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The Greek friend is amused and rather scornful; somewhere in the network he has mentioned either Ulysses or Joyce, and the friend has spotted a book on Joyce in the library. Unmistakable, James Joyce, in half-inch black letter on the cover, with a good photograph. The man himself, young, handsome, with a strong presence, cap on head, standing in front of a glasshouse. A well-known picture to Joyceans. He is about twenty-two and a man of the world. The friend borrowed the book, and with a broad smile, my Greek friend produces it, “Do you know it, would you like to look at it?” “No, I do not know it; yes indeed.” Sir Humphrey, indeed. The book is by Peter Costello; he has written many books; the range is interesting. 'The Real World of Sherlock Holmes'; 'Dublin Churches'; 'The Magic Zoo'; 'The Natural World of Imaginary Animals', 'A Biography of Jules Verne', and four others relating to Joyce. We glance through the book. Examine the pictures, are duly impressed with the pedigree of Joyce and relatives – clearly he is of good family. Both of us, both plain, uneducated, reasonable men, are impressed with the bibliography Mr. Costello has consulted; we counted them, four hundred references and that does not include Dubliners, the poems, Stephens Hero, the Portrait, Ulysses nor the Wake. What can I say? My friend asked me, “How many have you read?” So I must defend myself. For this work no - only the books he wrote; those and notes I have picked up over the years and in my memory. I did skim through Ellmans biography but sometime in the sixties, as ever then, a loaned book, neither deeply read nor digested. What I am doing, is rereading Ulysses; looking at it with a millennial mindset, a bit different from the thirties. My present copy of Ulysses has Dubliners and the Portrait, in the one volume. The publishers blurb, 'Three acclaimed Classic in one volume'. The Wake, a separate book. He has seen, randomly, the fat pile of manuscript. Says, "That’s nothing like what they have discovered about him.” I counter this, “They’ve found a great deal about him that he never dreamed about and certainly never wrote about.” Interpretations of dreams. They – each one, takes a few pegs from the book, hangs their own story on it! "It’s like the woman baking a cake; take a cupful of flour, a pinch of salt, a touch of pepper, a couple of raisins, enough water to make a firm dough, shape it, slide it into the embers, and hey presto, in ten minutes you have a good aussie damper." He nods, “Add the yeast and it’s good bread.” Adds, “So that’s all it takes to make a book.” “A bit more that that; this chap had four hundred references, and did an awful lot of travelling to get his facts.” But all about Joyce, he says; “Why all this prying into the poor devils private life? This I don’t like.” So the discussion drifted on, nothing very definite, a matter of passing interest, I said, “Bit like that.” He said, “Anything to put in a book?” indicating the river. On its broad waters a group of twenty or so kayaks, uniformed boys,
paddles flashing, probably a school class out on a sports day. Lucky boys,
nothing like that in my days, nor in his, nor in Joyce’s. We watched in
something like envy. In ten minutes or so they will be back, the teacher
will not let them go too far down where the sea influences the currents.
So here it is, in my book, the recollection of but an hour or so. Here
on the golden fabulous east coast of Australia. But four hundred references?
Whose book is it?
Agatha Christie, creator of Miss Marple, offers a suggestion for the reading of Ulysses. Miss Marple was sure that all the tragedy and pathos of the world was lived out in Little Gidding, or any other village of the country, and particularly St. Mary Mead. All of human intransigence, the gross folly; the perverted intelligence, the selfish pride, the steadfast loyalties, the kindly affection, even great love, all the passions not only lived out, but lived in the villages more honestly than in the cities. In rather the same way an acute observer, such as Miss Marple; or James Joyce would see the macrocosm in the microcosm of the back streets of Dublin; but in this instance, saw little of the glory; just the one day with little people. There is a birth; and a death; just a little of the frission between men and women, but alas none of the greatness, no adventure, no derring do whatsoever. Miss Marple, though observing all, as did James Joyce, would hardly have made as much of it as did James. Which is not surprising, the one came from Venus, the other Mars. One from St. Mary Mead, the other Rathgar, and other places, Dublin. Miss Marple would remark there is a broader spectrum to be observed in the village than in but this one-quarter of the city; so much are we conditioned by the city. So there will be no fleet of swift black ships; no cities to plunder; no heaped up treasure, no enchantments, and little regard for the Gods, for they either do not hear, or just do not answer. There is a hint of magic in the ring of words; there are endurances of a different kind; the placid victory of making do with what is; the adultery is neither romantic nor adventurous; and the only tragedy, stark poverty, is mentioned only in passing; the creative force throughout buried deep with words. Miss Marple’s observant eye would miss none of the nuances, and she
would understand.
Still reading Deshil Holles; and puzzled yet again by this deliberate, mischievous abuse of Shakespear and the Kings English. Why should one who can do so well write such? I guess the psycho professionals will say. An aberration: a compulsion to annoy. There must be a word for it. Joyce would know. A reaction against the journalism of English at the University. He seems to have had a better education at High than at Uni. One would expect that every lucky soul with a Uni education would be a reasonably good writer. But ask the lecturers; numeracy as bad as literacy skills in far too many. And the handwriting – ye gods. This, a thumb index of something; and is suspected by many frustrated teachers to be other than education. It is rather the direct result of the multiple aimless and artificial nonsenses of which our children suffer at the hands of equally affected parents and that dammed box. A bitterly resented intruder in many homes. The thousand and one things, that stimulate, without satisfaction. The normal questing minds of our children, diverted by rubbish. Thank God for good teachers. Here in Joyce that same restless energy and in Ulysses, the theme and the narrative too slight to sustain inventiveness; so the sorry pages through which we travel for the Excellencies. Some say that he wrote for the professors. Did he, have, as so many of our great minds have, a sense of the turmoil, the vast human desolation, of the war. And at the end, the vigorous challenging awakening of the human spirit, this new renaissance, this valediction of our human kind? This deep experimental resurgence of inventiveness, as we recovered from the madness of those middle years. Hard to say, a job for better men than this writer.
A somewhat philosophical discussion between Irish and English gentlemen.
So Haines has the rest of the afternoon at chess with Parnell’s brother.
Here in our tiny island of security on the fabulous East Coast of Australia, it’s a rather comic anticlimax to hear the news today. Strangely, it is a great victory for the communist bloc. Equally strangely it is not the Great Enemy America, that the Russian philosophy has overwhelmed. History made today when the Chinese resume control of Hong Kong, a British Treaty port, a trading centre, stock exchange and a valued and progressive British colony for the past 150 years and now a communist prize. Equally strangely, it is the Chinese people of Hong Kong who fear the take-over. They fear the loss of personal and social liberties they enjoy, and very many of them very wealthy indeed. With business and international interests which they fear may be forbidden under the new regimen. One has the feeling though, that the Chinese government will not kill
the goose whilst it is laying golden eggs, a rather confident feeling that
all will be well.
Three thousand people dead today, Last night a great tidal wave, caused, it’s thought by a huge landslide or collapse, in one of the deep ocean trenches. This came without warning, sweeping over a large strip of land at the Sissano Lagoon, New Guinea, destroying several villages and coastal settlements, devastation complete; survivors only amongst those whose homes were on the far edges of the flooding wave. This, the real story of man’s strange odyssey through life, ever the possibility of natural disaster and personal trial. The millions of us who achieve the peaceful life are fortunate indeed. Another frightful earthquake in Turkey, thirteen thousand dead, god alone knows the pain and distress of the injured and the thirty thousand homeless; the grim work of rescue; the equally grim work of clearance and restoration. Nothing ever like this in Australia, and please god, never will be. Many countries adjacent suffer such disastrous quakes; the mountain ranges ever pushed up from tectonic activity in the great contintal movement. Australia, ever moving, northeast at a very steady pace, no landmasses
in opposition.
In the writing of these notes, certain rather distracting intimations have become real. Times have changed. More than seventy years passed since the first quick skimming of Ulysses. Then only the quick selective read possible; for it was extremely difficult to find a copy; it was not only censored, it was prohibited, and one was fortunate to have a loaned copy for two weeks. Seventy years ago the world was a different place; society acted and reacted to a different drumbeat; music, art and poetry were different, there were fewer coffee shops; the cuisine was, in the main, three meat meals a day; this reduced later, in the Great Depression, to what you could get, for the men without work. So, but naturally, we thought differently. But we also had other literature at hand. No public library held Ulysses; but they had Shaw; and Lawrence, and Gertrude Stein, Margaret Mead; Agatha Christie, and all the earlier favourites; so we gained ourselves an education, though not B.A. in English Literature. Shaw, thoroughly capable of Doolittle and Eliza, had a strong vision of the real strength of woman. His Mrs. Warren an infinitely better creation than Bella Cohen; Lawrence has a deep understanding of the emotions and intuitions, the feelings of the lover; Stein, sensed the colour, the nuances, the arts of living which delight us – each of these writers helping to shape the new emerging society. But there were other minds; minds being shaped very differently. Minds blunted by the brutality of war; men and women who went away, young and fit; who returned old before their time; bitter and disillusioned; others touched by the great pandemic diseases which damaged millions; tuberculosis, infantile paralysis, malnutrition; the desperations of the Great Depression. So we who were able to read Ulysses tended strongly to judgement. Then World War II changed everything. We were now old enough to fight, but it was with a different spirit. Enormous tyrannies in Europe and in the Pacific destroyed any idealism. This was indeed a battle for survival. We were coldly determined, but we lost faith. We no longer believed that, at heart, men are good, that honour is a duty; that God exist, that women are angels; that art pictures the soul; that poetry must be lyric; that a bath once a week is sufficient; that France is a great country; that the Germans are a cultured people; the Japanese honourable; that a certain jelly is the best, and some pills worth a guinea a box. What’s a guinea, grandad? The great publishing houses were also changing direction, to meet the tastes and pockets of the new world. Gunge writers will now be published. The paperback more readily available and making millions, whilst satisfying millions, who never read before. Almost everything changed. Ballpoint pens and safety razors appeared. The women folk welcomed silk stockings with shrill little screams of joy, and the changes are still falling, like the gentle dews of heaven, about us. A veritable sea change; the breakers rolling over us, tumbling us into the sands of time, most of the oldies still a little dazed from the rush and roar. Our motor cars though, a splendid toy. The saxophone and the New World of music. The new bands, the boys and the gigs. Radio, TV and now the Net and the website; plastics and satellites, and plumbing and electricity and computers; these and so much more, and greater wealth; greater than Midas ever dreamed of; the credit card 'Open Season' for millions who cannot afford it. The real gain though, is the children. Better fed, better educated; better homes for millions of them; and a new look in the eyes of the mums and a better lifestyle, better quality of life for all with the wit and the spirit to adapt to this new and still developing world. So, reading Ulysses today is a very different experience. Yet so deeply is our youth embedded in our years, that much of the early impact of Ulysses is still alive in the subconscious mind. This simply confirms the opinion of many social workers, that it takes
three generations, to effect permanent change. James would be pleased that
we are still interested. Nora proud still of her man.
English letters have ever been amused at periphrasis, the roundabout of inventive circumlocution; it’s a hard thing to say in simple words. Making much out of little, being dim and difficult, but James does it – gaily, at length, to the point of being difficult to read, hard to understand and impossible to enjoy. Hence the belief, held by many, that Pound led him into it as a way of attracting attention and of getting the scholars interested in his book. Hard to say. Thus, the author uses some religious word, the experts create a theology for him; he uses a mysterious word; they find in him great depths; a difficult word; they acquit him of great learning; a poetic word or phrase and lo, he is made a man of vision; an arcane word and the poor devil is a mystic. Thus, out of some mundane description of a fine morning, in sight of the sea, and some bird on the wing they discover one hundred and seven classical allusions, and the man is a genius! But, a good book is a book to be read and with pleasure. When it needs
books of exposition, it is little better than a textbook. That so many
Universities have adopted it, so many experts expounded on it, simply,
and honestly proves the point.
James was looking in the wrong place for the soul of Ireland. Taken a rucksack perhaps walked the roads and highways of this beautiful country. Perhaps spent a night in the centre of the ancient stone circle at Kenmare, or a week strolling the lakes of the Killarney Valley, or in the very old Stone Age settlement at Faham, or the Kings Castle, the home of the O’Neills until the surrender to the English early in the sixteenth century. ‘The Fight of the Earls’ in the history books. He might have found it, as Yeats glimpsed it at Newgrange, older than history can recall, or at that pathetic site at Abbotstrewery with its graves of the hundreds in the area, died of starvation; a thousand lovely ancient places in beautiful Ireland. Perhaps slept a night beside one of the great wedge graves. That soul never to be found, never evoked in that narcissist inward
maze of internal stewing over art, this a modern sickness of men with too
little to do; too much time on their hands.
It was somewhat of a grey day but a thunderstorm late that night, and in Sydney a night thousands will never forget. A hailstorm thundered down in a wide strip across the city. Huge hailstones, big as golf balls smashed through thousands of roofs, windows, plastic porticos, windscreens, trees and shrubbery. The damage estimated in excess of a billion dollars, to say nothing of the trouble and distress, soaked interiors and the long, long waiting for repairs. Living often for months under the noisy shelter of tarpaulins. Impossible
for thousands to secure tradesmen. These rallied from all over Australia,
many from New Zealand, to assist in restoration. A day to remember well
beyond the incidentals of life in the city.
This week, so soon after September eleven, the Bali bombing. This time so close to home. So much of this in the world. England has had a century of such outrage; it is new to us, and we begin only now to realize how people must live with such threats forever over them. Israel, and Africa; so many other places. Why can’t they be like us? The real horror, is the apparent ease of access to weapons for the terrorist, those who sell such equally to blame. For the dealer to say, “I only sell the stuff. What they do with it is not my business,” is not good enough. Nor is it good enough for government departments to sell old weapons and munitions. Business is business, but such business is more than antisocial. It is accessory to the crime and demands international – and national action, and that immediate. Gun running a despicable trade. United Nations wasting time and life whilst it fosters inessentials.
The Security Council failing it’s duty. To bring these opinions into some
relationship with Joyce and Ulysses, just say that all concerned, national
Governments, U.N., the Security Council and ourselves, all capable of better
things.
There have always been raunchy books, none of Joyce’s books ever such. Freud’s textbooks, however interesting, poor competitors with Dr. Kinsey’s blatantly lecherous Kinsey Report. Mankind ever interested, fascinated over so many aspects of our sexuality. Possibly this is simply because we are able to think about the subject, and human thinking, we all know, is ever subject to fantasy, and of course, sexuality is also deeply imbedded in our emotions. Our sexual indulgences have been well and truly written up since books began, romanticised, to lessen the sting. For confirmation read some of the early Roman poets. It was Gladstone I think, said, “The act is laborious, the postures ridiculous, the satisfaction fleeting.” Of words to that effect, love and sex, both. For the act in itself is nothing, it is the circumstance, the individual personal touch which makes it worthwhile; and there’s little doubt that the subject was under discussion, in the pub and playground, long years before books were invented. Tragedy has ever been a favoured aspect of sexual experience; this usually the denial of the loving union by fateful circumstance. Drama ever makes good use of the 'Eternal Triangle', a phrase which the writer, in the sweet innocence of childhood, believed referred to the Holy Trinity. Jane Austin and others, Victorian mode, wrote of the emotional force in our affairs. Over this past century the emphasis in popular publishing appears to be explicit sex, the animal aspect of our slowly emerging humanity; this aspect also apparent in art and the visual media. This feature no doubt a natural reaction; the publishers and promoters have a hungry audience in the burgeoning populations of the world, so much of it uneducated. Romance; ever the icing on the cake, a rich marzipan at that; serious, or good, or whatever. Literature can be explicit without being raw, honest without being indecent, erotic without being offensive; it is such literature which preserves its interest and readership through the ages, a rich inheritance. The thousand years, which James hoped his book would be read, very definitely
sorts out the best from the worst. The very multitude of books means that
most will be forgotten, each in its own generation. Pulped to make way
for the next crop.
The women in Bella Cohen’s place have no part in the Odyssey; only in Ulysses. The lid is off the witches cauldron; steam rising, the waters scalding, leaping and dancing, the voices high in the beat of rag and rave, the young witches; a bimbo every one. They have taken up art and poetry, literature, the visual thing, the Box, they invade the Net; the easy options in the Universities, workplace and the boardrooms and they make good scientists; and of course, there was Maggie Thatcher and the lessor pollies. Surely they are the descendants of those 'Daughters of Men' who so enticed the 'Sons of God' in the early days of our descent from the trees? The animal inheritance dominant; the female libido on the make; the id exposed. All revealed; flaunted, and this with laughter; not governed by reason, theirs is a physical world, the liberated female taking liberty in license, blissfully unaware; porn in person. Thankfully, these more alive in Yankee sitcoms, and sexy magazines ‘Playboy’ now has strong competition from the same in the other world. They have a raw energy, a restless passion in the espoused cause. Seeming to have little care, that the libidinous kiss, the one night stand, sexual experiment ancient and new, all expose them to AIDS and social disease; uncaring of the ancient wisdom; “Have what you want; pay later.” They have as acolytes, men. This vast eruption of the feminine id has a counterpart in the masculine world and Stephen Dedalus is an example of it in Ulysses, in an arty way. More curious than raunchy. Something very terrible is happening to the men of the West since his day, and it probably started with the work of deconstructionists. There’s the low sperm count, a flaw in the very foundation of family life, society and ultimately our civilisation. Then there is reluctance. As natural a by-product of the liberated psyche of our women, a reluctance which has created a growing army; a battalion here in Australia; of failed marriages, another fatal flaw in family society and civilization, and seen, as may be observed in the weekend revels of a thousand families. One hundred thousand abortions every year. Is this a failed form of bulk birth control. We refer to the party; the convivial dinner at home or at the expensive restaurant, the tipsy husband – who by force of law must surrender his car keys to his sober but by no means teetotal wife, and be driven home. Surely the ultimate degradation of man, and a most colourful picture of the future of the men of the west. A personification of the failed male. But in all truth, this low sperm count, coupled with a growing fear of marriage in so many young men and women is cause for concern, particularly so when we realize that it is not accompanied with a reduced libido in our women, there is something wrong somewhere. It appears to be much deeper than the simple, 'equal opportunity of the day'. Perhaps the physical manifestation of the deep unrest of the age, the
raw energies of change not yet smoothly worked into the fabric of society.
Somewhere in the Portrait: James said, “The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handwork; invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.” In this a truth, a 'something' we recognise. He should have said, “But not in Ulysses,” for here he intrudes, is too often seen; several times, literally, with his pants down, to use the rather vulgar idiom of the day. Such intrusions offend. Language and words are the revealing dress and adornment of the mind. We admire them in our best writers; we preserve the speeches of great orators; we know, deep within, the power and usages of words; we as quickly dismiss a careless writer as we admire a good one. With Joyce the problem is the intrusion of ill chosen words; the offending paragraph; the unwanted panoply of words. The broken syntax, the abuse of words. Why so intrusive? The light, the effulgence of an emerging great talent so often obscured
by mere words.
Yet, another Homeric event. The Sydney-Hobart yacht race, one hundred and fifteen boats, the best of the thousands round our coasts, set out on this annual race, on Boxing Day. Excellence, at its most dangerous and thrilling best. A demanding race, for Bass Strait can be a rough passage. The year 1998 is to be deadly; a predictable storm lashed the boats almost from the start. Of the 115 contestants, 10 boats suffered severe damage, some destroyed beyond repair and six crewmen died. The usual blame game followed, a few lessons learned. The experienced, that is, the men who take their yachts out to sea, away from the safety of the inshore lanes, these fared better than others. The sea is ever dangerous. Beautiful when pacific, wearing the old blue
dress but as Odysseus well knew, deadly when roused by storm, bluffetted
by contrary winds.
When Dr. Holles entered, Mrs Dignam was sitting up in bed, the baby on her lap. There is a little hurrying – some small work to do. But Mrs. Purefoy is smiling, in spite of her concerns. The baby welcome and safe in her arms. She has known, instinct has told her from the beginning, “It’s a boy.” But Nurse Callan’s faith is sorely tested. Seven boys, in one small bedroom. What mischief there must be sometimes. And Mrs. Purefoy is not forty yet and such a little thing; she thought as she prepared the delivery room for the next mother. That pill, it can only work if it kills something in the mother. I wonder what else it will do to the women. Does it indeed destroy some element of the natural attraction? The women who could not take it will be more attractive to the men. She has seen many fathers here, some surly, some defeated, some impatient; not so many still lovers. She sighed, like Mina Purefoy, God; perhaps because of Mrs. Purefoy, her faith now questioned. Some plain hard questions about His loving care for His children. Those lucky girls, only four in one room.
Dear Mina Purefoy; despite her present troubles, a reasonably happy mother, content with her children, for and not at all strangely, big families are happy families: Good training in cooperation; self respect and respect for others; and that wonderful thing we call family affection: They usually grow into successful people, because of these same qualities. In short, learn at mothers knee to love and work in harmony with others, to take the good with the bad with equal fortitude, and to grow with social graces into a competent maturity. In this great prosperous but empty country, there is surely enough room for them. We have been reading of Mina Purefoys children. My Greek Odysseus is interested; He mentions his family, me, and mine. He is justly proud of his beautiful clutch. I sometimes tease him; when he talks of them, I say, “Not a bad bunch of youngsters”, knowing very well that he is hoping for something like ‘Lovely’. One day, in pensive mood, the following little vignette of the ideal family came to me from that deep reservoir we have within, and is the source of our creativity. I thought he might be scornful of any concept of perfection in humanity; other that in the newborn, washed and warm wrapped, and looking with such intelligent eyes upon the new world. I know too that he is well aware of the dual nature of humanity, Good and ill ever in contest. But no, he was pleased with the fantasy. “Not often that way,” he says, “But it should be. May I have it.” So the computer is requested to print another copy, and obliges. I too am pleased. One of my poems accepted by a fellow traveller. Praise indeed. This rare praise. He says, “I don’t know how you do it.” I reply, “Neither do I; also, I don’t know how to string onions as you do.” This makes him laugh, and we sit, happily enough; two old fellows watching the world go by. He wondered aloud, “Wonder what Mrs Purefoy would think of it. Really, it’s a bit like that, isn’t it.” I agree, yes, it was a bit like this.
The Holy Family
It is impossible to forget Mr. Dennis T. Maginni, professor of dancing, in silk hat, black frockcoat, with silk facings; white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking with grave deportment. A notable figure. Whatever has happened to men since? The dark suit, the tie! Here it is permissible for middle management to sport a white shirt, tie and black bags; and this now inflicted on half the world! Maginni's room at 35 North Great Georges Street, furnished in Regency, and on the tourist trail in Dublin has an association with Joyce, but is it more valuable to the Tourist Board than the wretched place that housed the family at that time. Such would never do. It will cost £ 6.00 to enter. Joyce does these beautiful pen portraits but often conceals the little
gems in a welter of words.
This week there is sorrow and a great determination, an instinctive demand for justice. September the eleventh crashed round us. We watched in disbelief, that terrible turning arc of the second plane into the tower, the inferno burning beside it. Unable for a few shocked moments to accept the reality unfolding in the box. The sense of outrage beyond words. Terrible moments, until, realization followed on shock, then the intensity as we became silent partners in the aftermath, the slow collapse of the Towers upon themselves. That awful wave of black cloud, of smoke and dust swelling down the street, all the movement, the uncertainty, the terrible distress that followed. The box came into it’s own today. This indeed an act to shock our western civilization out of it’s easy acceptance of things. Then a great wave, of sympathy for America. A sense of unity, with them in their distresses, our admiration for the response. America moved into a new level of understanding, and most of the world with her, this also felt strongly here in Australia. The hesitations about war understandable but not sustained, but our deep sympathy marred somewhat by doubt of the quality of the president. He is no Lincoln. No reading, in Joyce nor in anything else for weeks, something greater,
a vast human disaster in our thoughts.
James, like everyone else, complained of the lawyers, of lawyer’s fees, and the slow and costly processes of law. So did Aesop, read his fables, 6th century B.C. They disturb all of us; except the lawyers. Sadly the Universities support
the annual race to get into the trough. If only some of them were interested
in justice, they would have plenty to do to improve the system, cleanse
the Aegean stables. Reducing the extortionate fees. Reduce the insane burden
of the 'law', for everything to a simple body of principle. Working to
reduce the wasteful and so expensive delay in hearing and in judgment;
some cases drag on for years; many cases ruin the litigants; but not one
lawyer in town with the wit or the courage to attempt reform. A job the
politicians are incapable of attempting.
The Irish know a lot about injustice; the American Revolution was against unjust laws and lawyers. James makes the citizen have something to say, but it is only pub talk. Somewhat the same here in Australia. Here some bold and able spirit, may well one day write a bestseller on the several – all too many, instances of citizen, all good people, who have been dragged down by legal process. So many cases of injustice, the law perverted by political interest, and all at the cost of the public purse; and of course, the lives of men and women. Too many judges have had to remind the court that their job is to decide the law, not to administer justice. Time and again the plain common sense of the Ten Commandments comes to mind. Not for any religious sense, just plain sense. The first five, the things we should do, for our own sakes; the second five the things we should not do for the sake of our neighbour and for society. Simple and effective, and if mothers will not teach the children, we should teach them in the schools, the laws, not the religion. We might in one generation, scrap half our jails.
On the balcony, Ulysses open on my knee, but not a thought of James or his book in mind. It’s one of those rare and lovely moments of intense happiness. Nothing special, the pelicans, the herons, the crows fighting, the river placid, lovely as ever, all the same as yesterday and a thousand other days, but today, just such a oneness with it all. The dark line of mangroves – a mile across the river, the light on the river, all lovely. This is the meaning of life, the simple happiness, the simple rightness of living, of being here and part of it all. To be alive. Time has another meaning. I come back home. My Greek onion grower is looking at me. A faint smile on the rugged tanned face, fingers round the stem of the red. He says, quietly, “Lovely.” I nod. He too knows all about living. His life simple and satisfying.
I close the book. Pick up my glass, “Yes, lovely indeed.”
There is a marvellous sentence in Jane Austin’s 'Northanger Abbey'. One character says; “Oh, it’s only a novel.” Austin replied; “Only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thoughtful knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineations of its many varieties; the liveliest effusions of its wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language.” Thus, for every man and woman aspiring to authorship, thanks to Jane Austin, and so many others. Here is the way to write, develop your own theme, and write in your own style, but ever 'in the best chosen language'. Jane also saw interior monologue as 'a flow, a constant creative stream,' and wrote memorable books from that stream. Such it is, in ordered minds; but an entirely different experience in the immature or disordered minds. Throughout Ulysses James so often makes his own use of language, when and, as it pleases him, but not in the ‘best chosen language’. Ever the conviction is confirmed that so much of Ulysses comes from
a tired and distracted mind. Most definitely, but rarely 'the best chosen
language'.
Boylan, Boylan, Boylan, Boylan, forty pages if you can stand it but
it’s only Boylan his fingers on her shoulders down her back under the breast
yes it is Boylan all right yes Boylan yes yes yes these forty pages who
would want to read it all that’s not what Molly Bloom thought that’s what
little Jimmy Joyce thought she thought these men they can’t think anything
else I suppose he’s never had the slightest understanding of what a woman
thinks until Nora took him on he was nothing much then she was a good woman
sensed his passionate nature and the man had promise even then in the long
run she couldn't read the rubbish he wrote yes I know some critics said
wonderful but then the emperor, had no clothes on did he or if he did not
much what a man all the woman was thinking was Boylan and feeling his hands
on her again there was a bit more but this is a good story and I am not
going to be explicit about the intimacies they are ours you get your own
if you have any common sense good companionship is a very precious thing
and well worth going off the booze to accomplish read my poetry I think
my beloved right in such matters I cannot see Molly Blooms or Mina Purefoy
or any of the best of us doing forty pages God, help the ethnics trying
to learn the Australian English it is all milk and water stuff with a bit
of raw stuff and another bit of raw onion chucked in for seasoning it’s
pretty clear he just filled in the forty pages to fill them out as it were
to make a big book where is the genius the loves old sweet song only needs
a few lines and old King Solomon must have had a lot of experience he said
watch it boy a lot of these girls are after your money but it’s different
today when the girls have a good job and have their own money so get yourself
a good one the worth of a good woman is above that of rubies and don’t
forget it boy rubies are worth more than diamonds and note that Solomon
didn’t need forty pages to say that short and sharp and powerful like hey
you is better than beg your pardon you’re standing on my toe though I noticed
when he went on writing that love song he was forgetting his own advice
as do most of us poor mortals and a lot of adult people do when they want
something why I don’t know or no is hard to say sometimes but Molly said
yes yes yes I will when possibly she should say no no no I will not which
is a different thing and sometimes awfully difficult to say without offence
or a fence between us but it’s no trouble to climb a fence is it as King
Solomon must have noticed sometimes they have distinguished or is it distinctive
noses these old Hebrews and theres one in our family thank God mum said
make it easy for one of you boys I hope but it was a couple of hundred
years ago and we still have that distinguished look he sold cigars and
daggers and poniards and dirks and swords and things all made in Spain
but he had to get out or they wouldve killed them and when he got to England
he found it was safe if he was a Methodist and so he changed they did very
well in England just like Poldy Bloom bless him he’s a decent man I wouldn’t
want to hurt him and he’s never said a word about Blazes Boylan and I’m
sure he knows and lets me get away with it he’ll give me breakfast in bed
in the morning just to let me know he likes to please me he knows he’s
no good and I really need a man not all the time just when I must I know
or is it no again the man most have a woman too the priests have a hard
time no wonder the nuns see through them and many a girls been touched
up by a randy priest I suppose some of them are content or is it continent
and I know that someone not content or incontinent must be expert handling
all that sperm by the time they’re a bishop I suppose it doesn’t matter
old King Solomon shouldn’t have any trouble what with seven hundred concubines
or was it wives from Moabites and the Mackabee and Ammonites and from Edom
and Zidon and Hittites and others and not content with these the old fellow
had three hundred wives or concubines it doesn’t matter so much for all
his lectures and his wisdom I’d just like to know how he managed that lot
the bible says he was the love child of David and Bathsheeba which I can
understand but David was rotten about that poor old Uriah the things they
do for a good woman Troy was all because of a woman Helen was just a little
whore plenty better than her in history I wonder if any of Solomon’s was
worth fighting for it’s what all the operas are about yet none of them
have babies yet having babies is what life’s all about bible doesn’t dare
say how many kids old Solomon had must have been hundreds and he died in
the end as we all do so what I wonder if he ever got passionate about them
or even one of them I suppose so I feel really passionate about Blazes
Boylan I wonder what Poldy does he kept away all day to let Boylan and
me have a chance it couldn’t possibly be a woman I don’t know Boylan’s
so strong I really love him but I must be careful I don’t want to hurt
Poldy he’s a nice old thing but I love Blazes I’d go tomorrow but I wonder
if he would go to too it’s not two men are funny I hope he doesn’t think
I’m a whore he only says he loves me which means he only wants me it’s
us woman have to take the blame always us poor Bathsheeba only an innocent
lamb I hope she liked him old Lot left Sodom because it is so wicked but
then committed incest with his daughters both of them they seemed happy
enough any man’s better than none I suppose they say he was drunk but I
say the old devil knew a hawk from a handsaw as Shakespeare said he was
a wise man I bet he would be a good lover he knows what women feel he spent
a lot of time away from his Anne in London but you no is it know from his
works and there are plenty of them that he knows his way round town the
rape of Lucrece is to or is it too long you can tell he knows all about
life and men and women and rakes and buffoons and wenches and whores and
even fairies which we doubt these days like ghosts and that kind of nonsense
but I bet he knew or is it new lots of lovely ladies in London that great
wen said Jonson or was it Johnson who ought to know he also had a love
affair so did Napoleon he had several and he knew all about women too he
was only a little fellow but lots of passion it’s the passion that matters
and lord Nelson taught them a thing about love too his girl was the most
beautiful in England and that means France too and the German girls and
the men too or to it’s not two I no or I know God help the ethnics are
still a bit primitive Neanderthals really it’s the Austrians are the good
ones but they English girls need to speak differently plum in the mouth
when they’re rich and a spud when they’re poor I wonder how those starchy
rich ones make love can they be passionate I guess they can us women know
I wonder what’s the best side to be the lover or the loved one most of
us are the loved one has to be that way I suppose because of the babies
but no one speaks about the babies nothing much about the babies all the
Kings as ever must have had no safety aids in those days most had big families
ten twelve children nothing about babies in the marriage lines and those
beautiful girls ten years later they’re all old married women if they all
had ten there’d be no room anywhere all live in big apartment buildings
I guess have to soundproof the walls God if Poldy was home when Boylan
was here and me calling out and moaning god how I love him I don’t care
what he does to me I want him I suppose we’ll both grow old just like Poldy
sleep beside one and never think of it Id sooner die I suppose I won’t
love I live with it loves the thing I guess it’s the companionship when
you’re older just someone there a cup of tea and a meal together better
than being lonely to or too or two or three kinds of lonely none of them
very nice sooner have a mate even though there’s nothing much left when
the passion’s gone and this much is enough of this kind of work should
have been forty pages but enough is enough.
One imagines that Gerty has the natural inheritance – a long race history hidden in her genes, and likely to be triggered and released in her mind and body by some subtle chemistry – or is it electricity emanating from a man, also hungry in the ancient way. Her formative years, those precious seven first years so earnestly desired by the Jesuits, keenly ware of the need for improving the mind with the ‘right’ images would have been shaped in the traditional mould; that mould was, God save us, dictated by the old Hebrew, tribal mores; the strictures of Paul the apostate Jew; and developed through a couple of millennia to the model constraining the women of the West to the structures of a parochial church. In this episode Gerty rather enjoyed being a naughty girl, and would make due confession, so too Nora Barnacle would no doubt have had a twinge of guilt about ‘popping’ the question! But it was better to have her own man than take chances whilst the bloom of youth was fading. She appeared to have faithfully and happily – and competently – met all risks responsibly. Certainly made Ulysses and the Wake possible for James. Men and women have through the millennia and all the troubles from hunter-gatherer to villager and gardener, to motor cars and Life in the City, worked out the most reasonable way to love. A vastly superior way to ordinary sex; was worked out, and some say brought to perfection, in the novels of Jane Austin or Agatha Christie. Or was it War and Peace. This relationship stood strong as the growing communities hacked a decent life, with some stability and a bit of surplus wealth, from the grim reality. This strong relationship can be found in all the upper, middle, and lower classes of society today. It is the normally happy marriage. Go for it Gerty! Worth working for.
A dishonourable conspiracy, directed from the front benches of our parliament; a deliberate and successful conspiracy to destroy a political opponent; condoned by the Prime Minister, with the mild rebuke, “That’s not a wise thing,” but rewarded by a promotion in the Cabinet. The new Attorney General could well help retrieve his own reputation; sorely tested over the detention policies exercised; by quashing the sentence and issuing a writ of impeachment against the organizer of the conspiracy. An impeachment, a charge of, 'behaviour unbecoming of a member of this parliament', might cause others of our parliament to rethink their behaviour, whatever the outcome. Don’t make the mistake of thinking this only an isolated incident. A fiercely individual Premier held sway in Queensland many years; the government of the Northern Territory spent a reputed 14,000,000 in the ultimately failed attempt to secure a wrongful conviction; other state government could be cited for somewhat lesser draconian action. However, this is not a political treatise; the events simply warn us;
all Australians; that Mr. Keating’s Third World Republic is never entirely
dead; ever a threat; Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.
Dublin left it’s mark on James, and it was the mark of the city; stayed with him though Ulysses, able to transmute it into dream; shake it off somewhat; subdue it. In the Wake. It survived in the form of Anna Livia, the river of life; but a Liffey cleansed and her waters again clear and limpid, flowing strongly, mingling in the sea of his imagination; in the Wake as all rivers should ever be – clear, fresh, and beautiful. I thought of James, as having lived in Australia and been influenced as was Paterson or Lawson, with a bush background. “And the bush hath friends to meet him and their kindly voices greet
him.
But James saw nothing of such in the Ireland whose soul he was seeking.
With Henry Lawson to show him around an early Sydney, warts and all; and utterly and ever unforgotten, and unforgettable, a sight of the moon, rising behind the smoke of a bush fire, or the sweet smelling smoke of burning sugarcane; huge, trembling, a dark strange threat; beauty in terrible form. But James had lovely Ireland, behind him, but sadly, did not turn around
to see.
A GLIMPSE OF THE RIVER ACHERON; STYX; OF ANNA LIVIA, OR THE NEPEAN AT RICHMOND In this section or slice of the pie, mesh of the mash or just random words of his wokabulatory, whatever he might have called it; the pundits say Ithica, but I think they make it up; Why? Been a long journey, not too far to go now.
Bits of history, literature, and myth anything.
As Shaun, or is it Shem or H.C.E. Himself Creating Excellence, is to say, when writ, “Huh.” Do you say – “Do better or retire?” Read on.
Stephen stops a moment on the O’Connell St Bridge
James is not alone in hoping that his book might last one thousand years. If it survives the first thousand, it will have a very good chance of a second thousand; this span of time now more possible, offering better chance than available to the ancients by way of the reprint, ensuring longevity; the original long since reduced to dust. It is known that there was a public library in Athens by the late fourth century B.C., and also known that Aristotle and others of the Great Teachers had private libraries; this slight knowledge supported by the certain understanding that all things, games, learning, beliefs, libraries, all things, long before they become enshrined as public, have been developed by individuals, nurtured by groups of men, and, their worth approved, only gradually accepted as public. The famed library of Alexandria, started by Ptolemy I, was to give access to the acquired knowledge of the world; and this for the philosophers, teachers and curators of the great museum which he established there. Alexander made the library into the great collection of scrolls and books, and a great centre of learning, scouring the world of his conquest for their literary heritage. Had the library survived we would have still most of the work of most of the great minds of the ancient world; for the library was to be ever the repository of new work, and the preserver of the old. It is sensible to recall its destruction, another senseless act of religious fanaticism. In A.D. 641 the Caliph Omar ordered the library to be burnt; "For if these books agree with the Koran, they are superfluous and need not be preserved; and if they disagree, they are pernicious, and ought to be destroyed." Book burnings have continued into our day. Such the blind stupidity of small minds. And, just in case you think it does not affect or concern you; we owe the quality of life we enjoy, to learning, and beware some municipalities here in Oz are opposed to public funding of libraries, men ever blind in their folly. Most of the big cities of the world maintain big libraries? The Great Cities, great libraries; the British Museum library contains about twenty million items, many unique. It is also building up similar repositories of tape recordings and discs. The Vatican Library has gathered old manuscripts and documents, with about a million books. There are a score or so of such libraries throughout the Western world. The largest collection is that of the United States Library of Congress, Washington; this, one suspects, because American philanthropy is strongly directed to the arts, and is prodigiously generous; the stock holds about twenty million books, classified in library speech, and an amazing ninety odd million non classified. Alongside these vast collections are the specialized collections, most of such, very precious assemblies. We have several such, here in Australia; even tiny New Zealand has its unique Turnbull Library, a rich repository of first editions. Then, also, most countries have their copyright collections, to which you must donate two or three copies of your own book when it appears in print. Please note; the use of the word 'about', in reference to the numbers of books, this looseness is necessary; the West produces more than a million books annually, and few, if any, would be able to give more than an estimate of the total numbers in the libraries. Another interesting development is the modern bookseller. Bol in Europe, Amazon in America, and Abebooks in England. 'Any book at all, yes we have it', and all in reasonable condition, millions of them unopened. Easy Buy in Australia. EBay here will access almost any book in or out of print. James sent copies of his beautiful book, bound in blue and white to all the major libraries of Great Britain. So James, and so many others may be, not necessarily will be, read in a thousand years. It is to the content of these libraries that we owe due respect, for such provide the stimulation, the ideas, the vision of centuries, and such is the foundation of the secure and bountiful life we live here in Oz. But the preservation of such books thru a thousand years. That’s
the problem.
Today’s ladies, reading Ulysses, and many other period pieces, will be horrified at the circumstances in which Mrs. Purefoy delivered her children. Thousands in that day had the opportunity of delivery in an hospital, with the aid of doctor and nurse. Mrs. Purefoy was well cared for, for the times. She was in a maternity hospital. The casualty hospitals of the day no place for child bearing, the source of thousands of cases of cross infection, thousands of deaths. The situation in the dirt and grime of the cities was so bad that General W Booth of The Salvation Army spent vast sums building special nursing hospitals; the 'Bethany Hospitals', through the cities of the West to provide clean and sterile delivery services for women; by the grace of god, and of William Booth, safe refuge for many thousands of women. In the old days, most deliveries in the care of the midwife; a woman much the same as the mother, but experienced and with some training; thousands of such midwives with experience only; trained in the school of experience; folklore; common sense and compassion their tools and a very high rate of mortality in both mother and child. Some women had only family, or a caring neighbour to help; just; 'we’ve been there, dear, this is what to do', and many managed with just a husband, if he were not frightened out of his wits; or an older daughter, wise before her time. Others by stern necessity managed by that same Grace of God which is granted, unconditionally to the entire Animal Kingdom, which means, of course, by themselves. The God of the Western Churches clearly, believing in 'do it yourself' principles. Today’s women in general and in the West in particular, have better care, though many a baby has arrived unexpected, in the home or in the taxi, the taxi drivers usually men of common sense and compassion. Today’s women have usually better care; a better chance of a normal delivery; access to pain relief; prenatal advise and training; a very much better chance for the survival of the child. So many infant deaths in those bad old days; but today much help with the postnatal problems, help and advise with the children; and now today the magic of ultrasound. They may even have the support of the husband in the delivery room; the care of properly trained staff; the care of an obstetrician; very special care for premature or troubled newborn; the same for women suffering, as did Mina Purefoy, complications. There may be similar discussion of the mystique of childbirth as occurred during her delivery, but never these days by six drunken medicals. The ladies may have to tolerate a bad mannered one, a rough one, an uncertain one, or one coldly clinical, but these are fresh from medical school, they will grow up. But the thing which would gladden the heart of Mina, and of any woman, is the feel of her child’s heartbeat, by grace of a wonderful invention of an Australian, the ultrasound; this is something so very different from the usual movement; she is well used to that; and now by that same grace which moved Booth of the Sallies to build maternity hospitals; Mina can now see; alive, her unborn child’s face; see sometimes a tiny perfect hand – waving at her; see the tiny thing sucking it’s thumb – and, if she wishes, learn the sex of her unborn child. This, many women do not wish to know; they prefer to wait until the day. Such wonders not available to all women, but; how dear Mrs. Purefoy
would have enjoyed such, whilst so enduring.
Joyce would know, he was a writer, and he had his epiphanies, seen in his ability to understand so clearly the import of some observation. He once remarked that, “He seemed sometimes to live a little outside his body.” Of course, as with all creative people, his mind on things yet to be. Somewhat as the man in the upstairs room sees more from his window than the man on street level from his, and yet more than this in the magical mind of mankind. At the other end of the scale of perception, millions live only half alive, disinterested in self development, ill educated and don’t care; these suffer from a subconscious level which gives little pleasure, little creativity, and life somewhat of a burden. Others, even the trained and educated, find the strange dark power of the subconscious beyond their control. Loose in that streaming current people can be diverted to purposes at odds with the visible personality. This the stuff of the world’s stories. Dr Jekyll needs no magic potion; the metamorphosis can be effected without
magic or drugs but the results are always disaster, tragedy.
Australia though in good shape, has one peculiar, and potentially dangerous, feature. Our money. In Dublin 1904, pennies were very useful. We are so wealthy, in all levels of society, despite the 'hardship' at the bottom of the heap, that our coin of lowest buying power is the five cent piece. In most countries, the basic money unit is divided into 100 cents, piastre, or whatever, and some into 1000 and even smaller units. Here we are so rich that we allow ourselves to be robbed daily, by the retailers; themselves victims in a smaller degree of the same folly. Many of us can remember when the Town Council was elected on merit, and received only the thanks of the parisioners. Today far too many undertake the political life for the benefits. There have been a number of notable cases in our day. The grossly inflated salaries, the perks, the beefed up super and the gold card undeniable attraction. Come election, there is the Kissing of Babies. Do the pollies have blue cards? If not why; not? High wages dominate in the workplace also, but not everywhere; deep inconstancies exist. One result is the dream home. A sound and comfortable home, a place where a woman can live securely and raise her children to a decent maturity, does not have to be a palace; yet such are we that we build entire suburbs of palatial homes; similarly the wedding does not have to bankrupt the family; have some sense girls; nor does a funeral have to ruin the heirs. There are other excesses, but this is a study of Joyce; these things just noted in passing. Therefore let us rejoice with that which we have carved out from the grim reality; but ever remember that, if with our wages, we saved the money we now waste in excesses, we could all do very much better than we do now. For despite the high wages we are billions of dollars in debt. Folly, isn’t it?
The long journey of Odysseus was by no means all sweat and danger. There were good times too. There was a year with Circe, who bore him a son, according to a later poet than Homer. The lad Telegonus, on becoming a man set out in search of his father, and finding him, but that unknowing, slew him. Thus was Circe avenged. Later, Odysseus became captive lover of Calypso for seven years. Calypso bore him two sons and offered him immortality if he remained with her, but he refused. “She never had my heart; ever, I longed for my own dear wife and home.” Then there was entertainment and in plenty and in the splendour of the hospitality of the times; for in that day hospitality was a strong obligation imposed by the Gods; much more so than today. Feasting and games; these were athletic contests of excellence; in the halls of kings, lords of the ports of call in the long voyage, the last in the Great Hall of Alcinous, whose daughter, Nausicaa had lead him to the safety of her father’s house. Nausicaa desired Odysseus, but her father was firm and wise. “No! He is too old for you; also he is married and desires only a safe passage home to his wife and family. Besides there are many young princes desire you. You may have your choice.” So Nausicaa who loved him, whispered to him as he passed by, “Remember
me, it is I, Nausicaa to whom you owe your life.”
Bloomsday in Dublin not the faintest shadow of blind Homer’s splendid story. Books have been written by spinners of words pointing we ordinary readers to the dim parallels of Homer's story. There is indeed a sense in which every life is such an Odyssey. To each of us a journey; three stations on the way; Birth; Marriage; and Death. We survive, as did Odysseus and his Penelope. Our days and our survival a reflection of the spirit in which we live. Fate, destiny, karma, accident, happenstance, misfortune, chance, malice and ill will, confront us all; all may be balanced by the enduring spirit, this ever our task along the way. Each of us may rise above circumstance, defy the odds, triumph even over death by laying down life for a friend, and above all, keep the faith, whatever it be, that gives fire and vitality to the spirit. Our TV programmes host many such stories many of outstanding courage. Bloom clearly did not draw so deeply on his own spiritual strength. His life and way ever a compromise. But such ever touched by compassion. Compromise. Take the middle, the peaceful way, keep out of trouble, to hell with politics and religion. That white line down the middle of the road points a reasonable safe
way to the deserved haven.
As this long Odyssey progresses, the Author thinly disguised as Stephen, Dedalus and Bloom come together; again it is through Bloom’s concern for the young man. He is tipsy with money in his pocket and alone in the back streets of the city. He pilots the young fellow home to a quiet domestic talk over a cup of cocoa. Bloom - the compassionate yet again. Inevitably the question stirs in the mind, "Who is Bloom?" Every character in this book is created from memory. For many, there is no disguise, they are named citizens of Dublin. But Bloom, the goodliest of all? One needs a greater knowing of the minuate of Joyce’s life; some access to letters, some deeper scholarship, to be certain. Well, such is Poldy Bloom. Today, his day, 16 June, is celebrated as no other literary figure in all our vast sea of letters is celebrated. Not one of Shakespeare’s great characters; not The Count Of Monte Cristo, not The Old Man Of The Sea, not one of the greats is so celebrated. Why? Why is Bloomsday so celebrated? Today June 16, 1904 Bloom is humiliated,
yet justified, but this celebration thru the West?
I think it was Mark Twain offered this wisdom:
So Bloom makes no great fuss over the adultery; he has learned much. He can no longer meet her woman’s need. As Molly says, “A woman needs to be embraced twenty times a day – just to be told plainly that she is loved,” this one of the few real wisdoms in Ulysses. There is little left if love falters. The man who offers love and the good companionship to a woman, does more than he knows: fatherhood, by itself is a small accomplishment; motherhood is the oration of life. Sex and it’s ultimate experience are but part of loving. The fulfilment is in the children, the secure home. Bloom is older, colder; somewhat a creature of habit; somewhat negligent of the art of loving; he is somewhat earthy as Joyce presents him in the opening chapters; his follies sensual, but only somewhat; generous according to his means. His goodness and his badness is much the same as that of most men, except, that he is somewhat better than many because of his compassion. Clubs, discussion circles, the Internet, magazines and a dozen other
venues, create a Bloomsday that invites your interest. Sometimes it is
Joyce, The Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man, Dubliners, The Poetry,
Ulysses and Finnigans Wake, but the proper subject should always be Bloom
and Molly, his consort, such is the man.
Dawn, with her rose red fingers in the sky. The progress of the hours is the slim theme binding the episodes of Ulysses together; a rather uncertain continuity. He, very logically; with that genius which admits no mistakes; tells us, "This is the hour of the day," briefly, and later, he has a sentence or so on Morpheus; he mentions also the famous and great sleepers of our human story. Rip Van Winkle, Washington Irving's creation; surely with some relevance to this fantasy. A small story destined to shake and shape the world; even as James himself started this day as bachelor and finished it bound to his lover. More to the point, as Rip Van Winkle slept as a subject of George III of England, but awakened in a liberated United States. Myriads of us have so slept and awakened to a new life. James was well aware that so much of human life is modified in sleep. But then comes that magic hour before sunrise; the soft half light; the silent hour or so before the sun rises to declare another day of drought. Some Persian poet, two thousand years ago gave to the world, “The hour before dawn is stolen from Paradise.” This is the quiet hour; the mists of night filling the hollows; the tiny patch of grass where our cows have slept the night, warm to our naked feet, the rest of the world asleep. Joyce says, “She moves in the silences of the night, somewhat of the mystery still to be known. Old and secret she has entered upon a morning world, perhaps a messenger, _________ crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in a lush field, a witch on her toadstool.” This the true beginning of, 'the hours of the auspicious day'. “A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal, serving her conqueror.” She is, Joyce thinks, “The spirit of Ireland.” Many of the commentators commence Stephens day with, “Stately Buck Mulligan; but the little old lady, his milk lady, has been up, and at work a couple of hours before the Stately Buck.” So the day begins with this ancient, secret, wandering crone serving her conqueror in the last shadows of the night, the early light of dawn is where and with whom this day, June 16 begins. The commentators tend to finish the day about 2am on Friday 17th. This was a fault, a flaw, one of those mistakes which genius does not make. Midnight is indeed noted in the cabman's shelter; thereafter they walk to 7 Eccles St, have longish chatter about the possible future, until Stephen leaves. There is a segment of utterly useless information gathered from possibly Chambers 'Book of Days' a once popular compendium. But it is clear from the beginning that the story is based on the hours, and his intention, purpose and design was confined to June 16. This is the end, midnight June 16. Sylvia Beach holds the key. She tells us that, “About one third of Ulysses was added to the galley proofs as the work was printed.” This, naturally, toward the end of the book; done in haste, and neither revised, checked nor corrected. So this error of construction. So, the progression of hours through Ulysses begins, say 6 am, and ends at midnight as it should. That Joyce erred is no reason why this observer should. Genius or plain workman, he was equally careless. As our progression moves on, the times will be indicated; suggestions only; James was not specific. Readers may gain an hour or so pleasurable interest in making their
own time frames for Ulysses.
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