Back in 11th grade we once did an exercise where we discussed the idea of a time capsule and what to put into it. We went around the room and everyone was asked to suggest one thing that they felt needed to be included. It was kind of interesting. First off, if you can only include one item then you have to sit back and think about what single thing best represents us, best tells our story, what kind of thing says the most about who we are. There were typical items like newspapers, books, pictures, and music (I think I said a Beatles album or all Beatles albums or something. I was really into the Beatles in 11th grade). There were also some interesting suggestions, like world currencies (check out a US dollar bill sometime, like really check it out, there’s a lot going on there), a supermarket receipt, a restaurant menu, or a concert ticket stub.
It was cool to see the variety of things that people suggested. Everyone has their own ideas about what defines us, and each one kind of goes together to form a whole reality, a bigger picture of the world at a given point in time, which brings me to Ulysses. This book is a lot of things of course, but one thing I am starting to realize more and more is that it is essentially a time capsule, a literary time capsule, attempting to completely capture the life and times of Dublin, Ireland, on June 16th, 1904. And it does so, as much if not more than any other book I have ever read, capturing a specific point in time on a page. A view of the world, through human eyes, through human experience, reality according to Stephen, Leo, and Molly (and the at-large population of Dublin), Joyce tries like hell to paint a picture of what exactly life was like back then, every particular nuance, every attitude, every image, every thought, everything, which of course bring us back to Realism, but a really real realism, the realest of realisms (okay, I’ll stop). Anyway, I think this is one of the more interesting things about the book and is something I will certainly be looking out for in the weeks to come.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Annotations Continued...
So, excuse the absence once again but I am playing catch up here a bit, reading over the annotations from the first seven episodes that I already read. Getting the background here is great, like backfilling a foundation beneath a scaffolding already laid. Also, reading this book of annotations, straight up, without referencing the original text, is ironically a similar experience to reading the original text itself. Reference after reference, thrown willy nilly together on the page. I love it actually, so much context, so many little stories (Bible stories, Jewish stories, Irish history, money, Greek literature, etc.). So much to learn. Here’s a few:
Did you know that the term “sea change” (one of my favorites, and a great album by Beck) was coined in Shakespeare’s The Tempest? This is referenced in Ulysses.
Did you ever check out what happened to Oscar Wilde (a fellow Irishman to Joyce)? This is referenced a lot in Ulysses.
There was a newsmagazine in the late 1800’s called Tidbits that is acknowledged as the first example of pop journalism, the first National Enquirer, if you will? This is referenced in Ulysses.
Did you know that, in his day, Wordsworth was seen as a big time sellout after accepting a government pension and the position of Poet Laureate of England? And that Tennyson, his heir, faired no better? This is referenced in Ulysses.
Anyway, you get the point. Just so much content. So much in fact that you wonder about Joyce‘s role here as author. Is he simply an assembler of reference? A conglomeration machine, assembling multitudes of disparate pieces of the human experience into a “coherent” whole?
So to end here, in true scattershot fashion, with a few favorite phrases highlighted in the annotations:
Someone is referred to as “an ornament of society.”
Someone is said to be “in the swim” which means they are scheming to make money.
A cuckold is a married man with an adulterous wife as opposed to a cuckstool which is a chair on which a scoundrel is tied to on their door step, so as to be exposed to public humiliation, with passerby’s hooting and pelting the victim.
Clearly the prefix “cuck” is a bad thing.
Did you know that the term “sea change” (one of my favorites, and a great album by Beck) was coined in Shakespeare’s The Tempest? This is referenced in Ulysses.
Did you ever check out what happened to Oscar Wilde (a fellow Irishman to Joyce)? This is referenced a lot in Ulysses.
There was a newsmagazine in the late 1800’s called Tidbits that is acknowledged as the first example of pop journalism, the first National Enquirer, if you will? This is referenced in Ulysses.
Did you know that, in his day, Wordsworth was seen as a big time sellout after accepting a government pension and the position of Poet Laureate of England? And that Tennyson, his heir, faired no better? This is referenced in Ulysses.
Anyway, you get the point. Just so much content. So much in fact that you wonder about Joyce‘s role here as author. Is he simply an assembler of reference? A conglomeration machine, assembling multitudes of disparate pieces of the human experience into a “coherent” whole?
So to end here, in true scattershot fashion, with a few favorite phrases highlighted in the annotations:
Someone is referred to as “an ornament of society.”
Someone is said to be “in the swim” which means they are scheming to make money.
A cuckold is a married man with an adulterous wife as opposed to a cuckstool which is a chair on which a scoundrel is tied to on their door step, so as to be exposed to public humiliation, with passerby’s hooting and pelting the victim.
Clearly the prefix “cuck” is a bad thing.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Help on the Way!
So, I’m back after a little break. Back and feelin’ good. Why? Because my friends at the local library hooked me up with the perfect companion book, an episode by episode annotated guide. And after reading the introduction to this book, it looks like a real winner. Full of great information, with tons of background data, reference notes, and even tips on reading the thing. It’ll be like having my very own university professor helping me along. In fact, the author explains that the book began as handouts distributed to his students, study aids to help him teach the book…and that’s exactly what I need! All of this studyin’ and thinkerin’ and whatnot on my part will of course require much more work but hey, I didn’t sign up for a mere walk in the woods! It does feel like a bit of a concession though, using the annotations as opposed to puzzling it out on my own. However, it seems pretty undeniable at this point that the sheer depth of the text requires some outside support. One of the main lessons I will be taking from this project, generally, as a reader of fiction, is this: some books simply cannot be read without annotations of some sort. Practically speaking, it just can’t be done.
Oh yeah, and one last thing, this book of annotations appears to be longer than Ulysses itself. But of course you knew that already.
Oh yeah, and one last thing, this book of annotations appears to be longer than Ulysses itself. But of course you knew that already.
Friday, February 12, 2010
The tiny purple fishes...
You thought the leaden winter would bring you down forever,
But you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun.
And the colors of the sea blind your eyes with trembling mermaids,
And you touch the distant beaches with tales of brave Ulysses:
How his naked ears were tortured by the sirens sweetly singing,
For the sparkling waves are calling you to kiss their white laced lips.
And you see a girl's brown body dancing through the turquoise,
And her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea.
And when your fingers find her, she drowns you in her body,
Carving deep blue ripples in the tissues of your mind.
The tiny purple fishes run laughing through your fingers,
And you want to take her with you to the hard land of the winter.
Her name is Aphrodite and she rides a crimson shell,
And you know you cannot leave her for you touched the distant sands
With tales of brave Ulysses; how his naked ears were tortured
By the sirens sweetly singing.
The tiny purple fishes run lauging through your fingers,
And you want to take her with you to the hard land of the winter.
- Eric Clapton, Cream, Tales of Brave Ulysses
But you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun.
And the colors of the sea blind your eyes with trembling mermaids,
And you touch the distant beaches with tales of brave Ulysses:
How his naked ears were tortured by the sirens sweetly singing,
For the sparkling waves are calling you to kiss their white laced lips.
And you see a girl's brown body dancing through the turquoise,
And her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea.
And when your fingers find her, she drowns you in her body,
Carving deep blue ripples in the tissues of your mind.
The tiny purple fishes run laughing through your fingers,
And you want to take her with you to the hard land of the winter.
Her name is Aphrodite and she rides a crimson shell,
And you know you cannot leave her for you touched the distant sands
With tales of brave Ulysses; how his naked ears were tortured
By the sirens sweetly singing.
The tiny purple fishes run lauging through your fingers,
And you want to take her with you to the hard land of the winter.
- Eric Clapton, Cream, Tales of Brave Ulysses
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Peel Back the Onion
On a very basic level, this book is really just one big puzzle. The mother of all puzzles. The greatest puzzle ever told. So, in honor of this, I think I am going to start researching each episode a little bit before reading it. I have done this with Episode 7, Aeolus, and it has paid off. You see, Aeolus is the Greek god of the winds and Joyce sprinkles many clever references to wind throughout the episode. There is no way I would have caught this without knowing this beforehand. I’m just not that smart. So, research then read, in direct contradiction to one of my previous posts. Oh well. This book requires it. Spoilers be dammed.
Thinking about the book as nothing more than a big puzzle got me thinking. What is Art, really, outside of just being a mechanism for presenting a puzzle for the audience to decipher, the more ambiguous and clever, the better? We are a figurin’ sort, us humans. Is the aim of Art simply to invoke this desire in us, to appeal to our deductive sensibilities? Of course it’s more than that but I think that this can be (and usually is) a main component of Art, a fundamental truth, complexity and deep layers a goal in and of itself. Face it, we like puzzles, and Joyce knew this for sure.
“I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality.” – James Joyce
Thinking about the book as nothing more than a big puzzle got me thinking. What is Art, really, outside of just being a mechanism for presenting a puzzle for the audience to decipher, the more ambiguous and clever, the better? We are a figurin’ sort, us humans. Is the aim of Art simply to invoke this desire in us, to appeal to our deductive sensibilities? Of course it’s more than that but I think that this can be (and usually is) a main component of Art, a fundamental truth, complexity and deep layers a goal in and of itself. Face it, we like puzzles, and Joyce knew this for sure.
“I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality.” – James Joyce
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Reading in Public
As you may or may not know, I like to go out and read from time to time. Starbucks. The local library. A bar. My latest favorite is an Irish joint down the road that serves expertly poured Guinness pints. So, I have gone there to read Ulysses as I have gone there to read many books (side note: they actually have a copy of Ulysses sitting in a little decorative library next to the bar. I should have just borrowed that one). However, I am starting to be very self-conscious and am battling a growing terror at being discovered reading Ulysses in an Irish bar sipping a Guinness. Seriously. It just seems so...lame, ya know? To remedy this, I have removed the dust jacket cover of the book to better hide its identity.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Thoughts of the Day
So, the slog continues…just kidding. I am enjoying the book for what it is, as I knew I would. It is true though, this one is not for the fainthearted. So I though I would work the old bullet point review this time as I have a few thoughts that are vaguely, if at all, related.
1) I’m working through Episode Six (Hades). Everyone’s in the carriage on the way to the funeral. You really, really have to pay attention here as the narrative jumps all over the place, from spoken words to thoughts, between the characters, like a beach ball bouncing in the summer surf and wind. One comment or thought yields to another in quick succession. It’s kind of a work out for the reader but I see what he (Joyce) is doing here, mirroring the way reality flits and flops around sometimes. I have noticed that if you stick it out and focus, you get into a flow and things do become clearer (like if you go for at least ½ hour of reading with little resting). It’s like getting your heart rate up on the treadmill: getting there is painful but once your up and running, you feel like you can go forever (runner’s high).
2) Lots of pieces here on death and dying. Much talk of funerals and suicides. Happy times! I’m not exactly sure where this theme is going (besides the obvious of course) but it is a strong presence in the book at this point.
3) The thoughts and words of each character, presented as stream of consciousness of course, are starting to feel personalized, especially in looking at Bloom versus Dedalus. You can start to tell who it is without being told, which is cool. Dedalus is the thinker, with witticisms and occasional high-mindedness. A teacher. A scholar. Bloom is more basic, more the everyman. This technique of characterization is interesting.
4) Still more grossness, this time in relation to death. Detailed and disgusting descriptions of corpses, burials, funerals, and more corpses. At this point, I am certainly expecting no less.
1) I’m working through Episode Six (Hades). Everyone’s in the carriage on the way to the funeral. You really, really have to pay attention here as the narrative jumps all over the place, from spoken words to thoughts, between the characters, like a beach ball bouncing in the summer surf and wind. One comment or thought yields to another in quick succession. It’s kind of a work out for the reader but I see what he (Joyce) is doing here, mirroring the way reality flits and flops around sometimes. I have noticed that if you stick it out and focus, you get into a flow and things do become clearer (like if you go for at least ½ hour of reading with little resting). It’s like getting your heart rate up on the treadmill: getting there is painful but once your up and running, you feel like you can go forever (runner’s high).
2) Lots of pieces here on death and dying. Much talk of funerals and suicides. Happy times! I’m not exactly sure where this theme is going (besides the obvious of course) but it is a strong presence in the book at this point.
3) The thoughts and words of each character, presented as stream of consciousness of course, are starting to feel personalized, especially in looking at Bloom versus Dedalus. You can start to tell who it is without being told, which is cool. Dedalus is the thinker, with witticisms and occasional high-mindedness. A teacher. A scholar. Bloom is more basic, more the everyman. This technique of characterization is interesting.
4) Still more grossness, this time in relation to death. Detailed and disgusting descriptions of corpses, burials, funerals, and more corpses. At this point, I am certainly expecting no less.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Episodes
So I've purposely been avoiding the Wikipedia entry on Ulysses, mainly the book summary (I have checked out some of the biographical and historical stuff). It just seems like cheating to get info before reading the thing. Also, I don't like spoilers (I like to head into a book completely clueless. Let it stand on it's own. As such, I try not to ever read the dust jacket summaries, reviews, or anything before beginning a book. Only after.) However, I will be using Wikipedia to help with the blog, namely to label and reference the different "episodes." You see, apparently I have the old school version of the book which doesn't label any of them (apparently Joyce didn't do so originally.) However, most other versions do. So I will be using Wikipedia to find the episode labels and use them to give you, blog reader, an idea of where I am in the book. Incidentally, and on a similar note, so far the episodes are very "digestible" in a single reading session. A close reading of each one takes no more that an hour (sometimes much less), which seems good. Like I said, I'm in no rush. So that being said, I just finished Episode 5, The Lotus Eaters. More of the same. We did find out that old Leo is cheating on his wife (or merely thinking of cheating?) and that his junk, as viewed while taking a bath, is a "limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower." Clearly too much information here.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Really Real Realism
How great is the opening to Part II, our introduction to Leopold Bloom?:
“Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.”
Hungry yet? I love it. Total honesty here, Bloom’s mind laid bare. Part II proceeds and you soon realize that you are living entirely in Leo’s head, hearing his every thought, desire, action, and instinct. And nothing is left out. Nothing. As a result, we watch, among so many other things, Bloom salivate over the glands and organs of animals, lust after a woman while at the butcher’s shop, consider the sexual activities of his daughter, and finally take a long, well-considered dump in the “jakes” out behind the house. And Joyce actually makes art out of this stuff. Really, he does.
One thing I like considering are different movements in the arts, especially transitions, like when late 19th century literary Realism gave way to early 20th century literary Modernism. Why is the new way new? What makes it different? Or, maybe as importantly, what make it the same? Part of what’s great about this book of course is that it “made” Modernism, it realized the entire movement and gave it legs. It was pretty much THE seminal work. No one had done anything quite like it before, which, in the world of art, is pretty much impossible.
What’s kind of cool is putting both movements side by side, comparing them so as to understand them better. One thing that immediately sticks out is that both movements are really after the same thing, that is, attempting to present to the reader “real life”, in all its ragged complexity, attempting to place reality on a page. What’s great is that they both succeed so well, but in completely different ways. Consider the opening lines to Eliot’s Middlemarch (I did I mention that I love this book yet?) as compared to the opening passage of Ulysses Part II, quoted above:
“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress. Her hand and wrist were so finely formed that she could wear sleeves not less bare of style than those in which the Blessed Virgin appeared to Italian painters; and her profile as well as her stature and bearing seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain garments, which by the side of provincial fashion gave her the impressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible,—or from one of our elder poets,—in a paragraph of to-day's newspaper.”
So much…nicer, eh, but accomplishing the exact same thing. What a contrast, but interestingly, both styles, in their own beautiful way, capture the reality of the world perfectly, creating imagery that is so strong, complex, and real that it transports the reader entirely.
“Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.”
Hungry yet? I love it. Total honesty here, Bloom’s mind laid bare. Part II proceeds and you soon realize that you are living entirely in Leo’s head, hearing his every thought, desire, action, and instinct. And nothing is left out. Nothing. As a result, we watch, among so many other things, Bloom salivate over the glands and organs of animals, lust after a woman while at the butcher’s shop, consider the sexual activities of his daughter, and finally take a long, well-considered dump in the “jakes” out behind the house. And Joyce actually makes art out of this stuff. Really, he does.
One thing I like considering are different movements in the arts, especially transitions, like when late 19th century literary Realism gave way to early 20th century literary Modernism. Why is the new way new? What makes it different? Or, maybe as importantly, what make it the same? Part of what’s great about this book of course is that it “made” Modernism, it realized the entire movement and gave it legs. It was pretty much THE seminal work. No one had done anything quite like it before, which, in the world of art, is pretty much impossible.
What’s kind of cool is putting both movements side by side, comparing them so as to understand them better. One thing that immediately sticks out is that both movements are really after the same thing, that is, attempting to present to the reader “real life”, in all its ragged complexity, attempting to place reality on a page. What’s great is that they both succeed so well, but in completely different ways. Consider the opening lines to Eliot’s Middlemarch (I did I mention that I love this book yet?) as compared to the opening passage of Ulysses Part II, quoted above:
“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress. Her hand and wrist were so finely formed that she could wear sleeves not less bare of style than those in which the Blessed Virgin appeared to Italian painters; and her profile as well as her stature and bearing seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain garments, which by the side of provincial fashion gave her the impressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible,—or from one of our elder poets,—in a paragraph of to-day's newspaper.”
So much…nicer, eh, but accomplishing the exact same thing. What a contrast, but interestingly, both styles, in their own beautiful way, capture the reality of the world perfectly, creating imagery that is so strong, complex, and real that it transports the reader entirely.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Stream of Consciousness
So, stream of consciousness. Great stuff, but takes some getting used tooo...wait, this O key on my keyboard keeps getting stuck. Damn keyboard. Pushbutton keys. Antiquated. Stuff of the ages. I should upgrade this damn thing. The whole lot. Boat anchor. Phrase from the 90's. Did anyone ever really use a computer as a boat anchor? Wouldn't really work that well. Damn keyboard doesn't work that well either. Upgrade. But I need money of course. Moooolah. More antiquation. Needs to buys the new computers he does. Use the money from the job. Ah, money from the corporate machine. Suckling from the corporate teat. Must have more....
Sorry about that. Anyway, I meant to say that the end of Part I really gets going with the stream of consciousness thing. It takes a bit of getting used to but after a few pages it works okay. I think the trick is just to let it roll over you while paying attention as best as you can. You have to let it pour through your brain, like, I don't know, a stream or something? Reading as thinking, it's cool to consider the three "players" at work here in, for example, the scene of Dedalus walking on the beach. We are each forming our own "reality" (I think I overuse quotes...and parenthesis...and ellipses...oh well). His thoughts, my thoughts trying to follow his thoughts (my thoughts on his thoughts), and perhaps most significantly, Joyce's thoughts, framed by the narrative. Each of us working it out, trying to understand what is before us. The faux reality of the beach for Dedalus, the blank page taking up the words from the pen for Joyce, and the published book, all these years later, splayed open on the table before me. How strange! All of us playing together like that, each one weaving our own stream of consciousness, at once both juxtaposed and separate?
Sorry about that. Anyway, I meant to say that the end of Part I really gets going with the stream of consciousness thing. It takes a bit of getting used to but after a few pages it works okay. I think the trick is just to let it roll over you while paying attention as best as you can. You have to let it pour through your brain, like, I don't know, a stream or something? Reading as thinking, it's cool to consider the three "players" at work here in, for example, the scene of Dedalus walking on the beach. We are each forming our own "reality" (I think I overuse quotes...and parenthesis...and ellipses...oh well). His thoughts, my thoughts trying to follow his thoughts (my thoughts on his thoughts), and perhaps most significantly, Joyce's thoughts, framed by the narrative. Each of us working it out, trying to understand what is before us. The faux reality of the beach for Dedalus, the blank page taking up the words from the pen for Joyce, and the published book, all these years later, splayed open on the table before me. How strange! All of us playing together like that, each one weaving our own stream of consciousness, at once both juxtaposed and separate?
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Happy Birthday Ulysses!
So Wikipedia tells me, right on its home page, that on this exact date, back in 1922, Ulysses was first published as a whole. To quote:
"Ulysses is a novel by Irish author James Joyce, first serialized in parts in the American journal The Little Review from March 1918 to December 1920, then published in its entirety by Sylvia Beach on February 2, 1922, in Paris."
That makes the book...hold on...20 plus 80...carry the one...divide by five...add in the two...subtract by another five...to get...88 "published" years old today!
"Ulysses is a novel by Irish author James Joyce, first serialized in parts in the American journal The Little Review from March 1918 to December 1920, then published in its entirety by Sylvia Beach on February 2, 1922, in Paris."
That makes the book...hold on...20 plus 80...carry the one...divide by five...add in the two...subtract by another five...to get...88 "published" years old today!
Monday, February 1, 2010
Art Imitates Life
When I was in college I had a friend who was terribly racist towards African Americans. Besides the occasional comment and disparaging remark, he would sometimes mock someone of African decent by secretly dancing around behind him, jumping up and down, scratching under his arms and on top of his head, monkey-like. Seriously. It was actually kind of scary. I had never seen such overt, deep animosity towards another person based solely on race. The bitch of it was that, besides this serious character flaw, the guy was as nice as you could imagine. I think he made it his mission to teach me, his Northerner friend, the true meaning of southern hospitality. Overflowing with generosity, he actually gave me the shirt off his back once (okay, it wasn’t a shirt, it was a jacket, and it wasn’t on his back at the time, but you get the point).
I finally had to say something to him about it when he told me that the KKK was coming to town and that he was going to watch “his friends” march (he personally knew and was friends with a few members. Really). I had to say something not so much to change the guy (although I hoped I could) but really just to let him know how stupid he looked to a lot of us. Well, long story short, it was all wasted breath. He just wasn’t convinced at all. I was wrong and he was right, end of story. So I gave up and just tried to stay away from the topic when we hung out. He did the same, toning his antics down when I was around.
I was reminded of this when reading Ulysses yesterday, specifically in the passages early in the book dealing with the anti-Semitism of Haines and Deasy. I thought the way Joyce handled this was so skillful and true to life. For example, with surprising subtly Joyce presents the ugly face of racism in a great scene between Deasy and Dedalus. Deasy wants Dedalus to get his paper on Foot and Mouth disease published and while describing the article, begins to have a sort of racist meltdown, lamenting the death of “Old England” at the hands of the “Jew merchant.” Joyce sets up Deasy’s outburst perfectly with the following sentence, right before his anti-Semitic speech begins:
“He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.”
I love this line (the first time I read it I thought it said that he beat the air “oddly,” which I liked, and then I realized that it said “oldly,” which I liked even better). Can’t you just see it, the man rising to his feet, nearly hysterical , finger shaking toward the sky, ready to launch into his tirade? When I read this, the image of my friend from school popped into my head, jumping up and down behind the backs of others, animated by hate and fear. The contrast Joyce creates in this scene adds force to the outburst and makes it all the more menacing. One minute, Deasy is describing a dry, academic paper he has written for publication, and the next minute he is up in arms, spouting about the end of the world at the hands of the Jews. Kind of like one minute sitting on the couch having a few beers with your pal and the next minute watching him jump around like an idiot behind the back of some guy he doesn’t even know. Full-on, in-your-face racism, in the book and in real life.
I finally had to say something to him about it when he told me that the KKK was coming to town and that he was going to watch “his friends” march (he personally knew and was friends with a few members. Really). I had to say something not so much to change the guy (although I hoped I could) but really just to let him know how stupid he looked to a lot of us. Well, long story short, it was all wasted breath. He just wasn’t convinced at all. I was wrong and he was right, end of story. So I gave up and just tried to stay away from the topic when we hung out. He did the same, toning his antics down when I was around.
I was reminded of this when reading Ulysses yesterday, specifically in the passages early in the book dealing with the anti-Semitism of Haines and Deasy. I thought the way Joyce handled this was so skillful and true to life. For example, with surprising subtly Joyce presents the ugly face of racism in a great scene between Deasy and Dedalus. Deasy wants Dedalus to get his paper on Foot and Mouth disease published and while describing the article, begins to have a sort of racist meltdown, lamenting the death of “Old England” at the hands of the “Jew merchant.” Joyce sets up Deasy’s outburst perfectly with the following sentence, right before his anti-Semitic speech begins:
“He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.”
I love this line (the first time I read it I thought it said that he beat the air “oddly,” which I liked, and then I realized that it said “oldly,” which I liked even better). Can’t you just see it, the man rising to his feet, nearly hysterical , finger shaking toward the sky, ready to launch into his tirade? When I read this, the image of my friend from school popped into my head, jumping up and down behind the backs of others, animated by hate and fear. The contrast Joyce creates in this scene adds force to the outburst and makes it all the more menacing. One minute, Deasy is describing a dry, academic paper he has written for publication, and the next minute he is up in arms, spouting about the end of the world at the hands of the Jews. Kind of like one minute sitting on the couch having a few beers with your pal and the next minute watching him jump around like an idiot behind the back of some guy he doesn’t even know. Full-on, in-your-face racism, in the book and in real life.
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