HOME IS THE SAILOR

These paragraphs are an interlude – a space in which to think of that which is, and is yet to be -------------.

Many; perhaps only some; might well wonder, reading the interrogation of Bloom’s daughter, if James had some thought of his own daughter as he wrote.

There is a suggestion that schizophrenia is born of and matured by imperfect or neglectful bonding in infancy, kept alive with every sensing of that insecurity throughout life; the primal anger of the child denied of love. Some children need such affection more than others.

Not all such starved children become schizophrenic. Some mature as cold; unresponsive; some merely anti-social, unable and unwilling to meet and mix with others.

The modern choice of career, which robs children of the mother, is questionable. Family first, then the career, rather than the modern choice of career first, then family. There is much in modern living which deprives children of their simple, natural yet vitally important mothering. These few notes are of observation only. By no means offered as a final solution to a social problem. 

The experience of the Israeli kibbutz, in which the children are cared for by the community, seems to auger future unrest for pre-school and day care.  Such the experience the practise now abandoned; the aftermath thousands of restless youngsters alienated; seeking the lost heritage.

Odysseus has had a bad day in town this time it is a greek tourist who has over stayed his time.  He loves this country, and wishes to remain here.  Odysseus in rescue mode, and persuading the lad to return home.

He is tired out with this days work.  Something he has neither taste nor training for, and is glad to relax.

We have been watching the river the flow of life about it, and he says, suddenly, “There’s only one way to settle this illegal immigration.  It’s world wide.  America has millions same as England same as Europe.  We have to take our lifestyle into these third world countries, give them all TV, a fridge, video, even a motor car.”

I said, “And a new house, and Woolworths and David Jones and Universities and football.  They want the lot.”

He said, “Why not.  I wonder what they’ve got for us?”

Which is an interesting question.
 

Here, isolated in the spate of words, is one phrase to which he draws our attention; it is printed in italics. This surely to draw attention to it amongst the maze of words. 'To be married by Father Maher'.

Did he indeed seek out Father Maher? Was it his purpose, hope even, in relation to his tryst today with Nora? He and Nora? 'If it please you, Father'. 

Well, we know that he was not married to his beloved until many long years after his few words with the priest.

Perhaps Father Maher, knowing all too well of this renegade potential priest, says; cold, angry, vengeful, “No, make your own way to hell!”

The subtleties of this book ever confounding.
 

This Ithica, these pages of words? What to make of them? This is no new form for the novel. Novel it is, but it belongs to J.A.J. And to a time when novels were issued as a trilogy, before the human animal devised spectator sports and other entertainment systems to occupy his ever increasing burden of leisure time.  But never so fragmented, never such random trivia.

This section, the wordsmiths call 'Ithica', in Homer, recounts the homecoming of Odysseus, the careful assessment of the suitors, the planning of their deaths. In Ulysses, the homecoming of Bloom, a dull witted Stephen in tow. 

By what parallel course did Bloom so arrive; 'the greatest novel of all time', demands forty-eight ages of nonsense dredged from the printed records of the centuries; an ill conditioned gathering of bits and pieces. Little here of the creative imagery of the genius; his only contribution to the mix, the arrangement of the maze and the matrix of words. But there is little of magic here. 
 

Our alphabet indeed; it lends itself to jesting.

A beautiful cool death, enthused Father grunting heartily, invoking jests; knowing loquacity means notoriety; offering platitudes; quietly revoking stories tarted up venally with xenophile Yankee zest.

A bun, creamy donuts, equate folly. Give her ice cream, juices, kitchen leftovers, minced noodles, old potatoes, quinces, rump steak, treacle, uncooked verdure with xanthic yoghurt zing. 

Ancient beautiful cocktail, declared Eblis, fascinated, grasping his Irish jorum; knowingly letting medieval novices offer pipkins, quietly requesting sweets thus utterly vexing worthy Xerxes youthful zeal.

One could go on as J.J., did in this segment. Forty-eight pages! But why? James offers many such pages of muttering, so this, a cheerful and small exercise in the language.

Or for a more orthodox bit of fun the following:

How quickly can you find out what is so unusual about this paragraph?  It looks so ordinary that you would think that nothing was wrong with it at all, and in fact nothing is.  But it is unusual.  Why?  If you study it and think about it, you may find out, but I am not going to assist you in any way.  You must do it without coaching.  No doubt, if you work at it for long it will dawn on you.  Who knows?  Go to work and try your skill.  Par is about half an hour.  It is one of the ten thousand clever and anonymous “bits” that swarm in the Net.

Did you solve the puzzle paragraph?
How long? 
It is that it contains no letter 'e'.
A nice exercise to try with our few vowels.
 

Our Greek friend has read in the SMH. 

That a solution has been found for Fermats last theorem.  A puzzle which has defied our best mathematicians for the past 300 years or so.

He knows that Fermat was reading the Arthmeticorum when he claimed to have the solution; he is very proud of the greek foundation work in math; and knows the old story.  So when he breaks the news to me I say, “Indeed?”

“Yes, a 1000 pages of print out.”

“Oh!”

“Oh, a couple of hundred for the proof.  Took him ten years.”

“You seem very cool about it.”

“It is a great accomplishment, but!” 

“What do you mean with that 'but'?”

“Nothing much, just a reaction.   As you say, a splendid piece of work; as well as the 1000 pages, years of solid hard thinking; patient dogged work in a very abstract field.”

“But, you said 'but'!"

Well, Fermat said he would have sketched it out on the margin, but the margin on Diophantis book was only about one centimetre; too narrow.  That’s what my 'but' means.

“That’s right, he did”.

“Quite, so we still await Fermats solution, neatly sketched on a wider margin”.

“So this computer solution means nothing to you.”

“Not at all.  They are your words.”

“There are more roads to Rome than just the Via Dolorosa.  He has done a remarkable thing.  His name will be remembered, his work praised.  I hope he gets the reward.  But we still look for Fermats simple direct solution.  Probably found in a geometric, algebraical formula.  Something Fermat spotted whilst reading Deophantis.  Able to be drawn on a wider margin.”

He said, “Sometimes I don’t understand you.”

Monet said “Me too.”

I said, “And me you.”  Both of you.

Diophantis would be very interested; so would Fermat, and please think on this.  There is a yet undiscovered field of maths, which will encompass most of the many fields, number irrational numbers, probability averages, the algorithisms, calculus, all these and many others in one beautiful relatively simple equation.  Something much more pertinent than the T.O.E. that some physicists speak of; but it will be much later than our day.  Perhaps the math of a later million years.

That was the end.  Monet brought coffee, we watched the late sun light on the river, the gathering birds.

However it was not quite the end.  His next sentence was still on Fermat.

“So you know; there is another possible solution?”

“No, so many attempted, none so certain as this last.”

“Well," he says, “What about this.  Fermat also has thought deeply but found no solution, he notes the narrow margin, and decides it’s useful.  Out of sheer deviltry, makes his notation.  Just to tease, perhaps just to be talked about; see them thinking and arguing. For a few years.  How about that?"

I said, “That’s surely the best solution I’ve heard of.  You too will be in the books.  Another infernal problem to which there will never be a satisfactory solution.”

He smiled, satisfied “ I don’t want to be in the books.  If they can make sense of the idea good luck to them."

I said, “And to you.  A better man than Pythagorus, who kept his secrets and his discoveries to himself.”
 

Mulligan has been absent from the story for some time now; it seems also that some time has passed us by somewhat, this episode clearly enough written much later, for Bloom here speaks of a Doctor Mulligan, a man of good reputation who has leaped into the sea and saved a drowning man. 

But, what if the poor wretched soul has deliberately thrown himself into the sea, his only escape from the horrors of slow starvation in Dublin; or perhaps even to expiate some crime, indelible in his memory, corrupting his life. 

What then indeed; does he mutter thanks to his saviour?

Then good doctor is now the debtor, owes the man a decent meal at least; or did the fellow demand of the Doctor, “Why did you save me, why don’t you mind your own business?” 

The Doctor says, “It is my business, I am a Doctor.”

“In that case, then you had a duty to ease my death not prevent it.”

“That’s hardly fair,” says the Doctor. “I could not be expected to know that you wanted to die.” 

I said, “Leave me, I want to die.” 

“Many people say that,” said the Doctor, “It’s only the pain.” 

“Only the pain? I tell you it’s beyond endurance. I don’t want anymore, I’ve had more than enough.”

“I’ve helped many people over that stile,” says the Doctor. “And later they’ve been grateful.”

“Poor comfort. No future for me. I’m destitute,” said the man.

“Come now,” said the Doctor, “You need to change; some dry clothing and a good dinner. If you feel the same way tomorrow, we will come back here and I will hold your head under until you’re done, how does that sound?”

The man was a Celt. He was an Irish Celt, he was no longer young; which means that he had a native wisdom. He smiled for the first time in years. 

“My thanks, lead me on.”

So the good Doctor led him home, found towel and clothes, shoes, and a good hot meal. 

The man stayed with him some days, in which days he was well if simply fed. The old woman who supplies them with milk would bring eggs for him, well knowing his need. And now he is well again and in sound mind, the doctor found work for him on a small estate, the home of a wealthy patient also with health and faith restored. There the man acquitted himself well, saved diligently from his small wage and was happy to offer hope and companionship to a woman in as desperate straits as he had suffered; they wed; he nurtured her back to good health and restored her faith, and I am pleased to relate in this, 'the smallest novel of all time', they were adopted in their little cottage by a cat,  equally responsive in faith, seeking a nesting place for her unborn kits.  These so joyfully received by their children.
 

That Joyce chose the name of Dedalus, is provocative and interesting. The name is certainly Greek, but has no part on the Odyssey. It is possibly one thousand years older than the Troy of the Odyssey.

Daedalus, not Dedalus, was architect and probably construction engineer of the labyrinth in which the legendary King Minos of Crete imprisoned the Minatour, a monster with the head of a bull and the body of a man. The king demanded the annual toll of seven young men and seven young women from Athens; this, tribute to Minos; his empire in its early phase included Ionian Greece. 

In these days of the decadent folly of  'political correctness , I should perhaps say that it is but legend that the Minatour devoured the young people. Bulls are vegetarians.

Remember this is mythology, a very early form of political correctness, a time when you kept on the right side of the Gods. The old Gods were very real indeed to the people; they were much closer to Eden than we are today; had sense of the magic still; lived with their Gods; and were closer to nature than even our Greenies. They had no revelation of Satan in Greece, their demons Medusa, the Harpies and such, and the Minatour. 

What may have happened to the young and beautiful children; was either put to work in the vast enclave of the labyrinth, the boys to care for the sheep and the goats; the girls to do the housework: cooking, spinning and weaving.

For a better guess, they would be treated as equals in the royal court of Minos, providing a source of new blood for the upper class of the island population, even perhaps the royal household. The Kingdom an island, though the empire was widespread, and the Islanders well aware of the dangers of consanguinity. Is not the Minatour the offspring of some depraved union? 

There are other famous labyrinth, some of Minoan times, others later. South of Knossus, was Phaestos, similar in design and possibly much older than the Citadel of Knossus. On the decline of the Minoan culture, the Mycenaean empire became dominant in the citadels of Tiryns and Mycenae. And similar defensive design gave some protection to these cities. 

Ancient Egypt also used the labyrinth, with religious rather than military purposes.

A famous or possibly infamous maze was constructed about 500 BC, by the Etruscan King, Lars Porsena of the Tarquin dynasty. This elaborate labyrinth was designed much in the manner of the Egyptian, to protect his tomb and body from predators. Some might see the pyramids as being art deco examples of the ancient labyrinth. 

King Henry II of England also built a labyrinth to hide away his fair Rosamond; but his Queen Eleanor defeated his purpose. Both Minos and King Henry lamented.

In our own time, the labyrinth has become the maze. Early Europe developed the turf and stone maze, usually concentric paths. Some, as at Glastonbury circling a hill seven times to reach the sanctuary on top. Often the paths of the herb gardens of a monastery would take the form of a maze. It is also a frequent motif in Celtic and other primitive jewellery. 

The religious significance of the maze is clear, for they are found as tile patterns in many of the great cathedrals of Europe; sometimes in the old graveyards where the paths are designed for meditation rather than the easy access of the modern cemetery.

Henry VIII and other royals and several of the great homes of England, have maintained the high, living walled, mazes in their gardens. One with interesting historical associations is that of Hever Castle, home of Anne Boleyn; as a child, later to become the mother of Queen Elizabeth. 

The maze at Hever Castle was of golden clipped yew, and is still kept in its original condition. Hampton Court also maintains a very old maze.

There is little doubt that James Joyce had for some time mused about the maze as he planned both Ulysses and The Wake, and possibly included Dedalus in his maze of words as the literary mastermind of the mysteries therein. 
 

They say he loved Dublin, every lane, every street remembered, the City Arms, no doubt, engraved on his heart; Dublin forever the goal, the dream, lost Eden.

Indeed!

Don’t be deceived.  He hated the place; the streets stinking with the ordure of horse and poor drainage; the dingy poverty ridden alleys, its unwashed humanity, neither shower nor bath in those hovels; the dispirited people.

Did not Shaw leave for much the same reasons.  He said, “Dublin was filthy.  I fled.”
He hated it for its poverty, its pathetic servitude to the church, to the English establishment and as with scores of other Dubliners, he left.

Found a good companion, a girl as eager as himself to leave the place; and they went.

Why else does he use his craft to depict the gritty life.  Simply to tell the world how deeply such conditions can harm men and women, can brutalise the children;

Today, as this is written, there are Irishmen, all round the world a hundred million of them, still with the scars of Dublin and of Ireland deep and potent in their souls, for the desperate poverty, in iron grip of the church, the curse of England have bitten deep into the psyche of Celt and Gaul and Irish.

These evils shared by all Irishmen, and ripe in Dublin.

In Joyces day, other Irishmen, hating the life, the bitter restraint; were resisting and beginning the slow work of reshaping Ireland and Dublin.

In Northern Ireland, benighted souls still engage in shameful conflict in the name of the church, still under the heel of England; childish hatreds, mindless intolerance still defeat the care of God, the gentle humanity of the Christ.

But the modern Dublin, rebuilt in a new liberty is a city of light and prosperity.

No.  Joyce had no love for Dublin.  Nothing of love in Ulysses; the professors have created that folly.

Sure, he wrote of Dublin; but read Ulysses to discover his feeling for Dublin.

He could bring his talent only to one day – that was enough.

No, he did not love Dublin, and the feeling was mutual.

He left; gladly.

Perhaps Elizabeth Bowen spoke for him, in the deep loneliness of her heartbreaking 'my darling, my darling, here we have no enduring city'.
 

Joyce is again deliberately creating an alternative universe for the reader, a conscious effort toward uncertainty.

Sometimes the thought is forced upon the reader; is Joyce himself unsure as to how this thing in unfolding and so creates a general unrest; a diversion from the unpalatable truth so close to revelation? Almost a paralysis of paraleipsis.

There are about three hundred such diversionary paragraphs in this segment. Many are refreshingly short and pithy; others typically long and inconsequent. I believe I ploughed through these pages in the now dim days of the thirties, not so today. Time is too precious. It’s the stuff that life is made of and there is so much of good demanding attention. 

Perhaps offered as a training run for the final episode. Molly Bloom’s forty pages. 
 

The Greek Odysseus, a stranger, in that which he considers to be a strange land is waxing critical again.

“Why don’t you Australians do things properly?”

“What's up, this time?”

“The Darwin rail line.  Just built after 100 years of talking.  But, not built, not finished properly.  'She’ll be right' is not good enough – not for Australia.  High time you boys grew up, become men.”

I laughed, “Yes I know, but what’s wrong with the rail line?”

“For starters,” he said, “Too much talk too much indecision.  You fellows been talking about modern railways too long – since I’ve been here you’ve had about twenty reviews, investigations, parliamentary committee’s – everything, spent millions on talk, but nothing done.  Hundred years for the Darwin line _ _ _ .”

I interrupted, “Yes, but what’s wrong with it?”

“Well, it’s not finished. Pay thousands for the fare; Melbourne – Darwin – and the damn line stops 38 miles short of Darwin.  So you’re herded into a bus and it’s thirty hot miles to Darwin.”

“Good Lord, is that so.”

“Yes, and Adelaide – Alice, the track hasn’t been touched since it was built years ago; speed down to twenty k’s an hour in parts – should have been rebuilt same as the Top End was, and at the same time.  You Australian’s need a manager, and of you don’t smarten up Uncle Sam will take over and show you how.”

“Costs money” I said; I could think of no real defence.

“Nonsense” he said firmly, “We’ve spent 30 billion on roads next to nothing on rail.  It’s them dam pollies.  And we have those big rigs on the roads, tailgating us, keen to pass.”

“Yes, true.” I said, “And as we double production over the next twenty years we’ll have another 40 thousand of them breathing down our necks.”

“And double the accidents.” he growled.

“I bet they wont double the hospitals.”

“And another thing,” he said, “ They should spend some money on Darwin; should be the Capital.  The Gateway to Asia; should be equal to Singapore, Jakarta, Hong Kong; Stock Exchange here the lot; and another thing, a double track from Mt Isa to Darwin; essential for defence.”

He stopped, he has said a lot; but then said, “Canberra stuck out there in the middle of nowhere.  It affects their mentality.
 

Joyce mentions the nuns of the nearby convent ensuring that his sisters get a good soup, how often he does not know. 

This probably a regular gift. One imagines a watchful eye was kept on the family and there would be an occasional dress for each of the girls, a pair of trousers for the growing boy, second hand but very welcome. 

Today in Oz., and in so many other places, there is St Vincent De Paul’s, the 'Op Shop' run by the lay members of the Church. 

There is also the Salvation Army Op Shop; the Endeavour Foundation and there are others. These organizations flourish in our society, amply provisioned because of our wealth and our waste. We, especially our women, discard things well before their use-by-date. Chronic unemployment ensures the surplus is not wasted. The imbalance in the supply between men’s and women’s ware is a small wonderment.

These organizations receive so much good used clothing and other items, that they are able to send literally hundreds of bales to less fortunate people overseas.  The dress discarded today, may tomorrow be received with grateful thanks by some distressed soul in one of the shanty towns of the world.

The Op Shops and their equivalents have a very long history. In Homer’s day it was a command of Zeus that hospitality must be shown to the stranger and the poor. Even a drifter like Irus could get enough to keep himself alive and aggressive. In ancient Greece, there was none of the bitter starvation, which killed millions of so-called civilised and Christian people of a later age. 

Even in brutal Rome, Julius Caesar and other wealthy citizens distributed money to the poor. Both the Koran and the Bible demand this compassion for the poor and the dispossessed as do the other great religions. It is compassion drives the great peace movements of the world. The poor and the dispossessed in the West now protected by the safety net of various social security programs. We are now mature enough to know the might is not necessarily right, there are better ways to do the world’s business.  Generous aid but one such way.  In all Western countries the folly of spending billions an armaments, whilst the enormous potential of humans unable to secure a good living and a good education is lost to the nation; is quite simply bordering on criminal.
 

A prolix paradigm or, a phenomenal purple patch.

That those intrusive paragraphs irritate is no light thing. They are indeed sometimes a real part of the narrative; as such; no offence. That which is offensive is the obvious use of them as padding, especially, as Joyce might say, puffedly padding.

Please peruse this purple patch, pleasurably, with profit.

Pensively or passionately perpetrating the play in puffery padding, positively or perceptively perceiving protest of philosophical pedants, personal puzzlement, parallels of philological parallax, or petty prejudice. Phonetic pictographs, poetic purple patches, prolix prose, prostituted phrases, and purposeful pedantry persistently perpetrating puff, paff, and piffle. 

Popes, priests, parsons, padres, and princely prelates preach parsimonious pinpricking points as proactive principles, pre-empting positive policies. Peter and Paul proscribing permissive priestly preachings. Professors, pedants, passable PhD’s and peasant patriots, political pundits, all present pugnacious protest. 

Presbyterians, Platonists, puritans and a plethora of peculiar perverts, pathologists, psychologists, psychiatrists pursuing purple prose putatively protesting prudery. These protest.

Police photographers, public prosecutors, pestered prisoners with piles of prohibited pornographic pederasty, packed with prurient perversions of poisoned pens; precipitated prolapse of the pelvis; a piquant parallax of passive practitioners all pursuing petty porn; they protest. 

Possibly, probably, a pink panther picture posing a peaceful portrayal of pertinent probity, personal purity of purpose, persuading passionate patriots to preserve people power; perceiving potatoes to be popular with peas and pork, porridge particularly preferred; protest peacefully, in pacific purpose.

Paddy’s pigs and pease pies, a puddle of philology, not particularly philogyny. The paragraph perhaps perpetrated perversely and purposefully. Such pleasantry perplexes; we protest.

The pharmacist poises phials precisely, patient with prescriptions purposeful to prepare; no philanderer, he pursues perfection, pounding particulates with pestle, propounding peculiar potions for perplexed people and pecuniary pensioners; practicing in public places and in portals of pitiable protestation of persistent poverty and probable parturition, paraplegics, pimply people, patriotic platelayers, pilferers, pimps, pamphleteers, publicans, pretty pollies, a plethora of purposeless, pale, prinking prurient people perpetrating practices and purposes of purity, but perjuring probity in private.  These protest.

Preternaturally procuring pheasants from parks or public property, positively pinching ptarmigan, puce pigeons, pretty Polly, parrots, parakeets, other peaceful psittacine pets, pink, purple or pale partridges, preferred to perpetuating positively preposterous prose. Protest particularly.

Parsnips, pumpkin, potatoes, peas, pomegranates, plantain, persimmon, pears, plums, peaches, pomelo, pawpaw, pistachio, peanuts, pecans, prickly pear, parsley, peppers, pimento, plain products in piece or part all piquant portions pleasuring the palates of priest, parson, padre, prisoner, plebian or patrician, pub patrons, all personable people as particularised previously, prefer pink from purple patches, passive from pugnatious people positively protest.

The penman perpetually putting protective patches on his production, pre-empting the perfection of the piece, protests.

Pardon the parody, the participles, the prepositions, the preposterous ‘P’ paragraphs. 

The pain prohibits praise.
 

So this segment ambles on to its amiable end. 

'Sinbad the Sailor; Tinbad the Tailor; Jimbad the Jailer; and other alliterations; possibly a local rendering of Tinker Tailor, Soldier Sailor all going to a dark bed in which some naughty boy has hidden some eggs'.

This isolate phrase surely referring to that personal little secret so discretely hidden in the text of the next chapter.

So much artfully revealed; so well concealed; a mouse in the barn, needle in the haystack, a cat in a fit, a dog in the manger, a pig in a poke. 

Could even be a stone in his shoe or a foot in his sock. More to the point could be a tongue in the cheek, a bee in the bonnet, a light in the mind or just a teeny weeny enigma lost in the mystery of his daring device.
 

EUMAEUS  This yet another excellent segment of Ulysses. 
              Time about 11pm to Midnight June 16th 1904.

Homer’s Eumaeus is the faithful servant; these long twenty years; guardian of his lords broad browed oxen; his fleecy sheep; his grunting pigs, his skittish goats; supervisor of his fruitful orchards; friend and guardian of his growing son, and now in these last years, the unhappy servant of the insolent suitors thronging his absent masters hall. 

He is also keeping an eye on the aged Laertes, father to the King, who, mourning his absent son, has become a sad recluse, living and sleeping among the vines in the orchard; seeks him out at night, ensures he is protected against the weather and keeping life aflicker in the old man. 

He is also a very sensible fellow, and we will discover, a brave and careful fighter, well able to stand shoulder to shoulder with a man such as Odysseus and well deserves his freedom, the land and the herds to be granted him by Odysseus. The grim work in the Great Hall ended. 

These powerful lines in the Odyssey.
 

For this world is full of wonders; Born of the fierce intensities of class; Home to Life in a dazzling myriad. Of forms, in the skies, the seas, all lands; And we humans able to sense it all, To understand, to appreciate. To enjoy colour, sound, scents, Tastes and sensuous feeling, The beauty in everything, of order in all, Perceive the purpose in the whole, Every day a delight, Yes, sadly so many cannot. See trapped in the Maya. Of the daily round.
 

James asks, “What’s in a name?”

What’s in a name? WM S. asked long before James, and answered in the next breath.

Well, Rosa Damascina smells as sweet today as in Shakespeare’s day, or for that matter, as in Helen’s garden at Troy.

Shakespeare knew the rose in the real sense. That is, had looked upon it, smelled the perfume, absorbed the reality through all his senses; transmuted the flower into experience now a part of himself and unconsciously was influenced by that flower through all his life and in his life’s work.

When Stephen tosses names like Aquinas and Epitectes into his talk, his friend Cranly, sees this superficial usage, and mocks him.  Many experience life in the same superficial way.  Things happen to them.  The mature man causes things to happen.

The secret power and wonder of learning is this awakening of understanding, the enrichment of and absorption of experience. Some poor souls even buy roses without this understanding. Thus, so many of our children, born into homes of little understanding.

Most of us fail at this point, we see, but do not absorb the reality of the flower or of so much the wonder in which we are immersed.

Is this why there is so little of beauty in Ulysses? Such skill with words, such trivial use of those words, so great a talent, but without the vision.
 

'Home is the sailor, home from the sea'.

Be sure that you pick up the paragraph in which Bloom imagines the homecoming of this seasoned sailor.

Seven years, he sez, he’s been away, adventuring. The Greek adventurer full twenty years away adventuring.

Odysseus was fortunate indeed to find his Penelope still awaiting him; his house and treasures under threat but not yet usurped. So it was with Bloom. 
Agamemnon not so fortunate, a shameful death on his homecoming.

Helen home also, and repentant. How easy, how facile to say sorry.

As boys, we were taught: 'If you have to say sorry, it’s too late, the damage has been done'. 
 

Joyce liked to use anagrams. He does not, however, mention the perfect anagram:

'Eleven plus two = twelve plus one'.

A beautiful example of our inventive language.
 

My Greek friend, whilst a trifle perplexed with this piece on Ulysses, happily approved the few words from Homer; the piece is offered simply because there is little to say in favour of this episode. Nothing at all like it in Homer or anywhere else. 
 

At the door is an utterly broken human being.   At some time in the horror of her life an innocent little girl; but probably not for long. Tonight she stands, half mad, Joyce said, wild despair, in her looks and stance, half frozen too, wet with rain to the skin, her first wash for weeks. 

The sailor turns and sees her. He is not too put out. He has seen many women of the world reduced to this level of degradation. 

She lingers, but not one of the men interested. The smell of coffee, the warmth of the little room tantalising.

One of the men says, “Not tonight Josephine”. One or two laugh. 

Nothing, not even a crust offered. She stares them down with her wild eyes, mutters and turns to go. 

There is silence for a second or so, all feel the tension. Bloom keeps his distance. Stephen still oblivious. 

The sailor calls to the woman, “Hey sister, come here.”

The tone, sure authority, command. 
She turns, looks at him.
“Come on here,” he says, dragging a stool to his side “Would ya like a coffee?” 
Startled, she asks; “A coffee, true?”
“Bring the lady a coffee”, he orders mine host,  “And a bun - three buns.” 
“Here,” he sez, patting the stool beside him, she slips in, dripping, hands, feet, numb with the rain, barefooted. She sits beside him, eyes now for none of them; only for the coffee, the buns. Survival the strongest instinct. 

The wretched creature, hands round the mug, nostrils distended, savouring the pungent coffee. 
The sailor asks, “What’s your name lady?” she looks at him sharply, “Nobody ever called me a lady before,” she says. “Yu’d be good lookin’ as a youngster” says he.
“Get away,” she says, “A long time since. I forget. Must have been then. Men liked me then.”
“You’ll be alright,” says the sailor, “A quick swab down, a week’s good dinners, and a new outfit. You’ll be alright. Have to do ya hair too, ya know.”

She flashes him a look that would kill an African Witch Doctor, but he is not a witch doctor. Nor African, though God knows, he’s been there and done that. 
He assures her, with a truly warm Irish smile. An experienced man this. He can see the woman beneath the flavour of the day. Just like Michelangelo looking at David in that great lump of expensive Carrera stone. Think on that one, you Nilhists! 
The lady was eating, voraciously, is the word, soaking that archaic bun in the coffee. God, it’s terrible to see starving people eat. 
 The men said nought. This was something they all knew, seen it an hundred times; passed by; no man can save Ireland, or the world on two pounds a week.

The lady finished the bun. He put another into her hand.
“Don’t have too many at once,” he said in father’s voice, soft but firm “Take it easy girl.”
One of the men said, “She’ll eat yer hand in yer not careful.”
There was a shaky, only half a laugh. The red beard swivelled around on the stool, a look went round the tables, cautioned them. He turned back to the lady “The name’s Murphy, as in spuds.” 
“Bog oranges,” said a voice. 
“That so,” said the sailor, calmly, with the bunch of them under control. “William Murphy,” he repeated, “Call me Bill, what’s yours?”
“Moira,” she whispered with a fierce challenging look at the men. 
“Moira,” said he, admiration in the tone, “My old mum was Moira an’ me baby sister. God that was a long time ago”.
“Tis a great name, Moira, it was me Mum’s too,” she said.

The men were silent. All know about Moira.
The lady was responding to his kindness, smiled at him, the wild look softened in the spoiled face, “Could I have another coffee please,” she whispered to him.
The red, grey, white, flecked beard turned and surveyed the men “The lady needs another coffee.”
Silence. Wheels turning, what does he mean? 
The red beard lifted a little, the voice harder. “This lady needs a coffee.”
Bloom nudged Stephen “Set the pace Stephen”, he whispered, extracted a shilling from his treasure chest, pushed it across the table to the beard.
“Ah,” sez the beard, “Here’s a man equal to the occasion, thank you Sir.”
Bloom nudges Stephen again. Stephen gets the drift of it, produces half a crown and shoves it across. 
“Thank you Mr Dedalus, I knows yer father.”
Bloom says, hurriedly to Stephen, “I say you know, that’s half a crown. That’s no penny.”
“The woman will make good use of it,” says Stephen, his mind for one moment on his sisters.
The red beard juts toward the others, “What about it fellow travellers, this lady needs a bit of help.”
 He looks directly at the proprietor of the establishment.
“What about you, a coffee and a bun for the lady to take home?” 

There’s a long, hard look between these too, but he gives in, slides a coffee across, a pair of buns, both aging. They are already two days old, he will have to eat them himself tomorrow so he pushed them over. 
“So,” asks the sailor.
“No charge, on the house for the lady,” he sez.
“I thank you for that”, says the grey beard. It flashes round to the jarveys. Every one of them has had at least one tip today. One leads with a sixpence, others follow. 
The beard surveys them in silence, says to the lady, “These gentlemen asks you to accept this small offering on behalf of Moira, Mother of Ireland.”

Stephen looks up, says openly, “The undiscovered soul of my country.” 
“Well said”, sez the grizzled beard. He has been round the world, all the seaports, seen everything, heard everything, and knows a true knight when he sees one. 

There was Stephen’s half crown and Bloom’s two shillings because Bloom’s heart also has softened, three buns which are going with her to be tucked down the front of her dress for she has no pockets, no handbag, no shoes. This child of God, for are we not all equal in his sight, has only the skimpy rags that you see, wet through, she will die soon of consumption. But tonight, someone has been kind to her, let her remember when she was a child, cared for and happy; a mother called Moira, but she can’t recall a father, and here tonight again, there is kindness, and warmth, and money.

Red and grey gathered Bloom’s two shillings, the half crown and the six sixpences.
He said, “You ain’t gotta purse?”
The lady shook her head. Bloom took the pocket-handkerchief from his top pocket, unused, there for the dress code, offered it. 

Red beard folded the money into it, saying to the astonished donors, “Yer good deed for the day gents, this lady needed that coffee and them buns,” he said with a generous nod to the shelter keeper; his contribution worth less than sixpence, but most welcome. He said, “Gawd knows the money ain’t much.”

“I gotta bed in the alley down there,” she says. She finished the coffee. To the beard, “Thank you so much, you’re a good man”. She smiled at the shelter man, grinned at the others and lay a lady’s hand for a second on the sailors great fist and said again, “Thank you so much, I betta be going.” And she went.

There was a long silence. The red beard quiescent, the jarveys yawning in the anti-climax.
Stephen stood, Bloom at elbow, “Me too,” he says and off into the rain.

Red beard emptied his mug, the coffee cold,  “Well”, he says, “I betta find the head before I swab the deck,” and left the jarveys to face any further mysteries of the night on their own. 

The sailor has wasted no time, for the desolate creature was in sight still. He hastened on. 
 

This story has the stuff of a happy ending, why not?

The red beard looked after the retreating wreck of woman, somewhat distressed at her hopeless state.  He’s seen many distressed women; this one at breaking point and she’s Moira.
With a muttered thanks to the coffee shop, he hurries after her; she is no fast walker.
“Hey sister, you gotta change of clothes?”
“I got nothin – only this.”  She moves a hand across the rag of skirt.
“Hell,” he says.  “That aint good enough.  You come with me.”
She went.  What else could she do.  He took off his coat, Sir Walter Raleigh, wrapped it over her shoulders.
“No,” she protests, but this man is not joking.
“Where we going?”
“Right here,” he says, he rang the bell.  They waited.  It was midnight.  The door opens, the Mother Superior, eyes alert, sees all.
“Well?” This word a challenge.
“This lady needs some warm clothes.  I got money.”
“More than clothes,” says the Mother, “You come in.”
Inside is much better than outside.
A nun enters; quiet words are spoken, the nun takes the women’s arm, “Come, my dear.”
“You wait here,” a kindly command.
Some minutes pass.  A smiling nun brings him a mug of hot sweetened tea. 
Ten minutes later, a shock.  This moment he will not forget.  A luminous moment in his adventurous life.

They entered.  Moira, bathed warm, hair dressed, stockings, shoes on her feet, a neat clean and different Moira, refreshed, with hot pease soup; Moira, a new woman, a new look, a little miracle, blessed be god.
Mother Superior says “Well.”
“I thank you Mother you’ve give her a new life.  Be gob, she’s a different woman.”
Honest man, a rough diamond.
Has a tear in his eye.  He has seen the bitter and the wicked of life.  Now he has seen this.
“Well, indeed, mister, and may I ask, what do you mean to do with her now?”
“I got money - - - she needed the clothes _ _ _ _ _.”
“And then what?  What now?”
“I _ _ _ _ _I spose she goes back_ _ _ _ _ _.”
“Back to what man?  She has nothing to go back to.  Starvation – back to what?”
That stopped him.  Hadn’t thought of that.  She aint got nothing.
“Well?”
Dammit, this Mother Superior, she’s got me!
“Well?”
“It’s up to me.  What does a fella do?”
The Mother had him.  She knows she has him.
What can a man do?  So he looks at her: She gives him a hand out.
“This girl_ _ _ _ _”
Girl, he thinks she’s only a girl.
“This girl is destitute.  She needs a home – she’s a decent woman, look at her.”
He looked again could hardly take his eyes off her; clothed, clean, and such a look on her face.
“Dammit,” he thinks, “The waters getting deep in here.”
But that Mother Superior is not finished – not yet.
“Now mister, what’s your name?”
“Murphy, Mother, Bill Murphy.”
“Where do you live; are you married?”
“No Mother, just off me ship aint settled yet.”
“Well Bill Murphy, we need a gardener here, table greens and a few flowers; theres a small cottage and a cat, the last one died?”
“The cat?”
“No, the gardener.”
He knows she thinks he is a fool, but he is wrong.  She has weighed him well, and thinks him a good man.
“Well,” she says, “I put it to you; ask this lady to be your wife, take the gardeners cottage, and settle down with us.”
“Good God!”  Forgetting his manners in front of the Mother.
“Yes, Good God.  And a good chance for the both of you.”
He looked at the girl – the woman.  She looks at him, with hope – yes more than hope; theres a blaze of trust in that look.
He wondering; settle down?  Me – her.
The Mother Superior between them; she is keeping things moving.
“The cottage is comfortable; we don’t pay wages, but theres no rent and you can earn a little outside, theres a fireplace, three rooms and a cat.  We provide the meals.”
Clearly she is after a home for the cat.  Something went, inside him.  In time he realized, it was just acceptance of fate, understanding.  A new life for both.  Why not?
He says, “Moira, it aint usual but will you marry me?”
Tears down her cheeks, Moira says “Yes, oh yes Bill Murphy, if you’ll have me, yes!”
Sensible people.
Mother Superior smiled, nodded to the nun who left and came back with blankets and sheets – sheets; never have either slept between sheets.
“Out this way” said the Mother, “To the cottage.  You will marry later, you’ll sleep warm tonight; we will call you in the morning for breakfast and bring something for the cat.”
In prayer that night the Mother Superior gave thanks to God; two fools, a reliable gardener, a good woman saved and a wonderful and good in all thy ways;  Blessed be thy name in this House forever. 
 

A grand daughter, with a great grand now at school gives two or four mornings or afternoons at school, assisting in the library and the art classes, is of that vast congregation of volunteer workers who add immeasurable value to life.

They are set up for every cause; come together quickly, work timelessly and life would be dull indeed without them; and they offer not only effort but skills and hundreds of thousands in hard cash by sheer hard work, the heart of many of the great foundations such as Red Cross with it’s international power.

There are others, most of them local committees; others large incorporated bodies but all give freely of talent companionship and funds.

They probably are a human thing and exist in most countries though, in places like Bosnia and Pakistan, Palestine and a few other hot spots, one can but think such volunteer groups might cool the blood somewhat.

They exist as Cat societies, Dog societies; support sporting ventures, all the devastating illnesses; sadly the entrepreneur is beginning to trespass on the territory.  One noticed recently once a volunteer group now a business, selling advice and help with learning; now selling services, which they once offered free.