James Joyce's Ulysses, Telemachus No. 24

[Cf. 1922: 5:2-15; Gabler 1:67-80]

Much to look at here. Stephen has just been complaining about Haines and his nightmare. Mulligan is changing the topic, staying on his tear about "Hellenization."

In the second panel, Rob has drawn Mulligan and Stephen in an odd pose. Stephen seems to be surprised in mid-phrase, and Mulligan is reaching into his pocket. Specifically he "thrust his hand into Stephen's upper pocket." It's an interesting moment, one that the comic allows us to show the body language for. Mulligan is intruding, being forward, in Stephen's space. "Thalatta thalatta" means, unsurprisingly, "The sea, the sea!" It's from Xenophon. You can look it up...

A small textual point--there's an omission in this early draft--Mulligan says "Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor" --we left out the "your." Also, in the Rosenbach manuscript, Mulligan's first mention of the sea in this moment is "she is our "great" sweet mother." That's in Joyce's handwriting, and it's quite clear. It's repeated a few lines later. But in his errata for the first edition, Joyce specified that he wanted this to be "grey" sweet mother. A nice allusion to grey-eyed Athena, Odysseus' protector, but otherwise obscure.

And as for the Greek-- "Epi Oinopa Ponton" means (according to Gifford) "upon the winedark sea," a common epithet in Homer's Odyssey. This is another moment when I wonder if Joyce was raising another flag to his readers... "Hey! The Odyssey! It's important!" We know the Odyssey is important now, eighty years after it was published... but this might have been a more useful to early readers.

James Joyce's Ulysses, Telemachus, No. 23

[cf. 1922; 4: 23-35; Gabler 1:50-66]

Stephen and Mulligan are discussing their visitor, Haines, who woke in the middle of the night, apparently screaming about a black panther. Presumably not this kind of black panther.

Many years ago at a Joyce conference in Rome I heard a scholar give a paper that argued that Haines is, at least in part, based upon William Bulfin, an Englishman who wrote a book about his bicycle tours in Ireland at the turn of the century. The book, Rambles in Eirinn, was very popular & reprinted many times. In a passage about Dalkey & Sandycove, Bulfin describes a visit to an old military tower where some young men were staying. I'll steal the excerpted passage from a great RTE website about Ulysses:

On a lovely Sunday morning in the early autumn two of us pulled out along the road to Bray for a day's cycling in Dublin and Wicklow. We intended riding to Glendalough and back, but we were obliged to modify this programme before we reached Dalkey, owing to a certain pleasant circumstance which may be termed a morning call. As we were leaving the suburbs behind us my comrade, who knows many different types of Irish people, said casually that there were two men living in a tower down somewhere to the left who were creating a sensation in the neighbourhood. They had, he said, assumed a hostile attitude towards the conventions of denationalisation, and were, thereby, outraging the feeling of the seoinini.One of them had lately returned from a canoeing tour of hundreds of miles through the lakes, rivers, and canals of Ireland, another was reading for a Trinity degree, and assiduously wooing the muses, and another was a singer of songs which spring from the deepest currents of life. The returned marine of the canoe was an Oxford student, whose button-hole was adorned with the badge of the Gaelic League-a most strenuous Nationalist he was, with a patriotism, stronger than circumstances, which moved him to pour forth fluent Irish upon every Gael he encountered, in accents blent from the characteristic speech of his alma mater and the rolling blas of Connacht. The poet was a wayward kind of genius, who talked with a captivating manner, with a keen, grim humour, which cut and pierced through a topic in bright, strong flashes worthy of the rapier of Swift. The other poet listened in silence, and when we went on the roof he disposed himself restlessly to drink in the glory of the morning. It was very pleasant up there in the glad sunshine and the sweet breath of the sea. We looked out across to Ben Edair of the heroic legends, now called Howth, and wondered how many of the dwellers in the "Sunnyville Lodges" and "Elmgrove Villas" and other respectable homes along the hillside knew aught of Finn and Oisín and Oscar. We looked northwards to where the lazy smoke lay on the Liffey's bank, and southwards, over the roofs and gardens and parks to the grey peak of Killiney, and then westwards and inland to the blue mountains

That was longer than it needed to be, but you get the point. Throughout the book, Bulfin approaches Irish people with the same mystification about how he knows more about the history and the language than they, the natives, do. Ironically, back at the Rome Joyce conference, the scholar who was giving the paper was not aware (nor was I) that Bulfin's book, and the coincidence of his visiting during Joyce's very brief stay at the tower in September of 1904, was well known among the senior Joyceans. I didn't know about it and was glad to learn, but the moral was to be careful you're not teaching your audience something they already know.

The black panther is still a mystery to me. I don't know if there is a particular symbolic referent here, or if it's one of the red herrings Joyce throws into this book. It's certainly odd that Stephen says "black panther" two times in close proximity. Even without a clear allusion, (and I'm looking to you all, helpful readers, to tell me what you know about black panthers), the panther dream suggests that there is something a little unhinged about Haines. Maybe he, with Bulfin as his prototype, is to be seen as approaching his travels in Ireland as a kind of exotic safari (I picture him with his guncase and a pith helmet), and the black panther is the symbol of the exotic otherness of the Irish. You tell me.