Telemachus
George Orwell cited “sheer egoism” as the #1 reason he became an author (see “Why I Write”), and I think Stephen has the same drive (e.g., 152-153: “he fears the lancet of my art”). But in this chapter we see that he’s also haunted and doubtful. How do his fears mitigate his egoism, and how does his ego fight back?
What makes him “depressed by his own voice” (188)? Is this just an early-morning moody thing (maybe he sounds weak or tired) or is he talking about his authorial voice here? I think this goes back to that same battle (between loving his own voice and doubting it).
The “two shafts of soft daylight…” (315) sentence is really a great image. Wondering, though: are the descriptions more romantic when Stephen’s around? More precisely, to what extent does the particular character we’re focusing on affect the narrative? Seems like a subtler effect than I first imagined, like the book kind of decides on its own (without regard so much to the characters) how it’s going to talk about stuff. I think that gets truer as the thing goes on, too.
“Agenbite of inwit” (481) first shows up here. If I’m interpreting it correctly I think this is central: Stephen is at war with his own mind. Reminds me of a scene in Hackers (1995) where Lord Nikon impressively recites a girl’s information (“Lisa Blair, 26 East 7th St., apartment 16, 555-4817, Boom!”) then says “I got photographic memory. It’s a curse!”
What does Stephen want? It’s clear he’s unhappy with the tower, with Mulligan, etc. and it’s clear he believes in his own ideas but not sure what he wants to see happen. Where will he sleep tonight?
Nestor
“What’s left us then?”(10) As Blake would have it there would be Truth and Eternity, but Stephen doesn’t seem to see it that way. Is he just in a bad mood or is there a philosophy here? I think he’s preoccupied in this chapter by history, by what it means and what makes an event timeless (“Any general to any officers.”) (17). This is a natural question for someone craving to be a part of Bakhtin’s “great time.”
“Had Pyrrhus not fallen…” (48): I think a younger Stephen, who fancied greatness thrust upon him, is lurking in this paragraph. Being destined for greatness only makes sense for someone who believes in destiny; someone more mature probably thinks they have a say in their own life.
“Thought is the thought of thought” (74): this illustrates nicely the recursive, self-involved, loopy world in Stephen’s head (makes me think of a mess of wires).
The thing with Mr. Deasy’s letter reads a lot like a Dubliners moment. A pathetic guy propping himself up: “I don’t mince words, do I? [. . .] I am surrounded by difficulties…” (331, 343).
Stephen takes a shot at the history question: it’s a nightmare from which he is trying to awake. Is he saying that to impress Deasy (“He waits to hear from me” (376)) or because he believes it? Is he talking about political, artistic, or personal history? What would the awakening be?
Does Stephen sympathize with the Jews? Doubtful he’s as blunt about it as Deasy (“you can see the darkness in their eyes” (361). Will that have any influence at all when he meets Bloom?
“Time surely would scatter all” (370) doesn’t sound too optimistic. Can anything survive? Again, his usual strength (I’m going to leave a mark, “forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race”) is getting gnawed at by fatalism (no control, not worth it) with hope on one side and history on the other.
Proteus
Sums up the role of artist: “Signatures of all things I am here to read” (2). But he is just reading them—the world is there “all the time without you” (27). Really gets at his Platonism.
Who’s the referent of “enemy” (311)? Buck? This paragraph (310-330) seems like the focal point of the chapter. The way Stephen talks to himself: “Would you do what he did?” he’s challenging himself: “The truth, spit it out.” His conclusion: “If I had land under my feet.” He seems weak andparalyzed: “I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. [. . .] I could not save her.” And then an odd and not very likeable recovery: “A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.” (331). I’m not sure moments like these can be analyzed in themselves, because it’s clear that Stephen’s self-assessment is stretched out all over the book. Figuring out how this all works (how Stephen discovers his own Platonic “whatness”) probably requires a lot of jumping around.
“Dogskull, dogsniff [. . .] dogsbody” (350-51): this subjectivizing of verbs happens a lot with Stephen: he concatenates words, makes puns, etc. when narrating simple action: in Ch. 9 there’s a lot of that, too (“Piper! Mr Best piped” (9.275), “It is clear that there were two beds, a best and a secondbest, Mr SecondbestBest said finely (9.714)). Is it the book taking over, or Stephen? Does it depend?
Not sure if there’s anything to this but there’s a ton of iambic in this chapter: “whereon he drafts his bills,” (80) “what offence laid fire to their brains,” (112), “sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet,” (373), etc.
What is it about “Cranley’s arm” (mentioned 3.451 and 1.159) that so fascinates Stephen? What is the tension between them (“Wilde’s love that dare not speak its name” (459))?
Calypso
My main reaction here is that I really like Bloom, and that most of his problems seem to be located outside his own head; in other words, it seems like most of his hard work is in parrying the various unfortunate things that come flying at him, rather than setting his mind straight.
“Vain: very” (431). Not sure whether “vain” here means “futile” (referring to Bloom’s fatherly concern) or “conceited” (Milly).
The phrase “Poor Dignam!” shows up a lot in the next couple chapters. Not sure if there’s anything to it beyond the obvious.
Lotus Eaters
I still find the Henry Flower thing very strange and quite unsuited to Bloom. Why is it in here?
There’s something emasculating about Bloom going around talking about Molly’s music. Figuring out their public relationship (i.e., the way they talk about each other and are talked about) could be interesting. Also, the lines: “who’s getting it up? [. . .] Well, it’s like a company idea, you see. Part shares and part profits” show up twice with two different speakers (5.163, 8.784)!
Is the last paragraph here just Joyce’s Dubliners/Portrait epiphanic style coming through? I have trouble seeing how Bloom would think like that—not that he wouldn’t imagine himself taking a bath, just that he wouldn’t say it this way: “the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower” (571).
Hades
“Wait for an opportunity” (23): that Bloom is this insecure about moving some soap around in his pocket heralds a pretty tense scene. His self-consciousness makes sense, though, considering how hard the other guys are on him. Might be interesting to see how he manages their cruelty and coldness. In fact, the whole chapter (being pushed around by these guys, talked about behind his back, reminded of his father’s suicide and son’s death, etc.) offers a lot of opportunities to see how Bloom lets things bounce off him. Joyce does a great job of collecting our sympathy.
“Even Parnell. Ivy day dying out.” (855): Bloom’s really on a rollercoaster here, moving very quickly from mundane, cute stuff to the morose and fatalistic. I guess he balances one with the other. Great example of this (861-872): thinking of someone buried alive (morose), “ought to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electronic clock or a telephone” (cute, Bloom-ish), “Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind” (fatalistic, morose).
Bloom leans on (or pines for) “warm beds: warm fullblooded life” (1005). He ties so much of the joy of being alive to Molly and their bed. Any connection to The Odyssey’s climax on Odysseus’s and Penelope’s (ridiculous) bed? Bed seems important.
Aeolus
“Machines” (80): “Classic Bloom” moments are usually those where he describes or invents some practical mechanism. In a good mood this keeps him light and engaged, but elsewhere it reduces his world to mere processes, soulless and repetitive. Seems like an important part of his character.
Lestrygonians
“Happy. Happier then [. . .] Happy. Happy. That was the night…” (170, 200): It seems like Molly is everything to Bloom. You could probably tie a lot of his thoughts and actions back to her without much finagling.
“Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.” (250): I could see Bloom thinking the same thing with Molly years before. What is he trying to accomplish by reaching out here?
The chapter plays with coincidences: how do they operate? I might like to explore how Joyce uses coincidences and how Stephen/Bloom/the book receive them, especially in light of Stephen’s musings about history and happenstance and Bloom’s occasional reductionism.
“Men, men, men” (653) and the paragraph following: I really like the idea here and am especially impressed by how quickly Bloom turns his critical eye to himself (“Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us” (662)). I think that says a lot about him. Figuring out what makes Bloom a good guy might be a worthwhile project.
Scylla and Charbydis
Why is Stephen so eager to place Shakespeare qua man in Hamlet? Is he just projecting the circumstances of his own art? I’m thinking of the way he makes fatherhood the central issue, romanticizes the poor (104), etc.
“Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper” (276): is this the book? I can’t help but thinking this “book” stuff is actually just Stephen’s mind wandering, or at least, I have a hard time distinguishing the two.
“Here he ponders things that were not” (348): “Coffined thoughts around me [. . .] once quick in the brains of men [. . .] urge me to wreak their will.” Preeminent to Stephen is the ability for thought, no matter how fleeting, to go from brain to brain across time through words. How he engages this idea will determine how he approaches his craft and life, I think.
Stephen challenges himself quite a bit. “Said that” (309), “Do you know what you are talking about?” (429), etc. He still seems very insecure, and I’m curious to know how he’ll deal with it.
“Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, [. . .], but always meeting ourselves” (1044). I can’t tell if Stephen is being ingenuous here.
“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” (1050). Eureka, indeed!
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