Re: Joyce, Episode 68: A Trio of Dudes

sep 28, 2011

Re: Joyce, Episode 68: A Trio of Dudes

“Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of their letters,
wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps
of fancy of the Moors. Gone too from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark
men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the
world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.”

Stephen dwells on ancient philosophers: Averroes, Moses Maimonides, Bruno.

Advertisements

Re: Joyce, Episode 67: Dance Music

sep 21, 2011

Re: Joyce, Episode 67: Dance Music

“. . . A
poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine
in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth,
listened, scraped and scraped.
Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves by algebra that
Shakespeare’s ghost is Hamlet’s grandfather. Sargent peered askance through his
slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and
calls from the field.”

Moors, math, foxes, and the dead.

A Well-Marked Text

While reading how T. S. Eliot laid the foundation of the modern English department, I also read that the only author (or human being) he ever looked up to was James Joyce.  Joyce had given him a draft of the famous ‘Oxen of the Sun’ chapter, which technical pyrotechnics inspired Eliot, perhaps, to write onwards toward the ‘Wasteland’.  Doubtless, any reader attempting the ‘Wasteland’ (or anything from that period of Eliot’s) needs the full resources of a modern English department.  And then perhaps the full resources of a modern Psychology department.

Eliot saw the Modernist period ushered in by Picasso, Stravinsky, and Joyce.  They preceded him by their Cubism, their Rites of Spring, their canons.  In comparison, Eliot dropped almost fullborn onto the Modernist poetic scene, having little more than his “equals”, such as Ezra Pound, to help deliver.

I have an argument that I cannot win, for lack of academic rigor and expertise.  I’ve never eliminated ‘reductio ad hominem’ from my beliefs that this discredited argument does not still have merit.  Eliot could not possibly, in my mind, have been playing a dull, despairing banker.  I’ve always believed he actually was a dull, despairing banker.  This is the American “If it quacks like a duck, . . .” argument.  If Eliot, or Carl Popper for that matter, wish to weigh in, they may.

Eliot’s argument that the poem may be a ‘Ding in sich’ separate from the author’s life and experience.  However, how often does that hold up?  Tellingly, I believe, his one hero, Joyce, may never have written anything that was not easily seen in Joyce’ life, sometimes down to the day.  I believe that Joyce was happy for every moment of exhibitionism.  Blind old beggar, he laughed himself to death.  As Stephen refused to ‘Hellenise Ireland’, why should I not agree with him to ‘Hebradise Greece’ (I believe, a quote from Scylla and Charybdis.  I need to find it.) rather than “Hellenise Ireland”.

Eliot was as dull as any person working in an early twentieth century bank could be.  If he had a an ironic reason just to pretend to be that, then I suspect that the ‘Wasteland’ might really be about inauthenticity.  Are the endnotes really endnotes or part of the poem?  Upon whom is the joke if they are treated as part of the poem?  Harold Pinter says more about Eliot than Eliot could of Pinter.

How does this all relate to James Joyce?  Though Eliot would have wanted to stand next to him, I don’t believe he could be Joyce’s equal.  Joyce is a man as vital as this world and his circumstances could permit him, and more.

I can relate this back to my Ulysses annotation project by saying this:  Joyce, in Ulysses, teaches what a well-marked passage is–neither too much nor too little.  He teaches me how to read literature again.  None of us is likely to read anything more difficult and more engaging.  Having become engaged, we now know that we can handle what is difficult.

We now believe that annotation truly is the joke that Eliot pulled on us.  I wish to return annotation to the noble task that Joyce intended.

Howard Nemerov, or Soeren Kierkegaard, or someone said Life is lived forward and understood backwards.  If this is so, this defeats Eliot’s claim that a poem is a diamond all itself, regardless of the bowels of the earth from which it was spewed.

Re: Joyce, Episode 66: Mother Love

sep 14, 2011

Re: Joyce, Episode 66: Mother Love

“. . . The only true thing in life? His mother’s
prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the
trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She
had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been.. . .”

Eyeing the student Sargent, Stephen considers saints, sons, and mothers.

Re: Joyce, Episode 65: Out Of The Shell

sep 07, 2011

Re: Joyce, Episode 65: Out Of The Shell

“―Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them to you, sir.
Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.
―Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.
―Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the
board, sir.
―Can you do them. yourself? Stephen asked.
―No, sir.
Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail’s bed. Yet someone had
loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would
have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery
blood drained from her own. Was that then real?”