Episode 14, the focus is back on Leo Bloom as he visits the hospital in which Mina Purefoy is giving birth. After several near encounters, Bloom finally meets Stephen Dedalus, whom he finds drinking with Buck Mulligan. Together, they all continue drinking at a pub, resulting in the hallucinatory nature of Episode 15.
At first, I wasn’t sure what this episode contributes to the plot of the novel. The character of Bloom is developed a bit more as he is shown to be haunted by the memory of the son he lost soon after birth. Also, it appears he begins to see Dedalus as a young man who may be able to somehow fill some of that void. Other than that, this episode does little to move the story along.
However, after a quick consult with Wikipedia, which I have used merely as a roadmap on my quest to complete this novel, I learned that the beauty of this episode lies in its structure. Joyce carefully arranged this episode into three sections of three subsections each, or nine subsections overall. This is intended to symbolize the nine month gestation period. Moreover, the episode is divided into sixty paragraphs. Of these sixty, the first ten parody the Latin and Anglo-Saxon languages, the two major predecessors to the English language. In keeping with the theme of human reproduction, these paragraphs are intended to symbolize intercourse and conception. The next forty paragraphs begin with Middle English satires and represent the forty weeks of the human gestation period. Finally, the last ten paragraphs symbolize birth and the baby. Combined, they represent the mosaic of English that was spoken in Dublin at the time Ulysses was written.
“I am a man misunderstood,” Bloom announces in Episode 15, and certainly this episode does attempt to peel back yet another layer of Bloom’s character, this time exposing his extramarital affairs. In Episode 5, Bloom’s infidelity was merely hinted at as he read a love letter sent to him by a young woman named Martha. Earlier on, I believed Bloom was merely a cuckolded husband desperately seeking an affair of his own, but afraid (or too lazy) to consummate one. This episode, however, reveals that Bloom has, in fact, had several affairs, beginning with a girl named Lotty Clarke.
Largely a collection of hallucinations experienced by the drunken Bloom, this episode is written in the form of a script, complete with stage directions. Reading this section, I couldn’t help but think that it would be extremely difficult, if not impossible to stage this play-within-a-novel as Joyce envisioned, for it features a mango picking camel, a talking soap cake, a talking dog, split-second wardrobe changes and a myriad of other mind-bending elements.
After shaking off these visions, Bloom and Dedalus visit a brothel, after which Dedalus becomes enraged and is punched out by a policeman. Bloom then helps the young man to his feet and together they make their way to the cabman's shelter. Which brings us to Book III, and the conclusion of Ulysses.
However, Ulysses, at least thus far, is not without its merits. For example, I admire Joyce’s wordplay and sense of adventure a great deal. Perhaps more so than any other author (with the possible exception of William Faulkner), Joyce challenged both the conventions of modern narrative and the sensibilities of his readers. With episodes 13-15, the frustration and admiration continued. Unfortunately, frustration got the upper hand once again.
Episode 13 is notable for two main reasons. First, it is written in a more conventional prose style–or at least as conventional as it gets in regards to Joyce. Second, this episode contains the now famous (or perhaps infamous) “masturbation scene,” which takes place midway through the episode.
The first half of Episode 13 is told through the viewpoint of Gerty MacDowell, a seemingly sexually frustrated young woman who longs to fall in love. Gerty, along with her friends Cissy Caffrey and Edy Boardman, and Cissy’s little brothers Jack and Tommy, have come to Sandymount Strand to enjoy an afternoon on the beach and to watch a fireworks display put on by a church retreat group.
Flushed by the amorous flirtations of Canon O’Hanlon, a member of the church group, and daydreaming of love, Gerty makes her way to the fireworks show as the first blooms appear in the night sky. Off to the side, she sees a dark figure leaning against a rock. Though she does not know him, this mystery man is Leopold Bloom. A stranger dressed in black, Bloom embodies the sort of dark and enigmatic man Gerty has fantasized of meeting.
Intent on asking this stranger for the time, an excuse to break away from her group, Gerty approaches Bloom to find him with one hand in his pocket, masturbating. Seeing “whitehot passion” in Bloom’s face, Gerty succumbs to a sudden urge to assist him in his pursuit of self-pleasure. Pretending to gain a better view of the fireworks above, she leans far back. In doing so, she raises and clasps one knee for support, a move that exposes to Bloom her “graceful beautifully shaped” legs.
The fireworks display coincides with and symbolizes Bloom’s masturbation:
"And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lively! O so soft, sweet, soft!"
I will leave it to my readers to work out the symbolism behind the Roman candle and the “stream of rain gold hair threads” for themselves. No doubt, this scene played a major role in the book being banned by federal law.
In Episode 14, the focus is back on Leo Bloom as he visits the hospital in which Mina Purefoy is giving birth. After several near encounters, Bloom finally meets Stephen Dedalus, whom he finds drinking with Buck Mulligan. Together, they all continue drinking at a pub, resulting in the hallucinatory nature of Episode 15.
At first, I wasn’t sure what this episode contributes to the plot of the novel. The character of Bloom is developed a bit more as he is shown to be haunted by the memory of the son he lost soon after birth. Also, it appears he begins to see Dedalus as a young man who may be able to somehow fill some of that void. Other than that, this episode does little to move the story along.
However, after a quick consult with Wikipedia, which I have used merely as a roadmap on my quest to complete this novel, I learned that the beauty of this episode lies in its structure. Joyce carefully arranged this episode into three sections of three subsections each, or nine subsections overall. This is intended to symbolize the nine month gestation period. Moreover, the episode is divided into sixty paragraphs. Of these sixty, the first ten parody the Latin and Anglo-Saxon languages, the two major predecessors to the English language. In keeping with the theme of human reproduction, these paragraphs are intended to symbolize intercourse and conception. The next forty paragraphs begin with Middle English satires and represent the forty weeks of the human gestation period. Finally, the last ten paragraphs symbolize birth and the baby. Combined, they represent the mosaic of English that was spoken in Dublin at the time Ulysses was written.
“I am a man misunderstood,” Bloom announces in Episode 15, and certainly this episode does attempt to peel back yet another layer of Bloom’s character, this time exposing his extramarital affairs. In Episode 5, Bloom’s infidelity was merely hinted at as he read a love letter sent to him by a young woman named Martha. Earlier on, I believed Bloom was merely a cuckolded husband desperately seeking an affair of his own, but afraid (or too lazy) to consummate one. This episode, however, reveals that Bloom has, in fact, had several affairs, beginning with a girl named Lotty Clarke.
Largely a collection of hallucinations experienced by the drunken Bloom, this episode is written in the form of a script, complete with stage directions. Reading this section, I couldn’t help but think that it would be extremely difficult, if not impossible to stage this play-within-a-novel as Joyce envisioned, for it features a mango picking camel, a talking soap cake, a talking dog, split-second wardrobe changes and a myriad of other mind-bending elements.
After shaking off these visions, Bloom and Dedalus visit a brothel, after which Dedalus becomes enraged and is punched out by a policeman. Bloom then helps the young man to his feet and together they make their way to the cabman's shelter. Which brings us to Book III, and the conclusion of Ulysses.
Ulysses: Book II, Episodes 9-12
As you may remember from my last post, Episodes 4-8 of Book II of Ulysses pushed my patience to the limit. I was very near my breaking point, and was tempted to hurl the novel far into a neighboring yard. The episodes affected me so much that I spent the remainder of the evening in a state of mild depression (as my girlfriend can attest), wanting nothing more than to spend the night alone with a DVD and a six-pack of my favorite beer. Anything to insulate me from the tedium and torture of pages 55-183.
After distancing myself from the novel for a couple of hours, I returned to my reading with renewed determination and an optimistic outlook. I was rewarded with an episode centered around Stephen Dedalus, my favorite character of the novel. Episodes 10-12 , in contrast, proved to be further accounts of the tedious day-to-day interactions of Joyce’s Dublin citizens. However, as a result of these episodes, I am beginning to see Leopold Bloom is a more complex character than I originally thought. Furthermore, he appears to be heading toward a personal victory or revelation of some sort.
Episode 9 (which is really the only episode worth discussing here) opens with Stephen Dedalus at the National Library, presenting his theories on Shakespeare to a consortium of local scholars, including John Eglinton, a critic and essayist A.E., a poet. Dedalus posits the notion that certain mysteries of Shakespearean works, such as the true nature of Hamlet’s ghost, lie in the biological makeup of Shakespeare himself and were further influenced by the alleged extramarital affairs of Anne Hathaway, his wife. The scholars are intrigued by Dedalus’ theories, but are not wholly convinced of their validity.
In Episode 9, we gain more insight into the character of Stephen Dedalus. He is a young man with a philosophical nature, a characteristic made evident by way of several references to Aristotle. Though bright and eloquent, Dedalus lacks the confidence to posit his views and theories outside of a discussion group of his peers. It also becomes clear that a lack of self-confidence is not his only issue. Dedalus is haunted by the loss of his mother and recalls his last memory of her: “Mother’s deathbed. Candle. The sheeted mirror. Who brought me into this world lies there, bronzelidded, under few cheap flowers.”
Dedalus appears to have father issues, as well. “A father,” he states, “is a necessary evil.” Although this is said in response to an opinion made by a fellow scholar regarding familial ties in Shakespearean tragedies, it carries a more personal weight, suggesting Dedalus is vexed by the role his father, Simon Dedalus plays in his life.
In contrast to the dull, static Dubliners often associated with Leo Bloom, the scholars now surrounding Stephen are witty, intelligent, and contemplative. These able-minded men appear capable of offering up theories and opinions ranging from the aesthetics of art to the the mysteries within the works of Shakespeare. Even Buck Mulligan, the boisterous and bawdy medical student we first met in Book I, seems transformed in their presence. Arriving at the library to chide Stephen for not making good on his promise to meet him and Haines for drinks at the pub, Mulligan is soon an active participant in the group’s heady discussions.
Overall, I enjoyed Episodes 9-12 more than I did Episodes 4-8. Though riddled with the “slice of life” episodes of Joyce’s Dubliners, these episodes delve deeper into the inner workings of both Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom and reveal them to be complex and intriguing characters. They are arguably two of the greatest literary characters of the 20th Century, and they are worthy of closer examination.
After distancing myself from the novel for a couple of hours, I returned to my reading with renewed determination and an optimistic outlook. I was rewarded with an episode centered around Stephen Dedalus, my favorite character of the novel. Episodes 10-12 , in contrast, proved to be further accounts of the tedious day-to-day interactions of Joyce’s Dublin citizens. However, as a result of these episodes, I am beginning to see Leopold Bloom is a more complex character than I originally thought. Furthermore, he appears to be heading toward a personal victory or revelation of some sort.
Episode 9 (which is really the only episode worth discussing here) opens with Stephen Dedalus at the National Library, presenting his theories on Shakespeare to a consortium of local scholars, including John Eglinton, a critic and essayist A.E., a poet. Dedalus posits the notion that certain mysteries of Shakespearean works, such as the true nature of Hamlet’s ghost, lie in the biological makeup of Shakespeare himself and were further influenced by the alleged extramarital affairs of Anne Hathaway, his wife. The scholars are intrigued by Dedalus’ theories, but are not wholly convinced of their validity.
In Episode 9, we gain more insight into the character of Stephen Dedalus. He is a young man with a philosophical nature, a characteristic made evident by way of several references to Aristotle. Though bright and eloquent, Dedalus lacks the confidence to posit his views and theories outside of a discussion group of his peers. It also becomes clear that a lack of self-confidence is not his only issue. Dedalus is haunted by the loss of his mother and recalls his last memory of her: “Mother’s deathbed. Candle. The sheeted mirror. Who brought me into this world lies there, bronzelidded, under few cheap flowers.”
Dedalus appears to have father issues, as well. “A father,” he states, “is a necessary evil.” Although this is said in response to an opinion made by a fellow scholar regarding familial ties in Shakespearean tragedies, it carries a more personal weight, suggesting Dedalus is vexed by the role his father, Simon Dedalus plays in his life.
In contrast to the dull, static Dubliners often associated with Leo Bloom, the scholars now surrounding Stephen are witty, intelligent, and contemplative. These able-minded men appear capable of offering up theories and opinions ranging from the aesthetics of art to the the mysteries within the works of Shakespeare. Even Buck Mulligan, the boisterous and bawdy medical student we first met in Book I, seems transformed in their presence. Arriving at the library to chide Stephen for not making good on his promise to meet him and Haines for drinks at the pub, Mulligan is soon an active participant in the group’s heady discussions.
Overall, I enjoyed Episodes 9-12 more than I did Episodes 4-8. Though riddled with the “slice of life” episodes of Joyce’s Dubliners, these episodes delve deeper into the inner workings of both Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom and reveal them to be complex and intriguing characters. They are arguably two of the greatest literary characters of the 20th Century, and they are worthy of closer examination.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Pixel and. Ulysses
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Pixel just loves curling up in my lap and having a few passages of Ulysses read to her at night.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Day Five
Today marks my fifth day with Ulysses (I’ve been doing my reading late at night and have spent nine hours or so with the book), and I now find the novel to be a tedious and boring companion. With roughly three-quarters of the book left to read, I am frustrated and discouraged. So much so, in fact, that I no longer do my reading outside, for the temptation to punt the book over the backyard fence is too great.
I am beginning to think I have made a grave error by choosing to start this project with Ulysses, arguably the most difficult of the 100 Best Novels of the 20th Century. Any hopes I may have had of reading these novels in the span of 365 days may be in serious jeopardy. Perhaps it would have been wiser to read the list in reverse order after all? Although I am currently a frustrated reader, I am still very much committed to this project and I will soldier on.
As I write this, I have completed Episodes 4-8 of Book II and hope to finish Episodes 9-13 tonight. Thus far, Book II contains neither the playfulness nor the lyricism that so captivated me in Book I. Instead, the language is rather dry and laborious. The reader is still shown flashes of Joyce’s descriptive prowess with phrases such as “avid shameclosing eyes,” and “quietly creaky boots,” as well as blended words such as “coolwrappered,” and “dullthudding.” But for the most part, the language is as bland and uninspiring as its protagonist, Leopold Bloom.
Bloom works as an advertisement canvasser for a Dublin newspaper. He is married to Molly Bloom, once a semi-famous singer and highly desirable woman. Now a fading beauty, she seems to spend her time in bed being attended to by her husband and reading books she can barely understand. Over the course of these episodes, we learn she has had affairs of which Bloom is aware and seems to tolerate. He is mildly obsessed with his wife’s infidelity and occasionally his thoughts turn to her potential lovers. Seeking a love interest of his own, Bloom is carrying on his own affair of sorts. He stops by the post office to retrieve a love letter sent to him by a young woman named Martha, who knows Bloom as “Henry Flower.” The affair is merely one of words and Bloom soon deems consummation too much work and “as bad as a row with Molly.” For the most part, Bloom is a sharp contrast to the bookish and philosophical Stephen Dedalus, the protagonist of Book I.
At times, Bloom is portrayed as a sexually frustrated, dirty old man. While half-heartedly engaged in a conversation with an acquaintance, Bloom admires a young woman across the street. His hopes of catching a glimpse of her stockings (“Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!”) are dashed by a passing a tram. Bloom then recalls a similar incident in which he witnessed a young woman adjusting her garters in a hallway while her friend obscured her from view (“Well, what are you gaping at?”). Later on, Bloom attends a church service and deems the church a “Nice, discreet place to be next some girl.”
In Episode 8, however, Bloom is portrayed as a man who longs to be happy as a husband and father. He evidently misses his daughter, Milly, who lives in Mullingar where she is studying photography, and he spends some time thinking about their son Rudy, who lived merely eleven days. At the beginning of Episode 8, his thoughts turn to Molly and he recalls a picnic they attended years ago and the way she looked in her “elephantgrey dress with braided frogs” which fit her “like a glove, shoulders and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well...People looking at her.”
Leopold Bloom serves as the counterpart to Odysseus (a.k.a “Ulysses”), the anti-hero of Homer’s The Odyssey. Having locked himself out of his house and not wishing to rouse Molly so soon, he is forced to wander the streets of Dublin until he can return home. This is, of course, meant to parallel the journey of Odysseus, who longs to return to his home in Ithaca. On a deeper level, it would appear Bloom may have set out on a more personal, soul-searching odyssey--one in which he hopes to find the happiness he once knew.
I am beginning to think I have made a grave error by choosing to start this project with Ulysses, arguably the most difficult of the 100 Best Novels of the 20th Century. Any hopes I may have had of reading these novels in the span of 365 days may be in serious jeopardy. Perhaps it would have been wiser to read the list in reverse order after all? Although I am currently a frustrated reader, I am still very much committed to this project and I will soldier on.
As I write this, I have completed Episodes 4-8 of Book II and hope to finish Episodes 9-13 tonight. Thus far, Book II contains neither the playfulness nor the lyricism that so captivated me in Book I. Instead, the language is rather dry and laborious. The reader is still shown flashes of Joyce’s descriptive prowess with phrases such as “avid shameclosing eyes,” and “quietly creaky boots,” as well as blended words such as “coolwrappered,” and “dullthudding.” But for the most part, the language is as bland and uninspiring as its protagonist, Leopold Bloom.
Bloom works as an advertisement canvasser for a Dublin newspaper. He is married to Molly Bloom, once a semi-famous singer and highly desirable woman. Now a fading beauty, she seems to spend her time in bed being attended to by her husband and reading books she can barely understand. Over the course of these episodes, we learn she has had affairs of which Bloom is aware and seems to tolerate. He is mildly obsessed with his wife’s infidelity and occasionally his thoughts turn to her potential lovers. Seeking a love interest of his own, Bloom is carrying on his own affair of sorts. He stops by the post office to retrieve a love letter sent to him by a young woman named Martha, who knows Bloom as “Henry Flower.” The affair is merely one of words and Bloom soon deems consummation too much work and “as bad as a row with Molly.” For the most part, Bloom is a sharp contrast to the bookish and philosophical Stephen Dedalus, the protagonist of Book I.
At times, Bloom is portrayed as a sexually frustrated, dirty old man. While half-heartedly engaged in a conversation with an acquaintance, Bloom admires a young woman across the street. His hopes of catching a glimpse of her stockings (“Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!”) are dashed by a passing a tram. Bloom then recalls a similar incident in which he witnessed a young woman adjusting her garters in a hallway while her friend obscured her from view (“Well, what are you gaping at?”). Later on, Bloom attends a church service and deems the church a “Nice, discreet place to be next some girl.”
In Episode 8, however, Bloom is portrayed as a man who longs to be happy as a husband and father. He evidently misses his daughter, Milly, who lives in Mullingar where she is studying photography, and he spends some time thinking about their son Rudy, who lived merely eleven days. At the beginning of Episode 8, his thoughts turn to Molly and he recalls a picnic they attended years ago and the way she looked in her “elephantgrey dress with braided frogs” which fit her “like a glove, shoulders and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well...People looking at her.”
Leopold Bloom serves as the counterpart to Odysseus (a.k.a “Ulysses”), the anti-hero of Homer’s The Odyssey. Having locked himself out of his house and not wishing to rouse Molly so soon, he is forced to wander the streets of Dublin until he can return home. This is, of course, meant to parallel the journey of Odysseus, who longs to return to his home in Ithaca. On a deeper level, it would appear Bloom may have set out on a more personal, soul-searching odyssey--one in which he hopes to find the happiness he once knew.
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