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Ithica This segment appears as an ‘extra’ happens after midnight, as does the following segment. The old, now out of print, Chambers’ 'Book of Days', or perhaps an early encyclopedia provided this extravagant puff. So, very little comment on a last desperate attempt to pad Ulysses out; fatten it up, and this in haste. Read it if you will, tis a sad inclusion in the story.
PENELOPE
The significance of Blazes Boylan’s tryst with Molly Bloom in relation to Joyce’s theme for The Day, must not be overlooked, nor treated lightly. It is much more than just another conquest in Boylan’s adventures, his way through life; much more than a living, very satisfying and desperately needed stimulant in Molly Bloom’s journey on the way; and much, much more, than Bloom’s unhappy realisation of his own impotence; his understanding of his wife’s primal needs; and much more than his tacit approval of the fact. His unhappy vigil on the day, is simply to allow the lovers an uninterrupted pleasure, with no hint of discovery; his wife still his own beloved, with no threat of recrimination. There is in Ulysses more than all this; beyond doubt all such nuances were considered, evaluated in the writer’s mind long before they were transferred to paper; this incident is seen by some as a significant Joycean reconstruction of his own tryst with Nora Barnacle on this day. But is it so? Never a hint of it in Ulysses. This but the creation of some commentator. Briefly we see, transformed, idealised and made plain, the secret hopes of the seedy, poverty damned, teacher, rejected by his peers, consort of prostitutes, unable to maintain a normal relationship with a decent woman; this already fractured male, now, 'oh our imaginations – how they lead us on'. Appears on paper as the well-heeled, bold, virile, handsome lecher; and his lusty Nora equally impoverished, is revealed as the voluptuous Molly, secure in her own bedroom, her lover awaited with joy, his love offering of sweets and fruit and flowers beside her. Such the power of our human imagination! Such the awesome imaginations of the exegetists . Joyce / Boylan?
Both singularities marking the auspicious day, but to this mind, highly
improbable; deeper thoughts are here concealed demanding deeper thought
to be revealed.
Yet another enigma in this hotpot, this literary Irish stew. Where are the forty or twenty or even sixty pages of Molly’s cogitations as she awaited her lover? His love offering of sweets and fruits and flowers. The author gives us forty pages of her post-mortem of the event, but anticipation is the better part of the experience and Molly Bloom had much to think about this day. It is springtime in Ireland and a young lover, hot foot on the way, Molly had deep thought before the event. In the happy end, Bloom back home and forgiving all; Boylan gone, satisfied, his task accomplished; Dedalus 'Joyce', sober enough and still devious; is he not considering that spare room with the good bed in Bloom’s home, as a suitable resting place before moving to exile in Trieste? Is not Molly already warm with anticipation? 'I’ve always wanted a decent, well-educated young man'. Boylan, all unknowing, and despite his very satisfactory performance,
as a male, and the flowers and sweets and the fruit, with other offerings
of this day, has failed in her mind to meet her natural expectations as
a man; and Bloom, despite his impotence, holds his place for his many thoughtful
considerations of her; his understanding of her need; those cups of tea;
breakfast in bed; and his compassionate understanding. The marriage bond
holds, despite all. The future with the young intellectual yet untried.
Today, 16 June 1904, Nora took him on, risked all, for she felt, physically
and psychically that he was a partner well able to satisfy her own fantasies,
one who would not be submerged in the dark fire of her own deep subconscious
life. He, so deeply alive in his own inner mind, felt the empathy and her
hands spoke louder than her words.
The writing, the invention, of Tolkien’s Silmarillion, 1977 and in somewhat tenuous similarity with Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, has spawned the supposition amongst some humorists, that J.R.R. attempted an interpretation of the Wake. Both are remarkable in being almost useless to the reading public. Both remarkable in that they attract the attention of learned people. Both books for the professors. Despite some unworthy criticism that Tolkien’s Middle Earth stories are juvenile, one or another and sometimes all three of his books have featured in the Top Ten for English readers for many years. This for a simple natural reason; they appeal to and stimulate our imagination. Harry Potter also granted such recognition, despite the great differences in execution, style, plot and presentation, between Harry and the Lord of the Rings. Clearly mythology is not dead in us. For this, praise be to our
Gods.
June 16 again. Another Bloomsday; as usual now, noted in the weekend editions of some papers. Still a cult thing, by no means Universal, but still an extraordinary day of celebration unequalled in our literature. Not even Shakespear so honoured. Such a healthy interest suggests that it well may endure the thousand years he hoped. Theres no doubt; the book is difficult to read at one sitting. But it repays ownership. Pick it up, open it any place, and theres some interest. The gritty bits intrude; many find them offensive; Molly Blooms so called reverie particularly so. Eliot said, “He wished he had not read it.” Many will agree, but it is not compulsory. Be warned; but of course you are human, you will not accept the warning. You will read and make your own judgement. Experienced readers will speed read the heavy ponderous paragraphs. Three page paragraphs in plenty, he gave Molly forty pages with only three full stops, an utterly impossible tirade of words and all so clearly no part of Molly, but a gut wrenching horribly intimate expose of James A. Joyce, with bells and whistles. Gritty stuff indeed. He has the human condition to a T, acute observation, and a sure touch of Irish bathos. The Greek friend asks, “What is 'bathos’ I know pathos, have you made a mistake?” “No. Bathos is roughly the comic opposite of pathos. Check it in the dictionary; it has several meanings.” The soliloquy is strangely at odds with Molly Bloom, and with, one can only imagine with Nora Barnacle. There are several segments of the book which create this sense of disgust; but there it is; it is his work; possibly why some critics were so out spoken on publication. Eighty years on, public opinion permits such gritty work. This does not make the work less offensive; it simply means that there is a wider public with a different standard. Often that standard has a solely intellectual level built into it. This says 'I would not speak thus, but the author may speak as seems good to him'. So be it. But on this occasion the author surely abused his creation in Molly Bloom. So we have Bloomsday, not Molly Blooms day; The Irish Tourist Board should possibly sponsor a classic race, such as the Derby or perhaps our Melbourne Cup to support Bloom, who is a bit of a wanker, make it an international event, with real meaning. There’s money in it. Bloomsday? What’s Bloomsday?
He shoulda done sumthin like 'Lady Chatterleys Lover'.
Boylan is strolling home, no great hurry; it has been a most satisfying few hours with Molly; at the end, the bottle of champagne, the fruit and the chocolate enjoyed. Both have enjoyed the ecstasy of orgasm; the sweet resting, the mind untroubled, the body in perfect relaxation; the euphoria of deep content, so much a part of that ecstasy. Yes, these hours a perfect delight for the lovers. So, dreaming of such delight, he is deeply shocked; Bloom’s friendly slap on his shoulder, Bloom’s voice “Hello Boylan,” Bloom’s face and portly figure at his side. Bloom, smiling ! Smiling ! “Well,” says Bloom, “How did it go?” “What?” Boylan said, with such force, the pigeons in distant St Mary’s belfry rise startled into the night air; the dogs in a dozen houses about sound the alarm, and a dozen burghers turn restless in their sleep at his word. Echo, fading on echo, of the word roll solemnly around the towers and crannies of the city, fading at last into the surrounding hills. “Well,” says Bloom again, “How did it go?” “Er, very well thank you,” says Boylan, thinking furiously: 'What’s he up to, how do I manage him on this?' Bloom nods saying, “I’m glad of that Boylan; you know, you’ve done Molly and me a great favour." “Whaat,” again from Boylan, with answering chorus from the dogs. “Yes,” says Bloom, quite seriously, “Molly’s a virile woman; you see, in strict confidence, I’m not much use to her these days. Getting old; and the dear girl needs someone to stir her up, vitalise her. You know.” Boylan is a little calmer now. He is not accused. Not yet. “Good God,” he says, “I wouldn’t have thought of it, not like that. So you’re not after my blood?” “Not at all Boylan, you’ve done me a great favour, and I’m sure Molly was satisfied." Boylan has a quick, but now rather guilty recollection of the uninhibited freedom of their hours together; he tries to equivocate, “I hope she was satisfied,” he says lamely, humiliated. “Oh come, Boylan, of course she was. Looking forward to it for days, I’m sure you have some idea.” Boylan has no answer to this, he is still in shock. Horrified, he realises that he has been made of use. Who is the cuckold; Bloom or himself? Bloom as usual is justifying his position. twisting facts to suit his own feelings. He is not going to be hurt by the infidelity. Not Bloom. “Molly is a strong, vigorous woman, you’re a perfect match for her.” Bloom is going strongly; “She needs a man like you now and then.” Blazes again relives her open, joyful acceptance of him. Lips to hips and everything in between, and believed, the fool, that she loved him, so she did, most passionately and freely for those hours. He is now in better control. He says, “That’s awfully decent of you Bloom,” he can think of no other. Bloom says, “I’ve known about this for some days. Kept away from home all day, give you both a chance. I’ll be sleeping in the spare room tonight, let her have her dreams. You’re a lucky man, Boylan.” “Lucky? Me?” Says Boylan, somewhat bitterly. “Of course,” says Bloom, noting the doubt in the others voice. “You are a very good pair.” Boylan had a wild vision of Bloom as young, as vigorous, as passionate as himself, but the vision quickly wilted, faded, and only old Bloom, incompetent, waffling on at his side. He thinks 'I am lucky alright, lucky, he hasn’t given me ten bob for the nights’ work'. But Bloom has nearly finished with him. “Well Boylan, thanks again. Only,” he paused for effect, “Don’t make a habit of it.” He turned on his heel and walked away. Boylan watched him go. A quiet
fellow, a harmless old fool, full of compromise. Well I’ll have my revenge
on him, I’ll have Molly now whenever. I won’t harass her, just be there
when wanted. So long as I buy the fruit, the flowers, the wine, so I shall
enjoy her and to hell with Poldy Bloom.
Noticeable amongst the flummery of Ulysses is the inhibited family life of all his characters. The wretched condition of his own family, the hard, uncaring father; the distress of Mrs Purefoy, where is her family support? The ineffectual Mrs Breen with her touchy husband; the Bloom’s, the son died, the daughter spreading her wings away from home, the wife? His uncle’s home divided with secular strife and blighted with the despotic father; Paddy Dignam’s house of sorrow; Parnell’s love vilified and in more than one home, the suggestion of sorrow and keening from the follies of young Irishmen with guns. Surely just being an Irishman was enough? Only in Bloom’s house is any show of affection and that also compromised;
and now tested yet again by an adultery which he himself has made possible.
There are magnificent pages in the Odyssey with an entirely different attitude towards the women of the story. Persephone sent to him a great procession of women. There was Tyro, daughter of kings, Antiope, who bore twin sons to Zeus; Alcema, mother of Hercules; Magera, wife of Hercules; Epicaste, mother of Oedipus; magnificent Chloris, daughter of the King of Orchomenus; Pero, the marvel of her time; Leda, the mother of Castor and Polydeuces; and Iphimedeia, whose sons attempted to pile Pelion upon Ossa and both on Olympus. Phaedra and Procris, and the lovely Ariadne; Clymene; Maera. The shade of his mother said to him, “Remember these things, for some day you will relate them to your wife.” I could not name all of them, but never a mention of them or of anyone
even slightly resembling them in the Ulyssean Odyssey.
It was said of Isaac Asimov that he never wrote of women in his stories. So he wrote a few, only a few stories introducing normal men and women relationships. This to please his readers. But his readers were not deceived. That which is not, is not. As his ‘Foundation’ series of novels moved toward the final scenes of the vast, galactic adventure, it is the robot emerges, not only as the central controlling character, but with all the warm human qualities of the full yin and yang of our humanity. It is somewhat like this with Ulysses. There is no real understanding of woman. Mine own beloved read what she could take of Molly Bloom’s soliloquy, laughed and commented, “That’s not what Molly thought. That’s what James Joyce thought she thought.” This is a moot point, what do we understand of another’s thoughts? Men come from Mars indeed. How can they possibly know? Man thinks that he knows; a woman knows that she knows. A suggestion perhaps that no’s do not mean yes. Sometimes utterly different; sometimes a revelation; often the deepest comfort a man can achieve, understanding, a gift indeed. “And,” said my beloved, rich in wisdom, “The same mystery envelops you
men. The things you say! So different. So often your thoughts, your interior
monologue, all motorcars and sport and money and things; when it’s people
and feelings that matter. You wrote a verse about it once.”
The words that we use they mock me,
Penelope would possibly; probably; be only about fourteen or fifteen years old when Odysseus, compelled by his overlord, Agamemnon, gathered his army from the islands, assembled his fleet of a dozen ships and sailed for Troy. Twenty years on and he’s not yet home. So Penelope is in her mid to late thirties, still attractive. “Lovely,” says Homer, “A desirable woman.” Telemachus, her son and only child is not yet twenty-one, a child in arms when Odysseus left, and, reports Homer, now with only the beginnings of a beard. Fathers tended to find husbands for their daughters in those days; still do so in many countries; not many of the girls have the final choice; though, then as now, and will be forever, the strong-willed girls had their own ways of determining their own affairs. Shakespeare’s Juliet we are told, was but fourteen when unruly desire killed the headstrong boys fighting for her favour; her own unwanted and undeserved death to follow. So many of us unable to bear the loss of the loved one. What is there left to live for when such love is gone? It’s clear enough that Penelope, confronting the hot folly of the suitors, eating her out of house and home, playing them against time, was still a handsome woman with lands, herds, orchards, and her inheritance from the treasury of Odysseus; would be doubly desirable. Her feminine instinct seems to tell her Odysseus is not dead, he will return. This is the deep psychic experience of many, the sense of the breaking
of the union, the subtle melding of spirit and the breaking of such, is
felt by many, the bond stronger than time or space.
But these forty pages of utter James Joyce! Imagination running riot. It is mentally impossible, psychically impossible, even for poor lunatic souls under spell of full moon to think consecutively like that. Must have taken Joyce months at his usual pace of about a hundred words a day to dredge it out of his subconscious. Human span of concentration is measured only in minutes, and that for the best of us. But he no doubt felt better, getting it out of his system! He most certainly laboured long over this soliloquy on Molly. But Molly had nothing of it. It is all J.J.; and the man just cannot resist it. Every now and then he looks out from behind Molly’s skirts, or is it her dressing gown? Laughing, a little more than tipsy on cheap French wine, nodding to all who have forced themselves to read thus far, 'Here I am, it’s clever isn’t it?' Mrs Joyce’s little boy Jimmy up to his old tricks again. But was Molly really remembering old times? No, for our dear Molly that
night it was Boylan, Boylan, Boylan, and Boylan again.
Molly Bloom, buxom, body and soul, was thinking as she awaited her husband’s return only of Boylan. The touch of his hands, every exploratory movement, the warmth of his body, the passionate heat of desire, every human sensuous, sexual, erotic touch savoured again, long moments of beautiful ecstasy; it was Boylan, Boylan, and Boylan again, again and yet again, every pleasure, every nuance, every nerve lived and relived again. No woman on earth, that is no proper woman, could be otherwise. Some enslaved, some trapped in hopeless marriage or chosen profession could perhaps think otherwise merely as escape, do their duty, and think of England. The professional ladies, of course, but await the next customer. Some men also thus entrapped in a stolid acceptance of that which is,
equally without spirit. One novelist wrote of his hero, confessing that
he always thought of mowing his lawn whilst performing his conjugal duty.
It would of course, be the old-fashioned hand mower. Quite impossible with
the modern, motorised thing.
When reading Homer, think on the tender understanding of the women there; the deep concern, the natural strong dignity of Nausicaa; of Calypso; the words and demeanour of the loyal Penelope, the beauty of Circe; these and a dozen other women, even Helen, now reunited with Menelaus and repentant; the wife of Alcinous, with her maids, weaving rich brocades, purple cloaks, linen, and warm woollen cloths. These women speak and act as women, fit consort for man, strong in both word and spirit. Such pity that there is no call for such in Ulysses. Poor Mrs Purefoy,
and Nurse Callan, they too trapped in June 16.
Stephen on the bridge at midnight. So he stood in his lone seclusion, no thought thronging the febrile mind this hour; nothing other than the half-heard flow of living water. The listening, a wordless pleasure of the spirit. The description of any such listening is the work of the mind; as with our dreams, the dreams of H.C.E.; the dream of Gerontis; the dream of Finnegan, the dream of Ezra Pound, the dream of Papa; and undoubtedly the dreams of James Joyce, but in Ulysses the dream constrained, transmogrified, embellished in the telling. Even more so should we constrain our telling in the literary mode; we must write to be read. So the listening on any bridge to the waters slithering, sliding below. The City is asleep, her noises silenced; and the susurration of the water a resonance in our own secret wellsprings; the refreshment and nurture of the spirit; the deep inspiration of the mind. Thus and thus, Anna Livia Plurabelle, immemorial spirit.
Immortal bird; yes Father; and the bird is in the wing, so gather you rosebuds while you may; Maud is in the garden; Ruth in the cornfield; Mary at the gate; Moira is at the window, Rachel here with me. Circe or it is Calypso, smiling, scented and alive, inviting Odysseus into her room, into her bed, into her body. Who needs philosophy; yards of bookshelf all made of sawdust; who needs theology? Bloodshed, hatred, the murder or innocents, and of our innocence. Why do I waste time, writing? Maeve, or is it Acushla smiling at me? She knows, she knows, her eyes are bright, the arms enfolding, the blessed spirit awake, alive, stronger than death, wise in all her living. I go to her, love with her, cherish her, nourish and comfort her when her time comes upon her. Light of my life, mother of our children. Who are you really, tell me truly, what’s your purpose here? What’s our purpose here. Tell me - what’s it all about? So much, yet it is so little; then a rest; then awake again, and by Grace, we’ll meet again, and, darling woman, we will love again and birth again and all the boys take girls again - - - - - but we’ve said it all before. You, dear one, such a time we’ve had here together, the good companion,
lover and mother.
When we settled on the balcony, I tell him.
That was it. There’s the river, the birds, the couple with or
without the children. A peaceful human scene. This we both
enjoy. So why vex such peaceful life with words?
EPILOGUE There is good reason to believe that the man himself is better, greater than the one we learn of; discover, in reading Ulysses. After all, he is writing a book which he believes will make his name; improve his fortunes; permit a better lifestyle, secure a place in the literary history of the world, even perhaps, stir the soul of Eire. The man who wrote the book was more creative than Stephen Dedalus; more masculine than Leopold Bloom, who is a bit of an old man early in his maturity; he is an equal in intellect with Buck Mulligan, and through Stephen’s eyes, quite capable of summing up them all, Citizen, Sailor, Bella Cohen, the pubs, the sleazy river, the priests and the piano tuner, pick up all of them, dust them off, and with the magic of language, enhance all with his imagination, and arrange all in the melange of Ulysses; a mockery of the life as lived by Odysseus. There is an irony which he would feel were he here, in that he, James
Joyce, is remembered mainly as one of his characters. That Bloomsday is
indeed an irony, even an anachronism has in no way diminished the enduring
quality of the man or of his work. Justice, however is on his side;
Bloom, in the Bloomsday gatherings, is usually usurped by James; it is
Joyce that the journos write about; a careful reader will note. Joyce,
and those women who made him, drove him, or led him to his heady success.
The sense of dislocation has been strong through Ulysses. The story so slight, the inventive pages so strong; the internal monologue slowly developing into pages of imported nonsense, the intrusive paragraphs; the gathering of unrelated nonsense in that previous segment the forty pages of grotty invention in this last; the thinly veiled unity of his story very deliberately destroyed – what happened? Or are these last eighty pages those added to the printers proof sheets; the "About a third,” said Sylvia Beach, “Added to the galley sheets to the horror of the printer?” Written in a frenzy of apprehension? Perhaps, in his own secret mind, perhaps he regretted them. Finished the book with Stephen safe in that spare room, Molly in her bedroom glowing with anticipation. These last eighty pages a dreadful anti climax to the real story?
Shakespeares ‘Tempest’ lies before me. It is, I believe, his valedictory. His own review of the work of one of the greatest to have been with us. He reviews his cast, Kings, nobles, villains; fair women, knaves and fools; his stage the world; country side; the sea; the forest; the city and fairground all touched by his magic. Murder most foul; the external frission between man and woman; steely determination and mans external enemy; to be or not to be. He knows that his own end is near. So he weaves us one of the stories dearest to his own magical mind. For the eye to see and the heart to understand, he gives us his own private thoughts as he approaches that door through which he has sent so many of his creations. Here we read the confidet assurance of one of our greatest, our best minds, speaking in the best words we have devised, the undefeated spirit of our humanity. No mature man, nearing the end; confined by the declining strength, the infirmities, can read 'The Tempest' without some sweet regret; for all is here, mounting steadily to the last farewell. Surely he is meditating his own departure. But that door is still closed to him. It opens only to those passing through. There is never granted us a glimpse of what lies beyond. It remains unknown to us; even as this world is unknown to the unborn child. But who, watching the new born looking about with such curious interest, will deny the possibilities of our last experience? His last words, spoken to Ariel, and one senses, spoken for all mankind.
The following valediction is composed of lines selected from 'The Tempest',
may his shade forgive the presumption.
Last Thoughts
This re-reading of Joyce has provided many happy moments. His unique ability with personal pen-portraits, a constant pleasure. The beautiful cameos of Mr Dennis Maginni; the Italian teacher Aldredo; Father Conmee; Kellaher the undertaker; Mrs Breen and her crazy husband, all word-perfect, as are many others. He is more prolix with young Master Dignam, whose father is beastly dead today. Prolix also with Mr Bloom. Are so many words needful? In contrast to the beautiful concise study of Blazes Boylan, one becomes increasingly impatient with the rather attenuated study of Stephen Dedalus; his father Simon, being more concisily and faithfully described. We read with some regret the transition of his friend and supporter Malachi Mulligan, reduced from friend to devil’s advocate and renamed Buck Mulligan. All these in the Wandering Rocks segment, Joyce’s review of his troops; another and very different review of those same troops in the Circe segment. All together, the long journey now over, has been interesting and strangely
enjoyable. Strangely conditioned by the presence of our greek Odysseus,
this one introduced by either chance or purpose.
I sometimes think it is a pity that Joyce was not an Australian. Spread him over several decades and he may have well defined our elusive Australian identity. He had a well-defined larrikin streak in him and could possibly have made literary names for many of our sporting heroes and other notable characters. Also would have noticed Bee Miles of our golden years. A notable character about Sydney; with his interest in women, he would hardly have missed her. She as notable in her day as Arthur Stace was later to become; a prophet with but one word, Eternity. Bee had many convictions for vagrancy, now, for some mysterious reason, no longer apparently an indictable offence. Even in this land of great bounty and a compassionate Social Security scheme. Circular Quay, the Central Railway Station with regular families of the deadbeat. There are many who just cannot manage, but Bee was by no means hopeless; she was wide awake mentally and given a listener, would recite Shakespeare for reward. I think her fee was one shilling, though many gave more liberally. As with a number of vagrants, she had behind her a university education. Later in life, Bee became very heavy. As broad almost as she was high and sleeping out a problem. So she took to sleeping more or less permanently, in churches when the opportunity was available. Her bedroll made night-to-night accommodation a burden. So she sought peace for the body, and perhaps for the spirit. James would have enjoyed meeting her for she was witty and never at
a loss for words. I think James could have done much with her.
Solomon, a thousand years BC, speaking of literature said, “Of the making of many books there is no end and all are vanity.” He added, “Now there is nothing new under the sun, all that is, has been.” Well, many of our television programmes are re-runs. So much for our day. Perhaps James was attempting something ‘new’ with Ulysses; certainly The Wake achieved such quality. But have we indeed exhausted all possible experience? Is the human race to be defined, its boundaries set, by the entertainment media? Would even Shakespeare find new passions, follies, fears, new heights of human experience, or is it all just bells and whistles; a change of model for each generation? Impossible and improbable that we have not radically changed, grown, modified in the next 10 million years. However, real men have walked on the moon, have a vehicle riding between the stars; and we now have the Web and the Internet, both potential doorways into eternity. Surely these things bespeak a future of which Solomon never dreamed, and few men of today have any real concept, and Shakespeare would absorb with lively interest. These things presage change, but we recall, with something like horror, that educated modern man has made, and sown, land mines; devised the flame thrower; that men have perpetrated such atrocities as Guantanamo and Abu Ghaib; both contrary to international convention and to good government so, we accept that change will be slow; or is it humanity must ever suffer the animal inheritance. Thank God for genetic cleansing, perhaps we can only be free, that way
of base iniquity!
The Greek friend enjoys poetry; on one visit recently, it was Hopkins ‘God’s Grandeur’. He was silent after the poem, we sat contemplating the beauty of our world; river, trees, the infinite sky, the life about us. The following morning he called early, he said, “Can’t stop – off to the market, but how’s this for dappled beauty?” He lay on the table a long plaited rope of onions, alternately red and brown and plaited into the centre of the rope, half a dozen pure white garlic bulbs. Beautiful. My artist daughter murmured; “Just beautiful; a lovely gift.” This one of the missing links in Ulysses, never a word of the beauty, the bounty of Dublin in her parks, her trees, her birds, the architecture of the city. Dublin had more to offer than he pictured of it in 1904. The man walked the streets indeed, but with his eyes on the pavement! Dublin was and is greater than this talented but strangely blinded son
reported.
It happened on a sunny afternoon, a time when siesta was wholly appropriate, and the will to read yet more of Ulysses was weak indeed. Idly, I thought of other books, other people, than the six brave medicals
in Dublin, started a list of such books, realised that there could be a
couple of hundred; and because American affairs were very much in the news,
and becoming a regular feature of life in Oz, subconsciously began to sort
out American writers. Then in a logical moment, refined the list as follows.
An interesting half hours work; I must do such a list of Australians one
day.
There are others. A great people.
It’s clear he had yet another epiphany. Holding that beautiful blue and white volume in his hands and reading, so often, of what he has revealed of himself therein, he realised that Ulysses was not the true story, not the real story of James Joyce and his pilgrimage; the hair shirt, the bare feet, the bowl for alms, the harsh and stony road; was not the true story of his life. This was his record of the mortal man, so wrote with tears and laughter the story of his true journey; waking to Earth sleep again, to the glory of his God, and his own soul’s awakening, Finnegans Wake. The work complete, no need to stay, so, departed, as must we all, work accomplished, the long day done. My Greek Odysseus is angry – again.
These very strong words for a usually tolerant citizen. As usual, I compromise. “Not all, not by a long mile. Less than
1% from the bottom of the heap. Look on the good side!”
I know a chap, an ordinary bloke; worked at Luna Park: the old amusement park in Sydney – gone now, we have more to do with our time. The park owner had acquired a marble statue of a seated Buddha; this came from Burma, after the cease fire there; had it transported to Sydney; set it up in the Tunnel of Love, at the Park. Thousands have seen it; some would wonder at it; most just look with the unseeing eye. When the Park closed, this chap bought the Buddha at the auction sale; had it moved to his home; the house strengthened to take the weight. It was solid marble; about 4 feet high. Someone in a fit of dark antipodian culture, had painted it with yellow paint!! But there he was, Buddha, in a private home, here in Australia; and it gave him and his family, none of them ‘religious’ great pleasure, possibly a glimpse of immortality. I said to the Greek friend “This Eastern icon, something like an Aussie bloke with long view of Zeus, or Hermes; you know?” He knew, nodded. “A granddaughter heard of this Buddha. She is interested in Eastern philosophy. When she saw it, she was horrified, “yellow paint; over marble!” Offered to clean it up, cover it with genuine gold leaf, as it should be. Would he be interested? Would he buy the gold leaf? “Of course.” So the lovely lass cleaned the carved figure, every inch, down to the pristine marble; not a scratch nor a chip; a lovely job. Then with an old world skill covered it with gold leaf, pure gold; polished and buffed it, a lovely job, well done. A beautiful job, equal with the stature of the statue. The Buddha justified. My Greek friend heard me out, then; “Is this a writers story, or is it true?” I appreciated the distinction. The writer is permitted to create fantasy; may even sometimes become entangled in it; as we see in many novels; but as with all men, be simple and honest with the truth, when such is an issue. “Yes”, I said, “this is a true story; the owner of the Buddha and the granddaughter, both still alive. One in the enjoyment of his golden Buddha; the other in the enjoyment of her craft; her skilful creative hands!! The truth is, despite 'the dark in our souls', that there are not too many ‘mindless fools’, out there. Collected as items for The News, they seem more than they are. To see them in the dismal traffic of our Courts, excites pity, rather than anger. Most could be saved from their dreary lives by wiser, kinder, less self
centred parents, for its ever a case of ‘as the old birds sing, so
the young ones twitter’. Its rare that they are taught wrong doing;
just that they are not taught the ten precepts; the parents all too often
without understanding.
A queak peap into the Wake upmate. Looking into the Wake is aweful!
This little gem from P355; Penguin PB1939, a run down simple as the paige fellflat, a mere lindard warts, there are sickily thoushalllikeikem. Ha Ha. “That is too too true in Solidan’s Island as in Moltern Giaourmany and from the Amelicano off to date back to land of enginea egypeians, assented from his opening before his inlookers of where an ocmanstongue stalled stabled the well nourished one, lord of the seven days, overlord of sats and suns, the sat of all the suns which are in the ring of his system of the sats of his suns god if the scuffeld fallen skillfilled felon, who (he contaimns) hangsters who (he constrains) hersirrs a gain changful, a mintage vaster, the topside humpup stummack atwean his showdown fellah, misto Teewiley Spillishops, who keepeth watch Khummer – Phett; whose warmer of his couch in fore.” Now clearly, this salamagundi of words, this phasmagoria of philogistical
playfulness means something.
Theories no doubt abound, but, butter as Shawn has uttered there are, gow helping us six hundred and twenty eight pages of something like this. Some better, some even wusser.
So should you test the Wake beware of the words. Tens of thousands before and after these truffles. This is the unbridled intellect of man, wild, untramellished, tumbling
on the edge of chaoscity.
We have great need still, of faith, of the courage to face life and
to build the good life for self, for our children, and for others.
May the Gods ever be with us.
'The smiling countenance of all our yesterdays', one of his memorable phrases. Looking back over the text of this re-reading of Ulysses, more than seventy years on, there have been many good yesterdays with the work, the mind intrigued with the intramyxtracities of his construction; his wayward words. It is in retrospect another very long, Victorian novel. As with
many other Victorian novels, for people with time on their hands for a
long deep read, and perhaps a nap afterwards, certainly between chapters,
and the days overlooking the river, with its life; friendships, the peace
of years not driven by the goal of work.
The microcosm of Australia as offered here is just that – just a glimpse; in no way is Oz shown in all its austere beauty; its prodigal bounty; its vast distances; its dead inland sea, its deserts, its incredible wildlife, or its vibrant creativity. One could say much more; but this country must be seen and felt in all its Gaia abundant variety; experienced in its drought; as in the unbelievable rainfall of Tully; the rainforest of the Dandenongs and the Daintree. No visitor will ever know all that there is; no lifetime explores all. But its well worth a visit. The Outback; the Reef; the snowfields. The Outback for the adventurous; the unique Australian sophistication of Melbourne and the cities for the city bred. Miss Sydney; desperately in need of a remake. This present view but noted from the comfort of a pleasant retirement;
and that distracted by the re-reading of James Joyce, his Ulysses, with
a passing glimpse of H.C.E. and the Wake. A long and pleasant journey,
in company of a rather critical friend.
James made several references to cosmic affairs. So another to stimulate
thought. Some ultimate realities to think upon, stir imagination as we
close his book.
There are many Unities in human experience. We are all born of Woman, can only come to our full maturity as parents, bringing our own children to their maturity. Another is that we all die. Finnegan, in ‘The Wake’ says so, much and somewhat overmuch; but a line or two from him says it all, “I am passing out, oh bitter ending; I’ll slip away before they’re up, they’ll never see, nor know. Nor miss me……” So it’s back to Howth Castle and Environs, the same again, and Finn little better for the experience. Mary Gilmore says it most beautifully:
“So! It’s death at last
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the end
