I did it! I finally really did it! YES, I'M A MANIAC, I FINALLY BLEW IT UP! DAMN ME, DAMN ME ALL TO... Wait, what? Oh, sorry, I was possessed by Charlton Heston for a second there. My bad.
Anyway, what exactly I did was finish... well, I assume you can read if you've made it this far. Please, absorb the title. Give me my moments of joy and pride. I'm going to get all Fitzwilliam Darcy up in here. Oh yeahhhh. (Can you tell that it's one in the morning?) Anyway, this book was awesome awesome awesome. It's about a single day in Dublin, focusing on a few men here and there, mainly Leopold Bloom but also others, such as Bloom's wife and Stephen Dedalus. Any day, really. It is, as the title may have tipped you off to, a parallel to Homer's Odyssey. (Ulysses is Odysseus in Latin.) Which is a pretty cool concept, and 85% of the reason I read it... ten percent is Marky Mark explaining certain scenes that parallel or are different on purpose, and the last five percent is that Ulysses is really cool sounding and also fun to say. Well, let's get right to it, shall we? I'll try to split it section by section, or warn you about it, but I'm sure I won't do it perfectly. Oh, and as a side note: sections in the book aren't actually titled, except in guides and such, say, Wikipedia. (I admit, I used Wikipedia for help, and a little bit of SparkNotes--they afforded about the same degree of information. Even just reading the summaries of the sections on Wikipedia is pretty cool as well.) Another note: quotation marks are seldom, if ever, used, so if a conversation takes place I will throw them in there--just to reduce confusion, mind you.
I don't have much to say on the included letters in the book, except that in John M Woolsey's ruling to remove the ban on the book (this is actually one book that was banned that you read and can actually see reasons as to why it would offend/be banned) he includes a sentence--practically the conclusion--that "nowhere does [Ulysses] tend to be an aphrodisiac" (XIV). It kind of just made me giggle and especially makes me giggle now, at five to two AM.
The first section is known as Telemachus--Telemachus is Odysseus's son, who while with his father away from home must deal with these masses of suitors come for his mother's hand, but more importantly, the kingdom. The Telemachus in question is Stephen Dedalus, being bled of wealth by those around (as the suitors did in Odysseus's unmanned home). Stephen is also meant to echo Shakespeare's Hamlet.
"'Thanks', Stephen said. 'I can't wear them if they are grey'. 'He can't wear them,' Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey trousers'" (6). This kind of made me chuckle--and no, he didn't literally murder his mother. What happened, if I understand correctly, was that his mother was moments from dying and she begged him to pray but he went into a sort of shock and wouldn't do so. She died promptly, and thus, the explanation for Mulligan's statement.
"...all there if of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's likeness, the serpent's prey" (14).
"'The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus,' he said" (18). Clearly, the drink. Mulligan thereafter starts singing a drinking tune: "I'm the queerest young fellow that you ever heard/My mother's a jew, my father's a bird. With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree/So here's to disciples and Cavalry" (19). I'm not sure who Joseph the joiner is, but I just thought I might point out that the tune is about Jesus. (The bird thing threw me off, but remember, the holy spirit came to the disciples at one point as a dove. Or the dove is just a sign of God. Look, it's been a while since Sunday school.) This passage also had me thinking of the story of Jesus as a sort of quest. I mean, it follows the quest motif. Marked for greatness, well, he's not literally marked, but his dad is the creator of the universe so that's a pretty big one on its own, his call to adventure would be about when he was thirty, which I believe was when he had his greatest revelation and began to travel... he garnered the disciples, he had tasks, like resisting the devil's temptation in the desert... His goal would be to spread the Word, I guess... Well, what brought this train of thought on was a comment from Haines, an acquaintance of Stephen Dedalus's: "'I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere... The Father and Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father'" (18). Actually, maybe that doesn't work that well, for at the end of the heroic quest is that the son must overcome the father in some way, whether it be a metaphor or actually doing so, and I don't really recall the part where Jesus beat his dad up. No, it still kind of works.
Part Two: Nestor. Nestor himself appears in both The Illiad and The Odyssey as a counsellor. Stephen Dedalus in this chapter attempts to teach a class of horribly bored children and when it is let out goes to see Mr Deasy to receive his pay. I think Nestor refers to Deasy, who tries to pass information and advice unto Stephen, a portion of which is actually anti-Semitic gabble.
"History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake" (34).
"Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: 'That is God.' 'Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!' 'What?' Mr Deasy asked. 'A shout in the street,' Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders" (34).
The third section, one of my least favorites of the book to be honest, is Proteus. Proteus was a lesser sea god, appropriate because this chapter is spent on the beach, again still with Dedalus. This is the first real 'stream of consciousness' chapter as well, and according to Marky Mark one of the hardest in the book. Yeah, I can believe that.
"Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint... You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street... Sell your soul for that, do... More tell me, more still! On top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: naked women! What about that, eh?" (40) And then he defends himself: "What about what? What else were they invented for?" (40), which made me chuckle.
"When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once..." (40). Again, that attempt to explain that unity, that synching, when you read something so perfectly like that. This stab at it is as good as any, I think.
"Endless, would it be mine, form of my form?" (48). Dedalus means his shadow. I just think it's just a really cool quote, there is something incredibly attractive about its wording.
"Our souls, shame-wounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more" (48). Fantastic imagery.
Joyce also coins the word dislove--or perhaps not, perhaps I've just never seen it before--a very attractive (ironically enough) word. There's just something about it I like.
Joyce refers to Wilde quite a few times throughout the book, mostly in the begin but a little scattered throughout. The first reference is from part one: "'We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes'" (18). The second time is here in part three: "Staunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. He will now leave me. And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all" (49). I understand the reference to Wilde--that was his defense in court when charged with being a homosexual; he mentions in a work of the love that "dare not speak its name". However, he defines it not as homosexuality but of a sort of foster father relationship or foster brother relationship with a younger man, a Greek love. (A Greek discluding Sparta love.) So it'd be a close relationship with a man, the original owner of the boots he was wearing and reflecting upon when he speaks of Wilde... Or maybe even it refers to the boots themselves, the boots in regards to his feet. But--I understand not the "He now will leave me..." bit. Taking the shoe off? His father himself leaving him? A close adult? Even perhaps a male lover? Fortunately, Sparknotes gives us nothing to explain this; Sparknotes never seems to have any information regarding the things in this book that really do confuse me.
I really have nothing much to say about the next part, other than it's when we first meet Leopold Bloom, the sort of--'mainest' character. He was sort of my anchor; from here on in, as long as Leopold is around or directly involved in whatever is going on, I have a pretty good grip of what's going on. When he disappears for periods of time I have some trouble. Anyway, Leopold is your average citizen, he's part Jewish (I feel the need to mention this because he eats pork and he has not been circumcised, which probably confused the most out of the whole book until much later when we are made privy to the fact that he is only part Jewish). Anyway, this part is called Calypso, after the sea goddess who held Odysseus captive for seven years and forced him to have sex with her and stuff (Oh no, a beautiful woman wants to have sex with me! Woe is me! Shut up, Odysseus.) We do also meet Bloom's wife this chapter, still in bed, so I can kind of see a connection there... And the missus certainly feels entrapped by the marriage (not that that feeling keeps her from indulging in, uh, outer marriage pleasures), and Bloom to an extent does--but she certainly is more agitated by it. In which case, it would be.... irony! Yay
Okay, next part. Chapter two of part two I guess. This is where we find out that Bloom has a secret life--he writes erotic letters to a girl, who writes back--the woman would like to meet him, at least it implies it (she asks him his wife's perfume) but he kind of skirts it off. Anyway, this is supposed to parallel the lotus-eaters, who if I recall were normal men but ate of the lotuses (loti?) and forgot their identities. (They acted as narcotics.) Leopold Bloom's false name in his letter is Henry Flowers (which also could be a joke on 'Bloom') and enclosed in the letter from his 'pen pal' is a flower. And the both are purposely ignoring their actual identities to flirt and write erotic things too, so, yeah.
"Tell him if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses!" (71). This seemed like a very Kerouac little section, which I guess to a certain extent makes sense, being that him and Joyce were both practitioners in the stream of thought writing. Still, just saying.
The next chapter is appropriately paradoxical of Odysseus's descent to Hades, as this is of Bloom, the senior Dedalus and Martin Cunningham going to Paddy Dignam's funeral.
We learn of Bloom's dead son (Rudy) on the way to the funeral, a son dead either at birth or shortly after birth. I thought this was interesting because, to be frank, Mrs Bloom is sleeping around. Actually, sleeping with her manager. Bloom knows it, though I don't believe their daughter is aware (she is away from home) and I don't believe any other person around knows. But wait, that's not the whole reason why I thought it was interesting! When Odysseus comes home, his son helps him get by the suitors so he can slaughter them. With a dead son then, can Bloom do nothing, or at least not gather the courage to confront his wife and her lover? And if the son hadn't died, would the affair be happening at all? (He would not have been old enough to send away like the daughter.)
The senior Dedalus Simon is complaining about his son, Stephen, and turns the phrase "tickle his catastrophe" (88), which is just another example of awesomeness in the wording apparent in the text.
The funeral procession passes Simon's late wife's grave and he becomes distraught, saying he'll "soon be stretched beside her" (105) and that God can take him whenever he wants because obviously he misses her. Possible irony, because while Odysseus is in hell he meets Achilles and Achilles says he'd rather be a slave than rule the place, much less be there at all.
"Daren't joke about the dead for two years at least" (109). Ah, so that's the grace period! Guys, your Michael Jackson jokes are still in really bad taste!
"The Irishman's house is his coffin" (110).
"Bam! Expires. Gone at last. People talk about you a bit: forget you. Don't forget to pray for him. Remember him in your prayers... Then they follow: dropping into a hole one after the other" (111). And, with that--"Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind" (111). Of course, referring to the deceased.
The next chapter is set in a newspaper office and is broken up like several articles one after another with huge headers. I had a hell of a time with this chapter. This chapter is Aeolus, who if I recall correctly gave Odysseus a bag of winds to help ease his journey.
"What was [Rome's] civilisation? Vast, I allow: but vile. Cloacae: sewers. The Jews met in the wilderness and on the mountaintop said: It is meet to be here. Let us build an altar to Jehovah. The Roman... gazed about him in his toga and said: It is meet to be here. Let us construct a watercloset" (129). Okay, yes, it made me giggle. Also, compare that with this quote from Doctor Zhivago: "'Rome was a flea market of borrowed gods and conquered peoples, a bargain basement on two floors, earth and heaven, a mass of filth convoluted in a triple knot as in an intestinal obstruction.'" It is mentioned that we still have Roman law and the retort is that Pontius Pilate is that law's prophet. (Pontius Pilate was the man who condemned Jesus to Crucifixion, though in his defense he was very reluctant to do so.)
"We were never loyal to the successful. We serve them" (133).
The next part is Lestrygonians. They were giants who ate almost the entirety of Odysseus's fleet. Appropriate, because it is lunchtime, though Bloom does not dine on miniature Grecian men. (Or does he?)
The first bit that bothers me are his thoughts of Shakespeare. Bloom says to himself that Shakespeare has no rhymes: okay, maybe not so much in plays, but what about the sonnets? I guess in his defense people don't automatically think of the sonnets when they think of Shakespeare, even if they are aware of the sonnets' existence.
"Do ptake some ptarmigan" (175). Haha, yes! (A ptarmigan is a kind of bird, by the way.) I don't know if any of you have read any Shel Silverstein, but does anybody remember that poem about that gnat? Gradually he adds the silently 'g' to every 'n' word. So. Yeah. James Joyce and I should hang out more is what I'm trying to say.
There is a conversation next chapter regarding Shankspeare and his personal life, and a man in the pub criticizing an analysis of his life in a very Wilde-ish way: "'But this is prying into the family life of a great man... I mean when we read the poetry of King Lear what is it to us how the poet lived?... Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the day, the poet's drinking, the poet's debts. We have King Lear: and it is immortal'" (189). Wilde argues very much the same way in a work which I can not exactly name but I know is contained in The Collected Oscar Wilde (For some reason I'm thinking 'The Soul of Man Under Socialism'?)--I wrote about in any case, if you'd like to skim that up. But to summarize, he says biographies of the great poets, authors, et cetera doesn't really tell us about the person because maybe they had a boring life that didn't really let them live to their fullest (Cough cough, Jane Austen), they could not live as they really pleased, they were only reacting to what was laid before them, that was all they could do--and so on. Their works are most important and they are what truly show us the soul, because it shows their desires, their mannerisms, true unhidden or otherwise disguised feelings, what they would have liked to live... and so on. Which I completely agree with, for the record, and not just because Oscar Wilde wrote about it!
"There can be no reconciliation, Stephen said, if there has not been a sundering" (195).
Oh, and James Joyce name-drops Wilde's 'Portrait of Mr WH', Wilde's story that argues that Shankspeare's sonnets were written for a man named Willie Hughes. This story also resides in Barnes & Noble's The Collected Oscar Wilde. I might add that the reason why Wilde's name peppers Ulysses is probably because James Joyce was Irish as well, and Wilde was a prominent author, scandal or no. Well, and that he works for situations he is alluded too, but I feel that his Irish background has a lot to do with it. You know? Like, of course they'd be talking about him, he's straight from their home country, and so on.
"A father, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is a necessary evil" (207).
Midway through there is a breakup similar to play dialogue. I assume it has to do with the fact Shankspeare is being discussed, but like I said, when in doubt, SparkNotes is actually really useless.
Next chapter does not regard Stephen and Leopold at all, so let that be the warning flag to you now that I had a lot of trouble with the chapter. There are nineteen vignettes regarding nineteen different people in the book. (As opposed to regarding those not in the book?)
In one vignette M'Coy narrowly avoids slipping on a banana peel and reflects upon how badly you could get hurt if you did. Was slipping on a banana peel already a cliche then, or did this start the trend? Has there ever been any serious research on the subject that could give me a clear answer?
Next chapter regards the Sirens, women-fish similar to mermaids (depending on the interpretation) whose lovely voice lure men to their doom, as they are so drawn to the women they drive their ships right into the rocks where they repose. Appropriately, this chapter regards lots of singing and music as Bloom sits down for dinner. In another sense it works because during this chapter Boylan, Leopold's wife's lover makes his way to the Bloom household to have his way with her. (Leopold's wife, if I have not mentioned, is a singer. Boylan is her manager. She is the siren, he is the sailor, although he is the sailor who does not suffer death.)
Joyce mentions middle earth during this chapter. The middle earth? The Hobbit wasn't published for about fifteen years after Ulysses, so you never know... (I can't find anything to support my idea.)
"He bore no hate. Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old" (285).
"...Daly's window where a mermaid, hair all streaming (but he couldn't see), blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn't), mermaid coolest whiff of all" (289). Obviously, referring to the actual female sirens, not just the men (particularly Simon Dedalus) who are singing. Admittedly there are some alluring barmaids where they are dining as well.
The next chapter is Cyclops, possibly my least favorite section of the book (though it has interesting bits) and a pretty difficult section too. The cyclops was obviously a one-eyed giant who dined upon men; Odysseus escapes it by getting it drunk and then putting out its eye. Hiding under a sheepskin he escapes the Cyclops's lair. The one-eyed giant could refer to the 'Citizen' (never is he named in any other way) because he's anti-Semitic, so narrow minded, purposely blind, one-eyed for he sees but only what he wants, and so on. This chapter is told by an unnamed man whose speech was apparently modeled after James Joyce's father. The man's style of speaking, in any case, reminds me greatly of Alex from A Clockwork Orange, probably because he refers back to himself all the time, "says I" and just the way he speaks itself reads in my head with the voice of Alex from the movie. Something about the voice... Just one of those things, I guess.
There is a funny case of abusing Bloom for his patterns in this chapter. Earlier on, he's called wellrounded, well-educated, knows a tad bit of everything, yes? And this is said with honor for him. Here, though, he is berated for it. It's kind of cool to be able to see all the different opinions of him here and there, and then that coupled with his own mind (which admittedly is a little dirty and fetish-filled)--Leopold Bloom is fleshed out completely in that, more completely than any other book has ever done and could possibly do, he's more human than you or I, I'd even go sofar as to say. He's the roundest character you'll ever read, I mean, rounder than most people anyway. Anyway, Leopold being mocked: "'...If you took up a straw from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: Look at, Bloom. Do you see that straw? That's a straw. Declare to my aunt he'd talk about it for an hour so he would and talk steady" (316).
In this chapter we learn of the day that this is set upon, June sixteenth, commonly known nowadays--or perhaps not so commonly--as Bloomsday. In that same sentence he actually mentions "the oxeyed goddess" (322) IE Hera. Which I thought was curious because this is really the only time he refers to any Greek god/dess, and in such a Homer-ish way, too. And on a side note, wouldn't it suck to be known as the oxeyed goddess? I'd be like, nothing? There's nothing else you could refer to me as!? The hourglass shaped goddess? The eternally young goddess? The goddess of the golden hair? Anything is better than oxeyed.
"Some people, says Bloom, can see the [might] in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own" (326).
Ironically, the intended cyclops of this chapter, the anti-Semite is the one who says: "'There's no-one as blind as the fellow that won't see, if you know what that means'" (326). Of course, his prejudices make him the blind man--the blind man who is unaware even of his inability to see.
"'But it's no use,' says he. 'Force, hatred, history, all that. That's not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it's the very opposite of that that is really life.' 'What?' says Alf. 'Love,' says Bloom. 'I mean the opposite of hatred'" (333).
"'And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I believe, till he knows if he's a father or mother.' 'Expecting every moment will be his next,' says Lenehan'" (338). Again, lovely phraseology here.
Oh, and Leopold finally sticks it to the Citizen by reminding him that Jesus was a Jew. The Citizen, filled with rage, threatens to crucify Leopold.
Next chapter is Nausicaa. Nausicaa is a young princess who comes upon Odysseus and eventually brings him to her parents to shelter him. Nausicaa has a bit of a crush on him and expresses that she'd like to marry him, or someone with his personality. Nausicaa's father is aware of this crush, or just impressed by Odysseus, and offers him her hand, but Odysseus turns it down because he's already married. Again, the parallels are clear. This chapter is mostly told through the eyes of Gerty, a girl on the beach, with a few of her friends and their kids. She thinks about marriage and sex and such while reclining on the beach (according to SparkNotes, her narrative is meant to parody early romance stories in women's magazines) till she notices Leopold watching her. While fireworks are being shot off she shows some leg and Leopold, uh, directs the pleasure toward himself. So nothing comes of that, either. (Is it bad that I'm summarizing all these chapters? This isn't really the kind of book where you can cut stuff out, you know?)
"He was too young to understand. He would not believe in love, a women's birthright" (351). Yeah, it's pretty lame, but guess what I like Jane Austen. Another example of cheap romance novel prose-cliches: "There were wounds that wanted healing with heartbalm" (358).
Oh, and, I mentioned this earlier, about his foreskin? He complains about it, you know, after. Look, the only reason why I bring it up because of any bit of the book it certainly confused me the most. He's Jewish! It bothered me every page until about one hundred pages later when they go out and say that he's only part Jewish. I mean, of all things of the book to throw me for a loop, really.
"Love, lie and be handsome for tomorrow we die" (381).
"O! Exhausted that female has me. Not so young now. Will she come here tomorrow? Wait for her somewhere for ever. Must come back. Murderers do. Will I?" (381). You know, a play on that saying that murderers always come back to the scene of the crime. And... so do masturbaters? Well, not that there was any crime scene but you know. Again, I thought it was a cool little tidbit of Bloom's thinking.
The next is Cattle of the Sun, having to do with Helios's divine cattle, but honestly this chapter is too cool and much cooler than The Odyssey's parallel chapter, or a summary of it. This chapter's concept (which I only realized with the help of Wikipedia) follows a baby's growth in the womb. But get this--it's the language that follows the baby's growth. Like, it starts out in olde English and develops with each paragraph in a style further such as the King James' Bible, Samuel Pepys, Charles Dickens, Carlyle, among many others. Which is a really really really REALLY cool concept! Once I learned this, I had to reread the chapter. I mean, what a genius is James Joyce to think of such a thing!
"Know all men, he said, time's ruins build eternity's mansions. What means this? Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time... In woman's womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation" (391). Conception and gestation, of course.
"I have more than once observed that birds of a feather laugh together" (409).
Oh, and again Lord of the Rings: Joyce uses the word 'bilbos'. A bilbo was apparently a kind of sword known for its flexible but not weak blade manufactured mainly in Bilbao, Spain. Knowing this I could make an interesting analysis of how that would regard Bilbo Baggins, but I guess this isn't quite the time or place to do so.
The next chapter is my favorite of the whole book, regardless of its madness and at times incredibly disturbing imagery. (Not A Clockwork Orange disturbing, just, you know, uncomfortable-like.) The chapter is Circe--Circe was a witch who turned Odysseus's men into pigs. Circe wanted to sleep with Odysseus like every other female in the book and, according to Wikipedia, would steal Odysseus's manhood unless if she explicitely swore not to. I don't quite remember that but okay. It actually kind of works because at one point Bloom imagines he is turned into a woman but I'm getting ahead of myself. Bloom, drunk as a skunk, wanders into the red light district and has many drunken hallucinations with brief moments of clearheadedness. His first delusion has him facing harsh charges from people close to him, his second involves him becoming a great leader of a new country--get ready for this--Bloomusalem. This is all fine and well till he's accused of being bisexual, virgin, being in possession of endless and violent lust and others. Well, let's get started for real I guess.
"'There is no place for indecent levity at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor'" (463). Seriously, James Joyce, how are you so awesome? Please inform me as to how.
Well, okay, here's the first disturbing in an uncomfortable creepy-crawly way part: after Bloom is ripped apart for his apparent sexual abnormalities, a doctor gives a long speech about Bloom and suddenly ends it with "'He is about to have a baby'" (494). Bloom, suddenly female, confesses he wants to be a mother and while standing there bears eight children. Ugh, talk about the creepy-crawlies. Oh, and keep in mind that now you know the truth: LEOPOLD BLOOM WAS THE ORIGINAL OCTOMOM.
"'What the eye can't see the heart can't grieve for'" (500).
"'From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step'" (515).
Bloom, babbling on claims that women fear "creeping things" (516) because of how their differing genitals are laid out, which is why he believes the story of Eve and the snake make no sense (along with the fact that a woman would fear a snake because of the old wives' tale that snakes will suck the milk from the breast). Well, I suppose it works at least a little--it seems to me like the snake would be a phallic symbol, no? And, with his mentioning of the wives' tale--we discover in the final chapter that he drank the milk from his wife's breast. Why his wife detests him? She certainly seems to regard the incident with disgust, even though he complemented highly on her breastmilk. (Though she clearly had no problem with it when he actually committed the act, so does she really have the right to revile it now if she permitted it?)
A reference to a Spanish fly "in his fly" (516) is made. I can't help but wonder if it's that famed aphrodisiac of legend that apparently impaled a girl on a gearshift, so horny she was without relief after being slipped some. That urban legend is relatively recent, which makes me doubt it could be that Spanish fly Joyce refers to, but it's possible. Some urban legends have existed since the 1100's with only slight variations in the story. If it is that particular Spanish fly, the play on words becomes apparent--the fly on his pants, you see, that would contain the arousal. I see what you did there, James Joyce. (The actual Spanish fly can kill really easily and if it does induce arousal-like symptoms they're very painful, so do not read this and try to obtain some, please.)
"'I stand, so to speak, with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before the too late box of the general post office of human life'" (528).
The whoremistress intrudes on Bloom's delirium, and after Bloom begs to be dominated the whoremistress turns from Bella to Bello and then s/he turns Bloom back into a permutation between coquettish female and various animals; dog, pig, sheep, deer, et cetera. Obviously, Bello is Circe. Bloom's transformations are agitating however, as although this chapter is completely set up like a play, there are very few stage directions regarding exactly what and how much of certain things Bloom is--one moment he--eh, she--is small enough to hide under the couch, rooting as a pig would, still speaking, then bleating, wearing a dress again, being ridden--literally being ridden, no metaphors here--as a horse, bearing udders as a 'hegoat', a bovinelike animal who is the victim of the most skin-crawling act of this chapter, a regular man again wearing antlers--and so on.
"’You have made your secondbest bed and others must lie in it. Your epitah is written'" (543). Shankspeare left to his wife in his will his secondbest bed.
We discover that Bloom is only thirty-eight in this chapter. I mean, I guess that's kind of old, but the way people described him I was thinking mid-forties, maybe even early fifties. Though I guess one must take into consideration that people didn't last nearly as long back then. Mrs Bloom is only about 33 too, and in her chapter she complains of her age and losing her beauty and all.
"'You die for your country, suppose... Not that I wish it for you. But I say: Let my country die for me... Damn death. Long live life!'" (591). How Catch-22 of you, my good sir.
This chapter ends sweetly when all madness is dispelled, however; well, bittersweetly. We know by now that Rudy was buried in a lambskin. Bloom, carried on the last waves of illusion, as they fade away completely sees an eleven-year-old boy nearby leaning up against a wall, reading a book. Bloom calls his son's name and the boy looks up without recognizing or even really seeing Bloom. The boy makes no response, but we can see a portion of a lambskin poking out of his waistcoat's pocket.
The next is Eumaeus, which was a friend of Odysseus's. When Odysseus returns he takes him in, unknowing of who he is. Bloom has taken charge of Stephen who was also in the whorehouse and they have since left to find momentary repose, mainly for Stephen. Identities are thrown around; at one point Bloom lies to a drunken sailor about his.
"...Mr Bloom being handicapped by the circumstance that one of the black buttons of his trousers had, to vary the timehonoured adage, gone the way of all buttons" (614).
Button, oh button, where hath thou fled?
"'...Why did you leave your father's house?' 'To seek misfortune,' was Stephen's answer" (619). (There really is no good spot-on way to treat these quotes and conversations, is there? DAMN YOU JAMES JOYCE AND YOUR INABILITY TO USE QUOTATION MARKS! You too, Cormac McCarthy.)
"'But oblige me by taking away that knife. I can't look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history'" (635). Et tu, Stephen Dedalus?
A fellow named Pat Tobin is described as having "often painted the town tolerably pink" (639). Hehehehe.
"'We can't change the country. Let us change the subject'" (645). I feel like more people should abide by this quote...
The next is Ithaca, Odysseus's homeland. This is a pretty cool chapter because it's told in a style called catechism--sort of like a q-and-a session. According to Wikipedia (though it is not sourced) this was also Joyce's favorite chapter. What happens in this chapter is that Dedalus recovers enough to go home with Bloom, but refuses the offer to spend the night there.
There is an ad that appears every so often in the book about Plumtree's Potted Meat. It is "A home without Plumtree's Potted Meat is Incomplete". In this chapter, in the q-and-a style, it reads as this: "What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Incomplete" (684). Let me insert more chuckling here, and also have a word with my good friend Aldous Huxley.
Leopold during this chapter runs through what to do--what could be done regarding his wife's infidelity. He turns down assassination and a duel with Boylan--ironic because Odysseus slaughtered all the men after his wife.
"Womb? Weary? He rests. He has travelled" (737).
The next chapter is Penelope, regarding the Mrs Bloom. Her thoughts drift from her husband (and believing her husband has extramarital affairs) to Boylan, men and women's differences, her childhood, how her life would be different if she hadn't married Bloom, various affairs, Rudy's end and eventually back to her husband. The chapter also consists of eight sentences only, broken up by paragraphs--not even with periods--so arguably you could say that there's really only one, all in all...
"I suppose she was pious because no man would look at her twice" (738). Seems logical. Frumpy bitter woman.
At one point Mrs Bloom implies that one of her children--most likely Rudy--was not fathered by Bloom. That's cute. (Though I admit she procures a little bit of sympathy later on--though not enough to combat affection gained, for all of his oddities and strange ways many of which appear now, for Leopold.)
In regards to her affair, Mrs Bloom thinks about Boylan giving her money for this that or the other thing. "...hes not a marrying man so somebody better get it out of him" (749). Ick. Rereading this, I have trouble retaining respect for her. What a--only Emma will get this--Demos way to think! I feel my Augustus coming out and protesting that statement most vehemently. (Oh and that's funny because of Augustus's last name...)
A funny bit is when the Missus compares feminine beauty to male beauty, regarding a woman's breasts versus a man's genitalia. In the end she concludes women are much more beautiful in that argument and that it's no wonder that men "hide it with a cabbageleaf" (753). It's a rather hilarious bit, let me assure you.
"...I hate people that have always their poor story to tell everybody has their own troubles" (758). Okay, okay. At the funeral way in the beginning, Leopold becomes really human by instead of thinking what people ought at a funeral, what people are expected to, thinking about whatever, letting his mind drift completely from here and there. Thus the reader connects to them because they're the same way, as their minds are unhindered personally by social mores and norms. This is another one of those moments, when you feel yourself agreeing with the statement but feeling you ought not to so people won't think you're a jerk or what have you.
"there is a flower that bloometh" (759). Often puns are made on Leopold's name, but this is one of the last times and I thought I should point it out. She is thinking about a short-term relationship she had that she purposely messed with the boy by telling him she was engaged--she wasn't at that moment but was soon to be for "there is a flower that bloometh", that was soon to appear.
"the cat she rubs up against you for her own sake I wonder has she fleas shes as bad as a woman always licking and lecking but I hate their claws" (764).
The end seems to be--well, if not sweet in some respects at least acceptance of her situation. It's remembering the day Leopold asked her to marry him, and ends with her acceptance--and also the only period in the entire section. It's actually kind of sweet because there's at least a microscopic amount of affection for her husband there. He was a pretty romantic guy back then, he wrote her a poem (whose beginning letters spelt out POLDY, his nickname) he called her a flower, the "one true thing he said in his life" (782) and how she wanted him to marry and desperately wanted him to ask--so if not a remnant of affection (which there certainly must be) acceptance in that she wanted to marry him, and she had said yes, several times actually. The ending really is what makes me show any liking for her: "...then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes" (783). In my opinion, a perfect ending. Neat and tidy--though I admit I still wonder from time to time about Bloom. But I guess that's a great thing about the book, wondering about the future (mostly regarding Mrs Bloom's idle toying with what she'll do tomorrow and further after, though it's the tomorrow that's most curious) with no answer, who knows, do we really care, was it all worth it--of course--it's on the edge of forever, a lovely place for a book to be and even to end on.
As you can see I've come to regard the book quite highly. True, it's not my number one, but it's damned close. Unlike almost all of the books that end in my 'classics' shelf, its existence there was decided only five or six chapters in. It's just fantastic and if you'll excuse the wording--as I've thought for appropriate substitutes since those five or six chapters in--it is, dare I say it, orgasmic. No, not sexually, jeez, I'm not the one who's been drinking all night in a whorehouse. But it's just so full, so fantastic, such an altar. You understand? Mayhap? My favorite bit, as I've said already, is Bloom--you learn everything about him from every perspective. Good bad ugly human romantic sickening uncomfortable-making loving caring saddening and so on.
As for Joyce's work itself, why would he do it, make it so confusing and mad? He put it in "so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of ensuring one's immortality". (
Source) Hah, something I can surely respect. And--well--as to reading the book. I don't want to make it come off as though I understood every tiny facet of the thing, because I didn't. It's difficult; I can't lie about it. It's a book I would like to reread in a few years and compare my understanding. It's a great experience, and worth a shot to anyone who thinks they're ready--or just feeling foolhardy or brave (I'm a little bit of both).
Well, there’s that. I think a point of interest might be that this post (to this sentence) is 7,163 words. (I hope the formatting comes off okay.)
Answer to last post's cryptic song lyrics for Emma: Outlaw Blues by Bob Dylan (I have no idea about that video.)
This post's cryptic song lyrics for Emma (welcome to another facepalm): What's the matter there, feeling kind of anxious? That hot blood grew cold.
PS. I apologize for spelling errors, after Cyclops the spellchecker decided it had had enough apparently. Keep in mind that if it's in the quotes though the error was most likely meant to be there.
