Molly’s mind flows seamlessly with few pauses, reminiscent of rushing water. Bloom is back in his wife’s bed and apparently asked Molly to bring him breakfast in the morning. The roles have reversed in this instance; Later Molly thinks of Bloom “sitting up like the king of the country” (764) just as Molly was queen counting her cards earlier in the day. Although with this act, it does seem that Bloom has retrieved power lost, his impotence is still not fully conquered. Molly thinks of dressing for Bloom in her newest undergarments, arousing within him a desire that will provoke action ten years lost; however, that hope is squashed when Molly remembers that she is currently menstruating. Speaking of which, Molly passes both water and blood, the foundations of life (and also what Christ spilled from his side after crucifixion). Also, unlike Bloom, who squanders his seed on infertile ground, she is willing to physically consume it. It is obvious that Molly embodies life.
Actually, it seems that Molly is pure body. I don’t know if this is a mere product of the all too traditional misogynistic objectification of women, or if it works in the thematic framework. Molly’s only bread winning skills rely purely on her body. Bloom proposes that she should pose nude and also work as a wet nurse.
When she remembers nursing Milly she mentions that she had enough milk for two, witch also demonstrates Molly’s ample fertility. Bloom also asks to be fed on her milk, suggesting she squeeze it in his tea: this seems to be another example of Molly’s ability to nourish and give life to all.
Molly’s consciousness is centered around her body: her feet are idolized by both Boylan and Bloom, she has fond memories of her newly budded breasts bouncing up and down like Milly’s do now, most of her memories are based on different sexual acts. Unfortunately, there are times where it seems apparent that a man is mimicking the consciousness of a woman, instead of full inhabiting it. Molly says, “Whats the idea of making us like that with a big hole in the middle of us” (742). I could see how a man might deduce that a woman would have such a thought, but as a woman, I think this is really a miss on Joyce’s part. Also, when Molly is talking about eating chicken she says, “I could have easily have slipped a couple into my muff… put down your throat…(750)” I understand Joyce loves puns, but for Molly to use those words to describe eating in her own private thoughts seems disingenuous. I would understand if it was said out loud, as more of a ‘naïve’ performance to evoke sexual arousal. I understand that Molly is an incredibly sexual person, but as far as having Molly think that privately, well, I just have a hard time buying it, as well as the reference to the time that Molly masturbated with a banana. This seems more of a male sexual fantasy then something a young woman would do for her own pleasure.
Conversely, Joyce might be using Molly to finally bring a unity between the corporeal and the ideal. This chapter does provide somewhat of a resolution, although not perfect, and perhaps Molly’s consciousness being centered around her body works to unite that dichotomy.
Strongly associated with life and fecundity, Molly is a believer in God. Perhaps the fact that time almost doesn’t exist for her, (the watch, she foibles her own age, forgets which day it is) also associates her with the eternal. The theme of consubstantiality recurs when Molly remembers confession. “No father, I always think of the real father” (741) which is ambiguous. Perhaps, again, this expresses her unity of the psychical with the eternal, or ideal. She then remembers the priest crying when his father died, again ambiguous, but fitting for the wasteland motif that has pervaded the entirety of the novel with the exception of this chapter, reminiscent of the Nietzche quote we all know so well. When considering all of the earthly beauties that exist in the world, especially in Gibraltar, Molly takes that as proof of God’s existence:
For them saying theres no god, I wouldn’t give a snap of my two fingers for all their learning why don’t they go and create something I often asked him atheists or whatever they call themselves go and wash the cobbles off themselves first then they go howling for the priest and they dying and why why because theyre afraid of hell on account of their bad conscience ah yes I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody that made it all who ah that they don’t know neither do I (782)
She goes on to remember the day that Bloom proposed; he said, “the sun shines for you”. Which seems like it could be just a sweet romantic nothing, but also very subtly implying the old idea, that God lives for those who create him by believing in him.
She is naïve, passionate, emotional, and one who mentions death, many times in this episode (hung woman, says I’d rather die frequently, murdered old woman, Gardener dead now….), in fact, Molly seems rather lonely and given to depression far below the surface. She still buys meat for three, but Milly is gone. She is aware of her age, and mentions how as soon as a woman gets old she might as well be thrown to the bottom of the ash pit. No one writes to her anymore. That lovely Lieutenant that she had an impassioned affair with is probably dead now. She says her father ‘might have planted me too” meaning planted her body into the ground. She mentions drowning herself, and also says that when she’s dead she’ll have peace. Perhaps it is her belief in God that makes speaking of death so easy.
Also, Bloom does not return to his bed the perfect hero. Although she does mention a few positive characteristics, it was Boylan who brought the potted meat to his house. Molly counts the days when Boylan and his large member will return to the house. She thinks of when he burnt the kidney, bit her nipple too hard, and how he is financially inadequate. He sleeps in a queer position on the bed, and she wishes he and his cold feet would have just gone to the couch. She didn’t even bother to wipe up Boylan’s semen, and entertains the idea of leaving Bloom altogether and becoming Mrs. Boylan. However, Molly is the only person who can understand Bloom’s strange ways about him, and it is his heroic quality of empathy that wins Molly in the end: “I saw he understood and felt what a woman is”. However, although the book ends with Bloom winning Molly over, this is but a mere memory of the past. Who knows what will happen to their relationship in the future. Molly could run away, she might stay. Maybe they will make love, maybe not; what a true work of realism.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Ithaca
This concise, mathematical, question/ answer approach of narration seems fitting to expand Joyce’s commentary on language, taking the opposite path to degradation of language in oxen of the sun (ending in slang gibberish). This sort of technical language was created and seems to be used for the sake of a succinct, clear expression but Joyce’s use of it elucidates the absurdity. It seems the more concise the word the less understandable the definition (and also, less people are familiar with these definitions.) In an attempt to bring the signified and the signifier closer, this sort of language pushes them farther apart.
And like the feigned attempt of the language to bring together the signified / signifier (which could also be looked at as metaphoric for Stephen and Bloom’s representation of the ideal / corporeal) Stephen and Bloom’s attempt at connection seems more superimposed then organic. Here we really see the two drastically different minds: one, of Stephen the artist, and the other, of Bloom the “scientist.” They even hear the sound of the bells differently (is Joyce inferring here that pre-reflectivity does not exist (if our sound is even shaped by memory/ ego?)
But all of that aside, given Joyce’s view of the absurdity of language, it seems that he would want Stephen and Bloom to connect in a space the transcends language . And they do. “Was this affirmation apprehended by Bloom? / Not verbally. Substantially” (697). This corresponds with their exchanged look in the previous chapter.
Which brings me to the repeated use of opposites, or antinomies in this chapter. The neverchanging / everychanging water, the scientific / artistic, the real / imaginary, the move from the known to the unknown. In Bloom, Stephen hears a profound accumulation of the past. In Stephen, Boom sees predestination of a future. In order for completion, the opposite must be with in its own opposite. This is brought to light with the mention of St. Johns of Damascus. According to the Bloomsday book, St. John’s Trinitarian theology, “develops the conception of circumincession in order to express the InnerTrinitarian relations. And circumincession means the reciprocal existence of the persons of the Trinity in one another.” So the relationship is reciprocal.
And like the feigned attempt of the language to bring together the signified / signifier (which could also be looked at as metaphoric for Stephen and Bloom’s representation of the ideal / corporeal) Stephen and Bloom’s attempt at connection seems more superimposed then organic. Here we really see the two drastically different minds: one, of Stephen the artist, and the other, of Bloom the “scientist.” They even hear the sound of the bells differently (is Joyce inferring here that pre-reflectivity does not exist (if our sound is even shaped by memory/ ego?)
But all of that aside, given Joyce’s view of the absurdity of language, it seems that he would want Stephen and Bloom to connect in a space the transcends language . And they do. “Was this affirmation apprehended by Bloom? / Not verbally. Substantially” (697). This corresponds with their exchanged look in the previous chapter.
Which brings me to the repeated use of opposites, or antinomies in this chapter. The neverchanging / everychanging water, the scientific / artistic, the real / imaginary, the move from the known to the unknown. In Bloom, Stephen hears a profound accumulation of the past. In Stephen, Boom sees predestination of a future. In order for completion, the opposite must be with in its own opposite. This is brought to light with the mention of St. Johns of Damascus. According to the Bloomsday book, St. John’s Trinitarian theology, “develops the conception of circumincession in order to express the InnerTrinitarian relations. And circumincession means the reciprocal existence of the persons of the Trinity in one another.” So the relationship is reciprocal.
Monday, April 14, 2008
oxen (d)evolution ideal real
‘Deshil Holles Eamus’ seems to be mimicked in the writing style of the long paragraph that follows. The language pushes me forward but the logic feels circular. I feel the perhaps, downward, spiral of the perpetuation of the human species. According to Christians, we were made in God’s image, starting out perfect, but then after the fall, where Eve took the apple of sin and thus was cursed with pain during childbirth, we evolve or devolve; we are moving away from God. As everyone knows, Darwin, and modern science, sees it the other way. This episode doesn’t seem to take a standpoint. The two ideas just battle themselves out.
This seems to be somewhat evoked in the ‘somewhat indecipherable’ paragraph on the first page (383).
“matters most profitable…to be studied…in doctrine erudite…high mind’s ornament…other circumstances being equal by no exterior splendor…prosperity of a nation..the original..might not be in the future not wit h similar excellence…procreating function…”
From these little clips, I get evolution, devolution, and the ideal / real dichotomy, which is represented in birth, the virgin birth, and also, the birth of Mrs. Purefoy, which harkens back to the evolution. Mary was impregnated by God, as a virgin. It seems the evolutionary cycle is starting over. People evolved away from God; they need a redeemer, born out of purity and not of the flesh, to bring them closer to God, or the ideal. Mrs. Purefoy has obviously copulated with either her husband or another man in order to conceive and birth this child; a child born of the flesh. Also, this is interesting:
“In a woman’s womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is post-creation. That all flesh shall come to thee.”
This harkens to John 1: 1-5: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” So, before, essence and object were attached, inseparable. The signified and the signifier were one. Joyce’s use of ridiculous language seems to emphasize the (d)evolution (movement away from God). The word and that which the word tries to encapsulate, have grown very far apart. So, in a way, the ideal and the body or real or corporeal, were once joined. This is in the beginning, in Eden. Then Eve, that evil woman, broke this unity apart. The earth now needs a messiah to redeem us from this world that exists “in the flesh” and bring us closer to the ideal: God. So he sends his son to unite the two. But, in the above passage from Ulysses (not the biblical passage), I get the feeling that the ideal takes precedence over the physical (becomes the word that shall not pass away).
Similarly, when Stephen is mimicking the last supper, he will drink the wine but not partake of the body of Christ (the bread). But, perhaps this shows just Stephen’s link with the ideal.
Also, the storm that is brewing through out the entire chapter, at certain times, seems to be reminiscent of the great flood, where God spared only Noah and the creatures two by two, one male, one female. This washing of the evils of the word obviously goes with the messiah, and seems fitting when placed in the context of these ribald men completely apathetic to Mrs. Purefoy’s pain; well, all except Bloom. His heroic quality (like Noah and Christ who save us from the evils of the word) of empathy is truly put to use in Oxen of the sun.
Bloom, however, is a hypocrite. He spread his seed but onto the sand (which seems linked to the biblical passage Mathew 7: 15-29
“Every one therefore that heareth these my words, and doth them, shall be likened to a wise man that built his house upon a rock, And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and they beat upon that house, and it fell not, for it was founded on a rock.
And every one that heareth these my words, and doth them not, shall be like a foolish man that built his house upon the sand, And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and they beat upon that house, and it fell, and great was the fall thereof.”)
Bloom has wasted the life force. “”Has he not nearer home a see field that lies fallow for the want of a ploughshare?” (409). References to Rudy’s death are abundant. What makes a perfectly healthy child just die after a few days? Bloom, aware of his lack of a son, gazes at Stephen, the obvious surrogate.
And the episode ends with a mockery of the Almighty God.
This seems to be somewhat evoked in the ‘somewhat indecipherable’ paragraph on the first page (383).
“matters most profitable…to be studied…in doctrine erudite…high mind’s ornament…other circumstances being equal by no exterior splendor…prosperity of a nation..the original..might not be in the future not wit h similar excellence…procreating function…”
From these little clips, I get evolution, devolution, and the ideal / real dichotomy, which is represented in birth, the virgin birth, and also, the birth of Mrs. Purefoy, which harkens back to the evolution. Mary was impregnated by God, as a virgin. It seems the evolutionary cycle is starting over. People evolved away from God; they need a redeemer, born out of purity and not of the flesh, to bring them closer to God, or the ideal. Mrs. Purefoy has obviously copulated with either her husband or another man in order to conceive and birth this child; a child born of the flesh. Also, this is interesting:
“In a woman’s womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is post-creation. That all flesh shall come to thee.”
This harkens to John 1: 1-5: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” So, before, essence and object were attached, inseparable. The signified and the signifier were one. Joyce’s use of ridiculous language seems to emphasize the (d)evolution (movement away from God). The word and that which the word tries to encapsulate, have grown very far apart. So, in a way, the ideal and the body or real or corporeal, were once joined. This is in the beginning, in Eden. Then Eve, that evil woman, broke this unity apart. The earth now needs a messiah to redeem us from this world that exists “in the flesh” and bring us closer to the ideal: God. So he sends his son to unite the two. But, in the above passage from Ulysses (not the biblical passage), I get the feeling that the ideal takes precedence over the physical (becomes the word that shall not pass away).
Similarly, when Stephen is mimicking the last supper, he will drink the wine but not partake of the body of Christ (the bread). But, perhaps this shows just Stephen’s link with the ideal.
Also, the storm that is brewing through out the entire chapter, at certain times, seems to be reminiscent of the great flood, where God spared only Noah and the creatures two by two, one male, one female. This washing of the evils of the word obviously goes with the messiah, and seems fitting when placed in the context of these ribald men completely apathetic to Mrs. Purefoy’s pain; well, all except Bloom. His heroic quality (like Noah and Christ who save us from the evils of the word) of empathy is truly put to use in Oxen of the sun.
Bloom, however, is a hypocrite. He spread his seed but onto the sand (which seems linked to the biblical passage Mathew 7: 15-29
“Every one therefore that heareth these my words, and doth them, shall be likened to a wise man that built his house upon a rock, And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and they beat upon that house, and it fell not, for it was founded on a rock.
And every one that heareth these my words, and doth them not, shall be like a foolish man that built his house upon the sand, And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and they beat upon that house, and it fell, and great was the fall thereof.”)
Bloom has wasted the life force. “”Has he not nearer home a see field that lies fallow for the want of a ploughshare?” (409). References to Rudy’s death are abundant. What makes a perfectly healthy child just die after a few days? Bloom, aware of his lack of a son, gazes at Stephen, the obvious surrogate.
And the episode ends with a mockery of the Almighty God.
Nausicaa
Gerty, sports a straw hat, and a dress of blue and white; indeed, as Kevin mentioned, she is likened to the virgin Mary, but the straw hat also links her to Blazes Boylan, the object of Blooms infidelity, if one could call it that.
After reading the Cyclops, I got the feeling that Bloom’s impotence might cease up a bit, (he is resurrected in a way) and his impotence is somewhat lifted here. After all, he does reach climax, and feels oh so much better. The torture of sexual desire loosens its grip upon Bloom and we see his mind return to its normal route of thought, wondering about love, fate, Molly, and a lot about sight and smell, which reminded me of Stephen in Proteus, contemplating sound versus sight.
It is obvious that Bloom’s mind is still with Molly. He contemplates her lingering scent and remembers how she sprays her perfume on their pillows: “I leave this to you to think of me when I’m far away on the pillow (374). Scent is established as intoxicating in the Lotus-eaters and elsewhere, but here it seems as if Molly’s powerful “ether” like scent has waned. Her scent is “sweet and chap: soon sour.” But soon after Bloom says that he likens Molly, or women’s scent to a spider spinning gossamer that clings to everything (374).
Although Bloom’s impotence is superficially overcome, he casts his seed into sand: “nothing grows in it. All fades” (381). Besides, we never really doubted Bloom’s ability to achieve an erection. His real impotence comes out of not being able to make love to his wife. Still, “he gets the plumb and I get the plum stones” (377).
I am also interested in this strange synchronicity of minds that Robin has mentioned in class. Bloom’s watch stops at the time that Molly and Boylan have sex. However, I am unsure of what further significance this might have. In the end, Bloom, the priest, and Gerty are all linked with the Cuckoo, which is reminiscent of Bloom being the cuckold, in Gerty’s eyes.
After reading the Cyclops, I got the feeling that Bloom’s impotence might cease up a bit, (he is resurrected in a way) and his impotence is somewhat lifted here. After all, he does reach climax, and feels oh so much better. The torture of sexual desire loosens its grip upon Bloom and we see his mind return to its normal route of thought, wondering about love, fate, Molly, and a lot about sight and smell, which reminded me of Stephen in Proteus, contemplating sound versus sight.
It is obvious that Bloom’s mind is still with Molly. He contemplates her lingering scent and remembers how she sprays her perfume on their pillows: “I leave this to you to think of me when I’m far away on the pillow (374). Scent is established as intoxicating in the Lotus-eaters and elsewhere, but here it seems as if Molly’s powerful “ether” like scent has waned. Her scent is “sweet and chap: soon sour.” But soon after Bloom says that he likens Molly, or women’s scent to a spider spinning gossamer that clings to everything (374).
Although Bloom’s impotence is superficially overcome, he casts his seed into sand: “nothing grows in it. All fades” (381). Besides, we never really doubted Bloom’s ability to achieve an erection. His real impotence comes out of not being able to make love to his wife. Still, “he gets the plumb and I get the plum stones” (377).
I am also interested in this strange synchronicity of minds that Robin has mentioned in class. Bloom’s watch stops at the time that Molly and Boylan have sex. However, I am unsure of what further significance this might have. In the end, Bloom, the priest, and Gerty are all linked with the Cuckoo, which is reminiscent of Bloom being the cuckold, in Gerty’s eyes.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Cyclops. Crucifixion.
In the Cyclops, I think there is a danger for the reader to fall in to looking at this episode with ‘one eye’. Here, we see Joyce make a mockery out of Irish nationalists, the hero, religion, journalism, etc, creating what the Bloomsday book calls, an “inflated caricature,” of all the aforementioned. The unnamed one-eyed narrator is put in juxtaposition to Bloom’s cod’s eye, who can see things both ways: (But don’t you see, on the other hand. (306). Therefore, beneath Joyce’s outward mockery, the wasteland / fisher king theme expands dramatically.
Bloom stands outside the tavern where the citizen, our narrator, and a few other men drink. Bob Doran, the drunk, swears that he has just seen Dignam, whom we all know is dead. The tone shifts from somewhat playful to macabre, when Alf says, “Dead! He is no more dead then you are” (31), which evokes the feeling that these men are actually somewhere between heaven and hell, such as purgatory. This is brought home in the hilarious mockery of different religion’s take on the afterlife, however, as I said before, despite the overwhelming humor of the episode, it cannot be simplified to humor alone. It is a parody, yet evocation of the afterlife.
Bloom lurks on the other side of the veil of the underworld (metaphorically speaking). “There he is again, says the citizen, staring out” (302). Finally, “Bloom slopes in with his cod’s eye (God’s eye) on the dog…” (There is an obvious connection with Stephen’s dogsbody, the Proteus episode where Stephen sees one live dog fondling the dead one, etc..) Our hero seems to finally have stepped into the underworld.
Themes of surplus (parody of Irish revival of Irish poetry etc in beginning) / barren land (313,314) / usurpation, (thievery, Bloom’s Freudian slip, England of Ireland) and martyrdom recur in the Cyclops. Soon after Bloom enters, we are told of a hanging. Then, Christ’s crucifixion is alluded to, as well as the necessity of Christ to then, descend into hell before he can ascend to heaven: “Here, says he, take them to hell out of my sight.”
The conversation takes a turn to express the idea that when a man is hanged, he achieves an erection, which further correlates the metaphoric necessity for Bloom to be crucified in order to rid himself of impotence.
We also see Bloom, for what I assume is the first time, directly speaking of Blazes Boylan. Also, in the end, when the drunken man cries out, “Three cheers for Israel” Bloom actually retorts: “Mendelssohn was a Jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. And the Savior was a Jew and his father was a Jew. Your God” (342).
Finally, the moment that I have been waiting for has happened: Bloom is crucified. I know this isn’t literally, but it undoubtedly happens. We see the religious procession, where a silver casket is being carried though the streets. Then, in Hungarian, we hear shouts of “See you again my dear friend. See you again!” which alludes to Bloom being the one in the coffin, and also the resurrection. “And there came a voice out of heaven, calling: Elijah! Elijah! And he answered with a main cry: Abba Adonai! And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah…” (345). (Earlier in the chapter Bloom is likened to the messiah numerous times).
Does this mean that Bloom’s impotence is lifted? How will this impact the wasteland? Does this bring God back into it? Will the body be recovered from the waters? Will Mrs. Purefoy finally birth that baby? Please join us next time on Days of Our Lives.
P.S If anyone has a better understanding of the wasteland / fisher king please speak up and help me try to work this out.
Bloom stands outside the tavern where the citizen, our narrator, and a few other men drink. Bob Doran, the drunk, swears that he has just seen Dignam, whom we all know is dead. The tone shifts from somewhat playful to macabre, when Alf says, “Dead! He is no more dead then you are” (31), which evokes the feeling that these men are actually somewhere between heaven and hell, such as purgatory. This is brought home in the hilarious mockery of different religion’s take on the afterlife, however, as I said before, despite the overwhelming humor of the episode, it cannot be simplified to humor alone. It is a parody, yet evocation of the afterlife.
Bloom lurks on the other side of the veil of the underworld (metaphorically speaking). “There he is again, says the citizen, staring out” (302). Finally, “Bloom slopes in with his cod’s eye (God’s eye) on the dog…” (There is an obvious connection with Stephen’s dogsbody, the Proteus episode where Stephen sees one live dog fondling the dead one, etc..) Our hero seems to finally have stepped into the underworld.
Themes of surplus (parody of Irish revival of Irish poetry etc in beginning) / barren land (313,314) / usurpation, (thievery, Bloom’s Freudian slip, England of Ireland) and martyrdom recur in the Cyclops. Soon after Bloom enters, we are told of a hanging. Then, Christ’s crucifixion is alluded to, as well as the necessity of Christ to then, descend into hell before he can ascend to heaven: “Here, says he, take them to hell out of my sight.”
The conversation takes a turn to express the idea that when a man is hanged, he achieves an erection, which further correlates the metaphoric necessity for Bloom to be crucified in order to rid himself of impotence.
We also see Bloom, for what I assume is the first time, directly speaking of Blazes Boylan. Also, in the end, when the drunken man cries out, “Three cheers for Israel” Bloom actually retorts: “Mendelssohn was a Jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. And the Savior was a Jew and his father was a Jew. Your God” (342).
Finally, the moment that I have been waiting for has happened: Bloom is crucified. I know this isn’t literally, but it undoubtedly happens. We see the religious procession, where a silver casket is being carried though the streets. Then, in Hungarian, we hear shouts of “See you again my dear friend. See you again!” which alludes to Bloom being the one in the coffin, and also the resurrection. “And there came a voice out of heaven, calling: Elijah! Elijah! And he answered with a main cry: Abba Adonai! And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah…” (345). (Earlier in the chapter Bloom is likened to the messiah numerous times).
Does this mean that Bloom’s impotence is lifted? How will this impact the wasteland? Does this bring God back into it? Will the body be recovered from the waters? Will Mrs. Purefoy finally birth that baby? Please join us next time on Days of Our Lives.
P.S If anyone has a better understanding of the wasteland / fisher king please speak up and help me try to work this out.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wondering Rocks
What does one take from synchronistic events? In life, I take little; in literature, I assume that it is a devise used by the author in order to create parallels between certain characters or events, which points to the reader to read-into these parallels, and take significance from this process. However, Joyce is more playful then the average author, and to use the word synchronicity to describe this episode might be an overstatement. We see what is happening in relation to most of the characters of the book, around the same time of day.
The throwaway recurs. Elijah is mentioned. Both Bloom and Stephen reject the idea of a messiah, nothing new. We see Stephen and Bloom’s roles reversed. Haines and Buck agree that Stephen is not an artist, and that his mind is imbalanced. He will never produce a work of literature. Bloom, however, is described as having “a touch of the artist about (him).” Bloom is also mentioned for putting down a mentionable sum for Dignam family, and is actually shown respect. In addition, a story is retold, about a time Molly, Bloom, Lenehan, and another man went to a play, and on the way back, Molly was stealthily being felt up by Lenehan, while Bloom was focused on the starts, which evokes the idea that Bloom is more forces on the ideal, which is normally Stephen’s realm.
The Dedalus family is pitiful in this episode, and one of the most touching scenes happens between Stephen and his poor, hungry little sister. “She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, my heart, my soul. Salt green death. / We. / Agenbite of inwit. Inwit’s agenbite. / Misery! Misery!” Stephen’s impotence to save his family is comparable to Bloom’s impotence. He is unable or unwilling to provide for his family; his father does a poor job of it, callously reprimanding Dilly for slouching, when she barely has the strength to stand up straight; he drinks their money away. “Our father who not in heaven,” could relate to the throwaway.
Blazes Bolyan is mentioned among ripe fruits, with a red carnation in his mouth. As he prepares a basket for Molly, Bloom searches for a saucy book for her, and decides upon one, which tells a tale of adultery. We see, again, that Bloom will do anything to please Molly.
This episode seems a little more distant to me, and little less meaningful then the others, perhaps because it tends to be focused around the clergymen, and the cavalcade of the officials. This one event brings most of the townspeople to one central focus, and gives us a glimpse of all of the characters, from maybe, a more objective view.
The throwaway recurs. Elijah is mentioned. Both Bloom and Stephen reject the idea of a messiah, nothing new. We see Stephen and Bloom’s roles reversed. Haines and Buck agree that Stephen is not an artist, and that his mind is imbalanced. He will never produce a work of literature. Bloom, however, is described as having “a touch of the artist about (him).” Bloom is also mentioned for putting down a mentionable sum for Dignam family, and is actually shown respect. In addition, a story is retold, about a time Molly, Bloom, Lenehan, and another man went to a play, and on the way back, Molly was stealthily being felt up by Lenehan, while Bloom was focused on the starts, which evokes the idea that Bloom is more forces on the ideal, which is normally Stephen’s realm.
The Dedalus family is pitiful in this episode, and one of the most touching scenes happens between Stephen and his poor, hungry little sister. “She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, my heart, my soul. Salt green death. / We. / Agenbite of inwit. Inwit’s agenbite. / Misery! Misery!” Stephen’s impotence to save his family is comparable to Bloom’s impotence. He is unable or unwilling to provide for his family; his father does a poor job of it, callously reprimanding Dilly for slouching, when she barely has the strength to stand up straight; he drinks their money away. “Our father who not in heaven,” could relate to the throwaway.
Blazes Bolyan is mentioned among ripe fruits, with a red carnation in his mouth. As he prepares a basket for Molly, Bloom searches for a saucy book for her, and decides upon one, which tells a tale of adultery. We see, again, that Bloom will do anything to please Molly.
This episode seems a little more distant to me, and little less meaningful then the others, perhaps because it tends to be focused around the clergymen, and the cavalcade of the officials. This one event brings most of the townspeople to one central focus, and gives us a glimpse of all of the characters, from maybe, a more objective view.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Scylla and Charybdis
This is a difficult episode to talk about; it is not known what of Stephen’s words are meaningful, and what is mere sophistry, like the pomp let out of the windbag in a previous chapter.
Nonetheless, it seems that the thematic dichotomy of the ideal and form seem at play, especially during the discourses that reference Plato and Aristotle. This might tie in with the theme of consubstantiality, which seems to be the most important of the chapter, but already, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Through the narration, we become aware of many of the character’s physicality, the fact that they have a body; this lays in contrast to architecture of thought that this episode inhabits. “A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch” (191). Here it seems as if the shadow represents the essence, or being, of the person being described, and that his body is what clothes the shadow. Also, someone else is described as “sitting in his form” (191) and the librarian was found “blushing his mask” (193). This might presuppose what I believe to be the platonic idea that essence comes before form. Stephen seems to reject this. Instead of dissecting art like Russell, who believes art is the guise humans use to convey ‘formless spiritual essences (185),’ Stephen insists on theorizing Shakespeare’s work through biography, a more tangible reality; still, this seems strange, since Stephen, in a previous chapter with Deasy, surmises that the past is mutable; however, Stephen is indecisive on his view points, and seems to hold intellectual debates within himself, never really believing anything. This is apparent in this episode. He goes off on a long diatribe about Shakespeare, using polemical, sophistic, arguments against men he should be sucking up to, and in the end we find that Stephen doesn’t even believe in his own argument. It would be quite a task to find, at this point, anything that Stephen empirically believes.
There is also a tension between the art or the life of the commoner, and that of the intellectuals that speaks in this chapter. The common man/ woman seems to be able to Live life; to put things into action, where the intellectual sits around theorizing about it with out action. (Maybe the physical impotence of both Bloom and Stephen is noteworthy.) Russell notes, “People do not know how dangerous loves songs can be. The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant’s heart on the hillside (186).” Also, this seems to bring Russell’s viewpoint out even more, thought before form. Later, Russell says, “As for the living, our servants can do that for us (189).” Although Stephen opposes Russell’s beliefs on the argument of the chicken and the egg, Stephen, he is within this group of intellectuals, and as stated in proteus, he seems to be at odds with the fact that he has a body. Therefore, I think the slave comment is applicable to Stephen in some ways.
I find Stephen’s opposition to Plato well stated on page 193: “Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words.” Thought is language, language is form, form before content. From is essence. But, the words are coffined. This express the fact that we are in a wasteland, and God is dead, therefore meaning is dead. I’m not saying that Stephen does not believe in God. I think he’s undecided, and at this moment, is leaning towards a dead god.
Which brings me to the talk of consubstantiality and incest. Lets start on page 194:
So through the ghost of the unquiet father the image of the unloving son looks forth. In the intense instant of imagination, when the mind, Shelley says, is a fading coal, that which I was is that which I am and that which in possibility I may come to be. So in the future, the sister of the past, I may see myself as I sit here now but by reflection from that which then I shall be.”
Here, Joyce skillfully blends two thematic concerns of the book, consubstantiality and the dichotomy of the ideal/ corporeal. Really, they seem to be the same theme. The mind, a fading coal, which “with some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness; this power arises from within, like the color of a flower which fades and changes as it is developed, and the conscious portions of our natures are unprophetic either of its approach or its departure”(A defense of Poetry, Shelly). This harkens back to in ineluctable modality of the audio- visual, which can also be explained, as on page 194, “weave and unweave our bodies.” So, we are stuck in time, caught up in the modality, which is inescapable, and physical reality leaves impressions upon our minds, which hold on to them and then casually, unconsciously or consciously, let go. Stephen’s quip with Plato seems futile, more of a chicken and the egg question, when really; maybe we are swimming in ideas and forms. They play with each other. This is what poetry is made of.
And really, God is an idea who came into form through his son Jesus Christ, representing the corporeal, and the Holy Spirit is the medium in which the ideal and corporeal communicate. Still, this dialectic is all apart of the same whole. “Formless spiritual. Father, word and holy breath. Allfather, the heavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, magician of the beautiful, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment (185).” Therefore, Shakespeare’s son is Shakespeare, “the son of his soul, the prince, young Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamnet…”(188).
Additionally, this talk of the father son relationship seems to hearken back to Bloom as a father figure for Stephen, as we have mentioned before in class. Stephen is the world of the ideal. Perhaps Bloom in the corporeal. “Where there is a reconciliation, there must have been first a sundering” (193). These characters are tied in an interesting, significant way, which I would bet will be brought out even more as the story continues.
Nonetheless, it seems that the thematic dichotomy of the ideal and form seem at play, especially during the discourses that reference Plato and Aristotle. This might tie in with the theme of consubstantiality, which seems to be the most important of the chapter, but already, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Through the narration, we become aware of many of the character’s physicality, the fact that they have a body; this lays in contrast to architecture of thought that this episode inhabits. “A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch” (191). Here it seems as if the shadow represents the essence, or being, of the person being described, and that his body is what clothes the shadow. Also, someone else is described as “sitting in his form” (191) and the librarian was found “blushing his mask” (193). This might presuppose what I believe to be the platonic idea that essence comes before form. Stephen seems to reject this. Instead of dissecting art like Russell, who believes art is the guise humans use to convey ‘formless spiritual essences (185),’ Stephen insists on theorizing Shakespeare’s work through biography, a more tangible reality; still, this seems strange, since Stephen, in a previous chapter with Deasy, surmises that the past is mutable; however, Stephen is indecisive on his view points, and seems to hold intellectual debates within himself, never really believing anything. This is apparent in this episode. He goes off on a long diatribe about Shakespeare, using polemical, sophistic, arguments against men he should be sucking up to, and in the end we find that Stephen doesn’t even believe in his own argument. It would be quite a task to find, at this point, anything that Stephen empirically believes.
There is also a tension between the art or the life of the commoner, and that of the intellectuals that speaks in this chapter. The common man/ woman seems to be able to Live life; to put things into action, where the intellectual sits around theorizing about it with out action. (Maybe the physical impotence of both Bloom and Stephen is noteworthy.) Russell notes, “People do not know how dangerous loves songs can be. The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant’s heart on the hillside (186).” Also, this seems to bring Russell’s viewpoint out even more, thought before form. Later, Russell says, “As for the living, our servants can do that for us (189).” Although Stephen opposes Russell’s beliefs on the argument of the chicken and the egg, Stephen, he is within this group of intellectuals, and as stated in proteus, he seems to be at odds with the fact that he has a body. Therefore, I think the slave comment is applicable to Stephen in some ways.
I find Stephen’s opposition to Plato well stated on page 193: “Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words.” Thought is language, language is form, form before content. From is essence. But, the words are coffined. This express the fact that we are in a wasteland, and God is dead, therefore meaning is dead. I’m not saying that Stephen does not believe in God. I think he’s undecided, and at this moment, is leaning towards a dead god.
Which brings me to the talk of consubstantiality and incest. Lets start on page 194:
So through the ghost of the unquiet father the image of the unloving son looks forth. In the intense instant of imagination, when the mind, Shelley says, is a fading coal, that which I was is that which I am and that which in possibility I may come to be. So in the future, the sister of the past, I may see myself as I sit here now but by reflection from that which then I shall be.”
Here, Joyce skillfully blends two thematic concerns of the book, consubstantiality and the dichotomy of the ideal/ corporeal. Really, they seem to be the same theme. The mind, a fading coal, which “with some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness; this power arises from within, like the color of a flower which fades and changes as it is developed, and the conscious portions of our natures are unprophetic either of its approach or its departure”(A defense of Poetry, Shelly). This harkens back to in ineluctable modality of the audio- visual, which can also be explained, as on page 194, “weave and unweave our bodies.” So, we are stuck in time, caught up in the modality, which is inescapable, and physical reality leaves impressions upon our minds, which hold on to them and then casually, unconsciously or consciously, let go. Stephen’s quip with Plato seems futile, more of a chicken and the egg question, when really; maybe we are swimming in ideas and forms. They play with each other. This is what poetry is made of.
And really, God is an idea who came into form through his son Jesus Christ, representing the corporeal, and the Holy Spirit is the medium in which the ideal and corporeal communicate. Still, this dialectic is all apart of the same whole. “Formless spiritual. Father, word and holy breath. Allfather, the heavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, magician of the beautiful, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment (185).” Therefore, Shakespeare’s son is Shakespeare, “the son of his soul, the prince, young Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamnet…”(188).
Additionally, this talk of the father son relationship seems to hearken back to Bloom as a father figure for Stephen, as we have mentioned before in class. Stephen is the world of the ideal. Perhaps Bloom in the corporeal. “Where there is a reconciliation, there must have been first a sundering” (193). These characters are tied in an interesting, significant way, which I would bet will be brought out even more as the story continues.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Lestrygonians
The theme of insatiety and impotence recurs. There is butter and sugar everywhere, but nothing nourishing. The church serves as candy here just as it served as lotus or poppies, in the lotus-eaters. The priests are well fed on butter, but the Dedalus girl is starving. The people of the wasteland are still awaiting a messiah, Bloom, unmistakably. “Bloo…Me? No. / Blood of the Lamb,” (151).
Bloom is in a state of arrest, a fly in the bar window, and retreats from his role as messiah. The messiah will not be birthed. A woman has labored for days, and it will not come, just as the body is yet to be found in the water, and Bloom’s son was born dead. Jesus is on the wall, hanging, and has yet to rise (151). “Hamlet, I am thy father’s spirit / Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth,” (152). The resurrection has not occurred.
The people of Dublin are more ready to accept a false prophet then the seagulls are, who reject the crumbled throwaway that Bloom tries to pass as bread, or manna from heaven. He purchases them real bread, and they gobble it up. At least the gulls are fed. Throughout this chapter there are numerous references to consuming poisonous, inedible, or junk food, or things that are just not meant to be eaten, such as the rats in the porter, or swans.
Bloom wanders the streets, letting his mind meander as he slowly searches for a suitable eatery. Just as in the lotus-eaters, Bloom’s mind works hard to try to elude thoughts of Molly, which lead to thoughts of Boylan, who Bloom also tries to physically avoid. Women, again, are tempestuous, cruel creatures. Molly’s pins are all over the house, and he thinks to purchase her a pincushion for her birthday. She has pricked him relentlessly. He runs into an old love interest, Mrs. Breen, who is covered in pastry flakes and sugar. Once a sharp dresser, and a beauty, Breen is now unappealing and old, only a year older then Molly, reminding Bloom of the inescapable plight of time. Breen takes a pin out of her purse, but puts it back. Like Martha, her flower has no scent. He pin will not prick Bloom.
No women are appealing in this episode. Their breasts are tired and overworked, dried up grapes, insufficient for reproduction. The baby will not be birthed. The only appealing woman, as always, is Molly. It is apparent that Bloom’s hunger reaches far beyond that of the tummy. Memories of Molly’s satiable love finally reach Bloom’s mind in a beautifully written scene on page 176.
Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy.”
This thought ends with “Me. And me now.” Bloom ponders over rather common philosophical issues: the me in the past is different then the me of now. Also, previously in this episode, Bloom’s faithful cloud momentarily covers the sunlight, and he has a momentary bout of depression: just as people die they are supplanted by numerous other births. The world keeps spinning. Everything is meaningless. Its all gas and dust. Language is just a bunch of sounds. ‘No one is anything.’
He also, in his philosophical meanderings, considers the word, parallax, much like Molly’s metempsychosis. His mind cannot penetrate the word, but he is intrigued. The word seems fitting. Life is a stream that stretches along the curbstone, therefore, linear. Life is time. If we are physically above this line, we can see the past as well as the present and the future. Parallax is “the apparent displacement or the difference in apparent direction of an object as seen from two different points of view.” This could hearken back to Blooms view his different selves, and also the self of the future. The messiah has been crucified, but will he rise again?
After considering Molly, Bloom’s mind reverts to a beauty beyond the ‘ineluctable modality’, or the grasp of time. He seeks ambrosial feasts and the beauty of statues. Bloom has been reminded numerous times in this episode of his impotence, concerning Molly. He suitors are everywhere in this chapter, and Bloom compares himself to them. When the blind man refers to Bloom as a man, Bloom thinks, it must be my voice, which reminds us of Molly’s suitor, the ‘barreltone’ baritone. Bloom is starving, but someone at the restaurant mentions that Molly is well fed. Bloom cannot avoid Boylan, and, in fact, sees him from a slight distance, and tries to evade his glance. His heart beats like a bird's as he retreats, like Ulysses, fumbling for his soap.
Bloom is in a state of arrest, a fly in the bar window, and retreats from his role as messiah. The messiah will not be birthed. A woman has labored for days, and it will not come, just as the body is yet to be found in the water, and Bloom’s son was born dead. Jesus is on the wall, hanging, and has yet to rise (151). “Hamlet, I am thy father’s spirit / Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth,” (152). The resurrection has not occurred.
The people of Dublin are more ready to accept a false prophet then the seagulls are, who reject the crumbled throwaway that Bloom tries to pass as bread, or manna from heaven. He purchases them real bread, and they gobble it up. At least the gulls are fed. Throughout this chapter there are numerous references to consuming poisonous, inedible, or junk food, or things that are just not meant to be eaten, such as the rats in the porter, or swans.
Bloom wanders the streets, letting his mind meander as he slowly searches for a suitable eatery. Just as in the lotus-eaters, Bloom’s mind works hard to try to elude thoughts of Molly, which lead to thoughts of Boylan, who Bloom also tries to physically avoid. Women, again, are tempestuous, cruel creatures. Molly’s pins are all over the house, and he thinks to purchase her a pincushion for her birthday. She has pricked him relentlessly. He runs into an old love interest, Mrs. Breen, who is covered in pastry flakes and sugar. Once a sharp dresser, and a beauty, Breen is now unappealing and old, only a year older then Molly, reminding Bloom of the inescapable plight of time. Breen takes a pin out of her purse, but puts it back. Like Martha, her flower has no scent. He pin will not prick Bloom.
No women are appealing in this episode. Their breasts are tired and overworked, dried up grapes, insufficient for reproduction. The baby will not be birthed. The only appealing woman, as always, is Molly. It is apparent that Bloom’s hunger reaches far beyond that of the tummy. Memories of Molly’s satiable love finally reach Bloom’s mind in a beautifully written scene on page 176.
Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy.”
This thought ends with “Me. And me now.” Bloom ponders over rather common philosophical issues: the me in the past is different then the me of now. Also, previously in this episode, Bloom’s faithful cloud momentarily covers the sunlight, and he has a momentary bout of depression: just as people die they are supplanted by numerous other births. The world keeps spinning. Everything is meaningless. Its all gas and dust. Language is just a bunch of sounds. ‘No one is anything.’
He also, in his philosophical meanderings, considers the word, parallax, much like Molly’s metempsychosis. His mind cannot penetrate the word, but he is intrigued. The word seems fitting. Life is a stream that stretches along the curbstone, therefore, linear. Life is time. If we are physically above this line, we can see the past as well as the present and the future. Parallax is “the apparent displacement or the difference in apparent direction of an object as seen from two different points of view.” This could hearken back to Blooms view his different selves, and also the self of the future. The messiah has been crucified, but will he rise again?
After considering Molly, Bloom’s mind reverts to a beauty beyond the ‘ineluctable modality’, or the grasp of time. He seeks ambrosial feasts and the beauty of statues. Bloom has been reminded numerous times in this episode of his impotence, concerning Molly. He suitors are everywhere in this chapter, and Bloom compares himself to them. When the blind man refers to Bloom as a man, Bloom thinks, it must be my voice, which reminds us of Molly’s suitor, the ‘barreltone’ baritone. Bloom is starving, but someone at the restaurant mentions that Molly is well fed. Bloom cannot avoid Boylan, and, in fact, sees him from a slight distance, and tries to evade his glance. His heart beats like a bird's as he retreats, like Ulysses, fumbling for his soap.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Aeolus
I have about two minutes to write so this will be quick... I found this episode the most frustrating out of all of Ulysses. My reading experience truly mimicked the emotive tone of the chapter. I found it extremely difficult to follow. It is written outside of a character's perspective, and seems to be told from the noise of the newsroom. "Almost human the way it sllt to call attention. Doing its level best to speak," (121).
This chapter is riddled with noise. It's as if no one is listening to each other. No one can hear each other or remain focused on the conversation or the task at hand. Bloom is clumsy, and given many obstacles, ultimately rejected by his peers as he is by Molly. There is so much more going on that I don't have time to delve into. I also have a very loose understanding of this chapter, and hope that class today helps tighten up the wheels in my brain. More on Aeolus later...
This chapter is riddled with noise. It's as if no one is listening to each other. No one can hear each other or remain focused on the conversation or the task at hand. Bloom is clumsy, and given many obstacles, ultimately rejected by his peers as he is by Molly. There is so much more going on that I don't have time to delve into. I also have a very loose understanding of this chapter, and hope that class today helps tighten up the wheels in my brain. More on Aeolus later...
Monday, March 10, 2008
Hades
Hades
This episode reminds me of Yeats’ poem, Sailing to Byzantium. Stone monuments and the mechanical bird do a poor job supplanting life with feigned immortality. There is reference to a bird in this episode, perched on a poplar, the sort of tree associated with the ghostly, white forms who floated among them, welcoming us into the graveyard. Bloom observes that the bird seems stuffed, and recalls the time Milly buried a dead bird in the kitchen matchbox. This reality of death is juxtaposed when Bloom alludes to the rumor about a painter who depicted fruit, so real, that the birds tried to eat it. Also, “rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of gronzefoil” directly precedes this. On the way to the church the men pass numerous stone monuments, depicting men who have died, and later Simon tells the joke about the drunks, in search of their friends grave, who upon seeing a sepulcher depicting an angel, remarks, this isn’t Mulcahy, the deceased man they searched for.
People do a lot to avoid the reality of mortality. Euphemisms for death, and the avoidance of it, seems to wane as Bloom gets deeper and deeper into the Hades of this episode, drawing near the grave yard. In the beginning, Bloom thinks of the progression of age with out considering death, when he considers Milly’s maturation. He also, counts his blessings when he is reminded of how she avoided the whooping cough; these avoidances of immanent death recede with the progression of the chapter.
Also, his mind jumps to Milly directly after he is silently mourning his son’s death. Consubstantiality and father/ son and mother/ daughter relationships are mentioned numerous times. This paragraph, on the top of page 89 reminded me of Stephen’s musings on page 38, when he considers consubstantiality but also that he is the product of a simple fuck. (They clasped and sundered. Did the coupler’s will.) Bloom recalls the point of his son’s conception. Molly, painfully aroused upon the sight of two animals copulating, begged Bloom to satisfy her desire, thus their son came into being.
Bloom’s muted suffering is an undercurrent of this entire chapter. His agony is likened with Christ’s during the crucifixion. Blazes Boylan enters the picture (in a straw hat), and Bloom is so distressed that he cannot fully observe what is happening. “Mr. Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right hand. The nails, yes,” (92). It goes on. He is reminded of his dead son not only when Simon sees Stephen, but also when they come upon a child’s funeral procession. His father’s suicide is thrown in his face, and the men mock him behind his back. He is an outsider. He tries to get a hold of himself by reverting to practical matters, the amount of money spent of coffins and memorials, questions of insurance, and so on.
Hats recur over and over again. The men Bloom are with sport silk hats. Blazes Boylan sports a straw hat, which makes him seem mockable. Still, he flashes his head to the men, which seems somewhat of an irreverent gesture. When in the graveyard, the men cover their heads, for protection. Simon asks Ned about a mutual friend, Dick. Ned tells him, “nothing between himself and heaven,” (102), which apparently means that he is bald. The word skull is dropped shortly after. Bloom also notices a dent in Menton’s hat, and Menton snubs his observation, possibly because he shows an interest in Molly.
The belief in immortality does not exist for Bloom. Every day the priest sprinkles holy water over slumped corpses, and blesses them into paradise. Parnell is not coming back. We pray for the dead souls, but they are indifferent, (much like the dead in Anne Sexton’s poem, The Truth the Dead Know. “They are more like stone then the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed. Throat, eye, and knucklebone.”) Our first impulse is to burry them, protect them from decay as long as possible. Seal them up. Pray for their souls. But we forget them. Their names on the newspaper fade. Out of sight, out of mind. Finality.
This episode reminds me of Yeats’ poem, Sailing to Byzantium. Stone monuments and the mechanical bird do a poor job supplanting life with feigned immortality. There is reference to a bird in this episode, perched on a poplar, the sort of tree associated with the ghostly, white forms who floated among them, welcoming us into the graveyard. Bloom observes that the bird seems stuffed, and recalls the time Milly buried a dead bird in the kitchen matchbox. This reality of death is juxtaposed when Bloom alludes to the rumor about a painter who depicted fruit, so real, that the birds tried to eat it. Also, “rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of gronzefoil” directly precedes this. On the way to the church the men pass numerous stone monuments, depicting men who have died, and later Simon tells the joke about the drunks, in search of their friends grave, who upon seeing a sepulcher depicting an angel, remarks, this isn’t Mulcahy, the deceased man they searched for.
People do a lot to avoid the reality of mortality. Euphemisms for death, and the avoidance of it, seems to wane as Bloom gets deeper and deeper into the Hades of this episode, drawing near the grave yard. In the beginning, Bloom thinks of the progression of age with out considering death, when he considers Milly’s maturation. He also, counts his blessings when he is reminded of how she avoided the whooping cough; these avoidances of immanent death recede with the progression of the chapter.
Also, his mind jumps to Milly directly after he is silently mourning his son’s death. Consubstantiality and father/ son and mother/ daughter relationships are mentioned numerous times. This paragraph, on the top of page 89 reminded me of Stephen’s musings on page 38, when he considers consubstantiality but also that he is the product of a simple fuck. (They clasped and sundered. Did the coupler’s will.) Bloom recalls the point of his son’s conception. Molly, painfully aroused upon the sight of two animals copulating, begged Bloom to satisfy her desire, thus their son came into being.
Bloom’s muted suffering is an undercurrent of this entire chapter. His agony is likened with Christ’s during the crucifixion. Blazes Boylan enters the picture (in a straw hat), and Bloom is so distressed that he cannot fully observe what is happening. “Mr. Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right hand. The nails, yes,” (92). It goes on. He is reminded of his dead son not only when Simon sees Stephen, but also when they come upon a child’s funeral procession. His father’s suicide is thrown in his face, and the men mock him behind his back. He is an outsider. He tries to get a hold of himself by reverting to practical matters, the amount of money spent of coffins and memorials, questions of insurance, and so on.
Hats recur over and over again. The men Bloom are with sport silk hats. Blazes Boylan sports a straw hat, which makes him seem mockable. Still, he flashes his head to the men, which seems somewhat of an irreverent gesture. When in the graveyard, the men cover their heads, for protection. Simon asks Ned about a mutual friend, Dick. Ned tells him, “nothing between himself and heaven,” (102), which apparently means that he is bald. The word skull is dropped shortly after. Bloom also notices a dent in Menton’s hat, and Menton snubs his observation, possibly because he shows an interest in Molly.
The belief in immortality does not exist for Bloom. Every day the priest sprinkles holy water over slumped corpses, and blesses them into paradise. Parnell is not coming back. We pray for the dead souls, but they are indifferent, (much like the dead in Anne Sexton’s poem, The Truth the Dead Know. “They are more like stone then the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed. Throat, eye, and knucklebone.”) Our first impulse is to burry them, protect them from decay as long as possible. Seal them up. Pray for their souls. But we forget them. Their names on the newspaper fade. Out of sight, out of mind. Finality.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Lotus Eaters
There are obvious similarities between the episode in the Odyssey and this episode. Bloom is clearly idle and somewhat impotent. His vivacity from the previous episode has diminished. Sentences drop off without being finished. He lacks his usual state of curiosity and lets his mind slump when considering the salinity of the Dead Sea. Also, he doesn’t purse sexual fantasy to the length that I would expect of him. The letter from Martha set him up perfectly for him to pursue the thought of being punished by her. Instead, he only glides over the prospect of sleeping with her, considering the game of cat and mouse she will put up, keeping up the appearance of a good catholic girl. It is clear he has no interest in bringing this relationship into physicality. He tosses her pin aside; her flower won’t prick him. In fact, her flower has lost its scent, it’s intoxicating language. Molly’s scent, however, pervades, as he purchases her eau de toilette. Still, as in the Odyssey, Bloom is distracted from thoughts of home, perhaps intentionally by himself, for he knows of his wife’s infidelity.
His anger and frustration towards Molly seems to be geared in the depiction of all women in this episode. Martha is mentioned in the same breath as two whores, both are missing a pin to ‘keep it up’, an obvious sexual pun. Women are fatal, exuding their intoxicating scent and then trapping their men. (“They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down.) This also harkens back to the previous episode, when the cat is paralleled with Molly. “Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it,” (55). Women have the unspoken power of sexuality to arrest men with their claws, their scent, but so far it seems that Molly is the only one to have this power over Bloom.
Bloom tears up the letter like her might tear up a check. Both have potential value, but the value is not cashed in. In fact nothing seems to take fruition. The potential meaning of everything seems to be squashed.
Religion is absolutely meaningless. One might as well smoke opium; it has the same effect. When the priest administers the holy sacrament, women, young and old, bend down to their knees and seem to submit and receive from the priest as if they were engaged in a sexual act. The drop of the holy water, or wine, in their mouth is meaningless, just as if it was the life force in a sexual act. In fact, he mentions that they are chewing corpses, the sacrament of the dead god, reminiscent of The Waste Land.
It seems everyone is dirty or sick or dead, lacking vivaciousness. In the opening scene, the child collects the garbage; the little girl plays with garbage, scarred with skin disease. Martha’s flower is dried and dead. God is dead. Beer sputters out from the train, intoxicating the land, dumbing all. People try to fight this crawl towards death, the decay of the body, through lotions and creams and chemicals, but Blooms sees that nature has the perfect cure, death.
His anger and frustration towards Molly seems to be geared in the depiction of all women in this episode. Martha is mentioned in the same breath as two whores, both are missing a pin to ‘keep it up’, an obvious sexual pun. Women are fatal, exuding their intoxicating scent and then trapping their men. (“They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down.) This also harkens back to the previous episode, when the cat is paralleled with Molly. “Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it,” (55). Women have the unspoken power of sexuality to arrest men with their claws, their scent, but so far it seems that Molly is the only one to have this power over Bloom.
Bloom tears up the letter like her might tear up a check. Both have potential value, but the value is not cashed in. In fact nothing seems to take fruition. The potential meaning of everything seems to be squashed.
Religion is absolutely meaningless. One might as well smoke opium; it has the same effect. When the priest administers the holy sacrament, women, young and old, bend down to their knees and seem to submit and receive from the priest as if they were engaged in a sexual act. The drop of the holy water, or wine, in their mouth is meaningless, just as if it was the life force in a sexual act. In fact, he mentions that they are chewing corpses, the sacrament of the dead god, reminiscent of The Waste Land.
It seems everyone is dirty or sick or dead, lacking vivaciousness. In the opening scene, the child collects the garbage; the little girl plays with garbage, scarred with skin disease. Martha’s flower is dried and dead. God is dead. Beer sputters out from the train, intoxicating the land, dumbing all. People try to fight this crawl towards death, the decay of the body, through lotions and creams and chemicals, but Blooms sees that nature has the perfect cure, death.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Calypso
Leopold Bloom seems to be an interesting mixture between brutish and docile; he is also a dreamer, but those dreams are easily taken by darkness. This creates for quite a dynamic character.
He is incredibly animalistic. His consciousness is intertwined with that of the cats, (“scratch my head. Purr.”) He is described as incredibly carnivorous; Leo is in his name. He takes extreme pleasure in the corporeal, and he exudes carnal desire for food and sex. This is demonstrated when he is admiring the young servant of his neighbor. First, he is imagining a farmhouse, and the cattle that occupy the land, but even the description of the cattle have a sexual undertone. He goes from describing the breeders covered in dung slapping the rear of a young white heifer, to fantasizing about the servant whacking the rug, her skirt swinging whack by whack, all in the same breath. He tires to catch up to her to admire her from behind, then imagines her being taken by a policemen: a girl like that needs them sizable. There are more sexual puns in this chapter. The cat is called pussens; Molly, when calling the cat says, “come, come, pussy, come,” Molly also mentions liking the last name of an author, that sounds like cocks.
But to only talk about the brutish side of Bloom is to have an extremely limited view of him. He shows incredible tenderness and patience towards Molly. He is careful not to disturb her on his way out; He brings her the tea as he is ordered to. He teaches her in the most gentile way, as to avoid condescendence. He says nothing negative about the letter she hides from him, which is from another man. He loves her dearly, and although there seems to be an underlying jealously, it is not expressed by Bloom himself, but more subtly, but Ponchelli’s dance for example, A lot seems to be swarming under Bloom’s surface.
His mind changes so easily from a sweet mixture of memory and fantasy to nightmarish thoughts of a hellish barren land destroyed by sin becoming the ‘grey sunken cunt of the world.’ These thoughts never linger, however. He avoids this particular thought by focusing on the warm body of his wife.
There is another episode that precedes this one that turns dark, literally, very quickly. In fact, the sudden change from day to night recurs throughout the chapter. He seems to be mourning how quickly he and his wife have aged, and how quickly death sets in. Like the drowned man in the previous episodes, the funeral is rarely directly addressed, but lingers in the backdrop. He fantasizes about avoiding the progression of time by jumping to different places around the world, avoiding the progression of day, but this is impossible. Suddenly, his fantasy of the bustling eastern town blackens to cries on the street, a mother calling her children home, the color of the night. Again, he escapes with visions of Molly, whose garters resemble the color of the night sky.
Age cannot be avoided by anyone. Molly is described as slightly stale. She eats day old bread to make her feel younger, has many lines under her eyes, the incense turns to foul flower water by the next day. Blooms little girl is quickly budding, becoming a sexual being. This breaks his heart, and he is distracted by the call of nature, that brings Leopold back to a place that he seems to enjoy a bit more then his mind.
He is incredibly animalistic. His consciousness is intertwined with that of the cats, (“scratch my head. Purr.”) He is described as incredibly carnivorous; Leo is in his name. He takes extreme pleasure in the corporeal, and he exudes carnal desire for food and sex. This is demonstrated when he is admiring the young servant of his neighbor. First, he is imagining a farmhouse, and the cattle that occupy the land, but even the description of the cattle have a sexual undertone. He goes from describing the breeders covered in dung slapping the rear of a young white heifer, to fantasizing about the servant whacking the rug, her skirt swinging whack by whack, all in the same breath. He tires to catch up to her to admire her from behind, then imagines her being taken by a policemen: a girl like that needs them sizable. There are more sexual puns in this chapter. The cat is called pussens; Molly, when calling the cat says, “come, come, pussy, come,” Molly also mentions liking the last name of an author, that sounds like cocks.
But to only talk about the brutish side of Bloom is to have an extremely limited view of him. He shows incredible tenderness and patience towards Molly. He is careful not to disturb her on his way out; He brings her the tea as he is ordered to. He teaches her in the most gentile way, as to avoid condescendence. He says nothing negative about the letter she hides from him, which is from another man. He loves her dearly, and although there seems to be an underlying jealously, it is not expressed by Bloom himself, but more subtly, but Ponchelli’s dance for example, A lot seems to be swarming under Bloom’s surface.
His mind changes so easily from a sweet mixture of memory and fantasy to nightmarish thoughts of a hellish barren land destroyed by sin becoming the ‘grey sunken cunt of the world.’ These thoughts never linger, however. He avoids this particular thought by focusing on the warm body of his wife.
There is another episode that precedes this one that turns dark, literally, very quickly. In fact, the sudden change from day to night recurs throughout the chapter. He seems to be mourning how quickly he and his wife have aged, and how quickly death sets in. Like the drowned man in the previous episodes, the funeral is rarely directly addressed, but lingers in the backdrop. He fantasizes about avoiding the progression of time by jumping to different places around the world, avoiding the progression of day, but this is impossible. Suddenly, his fantasy of the bustling eastern town blackens to cries on the street, a mother calling her children home, the color of the night. Again, he escapes with visions of Molly, whose garters resemble the color of the night sky.
Age cannot be avoided by anyone. Molly is described as slightly stale. She eats day old bread to make her feel younger, has many lines under her eyes, the incense turns to foul flower water by the next day. Blooms little girl is quickly budding, becoming a sexual being. This breaks his heart, and he is distracted by the call of nature, that brings Leopold back to a place that he seems to enjoy a bit more then his mind.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Proteus
Isolation pervades as Stephen contemplates and yearns for connection. Mother, father, lover, and God are interrelated symbolically. It seems that each entity, by itself, goes on to represent all of the other entities at once, or, perhaps, it would be better to say that all represent a sundered connection that is yearned for over a lifetime. This yearning is the reason for mystic monks, sex, romantic and familial love. Stephen laments his isolation from humanity and God, and on page 38, he ponders whether or not he and his father are consubstantial. In this passage, and arguably throughout the rest of this chapter the father represents both the biological father and the heavenly father. Stephen wonders if he shares an essence with another human (his father) and with God.
This creates an interesting dichotomy in this passage. Stephen speaks of how we are all born into the original sin of Eve; it is inescapable and, what dooms us to not ‘be a saint.’ Eve’s body was without the blemish of the navel; Mary was with out the blemish of sex also: Jesus was made not begotten. Stephen declares, perhaps futilely that he, like Jesus, although wombed in sin, was made and not begotten.
“I was made not begotten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler’s will. From before ages he willed me and may not will me away ever.”
He is a product of both randomness and the will of God. He exists because his parents copulated. They experienced the isolation and detachment that Stephen is feeling, so they joined with each other to access that “strandentwining cable of all flesh.” Also, in Christian theology, when a couple is married they are united together with God, and this sexual act could express that unity with God; Consequently, Stephen is the product of both the simple fuck that is only a continuation of original sin, body with blemish, but he is also a product of God, made and not begotten, ‘creation from nothing.’
In this passage his mother is referred to as the ghost woman with ashes on her breath. By describing her this way her death truly encompasses eternity; it is the present and the future, but also reaches into the past, a past that is dead; one cannot escape the modality of time and space. This is juxtaposed with the last quoted sentence in this passage, “He willed me and may not will me way ever.” This suggests eternal life, something the Christian god offers humanity in the bible; world without end.
We cannot escape the modality of time and space; we cannot return to time as if it is place. Again, this harkens back to the mutable past that was suggested in Nestor. However, place and objects seem mutable also: “A very short space of time through very short times of space.” Or rather, we are the ones that change in the inescapable modality of perception. Things exist and we try to “knock our sconce about them bodies before they are colored.”
This whole idea of color in the chapter is interesting. It seems that color is something emotive, subjective; it is outside the being or essence of the object; perhaps it is our perception of the object. Therefore, an object exists without color and we give it color. There is this sinking, drowning in all of our perceptions; a rhyme and reason develops: “Rhythm begins, you see.”
But still, all if this is ineluctable. How can we separate the self, the mind, and the ideal, with the external world? Stephen seems to prefer the ideal: “Open your eyes. No. Jesus!” Thought is as visible as anything. This accounts for Stephen’s tension between the ideal and the corporeal. He expresses detachment from his body: “My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs.” His shoes are borrowed from Buck, and perhaps his legs also. He hears the tapping, but feels separated from this. Again, he moves and sinks without his will: the ineluctable modality.
Life and death coexist on the beach. There is a dead dog fondled by a living dog, which also alludes to the Telemachus episode, where Stephen refers to his body, the body he was given, as a dogsbody. Not only does the live dog fondle the dead, Stephen mouths the womb of his dead mother, the sea. “His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her womb.” The sea’s air is pervasive, inescapable. The sea is his mother and his father and there is a drowned man in the sea. “They are waiting for him now. The truth. Spit it out.” Death is the truth that is hidden in his mother’s womb of the sea, but also his father and God. And the father also become the dead man that the sea must spit out. The dog wants whatever is in that sea and he wants to sniff the death on the beach, but he must be more refined then that. He must be the fox who buries his grandmother. To burry is the right thing to do. But who watches anyway, God?
This creates an interesting dichotomy in this passage. Stephen speaks of how we are all born into the original sin of Eve; it is inescapable and, what dooms us to not ‘be a saint.’ Eve’s body was without the blemish of the navel; Mary was with out the blemish of sex also: Jesus was made not begotten. Stephen declares, perhaps futilely that he, like Jesus, although wombed in sin, was made and not begotten.
“I was made not begotten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler’s will. From before ages he willed me and may not will me away ever.”
He is a product of both randomness and the will of God. He exists because his parents copulated. They experienced the isolation and detachment that Stephen is feeling, so they joined with each other to access that “strandentwining cable of all flesh.” Also, in Christian theology, when a couple is married they are united together with God, and this sexual act could express that unity with God; Consequently, Stephen is the product of both the simple fuck that is only a continuation of original sin, body with blemish, but he is also a product of God, made and not begotten, ‘creation from nothing.’
In this passage his mother is referred to as the ghost woman with ashes on her breath. By describing her this way her death truly encompasses eternity; it is the present and the future, but also reaches into the past, a past that is dead; one cannot escape the modality of time and space. This is juxtaposed with the last quoted sentence in this passage, “He willed me and may not will me way ever.” This suggests eternal life, something the Christian god offers humanity in the bible; world without end.
We cannot escape the modality of time and space; we cannot return to time as if it is place. Again, this harkens back to the mutable past that was suggested in Nestor. However, place and objects seem mutable also: “A very short space of time through very short times of space.” Or rather, we are the ones that change in the inescapable modality of perception. Things exist and we try to “knock our sconce about them bodies before they are colored.”
This whole idea of color in the chapter is interesting. It seems that color is something emotive, subjective; it is outside the being or essence of the object; perhaps it is our perception of the object. Therefore, an object exists without color and we give it color. There is this sinking, drowning in all of our perceptions; a rhyme and reason develops: “Rhythm begins, you see.”
But still, all if this is ineluctable. How can we separate the self, the mind, and the ideal, with the external world? Stephen seems to prefer the ideal: “Open your eyes. No. Jesus!” Thought is as visible as anything. This accounts for Stephen’s tension between the ideal and the corporeal. He expresses detachment from his body: “My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs.” His shoes are borrowed from Buck, and perhaps his legs also. He hears the tapping, but feels separated from this. Again, he moves and sinks without his will: the ineluctable modality.
Life and death coexist on the beach. There is a dead dog fondled by a living dog, which also alludes to the Telemachus episode, where Stephen refers to his body, the body he was given, as a dogsbody. Not only does the live dog fondle the dead, Stephen mouths the womb of his dead mother, the sea. “His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her womb.” The sea’s air is pervasive, inescapable. The sea is his mother and his father and there is a drowned man in the sea. “They are waiting for him now. The truth. Spit it out.” Death is the truth that is hidden in his mother’s womb of the sea, but also his father and God. And the father also become the dead man that the sea must spit out. The dog wants whatever is in that sea and he wants to sniff the death on the beach, but he must be more refined then that. He must be the fox who buries his grandmother. To burry is the right thing to do. But who watches anyway, God?
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Nestor
Mr. Deasy seems to be a believer in the accessibility of the past, as if, to use Plato’s metaphor, the mind is a wax tablet receiving an impression of our experiences, as if our brain files these away and we can refer back to the original impression. Deasy has many relics glorifying and legitimizing the past, a past that contains actual events and also a history of mythology (religion): paintings and spoons being one example. He is also a firm believer of the future; all of history moves toward one great goal, which is the manifestation of God.
One of the opening passages contradicts this idea, and speaks, from Stephen’s perspective, of a more mutable past.
“Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it… I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame,” (24).
The frame work of the past slips though time, becoming inaccessible, but yet at the same time, there are ways to access at least an abstraction of it, as the student does when reading Lycidas. But, as soon as the passage is over, the child leans back having just remembered, and the memory slips away seconds after it is recalled, or created. The poem recalls Edward King, walking on the waves; it is a poem with a sort of mythic element about a man who actually lived, a mixture reminiscent of relics in Deasy’s office and of the children begging Stephen to tell them a ghost story during a history lesson.
However, these ideas of Stephen are mutable themselves, and he realizes that even though the past is out of reach, it creates a momentum that thrusts part of it into the future with the potential of giving him a back kick, a future that Deasy helps to create and Stephen works against (to ourselves…new paganism…omphalos…)
What is real then? Stephen ponders. Is it a mother’s love, a mother who has no choice but to love, and if there is no choice, is there value in that love? And either way, if it is of value or not, she can not be there every moment, on the hockey field or after she has died. The fox buries his dead mother.
There are other differences between Deasy and Stephen. Stephen sees humankind in the inescapable clutches of sin at every moment, while Deasy believes we are all born into the original sin of Eve, the sin of woman, and that the grace of the good lord will save us from that. God, to Stephen, is a cry on the soccer field. Deasy also believes in the value of form, money and even words. He can put meaning ‘in a nut shell’ where I don’t think Stephen could so easily trust words, they are mutable, like the past.
Money is something to be kept, to be put away, to Deasy. They are just empty shells in Stephen’s pocket. All of these objects, the spoon, the painting, the books, the money, they are symbols of ‘beauty and power’ to Deasy, but the are just a lump in Stephen’s pocket, symbols tainted by greed and misery.
One of the opening passages contradicts this idea, and speaks, from Stephen’s perspective, of a more mutable past.
“Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it… I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame,” (24).
The frame work of the past slips though time, becoming inaccessible, but yet at the same time, there are ways to access at least an abstraction of it, as the student does when reading Lycidas. But, as soon as the passage is over, the child leans back having just remembered, and the memory slips away seconds after it is recalled, or created. The poem recalls Edward King, walking on the waves; it is a poem with a sort of mythic element about a man who actually lived, a mixture reminiscent of relics in Deasy’s office and of the children begging Stephen to tell them a ghost story during a history lesson.
However, these ideas of Stephen are mutable themselves, and he realizes that even though the past is out of reach, it creates a momentum that thrusts part of it into the future with the potential of giving him a back kick, a future that Deasy helps to create and Stephen works against (to ourselves…new paganism…omphalos…)
What is real then? Stephen ponders. Is it a mother’s love, a mother who has no choice but to love, and if there is no choice, is there value in that love? And either way, if it is of value or not, she can not be there every moment, on the hockey field or after she has died. The fox buries his dead mother.
There are other differences between Deasy and Stephen. Stephen sees humankind in the inescapable clutches of sin at every moment, while Deasy believes we are all born into the original sin of Eve, the sin of woman, and that the grace of the good lord will save us from that. God, to Stephen, is a cry on the soccer field. Deasy also believes in the value of form, money and even words. He can put meaning ‘in a nut shell’ where I don’t think Stephen could so easily trust words, they are mutable, like the past.
Money is something to be kept, to be put away, to Deasy. They are just empty shells in Stephen’s pocket. All of these objects, the spoon, the painting, the books, the money, they are symbols of ‘beauty and power’ to Deasy, but the are just a lump in Stephen’s pocket, symbols tainted by greed and misery.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Telemachus
There is an interesting passage on page 4, just above the middle of the page.
“God, isn’t he dreadful: he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you’re not a gentlemen. God, these bloody English. Bursting with money and indigestion.”
Its as if Buck is saying that God is dreadful, a Saxon, he thinks your not a gentlemen. Which is interesting, because they are talking about Haines, who seems to be likened to God a few other times in this episode, like on page 18.
"It’s a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again. Eyes pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler firm and prudent. The seas’ ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the smoke plume of the mail boat, vague on the bright skyline, and a sail tacking by the Muglins.”
It isn't clear who this passage is describing at first, but I think it has to be Haines. Who else could be the seas ruler? The annotation says that this passage alludes to the song, “Britannia rules the waves,” and also the predominance of Brittan’s navy. So we have Haines being described as the ‘seas’ ruler.
Haines is given god-like qualities in other places to. For example, on the next page, the second rhyme:
If anyone thinks that I’m not divine / He’ll get no free drinks when I’m making the wine.
This could be a reference to not only Jesus, but to Haines, who in this passage, is the one Buck hopes to be the giver of wine. Also, in the very beginning of this episode, Haines just appears out of nowhere. He actually seems to appear right out of the coal smoke and fumes of grease, on page 11. I could never really tell when he was in the room or not.
I don’t know if he likened to divinity for any other reason then him being British. That’s of obvious significance. And his likening to a God like character and the fact that he’s British seems to explain why Stephen is so resistant to him.
He struggles to gain autonomy through out this entire episode, especially from his dead mother. The likening of Stephen to Teleamuchus only strengthns this sentiment. Stephen is referenced as a slave many times over. As he carries buck’s shaving bowl he is reminded of how he carried the incense for the priest, so he’s not only a slave to buck, but also a slave to god, just as the priest is. He makes the comment about Irish art, the cracked looking glass of a slave.
He’s a slave to his mother and begs for her ghost to stop haunting him “Ghoul! Chewer of corpes! No, mother. Let me be and let me live,” Even though he resfused to pray to her God at her death bed, he is not rid of her grip and her God.
“God, isn’t he dreadful: he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you’re not a gentlemen. God, these bloody English. Bursting with money and indigestion.”
Its as if Buck is saying that God is dreadful, a Saxon, he thinks your not a gentlemen. Which is interesting, because they are talking about Haines, who seems to be likened to God a few other times in this episode, like on page 18.
"It’s a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again. Eyes pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler firm and prudent. The seas’ ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the smoke plume of the mail boat, vague on the bright skyline, and a sail tacking by the Muglins.”
It isn't clear who this passage is describing at first, but I think it has to be Haines. Who else could be the seas ruler? The annotation says that this passage alludes to the song, “Britannia rules the waves,” and also the predominance of Brittan’s navy. So we have Haines being described as the ‘seas’ ruler.
Haines is given god-like qualities in other places to. For example, on the next page, the second rhyme:
If anyone thinks that I’m not divine / He’ll get no free drinks when I’m making the wine.
This could be a reference to not only Jesus, but to Haines, who in this passage, is the one Buck hopes to be the giver of wine. Also, in the very beginning of this episode, Haines just appears out of nowhere. He actually seems to appear right out of the coal smoke and fumes of grease, on page 11. I could never really tell when he was in the room or not.
I don’t know if he likened to divinity for any other reason then him being British. That’s of obvious significance. And his likening to a God like character and the fact that he’s British seems to explain why Stephen is so resistant to him.
He struggles to gain autonomy through out this entire episode, especially from his dead mother. The likening of Stephen to Teleamuchus only strengthns this sentiment. Stephen is referenced as a slave many times over. As he carries buck’s shaving bowl he is reminded of how he carried the incense for the priest, so he’s not only a slave to buck, but also a slave to god, just as the priest is. He makes the comment about Irish art, the cracked looking glass of a slave.
He’s a slave to his mother and begs for her ghost to stop haunting him “Ghoul! Chewer of corpes! No, mother. Let me be and let me live,” Even though he resfused to pray to her God at her death bed, he is not rid of her grip and her God.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Way / The Gyre
“When people see some things as beautiful,
other things become ugly.
When people see some things as good,
other things become bad.
Being and non-being create each other.
Difficult and easy support each other.
Long and short define each other.
High and low depend on each other.
Before and after follow each other.”
Yeats’ system of the gyres and Taoism have astounding commonalities and can be seen as two different systems expressing the same idea; an idea that Carl Jung would say, comes out of the universal unconscious. Although Yeats said nothing of Taoism, his discoveries in A Vision, express Taoist ideas with different terminology. Yeats said, when first talking about A Vision, that it is based on a system made of “a series of unresolved antinomies, which must find its representation in a perpetual return to the starting point.” As we know, the symbolic representation of this is two gyres, or interlocked cones, the “apex of each vortex in the middle of the other’s base.” As each gyre diminishes, its opposite increases until each has reached its limit and then begins to decrease in turn.
Taoism has a similar visual representation of this idea, the yin and yang symbol that expresses two antinomies: male and female, soft and hard, cold and hot, etc, that forever are in flux and move in the direction of balance.
In all of Yeats’ poetry, antinomies are expressed, but never do they reach such a level of balance as in his later works. Night is day, day is night; Good is evil, evil is good; Being / birth is death / non-being, non-being/ death is being/ birth. Although, balance is not quite the right word; enantiodromia, which is the word Blackmur borrows from Jung, seems to express this the idea of both the gyres and of the Tao,a bit more efficiently: not only does any force inevitably produce it’s opposite, it is its opposite. In Taoism, the opposites fade, both are apart of ‘the source”.
I first noticed this semblance of antinomies in Parnell’s Funeral. The first lines of the poem evoke daytime by speaking of clouds about the sky, brightness remains, but a brighter star shoots down. Obviously clouds and brightness evoke the day, but he then says, “a brighter star shoots down.” After this, as the poem takes on the characteristics of night, the second stanza describes the scene with the visual clarity of daylight, but in fact, we see this all in the stars. He goes on the say, “An age is the reversal of an age”, which implies timelessness, the specific age of a human being, and a historical age that will soon be repeated: Leda will again open her thighs and birth another Helen. By using the same word implies the inseparability of the two; time and the lack of time are one in the same.
Yeats’ refrain in The Wild Old Wicked Man, seems to express the essence of the gyres and the Tao the most effectively.
Day-break and a candle end.
This simple refrain expresses the unending cycle of the intertwined gyres and the harmonic quality of the balance of the Tao.
“The Tao is infinite, eternal.
Why is it eternal?
It was never born;
thus it can never die.”
Birth and death endlessly flow from one to another and are, in fact, indistinguishable.
other things become ugly.
When people see some things as good,
other things become bad.
Being and non-being create each other.
Difficult and easy support each other.
Long and short define each other.
High and low depend on each other.
Before and after follow each other.”
Yeats’ system of the gyres and Taoism have astounding commonalities and can be seen as two different systems expressing the same idea; an idea that Carl Jung would say, comes out of the universal unconscious. Although Yeats said nothing of Taoism, his discoveries in A Vision, express Taoist ideas with different terminology. Yeats said, when first talking about A Vision, that it is based on a system made of “a series of unresolved antinomies, which must find its representation in a perpetual return to the starting point.” As we know, the symbolic representation of this is two gyres, or interlocked cones, the “apex of each vortex in the middle of the other’s base.” As each gyre diminishes, its opposite increases until each has reached its limit and then begins to decrease in turn.
Taoism has a similar visual representation of this idea, the yin and yang symbol that expresses two antinomies: male and female, soft and hard, cold and hot, etc, that forever are in flux and move in the direction of balance.
In all of Yeats’ poetry, antinomies are expressed, but never do they reach such a level of balance as in his later works. Night is day, day is night; Good is evil, evil is good; Being / birth is death / non-being, non-being/ death is being/ birth. Although, balance is not quite the right word; enantiodromia, which is the word Blackmur borrows from Jung, seems to express this the idea of both the gyres and of the Tao,a bit more efficiently: not only does any force inevitably produce it’s opposite, it is its opposite. In Taoism, the opposites fade, both are apart of ‘the source”.
I first noticed this semblance of antinomies in Parnell’s Funeral. The first lines of the poem evoke daytime by speaking of clouds about the sky, brightness remains, but a brighter star shoots down. Obviously clouds and brightness evoke the day, but he then says, “a brighter star shoots down.” After this, as the poem takes on the characteristics of night, the second stanza describes the scene with the visual clarity of daylight, but in fact, we see this all in the stars. He goes on the say, “An age is the reversal of an age”, which implies timelessness, the specific age of a human being, and a historical age that will soon be repeated: Leda will again open her thighs and birth another Helen. By using the same word implies the inseparability of the two; time and the lack of time are one in the same.
Yeats’ refrain in The Wild Old Wicked Man, seems to express the essence of the gyres and the Tao the most effectively.
Day-break and a candle end.
This simple refrain expresses the unending cycle of the intertwined gyres and the harmonic quality of the balance of the Tao.
“The Tao is infinite, eternal.
Why is it eternal?
It was never born;
thus it can never die.”
Birth and death endlessly flow from one to another and are, in fact, indistinguishable.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
2/6/08
The Tower differs greatly from the other selections we have read of Yeats thus far. Instead of battling out the opposition of ideas in his own mind and uncertainty of his own beliefs he seems to express what he knows to be true. He now speaks with the voice of authority; the voice of a man who is under the impression that he has reached some sort of understanding of the meaning of it all, a man who believes in The Vision. Therefore, instead of using the poem to create a tension between the abstract, dream world and the tangible world, for example, he seems to be working with a multitude of symbols, probably derived from The Vision, and attempts to impart on us his wealth of new found wisdom. Sailing to Byzantium seems to be a call to recognize the eternal.
Yeats’ obsession with mortality, however, has not faded in this selection. He seems to have accepted mortality by believing that mortality only exists for the body and not for the soul. Again, in The Tower, Yeats speaks of the decay of the body and expresses the contrast of body and mind, like in The Wild Swans at Coole, but here he expresses a certainty that ,although the body decays, the soul lives on and leaves a legacy, leaves an imprint on what Carl Jung would call the universal unconsciousness, and even more then that, the soul lives on, seeing all: past, present, future, and can still communicate with the living world. (Once out of nature I shall never take / My bodily form from any natural thing, / But such a form as Brecian goldsmiths make / Of hammered gold and gold enameling/ To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;)
He seems to be slightly consumed with the idea that he can leave a glorious imprint on the universal unconsciousness, by creating or expressing great archetypes, just as Homer did.
Yeats’ obsession with mortality, however, has not faded in this selection. He seems to have accepted mortality by believing that mortality only exists for the body and not for the soul. Again, in The Tower, Yeats speaks of the decay of the body and expresses the contrast of body and mind, like in The Wild Swans at Coole, but here he expresses a certainty that ,although the body decays, the soul lives on and leaves a legacy, leaves an imprint on what Carl Jung would call the universal unconsciousness, and even more then that, the soul lives on, seeing all: past, present, future, and can still communicate with the living world. (Once out of nature I shall never take / My bodily form from any natural thing, / But such a form as Brecian goldsmiths make / Of hammered gold and gold enameling/ To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;)
He seems to be slightly consumed with the idea that he can leave a glorious imprint on the universal unconsciousness, by creating or expressing great archetypes, just as Homer did.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Bodies and Names
In the collection of The Wild Swans at Coole, Yeats again, expresses the tension between the intellect and mysticism. This is especially apparent in The Phases of The Moon.
There is a scholar that sits in the tower and two old men see the dim light from the tower, laughing at the man who reads and finds “mere images”. They tell of the fact that he will never find what he searches for, which is the truth that the old man knows. The only truth is the phases of the moon. The moon is given endless depth in this and all of Yeats poems so far, summoning the mystery of the unknown that exists before it is divided and given image, or names. This is the same idea that Yeats was talking about when he said, “I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words, / For the roads are unending, an there is no place to my mind.” This abstract concept from Seven Woods is stated more explicitly in The Phases of the Moon through the voice of Robartes:
“All thought becomes an image and the soul
Becomes a body: that body and that soul
Too perfect at the full to lie in a cradle,
Too lonely for the traffic of the world:
Body and soul cast out and cast away
Beyond the visible world.”
It seems that he is saying, once this mystic quality is given a body, it becomes immortal and dies. It cannot be delineated with out dying. He says, “all dreams of the soul end in a body.”
Light is used to represent the death untouched knowledge, or the moon. Light is vapid, shallow; it contains nothing but narrowness and ‘heaven is bare.’
This sentiment is expressed in Lines Written in Dejection. This poem creates the sense that there is nothing more haunting then the loss of the moon. He creates a lot of movement and colors in the first five lines, and then takes them all away, creating a haunting silence. This void that later is expressed again, by the ‘embittered sun’ shows us Yeats’ love of the mystic. That which casts light takes away depth.
There is also a lot of talk of the body in this collection, especially in contrast with the mind. No matter how sound and active the mind is, no matter how much valor, strength, and will a person has to live, the body decays: this is inescapable. This as very fitting with the death of the moon, the tao, the nous.
The bodies that Yeats speaks of do not have to contain skin and bones, blood. The body can be a word. As I said in my previous posting, words delineate the abstract, killing the abstract. This is why the old man knows truth and the scholar does not, in The Phases of the Moon. The Old Man never pounded away his ideas, wrote them out, really took them out of abstraction and gave them a body. The body is what dies.
There is a scholar that sits in the tower and two old men see the dim light from the tower, laughing at the man who reads and finds “mere images”. They tell of the fact that he will never find what he searches for, which is the truth that the old man knows. The only truth is the phases of the moon. The moon is given endless depth in this and all of Yeats poems so far, summoning the mystery of the unknown that exists before it is divided and given image, or names. This is the same idea that Yeats was talking about when he said, “I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words, / For the roads are unending, an there is no place to my mind.” This abstract concept from Seven Woods is stated more explicitly in The Phases of the Moon through the voice of Robartes:
“All thought becomes an image and the soul
Becomes a body: that body and that soul
Too perfect at the full to lie in a cradle,
Too lonely for the traffic of the world:
Body and soul cast out and cast away
Beyond the visible world.”
It seems that he is saying, once this mystic quality is given a body, it becomes immortal and dies. It cannot be delineated with out dying. He says, “all dreams of the soul end in a body.”
Light is used to represent the death untouched knowledge, or the moon. Light is vapid, shallow; it contains nothing but narrowness and ‘heaven is bare.’
This sentiment is expressed in Lines Written in Dejection. This poem creates the sense that there is nothing more haunting then the loss of the moon. He creates a lot of movement and colors in the first five lines, and then takes them all away, creating a haunting silence. This void that later is expressed again, by the ‘embittered sun’ shows us Yeats’ love of the mystic. That which casts light takes away depth.
There is also a lot of talk of the body in this collection, especially in contrast with the mind. No matter how sound and active the mind is, no matter how much valor, strength, and will a person has to live, the body decays: this is inescapable. This as very fitting with the death of the moon, the tao, the nous.
The bodies that Yeats speaks of do not have to contain skin and bones, blood. The body can be a word. As I said in my previous posting, words delineate the abstract, killing the abstract. This is why the old man knows truth and the scholar does not, in The Phases of the Moon. The Old Man never pounded away his ideas, wrote them out, really took them out of abstraction and gave them a body. The body is what dies.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Negative Capability / Delineation of Abstraction
The success of many of Yeats poems in the selection In the Seven Woods can be attributed to their ambiguous dissonance of ideas also known as negative capability. This struggle of the binary gives his poems rich depth and complexity; never resolved, there meaning wavers in flux for an eternity.
Yeats is also interested in delineating the abstract but then abstracting that which has form. This passage in Withering of the Boughs is my favorite example of this:
I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds:
‘Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind.’
The moon yearns for the bird’s words, which the readers automatically hear as song, giving an abstract quality to the words he longs for; words and song that house his emotion give place to the river of his mind, delineating this depth of nebulous emotion. I see this moon as stating one of Yeats’ poetic goals: to give place to his mind, reminiscent of that hammer he talked about.
He does this in the poem In Seven Woods:
I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
Make there faint thunder, and the garden bees
Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
Such a vivid and tangible image delineates the abstraction of sorrow. This is beautiful. But even more then this he adds another level of depth to the dichotomy and in this poem, by exulting the unconscious side of this dichotomy. I can only think of describing it as favoring buddhistic awareness, an awareness and wisdom that it not tainted by consciousness and manifested by delineating the depth of the abstract into words. I pick up where I left off:
and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile
Tara uprooted, and new commonness
Upon the throne and crying about the streets
And hanging its paper flowers from post to post.
The depth that the outcries and old bitterness was given in the first few lines is taken away in the proceeding line. Could this be because they were given place and now we only have paper flowers to commemorate our sorrows?
This preference of buddhistic wisdom can also be found in The Withering of the Boughs. This is how I interpret No Boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams. Giving dreams form destroys them.
A king and queen are wandering there, and the sound
Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so
blind
With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;
This is this buddhistic wisdom that I am taking about, a wisdom that defies time and consciousness.
Yeats is also interested in delineating the abstract but then abstracting that which has form. This passage in Withering of the Boughs is my favorite example of this:
I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds:
‘Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind.’
The moon yearns for the bird’s words, which the readers automatically hear as song, giving an abstract quality to the words he longs for; words and song that house his emotion give place to the river of his mind, delineating this depth of nebulous emotion. I see this moon as stating one of Yeats’ poetic goals: to give place to his mind, reminiscent of that hammer he talked about.
He does this in the poem In Seven Woods:
I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
Make there faint thunder, and the garden bees
Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
Such a vivid and tangible image delineates the abstraction of sorrow. This is beautiful. But even more then this he adds another level of depth to the dichotomy and in this poem, by exulting the unconscious side of this dichotomy. I can only think of describing it as favoring buddhistic awareness, an awareness and wisdom that it not tainted by consciousness and manifested by delineating the depth of the abstract into words. I pick up where I left off:
and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile
Tara uprooted, and new commonness
Upon the throne and crying about the streets
And hanging its paper flowers from post to post.
The depth that the outcries and old bitterness was given in the first few lines is taken away in the proceeding line. Could this be because they were given place and now we only have paper flowers to commemorate our sorrows?
This preference of buddhistic wisdom can also be found in The Withering of the Boughs. This is how I interpret No Boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams. Giving dreams form destroys them.
A king and queen are wandering there, and the sound
Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so
blind
With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;
This is this buddhistic wisdom that I am taking about, a wisdom that defies time and consciousness.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Posting One
The Madness Of King Goll:
The madness of King Goll starts out with the king boasting about how, while sitting on his cushioned and comfortable chair, away from all harms, anything he said became law; this kept peace, and under his law the country was lush and plentiful with surplus. In the second stanza, this perfection was interrupted by pirates (the Vikings?). There is an interesting shift in the second stanza when he writes, “And under the blinking of the stars”. The heavens become unstable and have the mortality of humanity. This utopia is put into question. In the third stanza, the king leaves his cushy thrown and the king seems to loose his mind. He slowly kills, and all of a sudden those blinking stars are shining again, and birds flutter, water rolls, in his ecstatic state where the fire was birthed inside of his spirit. In the fourth stanza King Goll is much different from the King we were introduced to. He is no longer drinking wine away from the beasts, he is wandering the woods, trying to tame and guide them (“I lead along the woodland deer”), but at the same time he joins the beasts (“the grey wolf knows me”). Still, he cannot tame the beasts; even the rabbits do not heed him( he has no handle on the warfare). He lingers in this forest a long time, them finally reaches a town but meets no people. He sings and beats his drum alone and speaks of how, when the sun dies, and the earth is near it’s end, “orchil” cover’s this death up. Though his ‘ fire’ seems to be quenched fro a second, he still wanders on. “They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.’ I’m unsure of how to interpret this. Maybe it’s speaking of the constant discontent Ireland has with itself. Turmoil will never cease to stir, reaching far back into the past and future.
The Ballad of Moll Magee:
The word choice and rhyme is simple, just like the simple, hard workingwomen this poem speaks about. The sparseness of the word choice and the shortness of the lines (especially in contrast with King Moll) understate her tragedy (she accidentally rolled over onto her baby and killed it in her sleep) just as the people around her do. There is some hope offered; she is given a bit of food, someone one reassures her that he husband will want her back, and she believes that he little dead daughter is up in heaven with God, watching over her. In the end, this tale is told as a lesson to all of us to not throw stones but pity the unfortunate.
However, I have a hard time buying Yeats' faith in God, especially after reading The Man Who Dreamed of Fairyland. I think Moll’s faith in God could be interpreted as a defense that arose out of her simple mind. In a life of tragedy, this poor woman who life is nothing but work and sorrow creates a god and an afterlife to allow her to not only move on, but also scold those who fling stones at her. This God gives her dignity. Or maybe The Man Who Dreamed of Fairyland came at a time in Yeats’ life when God died. Death is everywhere in the poem and hovers above every thought. The man in the poem dreams of life after death: “the tale drove his fine angry mood away.” However, when death comes, this fairy tale of heaven is of no use to him. The earth takes him, and finally he has at last “ unhaunted sleep,” indicating there is absolutely nothing after death. The vocabulary and structure of this poem is a lot more advanced compared with Moll Magee, which indicates a seriousness of subject, while Moll Magee seems satirical.
To An Isle in the Water and The lake Isle of Innisfee both have interesting sounds. An Isle is simple, for a simple love and a girl who the author knows little about. The sh sound in shy is repeated numerous times throughout this short poem, creating the shhhhhh, which compliments the idea of the word shy and creates a feeling of softness and the sound of quiet water. She is isolated like the island, but brings light in this damp dismal word.
The Lake Isle follows a pattern of stress and then breaks it in parts where Yeats talks about sound. It’s as if the poet is musing in his head, and these thoughts are interrupted by the bees, crickets, and water. This seems to exult the tangible world of nature and reveal the abstractions of the mind.
The madness of King Goll starts out with the king boasting about how, while sitting on his cushioned and comfortable chair, away from all harms, anything he said became law; this kept peace, and under his law the country was lush and plentiful with surplus. In the second stanza, this perfection was interrupted by pirates (the Vikings?). There is an interesting shift in the second stanza when he writes, “And under the blinking of the stars”. The heavens become unstable and have the mortality of humanity. This utopia is put into question. In the third stanza, the king leaves his cushy thrown and the king seems to loose his mind. He slowly kills, and all of a sudden those blinking stars are shining again, and birds flutter, water rolls, in his ecstatic state where the fire was birthed inside of his spirit. In the fourth stanza King Goll is much different from the King we were introduced to. He is no longer drinking wine away from the beasts, he is wandering the woods, trying to tame and guide them (“I lead along the woodland deer”), but at the same time he joins the beasts (“the grey wolf knows me”). Still, he cannot tame the beasts; even the rabbits do not heed him( he has no handle on the warfare). He lingers in this forest a long time, them finally reaches a town but meets no people. He sings and beats his drum alone and speaks of how, when the sun dies, and the earth is near it’s end, “orchil” cover’s this death up. Though his ‘ fire’ seems to be quenched fro a second, he still wanders on. “They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old.’ I’m unsure of how to interpret this. Maybe it’s speaking of the constant discontent Ireland has with itself. Turmoil will never cease to stir, reaching far back into the past and future.
The Ballad of Moll Magee:
The word choice and rhyme is simple, just like the simple, hard workingwomen this poem speaks about. The sparseness of the word choice and the shortness of the lines (especially in contrast with King Moll) understate her tragedy (she accidentally rolled over onto her baby and killed it in her sleep) just as the people around her do. There is some hope offered; she is given a bit of food, someone one reassures her that he husband will want her back, and she believes that he little dead daughter is up in heaven with God, watching over her. In the end, this tale is told as a lesson to all of us to not throw stones but pity the unfortunate.
However, I have a hard time buying Yeats' faith in God, especially after reading The Man Who Dreamed of Fairyland. I think Moll’s faith in God could be interpreted as a defense that arose out of her simple mind. In a life of tragedy, this poor woman who life is nothing but work and sorrow creates a god and an afterlife to allow her to not only move on, but also scold those who fling stones at her. This God gives her dignity. Or maybe The Man Who Dreamed of Fairyland came at a time in Yeats’ life when God died. Death is everywhere in the poem and hovers above every thought. The man in the poem dreams of life after death: “the tale drove his fine angry mood away.” However, when death comes, this fairy tale of heaven is of no use to him. The earth takes him, and finally he has at last “ unhaunted sleep,” indicating there is absolutely nothing after death. The vocabulary and structure of this poem is a lot more advanced compared with Moll Magee, which indicates a seriousness of subject, while Moll Magee seems satirical.
To An Isle in the Water and The lake Isle of Innisfee both have interesting sounds. An Isle is simple, for a simple love and a girl who the author knows little about. The sh sound in shy is repeated numerous times throughout this short poem, creating the shhhhhh, which compliments the idea of the word shy and creates a feeling of softness and the sound of quiet water. She is isolated like the island, but brings light in this damp dismal word.
The Lake Isle follows a pattern of stress and then breaks it in parts where Yeats talks about sound. It’s as if the poet is musing in his head, and these thoughts are interrupted by the bees, crickets, and water. This seems to exult the tangible world of nature and reveal the abstractions of the mind.
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