Ulysses by James Joyce

Rating: 4 Stars

“I’ve put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant.”

You’ve got to hand it to Joyce; that breath-taking confidence that he’s written something that will be read for centuries bespeaks a considerable chutzpah. Not quite sure that I would agree with him about that. This amateur reviewer’s unapologetic opinion is that - never have so many words been strung together to make so much nonsense, and for so little purpose.

Perhaps future generations will question the literary merit of ‘Ulysses’ and concur that it’s an imposter that does not deserve to be on every ‘100 Must-Read Books’ list. But as of now, this book remains the unchallenged flagship of novelistic excellence. Having got that off my chest, let’s move on to take a closer look at Joyce’s opus, keeping in mind that there’s really no possibility of one mere blog post doing adequate justice to a work so vast and ambitious in its scope.

A preliminary introduction to how the book originated: the title, structure and theme were inspired by James Joyce’s fascination with Homer’s Odyssey, and in particular, the hero of that epic narrative - Odysseus/Ulysses. It was initially serialized in parts in an American journal and later published as a book in 1922. The entirety of the story unfolds in Dublin on June 16, 1904; a day now celebrated by Joyce aficionados as ‘Bloomsday’ after the novel’s protagonist (and Ulysses stand-in), Leopold Bloom. It’s structured in three parts and eighteen episodes, with each episode named after a character or incident from the Odyssey.

Part One begins with an introduction to Stephen Dedalus, a young writer and school-teacher and the novel’s ersatz Telemachus, son of Odysseus in Homer’s original. Part Two launches our day’s journey with Leopold Bloom. We first encounter him making breakfast for himself and his wife Molly; then setting out for an old friend’s funeral; and later, stopping by his office where he works as an advertising canvasser for the ‘Freeman’s Journal’. The rest of the day is spent in aimlessly wandering in and out of pubs, a church, a library, a maternity hospital, a brothel, with a brief stop at the shoreline. In Part Three, Bloom finally meanders back home with Stephen Dedalus in tow, whom he briefly entertains before heading up to bed. The book concludes with the episode titled ‘Penelope’ (Ulysses’ loyal wife in the Odyssey), but what is more commonly known as Molly Bloom’s Monologue.

The parallels Joyce draws between ‘Ulysses’ and the Odyssey are numerous and more often than not, ironic. After having engineered the victory over Troy, Ulysses voyages for ten years to return to Ithaca, his homeland. Awaiting his return are his aging father; his steadfast son; and, his devoted wife, Penelope, who, spurning her many suitors has remained faithful to their marriage (though Ulysses himself has not). Impeding his nostos (heroic return journey of an epic hero) are vindictive gods, malignant monsters, sorceresses, sirens, and a rebellious crew. Overcoming them all, return he does, thwarting his rivals and reclaiming his throne.

And Bloom? Well, he starts his day making a breakfast of ‘the inner organs of beasts and fowls’; followed by a visit to the outhouse to answer Nature’s call, a visit that is described with unsparing detail. His profession depends on ingratiating himself to would-be sponsors. He is forever an outsider in his hometown, a fiercely Catholic city that has no intention of letting him forget his Jewish lineage; regardless of Bloom’s baptism or general lack of religiosity. As he wanders around town, he runs into colleagues, acquaintances, an ex-lover, a young woman who flashes her underwear at him, barmaids, and wastrels. His thoughts turn often to his father who died of overdosing, and a son and heir whom he lost at infancy. In Stephen Dedalus, in whom he takes a paternal interest, he discovers a kindred intellect and a talent that he hopes to foster. On his return home, waiting for him is Molly Bloom; partnered with him in an adulterous marriage. Unlike Penelope, Mrs. Bloom has seen no reason to spurn her many suitors. They have enjoyed her favors and she theirs; and that is not something she intends to change anytime.

Homer gave us Ulysses’ wit, verve, and heroic adventures; Joyce serves up in ‘Ulysses’ the mundane, the sordid, and the flatly uninspiring. What can I say? I guess we don’t live in an epic age anymore.

Yet, there are similarities, too. Bloom, like Ulysses, is intelligent. He is a well-read man, whose thoughts certainly dwell on his family; and if not exactly a leader of men, he is still amiable and seems to get along with most people. Like the sea-faring voyager of the Odyssey, Bloom too watches the stars – he dabbles in astronomy. In a dull century, perhaps a stroll around town will have to take the place of a thrilling odyssey. While Bloom seems besotted with his wife whose voracious sexuality remains untamed by marriage, it can be said that Molly Bloom, herself, is at least not indifferent to her husband.

So much of ‘Ulysses’ is mind-numbingly boring: an endless stream of fillers and inanities; characters that have little or no bearing to the narrative are thrust upon us; we are pelted with strings of names that serve no consequence whatsoever. The language is needlessly dense and opaque, and the reader is assailed with Joyce’s sesquipedalian loquacity, his incontinent verbosity. Some chapters are not merely tortuous; they are downright torturous. The episode ‘Circe’, for example, is an unrelenting sewage of babble and obscenity.

So why bother to read ‘Ulysses’ at all? Are his erudite fans simply misinformed? No; there are veins of gold in the book, but you have to mine them assiduously. A certain grim sense of commitment is needed, not just to finish this book, but to appreciate the literary genius (okay, I admitted it, alright?) exemplified by the mighty intellect, eclectic multi-culturalism, inspired wordsmithing, dazzling vocabulary, and literary experimenting. I stuck with this book for one reason only. I finished my Masters in English Literature several years ago. This book served to remind me that I’m no Master; but that I am and always will be a student of Literature.