James Joyce's Ulysses, Telemachus No. 26

[Cf. 1922 5:20-27, Gabler 1:86-94]

We get an important glimpse of Stephen here, as we learn that he refused to pray for his mother at her deathbed. What kind of a**hole doesn't obey his dying mother's wish to pray with her? Discuss.

I mean, yes, Stephen is an Artist of Profound Integrity, who cannot compromise his belief in his unbelief. And yes, we are meant to think of him as kin with Hamlet, with Telemachus, with those who fight to leave behind their lives as boys to become men. And I even think that we are meant to pity Stephen more than a little, who has become so alienated through his extremism.

Mulligan refers to himself and Stephen as "hyperborean." What does this mean? Gifford gives us the basics--it's a classical allusion, to a kind of perfectly youthful master race who lived at the far ends of the earth. More specifically, Gifford pegs the reference to Nietzsche & a passage in The Will to Power, wherein the Ubermensch were described as hyperborean, as beyond the constraints of conventional morality, especially Christian morality.

Anyone out there have more to say about hyperborean? About Stephen's refusal to submit and what we're supposed to think about it?

I love the bottom panel here... Mulligan looking stately and plump indeed, beautifully framed and posed like he's about to start shooting lasers out of his hands. Which would make things interesting. His pose, his position, his framing, all speak together with the authority of Mulligan's perfectly reasonable criticism of Stephen. And Stephen knows it, but he doesn't care.

James Joyce's Ulysses, "Telemachus" No. 25

[cf. 1922 5.18, Gabler 1.85]

First of all, have you found us on Facebook yet?   Yet another in our growing arsenal of tools to bring this strange project to the world.

As I write it's the old man's birthday in Ireland. An auspicious day for a man who tended to be superstitious about the calendar. And as our subject we have a rather glorious image, and we're talking about mothers.  What's could be more appropriate?

A moment ago, Mulligan was quoting Swinburne when he referred to the sea as our "great sweet mother."  He's modulated into George William Russell a/k/a AE, who often referred to nature as the Mighty Mother.  Russell was a preeminent literary figure in turn of the century Dublin, and in 1904 he became the first person to publish a short story by Joyce--in a newspaper he edited called The Irish Homestead.  Russell has a prominent part in Episode 9--"Scylla and Charybdis"--and we'll certainly talk more about him then.

Back here in "Telemachus, Mulligan's comment will lead, a moment from now, into a discussion of Stephen's mother's death.  There's a lot to be said about the different roles of mothers and fathers in Joyce's world--especially in Episode 9.  Very briefly--mothers are associated with ultimate, undeniable truth--truth beyond language.  They may be the one true thing in life (a paraphrase). Paternity, however--especially in the days before genetic testing--was uncertain.  This uncertainty creates an intolerable vacuum, that has to be cemented over with legal, verbal certainties. In "Scylla," Stephen talks about paternity as a "legal fiction," (and you should put as much emphasis on the fiction as on the legal here).  You should also be thinking about Hamlet again, and always!

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.

James Joyce's Ulysses; Telemachus, No. 22

[Cf. (1922, 4:1-21), (Gabler 1:34 -49)]


As promised, we move forward a little faster by doing a full page at a time.


We've talked already about Stephen as "Daedalus", master builder and what not, but Rob's first drawing on this page is a great reminder that Stephen is in a labyrinth.

Mulligan points the way to the association with his riffing on Stephen's absurd Greek name. Why is Mulligan talking about the Greeks, anyway? I'm sure part of what's going on is Joyce signalling to the reader that we are both in Homer's Greece and and in Joyce's Ireland at the same time. Mulligan's interest in Greek also marks his superior education, and for a few brave interpreters, suggests that he may be gay.

Stephen is an artist, and he's looking for direction. For many Dublin artists, the logical place to go was London--that's where the publishers and readers were, that was where the roots of English literature were planted, that was where the money was. In 1904, with a great Celtic awakening in full swing in Ireland, many artists were looking instead to the island's native culture--think of John Millington Synge, or of Miss Ivors' cutting remarks to Gabriel Conroy in "The Dead." Mulligan proposes a third way--looking to the traditions of the ancient world, and past the less-culturally-stimulating history of the Roman empire to the world of the Greeks.

Many articles have and will continue to be written on this subject, but for now, let me put in a small placeholder to indicate that that the concept of the classical world was very important for all kinds of "modern" artists--advances in archaeology in the late nineteenth century made that world suddenly far more real, and many artists of the period looked to the classical world for a purity and humanism in art that would get them past what was seen as the decadence and chauvinism of the late Victorian period. This trend is the very place Ulysses comes from, after all. [Tho' on this, another brief note--Joyce himself did not know much ancient or modern Greek. He sure knew his Latin, though!]

One would expect that Stephen would be more sympathetic to Mulligan's invitation, then. But Mulligan's invitation, we will see, is utterly insincere. And also, Telemachus doesn't go back to Troy to find his father...

James Joyce's Ulysses, No. 21

[Cf. 1922, 3:26-27; Gabler 3:28-29]

And so, patient readers, we arrive at the bottom of the first page of the 1922 Ulysses.  I promise we will pick up the speed a little bit as we move ahead--we're just getting used to this way of working! 

Since we are moving at such a stately, plump pace, however, I get to notice a few things I would normally pass over.  Like Mulligan switching off the current here.  Over the last few weeks I've said a lot about the little transubstantiation magic trick that Mulligan is doing here.  But this time, Mulligan's electricity reference struck me...  I've always read this as Mulligan making a reference to some kind of medical experiment he would have seen as a student, a la Frankenstein

Looking around the web, I found a nice piece of trivia--the Pigeon House, the famous unreached destination of Joyce's short story "An Encounter," began it's long life as an electricity power station in 1903, only a year before the events in the tower are supposed to happen.  The Poolbeg Station now surrounds the original Pigeon House, and is easily visible from the top of the Joyce tower [It also plays a starring role in U2's "Pride (in the name of love)" video.]

The first power station in Dublin was opened in 1892.  Clearly the tower doesn't have electricity.  A gas lamp gets a speaking part later on in the book, and Stephen and Bloom eventually have a conversation about electric vs. gas streetlams--I'll look forward to tracking electricity references from here...

A Word from the Artist

A word from the artist himself. Take it away, Mr. Berry:

=========

Okay, well, I get to pop in here on this one since this panel represents a difference of opinion between Mike and myself. I love when that happens.

Mike's referring to the noise heard here as a Mulligan's whistle bouncing off the nearby Wicklow hills, as if this is a staged joke he's made for us and Steven to witness. I think there's a joke being made here of course, but one that's a bit more elaborate, and I've used this whistle noise to indicate it.

it terms of staging and actions throughout the novel, Joyce makes great use of the "noises off" that effective the central events in his story. The roar of thunder in "Oxen of the Sun" unites the destinies of the two central characters. Stephen, upon hearing the boys in the "Nestor" chapter, refers God as "a shout in the street." These outside messages are a very important part of the mystical intrusions to the internal struggles and dialogues within the novel and there's always a kind of transformative moment surrounding them. We see it here for the first time in just the right framework; a joke of transubstantiation.

What I've tried to set up here in adapting the first chapter is barren landscape divided by sea and sky where we get a chance to understand Stephen in contrast to his foil, Mulligan. Stephen is a hugely introspective character and Mulligan, well, not so much. Mulligan is worldly, but glib by contrast. He hears the the noises of the world around him, but responds to them as if they're "all a mockery and beastly."

So the whistle noise we're seeing repeated here, the same one we saw opening the scene on page four of the adaptation and that we'll see again on page twenty-seven, isn't a sound that Mulligan made himself, but an intrusion from the outside world that he's chosen to make light of. It's the whistle from the "mailboat clearing the harbour mouth of Kingstown," the sound of a message coming in.