academic thesis on james joyce

7/29/2019 Academic Thesis on James Joyce

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The elaboration of the dynamic concussions a nicens, little, squawking, hovering w

ayfarer of a protagonist of the pale space of sky above be liable to in the winds eye,

over the dozing sentinels, the wandering rocks, those vinous and clenched-fisted

convives, Joyce once knew as nahireannaigh. Please attend! Looks like rain. Better

close the window. Just so.

Written by: Martin Dun Cow Consultant:Dr. Susan Rawlinson

Pannon University

Department of English Linguistics and Literature

May, 2008
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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

0. Introductory words viz. the lashes of the Joycean subversian gust ............................1

I. The most fundamental code restituting the formation of Stephen Dedalus life(Away, away!)

1. For heat abatement turn right 45 Degrees!.................................................................7

2..So far! So good! The tough go making an epoch-making feller.................................12

Chapter 2

I. Contemplations from the crows nest of a far-off posture............................................ .18

II.In the dusty wake of the those long-ago paternal remonstrances(with an infantile Stephen peeping out from under the vault of the table with a cunningly

screwed-up, far-sighted eye).......... .........................................................................................19

III. Wedged between the wandering rocks incarnated by the churchand state ever-roaring on the Irish territorial waters

(with the infantile then afully-fledgedStephen tariffed by Dantes childrhyme of a stricture).................................................................................................................................................25

IV. On the fringe of the line with eyes weak and watery(with a clongowean Stephen in the possession of the leases of a revealing visuality).........28

1. Tap. Tap. Taptaptap. Tap.Taptap.2. On the fence of the self-imposed detachement at zero altitude

a) Pronto, pronto, Mrs Fatica! Put me through to his brittle psyche

b) Glass him with car, lady! Rathe rinvite us to go up-stage of what came to be depicted!c)Eluriating the universal residue. Ahaa! Clear as mud!d) Being adrift on the hazy waterway of fiction. Whom ya are at aiming, my luv?

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Chapter 3

I.The self-devouring perfidies of unleashed poltergeists with battering rams, pounding(with a clongowean Stephen and the hundred and odd students stooping, poring over)

1. A copious but systematic view of an abduction .....................................................................38.

2. Into the ashes of a charred stuble field................................................................................... 41.

3 The consummation of a squalid and advanced imbroglio.........................................................43.

II. The ordinary (Irish) mans bane of existence

1. Booze-made ups. Or fortune knocks. The latter not. I believe ....................................................47.

2. An analogous hawthornian distress of being excommunicated from society.............................50

3. The coruscating countenances of the ever-roaring scolds of church and state under the ivy-twined branches of ther chandelier..........................................................................................52.

4.A history of betrayals, of eloquent inactivity,of absurd and narrow belief...................................56

CONTENTS.....................................................................................................................................59.

PREFACE

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I am poised to devote my thesis to the elaboration of the manifold respects what make

James Joyces novel entitled The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man such an influental and

emblematic work of the modernist movement and classic of the whole subsequent prose-

writing assembly.

The body of the work is meant to be divided into three parts. The first part is to

commence with the explication of what the possible reasons and motives were that compeled

Joyce to defect to the Continent as his fictional character, Stephen Daedalus mellowed the

same decision in his conscience by the windup scene of this autobiographical story. By opting

for the family name, Daedelus Joyce yields to his predilection of putting the representation of

his stories and characters on Greek mythological grounds. I also stop several time to look at

the fence seeking the possible resemblances relative to the cunning Greek artificerss and the

man of tortuous letters, Joyces relative missions as ethnically and intellectually independent

wayfarers of self-assertive and self-defining innovation, being on a special embassy, once

managed to get the trusses of autocratic and grappling censors off their wings and sallied

forth in search of the wherewithals to make a solo act of the process of their personal and

elevating consummation as self-reliant artificers, creators.

Through the analysis of the elected paragraphs the follow-up part aims at representing

above all those regards that cast a light upon Joyces manner in intelinking the curlicued

threads of a story representing a newly-fledged perception of the world around, a discernment

triggered by an unprecedented attitude of the modernists, towards the operations and

inspirations of the authormind and mission . While doggedly following his protagonists

scents, wavering ahead of him, concussed by the blows a delicate and impressionable psyche

driven by the counterrotating cog-wheels of excessive responsiveness is subject to be seized

with, Joyce also lets the momentous historical, religious and political interferences infiltrate

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into the pores of the text . Furthermore, opting for his protagonists grappling conscience to

be the major associating nucleus in the process of assimilation of the events, he in fact lays

the foundations, nay the raison dere of those techniques and achievements appearing on the

stage, subsequently, of his grandiose work, entiteld Ulysses, that tremendously corroborates

his and the rest of the modernists convictions concerning the uncanny, unequivocal potentials

of the conjured-up forces of the consciousness of the author in the course of the arrangement

of the reality of experience in tiers for the millions time. The voice of statically

reverberating interior monologues, the soliloquies and dialogues told by surrogate narrators I

constantly go halves with throughout the narrative process on the one hand came to be

employed on the firm grounds of the tribute I wished to pay to the arch founders, of these

mold-breaking means above all to Joyce. On the other hand, more importantly to me, while

unraveling the curlicued line of my pensive analysis, I could not help but acnkowledge that

after Joyces novel of great reverence, the Ulysses, there is by no means a chance for one,

once involved in a writing process, not to give free reins, every now and then, to the

tremendously affluent bonanza of ideas, associations and deliberations of ones psyche that

incontrollably stream, being the flotsam and jetsam of the associative and sensationally

profuse but irrationally taut fabric of the human mind, in the heat of moulding the

consummative and ultimate track of result of his hissing train of thoughts.

Finally, the third part is devoted to the overview of the Irish tagged with the voice of

the reverent writer himself, pondering , as a cosmopolotian and independent and renowned

writer the past, present and future of a folk, he is as obsessed with as an inveterate one with

the long-forgotten relish of bourdon distillations.

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CHAPTER I.

0. Inroductory words, viz the lashes of the Joycean subversive gust

(Marty, now, works both ways. There ya go. The latter better though. Just so.)

At first blush.Flushed your auntie mine not. Recap that. As you were! At first blush

Joyces protagonists actual defecting to neutral and distant lands that held out the legacy of

boundlessness an epoch-making talent was entitled to appears to be a bit of a betrayal of the

fundamental principles relative to someone who was so solicitious about the ailments and

encumbrances of his race. Paradoxically enough, it was Stephens recoil from serving in

which he no longer believed, his consorting with his own peremptory, renegade and

cosmopolitan dictates and his sallying forth towardsthe mode of life whereby his spirit could

express itself in an unfettered freedom (James Joyce: A Portrait of The Artist as a Young

Man Penguin Modern Classics p.246) what was the momentous prerequisite for him in

originating an array of multi-faceted prose works of horrendous innovative power. Thats the

card.Gomaire t!(1.) The yellow. The right played card. Away from home ground Joyce

that eye-patched buccaneer of a referee booked the English for the fouls on his compatriots.

O I mean his ceardchumainna. That you roaring what it is sassenach fans? Translate then!

Leath-dall seo roteoir s! (2.) Fair-faire!(3.). Spectacles for the referee! Unbiassed one we

demand! Right well that true is not all you know well. He tends amatory in the first

defamatory in the second half to be. Two-edged this is a whistler of a referee. He but then

conscience-arbiter once consciousness-booster was. For his team deuce he diagnosed after

deuce in the long run though. Into the ring when transferred to the guest team Diarmad

dropped his hat! With Diarmad the primal foul lies, Eire-frondeurs!Admhil! (4.)

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Then again, it was his shaking the dust off his feet in due course assuming the identical

obligation his maker, the irascible Joyce took upon at the same time of his life that enabled

him to contemplate his native land from a due distance and caused his prophecies about

forging the uncreated conscience of his race (p.253) to reach a personal fulfilment. Wonder

whether in fill that not double l. Better check upon that. Tout le suit(5.). One does hear here

and there that gaulish wordy. Better not use. Its like at once or something. French are good

servants but bad masters. Trianon. Avengers. Thatle mot juste (6.) is. With a stroke of a pen.

Exceptionnellenment blessures(7.). All one. Have nice equal days! Yours fraternally! Marty.

P.S. : Ishove you, though! Now. Fulfillment. And. Fulfilment. There are both ways about it.

There ya are. Latter better though. Just so. Futhermore, the gust of the Joycean literary output

he passed down to us bears testimony to such an subversive potency, under the load of which

the dome of prose-writing- getting plated with hairline cracks-caved letting its lashes slam

into the nave of the literary world. The strident, wuthering, rampageous sweep careering

around made almost all his contemporaries, readers and critics want to hump shoulders,

huddle up, keep their ears stopped and their eyes twitched waiting for the aerial affray of the

presence of one of the most influential vanguard artists of all time to spend itself. Passably

good that is. The sharp is word. Come along. He can posthumously be credited with whipping

such a thunderhead of new conceptions and techniques that even in these days and shall also

continue to hover around and precipitate on his adherents.Zap!Sounds like an epoch-making

guru, by jove! Sure brd (8.) you are to have been ofim, Nora! Wheny seeingy thaty gaelicy

wordy my hearty didy jumpy soy closey ity beingy toy they magyary wordyBrdy. Another

folk long last I found toiling with ccnts. Alas! And with his own kinsmen. Hollo! Snad

OConnor and Republic of Loose. Prsnt time tht is nd still lose thm Irsh re. Their

being loose is a grist for Snads and other artists mill though. The Cranberries. Better

continue Mr. Circuitous on duty. It was on account of his far-off position and the detached-

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service warrant that he granted himself what really caused his mind to prey constantly upon

the country he left for good and all, upon the Ireland that in the first place yielded the

particular literary predecessors who came short of attaining the independence Joyce sought

for and whom his artistic self-assertion was moulded by (1.). Then again, it was the Irish

plight itself that fashioned his soaring and detachment-seeker imagination into what it became

by having it wedged between the wandering rocks incarnated by the church and state ever-

roaring on the Irish territorial waters.The direct bearings the (mal) functionings of these latter

two entities have on the individuals and exclusively on Stephens life persistently seep

through the drape of the text. It is small wonder, therefore that in the course of his tte-a-tte

with Cranly in the last chapter, when all is said and done, it is the supremacy of his Fatherland

and his Church that he emphatically denominates as the major dual ideological fetters that

stymie him turning loose his innovative spirit. His Fatherland and his Church are the two-ply

swaddling-bands that are to be sloughed off for keeping the wings of his much-sought-after

maturity as an autonomous artificer trussed. Stephen is hell-bent on setting off on a voyage

towards the consummation of his artistry actuating the cogs of his creative fancy once having

graduated from the self-established institute of his exultant and terrible youth (p. 253). The

idiosyncratic machinery of the creative retrieval of the artists default drive datas of

experience has already become operative in his brain in testimony whereof it is rather

sufficient for one just to evoke the timbre in his diary in the very last chapter. It comes as

statically as that of the unhitched Bird of Prey blissfully squawking once having succeeded in

cutting himself loose from the constraints of a life in the Falconers aviary intending to

encounter the millionth time the reality of experience (p. 253) and shrieking most fervidly:

Away, away (p. 253.).It is in that manner that the consciousness of a sovereign and self-

contained individual reverberates saturated with the unabated ambition pertaining to

somemone, who has already made a lunge forward to forge in the smithy of his soul the

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uncreated conscience of his race (p. 253) and who is, once in ascension, to assimilite his

own multifarious woes (2.) with and absorb them into those of his suffering countrymen

(p.253). Okie doak! Nice of him to think of his house and home. Gnail dilach (9.) this

Joyce was. I mean that Stephen. Dropped a brick, chap! Undo that not ya can! So?

Doppelgangers the writers the protagonists are. Tell me about it. By gum! Too early though

that blueberry flavor worn off. Wrigleys. Costs little and last long. Healthful, delicious,

refreshing. Tell the marines to that! Brumma, brumma! Brummagem ware! Cost though a

finger but just seconds till it linger! Haw-haw! Mouth-full, malicious, malingering

schlockmeisters rubble-gum! Brumma! Brumma-gum! Haw-haw! Knock that off, zany! Okie!

1.The most fundamental code restituting the formation of Stephen Dedalus life

(Away, away!)

1.For heat abatement turn right 45 Degrees!

The most fundamental code that may imply the possible mission and identity allotted to

the protagonist and shepherd us readers in the process of restituting the formation of Stephen

Dedalus life in conformity with the significance and reverence Joyce had towards his youth-

self is contained in the opening citation Et ignotas animum dimittit in artes, that is, And he

sets his mind to work upon unknown arts. Rendering Ovids Methamorphoses the source

from where he originated his cursive motto (3.), letting what appears to be the representative

and synthetic statement of his main characters destiny be second to the bastard title in

predence Joyce reasserts our back-page-presuppositions concerning Stephen Dedalus

presumptive similitude of any sort with his mythological namesake, the cunning artificer,

Daedelus, who is the archetypal personification of the architect. As touching the walk of life

of the Greek sculptor, though being compelled, he also went into exile once having murdered

his nephew on the score of the jealousy the relatives bidding potentials to carry the world

before him as a sculptor had fomented in him. It is the island of Crete, more specificially the

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court of King Minos, where the skillful inventor establishes a foothold subsequently. Ha!

Rings the holidays-bell! If had only me and hon just come across with that final fling to

Rhodes last summer. Too true to be good would it have been. Island of roses. Practically zero

climate rate. Would that! No use crying. Off Daedalus went to Crete. Sure no flies were on

that bloke. Wonder at all they back then used lolly. Remember seeing them drachmas at that

auction? A proposito! Receiving 13 month pays on Friday. Whee! Gonna buy one good Ouzo

bottle to Deadalus good health! As the myth has it he proceeded to construct an artificial

cow for Queen Paiphae who having let the baits of a feral delict gnaw at her heart had coveted

a semi-divine bull and wished to have her cravings contented. His second creation, the far-

famed Labyrinth then was devised to barricade and keep out of sight the freak of nature

evolved from that passionate but bestial tryst, the half-man-half-bull progeny, called

Minotaur. The hero Theseus arrived in the island to the end to make away with the quadruped

monstrosity. Daughter of Minos, Ariadne, her heart seizured, yielding it to the doughty

fighter, langourously requested Daedelus to hold out a hand to him, to uphold him in

executing his remarkable feat of effacing the behemoth, the longing for its execution being

triggered by the juggernaut of the calling of the heroic mold he was cast in, and having it

annealed by embers of the passion he had conceived but gallantly harbored. The man of

unremitting creativity, Daedalus, conceding, had his good grip on the situation by counselling

Theseus to unravel a ball of thread on his centerward bound into the maze guaranteeing a

secure itinerary on his way out throughout the sinuous trails of the Labyrinth indicated by the

wool left behind afore. Success attending his efforts in waylaying and slaying what was the

malformed incarnation of a felonious craving howling in an insensate dolor forsaken by their

parents, the triumphant bravo pressed on abducting his sweetheart Ariadne and absconded

from the place of his pitched battle with all speed.Ahoy! All is airin love and war. Hot air.

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Those monsters bte-noires (10.) of ours are. See for yourself those gibbose contorting

bugaboos. The tin-eyed snare-jawed Shark. The Hunchback. And the Beast. The gawky,

bening-visaged Manatees. The bung-headed Nessie. Same they are. The same humpy oafish

slimy bastards ceasessly, self-loathingly whining with us not hunkering by their snuffling,

hunched-up torsos, plaintively droning in dens, in morasses, in burrows, in thickets or

undersea. Blast from the past. Two bulls came full butt. Watched their glazed, martyred eyes,

bloodshot temples once on telly. Hey, guys, is there anything good on telly tonight? Psht.

Where your eyes are? Seeing them toros I remember to kill did they want each other, just

picadores (11.) wishing to escape. Barbed arrowheads. Corrida de toros (12.). Alas! Mine

heart goes out. Once found, not we let them henious lusus natures furrowfacedly slouch off

but shiftily hoodwink we them dangling the capote (13.) of a guilty, perverse conscience,

until, mesmerized, on our proud blade of sword they fall. Them we did beget! We, Paiphaes!

Them we do destroy! We, toreros (14.). Diabolical circle. All one. Keep moving! To say it

suffice, to elude having his and his courts reputation tarnished by the circumstances of the

dispatch of the ignominious monster and to get even with the astute architect for collaborating

with the knavish abductor King Minos, enraged, mandated that Daedalus and even his son

Icarus be interned in this devious gyration of a prison. It was his dire state of being made

incapacitated in captivity and devoid of all the capital assets of his craft that set Daedalus

ingeniuity off. Ooh, is that not nice? Inspiration triggered by being fastened. Dead ringer for

that Greek cove of a genius is this protagonist of a wit, Brother Stevo. A wow! When the

goings get tough the tough goes taking wings! Huzza! You, clear for takeoff, Brthair

Pdraig(15.), too! By using wax and feathers as utility waste in piecing together wings for

them to fly with Daedalus makes good of his and his sons escape from their sinuous

oubliette (16.).Away, Away! Szknk a sttsg ell. Falakon trohanunk (17.).Someone

tuned up. At Kennedy Space Center? Here? A valedictory tune? We have main

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engines starts. Just, you son, upwards look and your weight pull! After him! 4-3-

2-1-0 and liftoff! Liftoff of the 25th Space Shuttle Mission!

Hark! The baobab-pated Rzsis crystal sheer-voice what hear I through the solid rocket

boosters. Hol on! This late bird, his crows-feet dimmed by Gucci sunglasses, who I envision

rise through the canopy of this stage-smoke, caterwauling. Challenger is now

heading down range. A szabadsg vndorai. Felhkrl lbat lgatunk. Ezek mi

vagyunk (18.).The Greeks, once in ascension, enter into what comes out to be Icaros and

Deadalus firmamental dialog:

- TWA 2341. My, TusslingWestboundAlbatross of a son! For heat abatement

turn right 45 Degrees!

- Tower! My controlling, soaring father of towering intellect! Haw-haw! Flying

I am flying! At 35, 000 feet I am. Hail to thee lurid starts! Oops a loop! Hail to thee sullen

planets! Oops other twos! Haw-haw! Heaving with alarums and excursions my bosom is!

Agog with curiosity, I wonder, how much heat can I make up here, huh?- O, Son, have you ever felt the swelter a TWA makes when it hits the SUN 474?

My, TusslingWestboundAlbatross of a wanton son! Shun! TheSeethingUmberNebulae of a

celestial orb is getting on the soft side of yours! As a mean of egress, irated, my airborne

one, I counsel to careen your camber lines, then and there, and to assuage, while your flying

is good!

- Mine wings as yours, soaring father, waxed are with the same brush! Haw-haw!

Fear me not! Boon! Mine companion fluttering of a father! Out thou a holy boon taken when

let thou us get abroad unto heavenly spheres! Sakes! Oops a loop! Haw-haw! Light as mine

heart is a feather! We art like cart-wheeling pterodactyls, preening baboons making ours

wing warm on the high rope under the Godheads wary eye!

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However, in the fever of elation brought about the rapture of drawing nearer the flaming

nest of a sun, Icaros, flushed, in an unguarded moment, oblivious to the fact that in effect tiny

wax-drops glint on the assembly marks on his fluttering wings swerves too close and flares

wildly up like a fired straw. Will I blind struck! Mine son! Where thou art? Flight

controllers here looking very carefully at the situation . Say

away Nesbitt! For what bound has my Tussling Albatross of a son been for?Obviously a

major malfunction. We have no downlink.Koyaniisquatsi! (19.) Broad and

resplendent billows on its toes I behold earthbound and heavenwards, in this galactic

amphitheatre sullen planets wobble on sagging trajectories. None I see voidbound of my

wanton albatross of a son. Hear them cherubs join in the late birds chorus around the

celestial rotunda.Addg mg gy van. Azt se tudjuk mg.Vagy l? Holt-e? (20.) After a pause,

at length, Nesbitt said: We have report from the Flight Dynamics

Officer that the vehicle had exploded. Alack, alack! Most Supreme and

Serene Artificer of all! , , (21.)mybeloved son?Most High God! I adjure

you do not torment him! To Thou let a warning that be! A trepidant servant from! I undone

am! Utter ululation utter thou vacillating lips, utter! From earliest annals extant that reach

back to these times we know that his sepulchral mound Icaros underwater finds then. Drifting

within the currents with the scarlet stare of the cauterized orbs embedded in the death mask of

the wizened, parched swabs of an extinguished face he pitches and rolls through the villi of

the seas stomach with his singed stumps for the once-ambitious, youthfullimbs resembling

the buds of inchoate antlers on the heads of alert and juvenile fawns. When found, actived

Judith A. Resniks PEAP was. My,my learnedDaedalus, hey friend! An nl bhfuair glicgo

leor? (22.) Where, if any, Icarospersonalegress airpack is? If it is not asking too much.

Hope not. Eternal springs.

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2. So far! So good! The tough go making an epoch-making feller.

Beyond the quite unambigous parallel drawn on the grounds of their respective shrewd,

perceptive and innovative attributes one wonders whether the architect and Joyce-Stephen

bear further instances of likeness to each other in other respects. Also, they both were induced

at a certain period of their life to put the whole output of their accrued erudution to use with a

view to be able vacate the state of affairs they were embroiled in saying good riddance to

them for good and all. Then again, they also have the aphrodisiac of jealousy to give a fillip to

their hearts. One grants that Joyces envy merely manifested itself in the cache of green-eyed

glances that he glazed her wife, Nora for life and did not hone the blades of a murderous

intent in his clenched fists. Yet besides their innate gift and vulpine resourcefulness, their

unrivalled and incontestable excellence in creative inventiveness even their harboring the

leaven of jealousy among their sentiments offers a common ground for a further constrasting

deliberation. On this showing, there is the woman for whom Stephens autobiographical

counterpart Joyces heart-burning tended to flare up, whom he set forth on a voyage into theunknown with to overhear the tales of his distant kinsmen (p. 253). Nora. Nora Barnacle,

the acquintance of whom Joyce made in the region of the time of his pitching into writing A

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, into framing Stephens character as someone whom he

could entrust the years of his being footloose and fancy-free to. To this delicate and touchy

youngster, around whom he could get the winds spring up once again that would rush up

whizzing in the chimneys of belvederian infirmaries, letting it snap at and ruffle his hair

interspersing it with the beach-sand of past saunters, and of the blazing whispers of amorous

assignations on tram-steps, sun-drenched roundabouts or of luscious connivances in warm

and lightsome rooms with a huge doll sitting with her legs apart in a copious easy-chair (p.

101). Have done! Move on! Wish for the words to be bayonet stabs of a staccato mind. Where

is that Brendas line of document? Saving I remember onto desktop. Better check upon that.

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in the dancing multitudes of that lightsome room of the past, and slowly, vertiginous, with a

heaving bosom, falling into a swoon, to her guests, and her guards, thepawns, false

dismay, flocking together, wagging their heads. Parnell my dead king! Parnell. Whats he

that got to do with all? Not much. Read it umpteenth times though. Take it from me. Ay, better

move on. Where left you it off? Upper, Marty! Right at Trieste and stuff.

Marshalled onto the Istrian Peninsula by well-wishers where seemed to be a post in store

for him in a school that was just about to open up its gates he got as far as the town of Pula.

(9.) When the Irishman is found ouside of Ireland in an another environment, he very often

becomes a respected man. No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as

though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove (10.). The

likeness over again is in evidence as Daedelus and Joyce both are veritable cosmopolitans

brimming with their self-reliant, customized dictates, being their own independent-spirited,

substantive masters. Just as deftly as the double-dyed Daedelus, on the run from his angered

Jove, Minos, managed cyclically to survive did Joyce dig his foot in again and again while

travelling up Europe embodying the racially discrete, nay versatile self, who belongs not to

aon tr (24.)or nation steering clear of ever being encamped or roots-abiding or nested. (11.)

The quiescent period lasted no longer for the legendary Greek hero since King Minos, having

made a resolve to lay hold of his one-time polymath, started hunting high and low for him

scheming to con Daedelus into revealing his identity. Minos, Minos, you, however, did not by

just mere report know Daedalus. Minos, matey, ya frustrated me! Ought to know him better.

Him, the unthwartable fire-eater appearing on the scene of his own side-show. Just look!

When challenged to cypher out the mysterious task put forward by Minos about threading a

spiral seashell Cocalus volunteered Daedalus for solving the enigma. The Kastor-like whizs

adroitness in having a recourse to the age-old modus of giving a sop to cerberus, he held out a

dribblet of a honey with an ant whom he allowed to make its way through the convoluted

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route for it with the greatest of ease. His doing so is rather on par with Joyces subsequent

bringing off the coup by working his way through the ever-meandering helix of his stupefying

vision vis--vis humankind in Ulysses, hand over fist.Hem! Christening his fictional alterego

Daedelus, rendering him the paragon for Stephen and invoking the old artificer to stand

him now and ever in good stead (p. 253), Joyce, in a way, also warrants the success of the

future prosperity of his protagonist as a full-fledged and self-supporting literary inventor in

undertaking the large order of forging in the smithy of his soul the uncreated conscience of

his race (p. 253). By the example of the contrivance and resourcefulness Daedalus talents

and audaciousness bore testimony to Joyce sets and prognosticates such an exuberant futurity

for Stephen, and in effect for himself, that answers his notions about the formation of the

fecund and torrential carrier envisioned. And lo and behold, in a few years time, while

begetting the great novel of the century and causing Mr. Blooms and his companions

vertiginous adventures in the turmoil of the modern city of Dublin to correspond to Odysseus

prowling on the churning seas of the precious myth we see Joyce just as adeptly amplify and

interlace the cryptically reverberating tones of the internal hubbub of human experience

through the stream of his personaes generative consciousness as Daedelus did thread the

string of inventiveness through Minoscolumella.

Humph! Minos, Minos! Wo! Anybody in? Hullo? It is in one ear that here Cocalus

daughter, the gingerish, svelte pixies cohere by your embrasure?! Shalala lala it is us

purring and sniggering for the road! Risen shine! Bath-duds on, snappy! You, patties you

tucked your malleus away, sad Greco? Not can you hear us? Shalala lala Old Sweat!

Shalla shall-we to your aid come? In finding yours breeches in the morning?Shalalalala,shalala lala just for you just for now but then lettus in! In-in! In the

eveningtoo much Deadalus was for you! Bang! Bygones! Do you not be in the sulks. Oh

com and rather into redolent, spumy waters lower with us yourself! Oh oh! Oh-ought to

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have known that foxy trotter of an artificer better! Bibolous-nosed Minos! Outwit did you

Daedalus? So? Let not be that for a cause the mourning! Shalala! Come alon n in the

baths join carousing hands with us, glamor sisters! The renowned Ippolit and Sonia are and

their hulla-hooping succor musicking in the chiming clock, together who they are the

Vengaboys called. Shalala! May theirs lays hither lull your fatiqued senses!

Thereinto, come, the bath-cum-musichall, where those zithered singers vaudeville run its

lilting course andfall with us into the waters. Comon, pop, let your heart go shalalalike

the wise ours do lalala.

Minos, inveigled, had made a wayward night of those lalala-summons of Camicus

conscupiscent daughters to the baths only to finish off by yielding his soul up to their

beckoning daggers cutthroat rustle, the moments of which was sequential to the court

festivals staged apropos of Daedalus masterly disposal of what seemed to be Minos

inextricable conundrum. In the midsts of all that Daedalus arrived in Sardinia as well as Joyce

did in France, where these restless commuters of daedal artistry came to find their last berths.

Let be that for a cause the mourning! May the twofold cries (p.225) ofsoaring hawks lull

hither your fatiqued senses, strokes of genius

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CHAPTER II.

I. Contemplations from the crows nest of a far-off posture

Just as redundantly as a light satin evening gowns of the well-to-do is adorned with gold

scrolls and squiggles is the whiteness of these pages of the novel strewn with references

offering substantial and revelatory insights into the ecclesiastical and political dealings of the

Ireland of Joyces and sundry prior eras. The object I have proposed to myself henceforward

is to show down the debit cards of those regards throughout this ravishing retrospective of a

novel that Joyce used to give an account of the mercurial dynamism of his protagonists

sensitive mental constitution and of his specific psychic treatment of those societal, familial or

personal events of daily occurence peculiar to a sensuous temperament. No small matter.

Time is the nurse and breeder. Still. Looks like rain. Better close the window. Just so. I am

intent upon flashing episodes of Stephens personal evolution in his tailoring his congenitaland prostrating sensitivity into the creative potential that ended up making him giddy with the

thirst for regenerating the long-standing narrative techniques and the conventions of the

literary reconnaissance of the world around yielding ground to his vision of universal nature

about the Irish fate and affiliations. Sudden stab around throat. What that is? This turn whose

is? An atom ant is adamant. Dad, thuswise you would call me. Bat then for me at Sweet

Hanna to kindly conceive that what defy carcinoma! The magic larynx! Rose-tinted. Without

end.

Manoeuvred along deliberately in a peculiar pell-mell manner my analysis is intended to

blow up a number of negative proofs exposing glimpses of the elastic deformation of a novel

that exhibits the distinct transactions and peregrinations of a protagonist, who as hastily drops

Joyces shadowy modernist settings off just to reappear at some, the-least-expected angle as

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runaway school children straggle along the playing-fields in recess. Drift of dusts.

Hullabaloo. Twirling souffle of crowing colorous jackets. In pursuance of this objective I am

also poised to elaborate upon those subtle interrelations that the highlighted episodes bring in

their train. Zounds! Any more you have? Pending the time of this final solidification in

resolution and creativeness and of the steadfastness of his purpose, we are provided with the

development of an artist fighting through his way beset with the tangles and intricacies that

apparent and discernible for those with the aforementioned sensitivive mental constitution.

That his process of maturation is what I was above all concerned with. Apart from the flashes

of assurance spawned by the sense of vocation and of the awakening geniality it is the

intoverted Stephens ceaseless being at grips with the putative or real griveances and private

wrongs, he believes himself subject to that primarily determines the protagonists prevalent

states of mind in the course of the proceedings. By the same token, it is Joyces uncanny

ability in merging into his protagonists rich and circumstantial preoccupations and the

coverage he imparts us about Stephens clandestine ruminations that warrant the most

taintless phases throughout the pages of the novel irradiating the shimmery flotsam and

jetsam of a grappling psyche. The accentuation of the importance of the tribulation that

sustains the creative elaboration of ordinary events for an artist and brought about by the

concussions of his delicate and impressionable psyche driven by the counterrotating cog-

wheels of overreaction can be caught in the recurrent acts of Joyces assembling the parts of

his story while edging along the path beaten by sensitive Stephens wobbling ahead. Please

attend! An excerpt from a Joyce-poem excellently mirrors the aforesaid, the troubled waters

of the incongruous sentiments an artist ladles his inspiration out. The sly reeds whisper to the

night a name-her name and all my soul is a delight, a swoon of shame.(12.) At the very start

Stephens recess under the table is sufficiently evocative of what I would term as thepupation

cycle of the to-be work of art. Once being closeted himself away in his personal, self-imposed

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isolation with a view to be able to keep his own council over whatever has passed and is to be

bemoaned Stephen also gains the outer ears and extraneous eyes of the distant and objective

view.Justify! When exactly? Right now! Good! I remain convinced that this exterior position

is what is imperative for an artist, in the present instance for Stephen, that is, his shoving off

of the scene of life and his subsequent contemplation from the crows nest of the far-off

posture is what makes admissible for him to envelop the imprint of the reality of experience

(p. 253) into the cocoon of his creative imagination, the imprint, that then will attain full

growth in the course of the ensuing phase of the actual composition. You sure? Aye. Just look.

Stephens recurrent assuming extrinsic stances are leitmotives in the novel. Again, from a

certain standpoint, the process of writing is all about recapturing the reminiscences of the

empirical formula of the world conditioned by ones former involvement. More exact be. Or

else, properly speaking, the importance ofbeing presentwith the mind of the outsideris what

is the intrinsic prerequisite for an author. Bingo! In my eye, the negative of the image of

existence deposited in the sharpened senses of this outsider, who in effect transubstantiates to

be an insider, starts pulsating in his carotid while being posteriorly printed off in the current

of the actual creation.

II. In the dusty wake of the those long-ago paternal remonstrances

(with an infantile Stephen peeping out from under the vault of the table withacunningly screwed-up, far-

sighted eye)

Catching the first glimpse of him, consequently, in the halo of the illuminating pierheads

of his own one-time infancy Joyce commences on unreeling Stephens story with portraying

him peep out from under the table fighting shy of making an apology and incurring the

corresponding dreadful plague on himself: getting his eyes carved out by ravens and eaten by

eagles. The germ of his conscientious reluctance already reared its head here, at the very

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portals of his succeding accomplishment in becoming a self-asserting individual.Right-o! Let

us conjure now up the locale where the resigning artist with the mellow resolution in his heart

and the new, second-hand clothes (p. 253) arrayed in a neat order in his portmanteau is last

recoiled from ascension in the confluence of the white arms of roads and the black arms of

tall ships, (p. 252) listening to the noise of many waters far below, flowing to and fro(13.).

Envision the full-blown artist who is just about to gather headway forward where the

murmuring tales and closing embraces of distant nations(p. 252) inveigle him from.Purely

it is like that JA-poem. On an onerous arrival. Gee! Fit then that in. Imagine him as he

sztnz merengve s okos fejvel biccent, nem reml (Attila Jzsef: Remnytelenl). If

Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European. Joyce puts these words

into Padraic Colums mouth in the first act ofExiles and now when we see Stephen standing

at the end of the road abandoning himself to be shrouded and be torn away by the shadow of a

moocow of his ever-wistful longings a strange sense of deja vu seems to overcome us,

readers. Namely, that the other end of this white arm of a road shimmers in the mirage of past

reminiscences of a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo (p. 7) who would walk arm-in-arm

with his father at languorous saunters hearkening to his stories about the supernatural, white

cow referred to as moocow. It takes children across to a realm where they are alleviated and

relieved of the trifling restraints and enslavements of childhood and miraculously schooled as

heroesbefore theyre returned to their flabbergasted parents. (14.) Amen. So be it. Welcome,

O life! (p. 253.). In the dusty wake of the those long-ago paternal remonstrances about a

possible and enchanting encounter of the moocow, and a little boy, named baby tuckoo,

however, it costs us to acknowledge, in Joyces case seems to have reached a poignant

consummation. Indeed, under the direction of that cabalistic leader, that supernatural moocow

of a governor, he accedes to his protagonists yen to clear the Irish harbor heading towards the

realm of his future laurels. Aye, he did sanction him to indulge in the euphoria of becoming

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one of most outstanding inventors of overriding importance, he did permit him, nay, plenty of

rope and a festoon of additional allotments but one. Alas! It is his being debarred from ever

bending his steps homeward where the mordancy of the Irish destiny lies, and it is through

this acerbity that we know how to intuit the flavor turned into ashes on their lips, the

desperate and universal impasse of their existence forged in casting mould of Joyces era-

defining vision. There is an economic and there is a spiritual exile. There are those who left

her (Ireland) to seek the bread by which men live and there are others, nay, her most favoured

children, who left her to seek in other lands that food of the spirit by which a nation of human

beings is sustained in life(15.).

Retracing the billowing of the curlicued yarn of lines of this unfolding essay of mine we

arrive again at the familial afterimage presenting Stephen hidden under the table. Know this to

be a paralell radical like billy-oh. That his being hidden thingy. It on the tip of my thought is.

With that Stevie stuck undertable. Think, chap! Got to be poetized whatever might it be.

Something is in my mind there. With that Stevie guy retired there like under some kind of a

what-do-you-call-it. Vault or something. Or else burrow. Scratch. Better for Stevie under a

vault to be. Why keep in the world calling you him Stevie? Stevie Wonder. Blind darky. Teeth

white as driven snow. Part-time lover part-time ivory tickler. Signals sensitive teeth an artist?

WWW dot com. Poor blinds. Mine heart goes out for Stevie. Wobblin head with spangly

sunglassy and dreadlocks hovering. Lassos. Niggers would be lassoed when cotton was

easier. Welts. Grand slam. Arthur Ashe. Strived in the third set. Captured then center court.

Louis the Brass with bloated jowls. With googled eye-whites with beefy paws with bleachy

palms. Palm Beach. On Saturday Candlelight Ceremony topromote the use of the MLKMemorial Park. Luther Juniordeclaimed like a. Like a dream. To the. To the manacled of

segregation! Still see your shadowy cast! Your suit-of-ditto-cast. My dead king! The negros

finds himself in exile in his own land! (16.). Exiles. James Aloysius. Mamma mia, knock me

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down with a feather! Mutual mission! Luther King and Augustine Aloysius both messianistic

leaders forging uncreated consciences. Of theirs nation! Something like link that is is not

that my dear fellows! Hold on. Here is anpearsa aonair a bheidh ag seoladh trdla n

gairmeeilegohaonraicn igcomhphirtocht (25.). Kunta Kinte. Dolefully, once having

his leg severed warming the bench on a virginian verandah, with bent and fuzzy head,

contorted, sweaty, fly-pestered brows in the stark relief of the jittery afterglows skywards. The

mandinkas doom. Them Kaabu Empire converted to Islam and sold them into slavery to

Americas. Have the nauseates. Stephention is better than cure. Be a keeper to him first. Still.

Stephen and the million and odd. What sobriquet (26.) is that? O recurred. Stephen and the

million odd Emerald Islanders Tudor Empire coerced to Protestanism and sold the Catholics

into the confines of the penal laws.Pretty Scuttle of Coals Here! Empty! There Helluva

Flaming Tudor Fireplaces. Scratch that. The previous places you were at? The table. And

Stephen under. Sure.

No sooner had he danced, sung, taken his bows and curtain calls, received Uncle Charles

and Dantes acclamation and said in a glow that he was going to marry Eileen then he

secluded himself underthe vaultof the table and conscientiously objecting to and backing out

of offering a reasonable excuse for acting so started caricaturing the idiom of those standing

around him calling him to account with a forbiding look. Pull out his eyes/ Apologize/

Apologize/ Pull out his eyes(p. 8). On closer examination of the inward alignment of this

brief introductory phase, its being the theoreticalgolden section of the subsequent formation

of the authors personal fate seems to offset the deep tan surface of this analysis. Concerning

the definition of the golden ratio it declares that two quantities are in it if the ratio between the

sum of those quantities and the larger one is the same as the ratio between the larger one and

the smaller. Even if it is not demonstrable in numbers or cannot be derived as precisely as it

would be as a result of a mathematical implementation it is, at this stage, still more than

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26/67

feasible for us to extrapolate the configuration of Joyces later career from the series of

Stephens infantile movements on the grounds of their salient structural (re)semblance. On

your marks. Get set. Go. Refrain again. Hardly had Joyce strutted out of the nave of his

religion and potential priesthood, sung his artistic credo to Cranly, taken his bows and curtain

calls receiving his fellow students and teachers furore and said Nora in a glow that he was

intent upon commisioning her the love of his life and to absconding with her when he

secluded himself under the vault of the neutral but effervescent existence of a cosmopolitan in

Europe. Furthermore, while conscientiously objecting to and backing out of offering a

reasonable excuse for acting so he started caricaturing and polishing the idiom of the milling

crowds rallying around him and simultaneously calling him to give the encore next in line

with a startled but infatuated look on their faces. And theres an end of it! He might as well

have then said: Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow(p. 221). At the same time had but

anybody ever conjectured that it (solely) was the towering hustle of his direct surroundings he

galvanized life into he ought to, in the end, be reconciled to the fact that, while in exile in

Europe, his obsessive enthrallment all through made Ireland, its people and their history the

sovereign steerage of all of his novels and lent them their rapid propulsion. When I die

Dublin will be written in my heart(17.).Along the same lines with this obeisance,

time and again, in an even proportion, periodically, sheer and fierce criticism, acid admonition

and cruel condemnation resurface the stream of Joyces vociferous declarations and public

manifestations (18.) revealing the two-edged attitude of a man of such an incisive mind for

whom the overt defaults, the malpractises and shortcomings of the past are undisputable and

stand out like the sore, crumbling Martello tower for a floating pontoon of surveying sailors

stranded at Sandycove bay, jaded but strenuous. Insilence, with a cunningly screwed-up, far-

sighted eye to the exile Joyces future accomplishment we seem to let it assume again a

conformational propinquity, now that, which is analogous with that foregoing bay-vista.

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Retrospectively speaking, James Joyces literary exploit, performed overseas, likewise stands

out like the sore, crumbling Martello tower, unflinching, in flagrant defiance of the time

elapsed, for the surging pontoon of an island-state, standing sentinel at Sandycove bay, dismal

but staunch. The end is that.Well, all well that hides water. Recall seeing the puff pastry of a

cherub, the cloud, afloat on the milk in a depth that reached up to the sump of a sky when

pulled away the snap-lid of the well. So much I did by this enchantment fear to be yanked off.

Pulled it lickety-split back. To forget. D'fhonndearmad, astrmthair. (27.) You forget

that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a

woman(19.).

III.Wedged between the wandering rocks incarnated by the church and state ever-roaring on the Irish

territorial waters

(With the infantile then a fully-fledgedStephen tariffed by Dantes childrhyme of a stricture)

Within the brief compass of the opening phase what is intimidated through Stephens

being contemptuous and derisive of Dantes reprimand by murmuring his silent mockery lines

will reach an acrid fulfilment in the grandiose denouement when he turned the scales upon

playing a lone hand, warding off any parental, societal or eccleastical authority whatsoever.

Remember who he was. A soaring and detachment-seeker imagination. Wedged between the

wandering rocks incarnated by the church and state ever-roaring on the Irish territorial waters.

Dire straits concede I that. But that remember-who-he-was lords it over whoever reads.

Again read it. Not a bit. Okay, after all. Better resume. The childrhyme of a remonstrance

referred to by Dante comes from Isaac Watts, Protestant hymnologysts songbook, entitled

Divine Songs Attempted in Easy Language for the Use of Children and likewise has a

scriptural basis, that is Proverbs 30: 17. It is put in these words in the original: Have you not

heard what dreadful plagues/ Are threatened by the Lord/ To him that breaks his Fathers

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law/ Or mocks his mothers word?/ What heavy guilt upon him lies! How cursed is his name!

The ravens shall pick out his eyes and eagles eat the same. (20.) The message, which is

analogous with mocking, or rather slighting his mothers word and breaking, or rather

shuffling off his fathers law is couched under the imperious dialogue between Cranly and

Stephen. The integration of the novel kindles here by the provision of identical motives

planted at the very outset and at the far end of the plot.Half a tick! It was not inadvertently or

precociously done that we jolted the yeasty and declamatory personality of Stephen so rashly

from his future at that pacific stage, but for the sake of the analogy in question. Remote as the

confronted phases are rousing enough the revelation may seem that in the wake of this

Dantean curse Stephens substantive and future predestination looms up. Even though the

jinx, Dante anathemized Stephen with, that is, may he be overshadowed by wings of an eagle,

nay, may he have his eyes carved out by the beak of the same, has not come to a fruition, it

could have still sown the seeds of a furtive rapport and a for-life marvel in Stephen towards

the winged wayfarers of the pale space of sky above (p. 224.) hovering overhead,

squawking, and flitting into the thin air higher than where the dozing goliath sentinels, the

wandering rocks bow with their crumbling head, loitering and reclining against each other in

the harbor like those vinous convives, Joyce once knew as Dubliners. Let us have them

synthetically termed then in a Joycean fashion: Ireland, is sober when Ireland is

stiff.(21).What was meant as an imprecation, nay as a deterrent, in effect, brought forthan entirely anthitetical longing, a personal wish that becomes father to the thought of the

yearning artist wistfully, wide-eyed stargazing the dark, quivering bodies of the birds flying

clearly against a limp-hung cloth of smoky tenuous blue, circling about a temple of air(p.

224). Birds,unlike man, are in the order of their life and have not perverted that order by

reason. A satisfaction it was for him to have his ears soothed by the inhuman clamour they

made, in which his mothers sobs and reproches murmured insistently and to have his

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eyes soothed by their swerving around an airy temple of the tenuous sky, which still saw the

image of his mothers face (p. 224). As it happens, it was his mother, whose entreaty relative

to the Easter duty Stephen had peremptorily repudiated vowing I will not serve (p. 239). In

exclaiming so he essentially disawoved his Church authority over his walk of life how great

potency soever it may have formerly had. The curl of Cranlys lips, however, is rather telltale

and prevents us from hypothesizing this not being a forswearing done so unequivocally, a

negation of a mind that attempts to invalidate and eradicate all of which it is so fundamentally

suffused with. Being the untimely canto of human spirit, that cannot be gainsaid and ascends

from the lips like tribal pyre-smoke emanating heavenwards, the deployment of the soul,

grown as thick as the droning and feathery reed-plots, standing at a martial attention, like the

crusaders flagstaffs or clerical scarfs in vestrical armoires, rustling about the time of early

days, religion is the lulling, the lavender and diagonal waves in the water-course of the

history of humankind. In reply, sagaciously, Cranly thus spoke: It is a curious thing how

your mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve (p.240). The

profoundity of his interlocking and the severity of his obsession notwithstanding, Joyce

couldnt make his protagonist not mellow the resolve to leave his much-loved and much-

despised country behind. He represented Stephen as the scion who periodically comes to

slight his mothers word since the image of a tr dhchais caoin, urramach (28.), nurturing

his citizens was that of an old sow eating her farrow in Joyces eyes, a porcine beldam,

whom a pist fin(29.) had strayed away from in the hour of needand to whomthey were

called back once, in loneliness and exile, they had at least learned to love (22.).

Furthermore, he represented Stephen as the descendant who had gradually managed to

extricate himself in body (but not in mind) from the sprawling, skittish metropolis of a Baile

tha Cliath (30.), or in a wider sense, from the holdfast with arms (or wings?) pinioned

behind him by a nisin (31.) comprising those hopeless, useless and disconsistent rs (32.)

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of charlatans (Joyce recited this while at a Berlitz school in Trieste in order to teach English

to Italians in 1922) that Joyce ever came across on an oilen(33.), or on the continent. And

last but no least Stephen also impresses us at the endgame, in the course of the conversation

held between Cranly and him, as a soul who, by the mettle of his determination, would stall

even cairdeas (34.) off and would fly in the face of the throes that may start skulking around

ones solitary heart in ones detachment.I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another

or to leave whatever I have to leave. Im not afraid to make a mistake, a saoil dearmad (35.),

and perhaps as long as an eternity (p. 246). Mellowing-stopping that accented, pristine-

looking idiom to the magyar heart seems. tha, nisin, rs and all. Compared the English

slur to that gawping -sounds. No slur meant though. Upon this here this means mistake that

dearmad word. Tell you what. Spooky resembleance is that. Dearmad. Diarmaid. Eureka!

Diarmaid made dire a dearmad.An dearmadchianaosta (36.). Mine dear mad kitchen maid!

Out of the window with stripped potato jackets and apple parings along, my own Murchadha,

you threw yournisin onto the rubbish-heap. Shame to your ashes! Take a leaf out, lets say,

Ashes book!

IV. On the fringe of the line his eyes were weak and watery

(with a clongowean Stephen in the possession of the leases of revealing visualities)

1.Tap. Tap. Taptatap. Tap. Taptatap.

Let him pass now! Let the heartened-up, the resigned, the frustrated, the undergrad, nay,

the grownup, the leery, the high-minded, the assertvie, the giddy-paced, the starry-eyed, the

recalcitrant, the evanescent, the hell-bent-on-leaving, the would-to-heaven-to-arrive Stephen

come off guard now giving way and allowing his filial himself to belay the rope of this story-

telling now around the ledge that overlooks the sweeping valley of his long-before-seen

childhood covered by vineyards and broken up by lines of cyprus trees. Made a sweep clean.

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Put all his rags in one sentence. Funny enough in these all he is in me. Every attire makes

sense, come to think ofem. These epithets like attires act. Who writes acts like. Who writes

acts like tire-women. Who writes acts like tire-women to manikins. Endows the nude torso of

thrill with the mantle of what. Dauber you are. Hope not. Question remains. What time

recalcitrant though that Stevo? Liked that word badly. Citrant. Like some exotic. Some, say,

some exotic something. Think. Bah! Thats dubiety tommyroty. You wrote that and right did

it. That easy to see that Stevo is recalcitrant. Everyone is like someone sometimes in some

wise. But he a mimosae is to boot. Right. Tap on. Tap. Tap. Taptatap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tapta.

Tapta. Taptatatatap. Let ice e! See how out what you tapped thaws. Funny though. I reads

mean: Once having completed the roll-up of the all the respects the first brief phase

necessitated and entailed its high time for us to yield to the Clongowean student venturing to

the fore.Right, you, Marty are. Tap on. As stated afore Joyces intelinks the parts of his story

while following the scents on the path beaten by a sensitive Stephens wavering ahead,

concussed by the blows a delicate and impressionable psyche driven by the counterrotating

cog-wheels of excessive responsiveness is subject to be seized with. And while he lets the

shafts of Stephens perception seep through the momentous historical, religious and political

interferences also infiltrates into the pores of the text. An example I want, talker! At my

command I am. Stephen once having pushed through from under the dining table resigned

from the family, leaving off of the bonds of parental shielding to find himself alone in the

pale and chilly evening air. He kept on the fringe of his line, out of the sight of his prefect,

out of the reach of the rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body small and

weak amid the throng of the players and his eyes were weak and watery (p. 8).By every

indication Stephen has broken away from the rest of those vivacious brats, his classmates,

footballing with a reckless abandon. O that figures! Thinks he therefore to be a namby-pamby

seems he. Off the heat of that game. But, but, water-butt! In the heat of the game projected in

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vision or how I shall put it. Sorta universal stuff. Put that down. The particular and

indispensible exterior and objective position is what is imperative for an artist and here it is

ensured by Stephens urge to beat a hasty retreat facing his mates unusual release of energy

in the press of their fight for the greasy leather orb flowing like a heavy bird through the

grey light (p. 8).It is that so-to-said outlying localization that is instrumental in Joyce being

able to take possession of the leases of the revealing visuality of the football match through

Stephens eyes so that he could negotiate its real significance by means of the poetic

description. Seen through the haze of the artistic, the aesthetical distance the leather balls

with its sagging tatters flicking across the sky in the wake of the grass-tained sweep of an

infantile will jolly well appears to be a fluttering bird being on the wing against the gray

firmament that gives bed and board to the winged. The association of ideas is set off here by

delineating an object strayed to a quasi incongruous territory and ostensibly assuming the

qualities of the entity that by necessity belongs there. The flying ball is endowed and

animatedwith a bird-like quality through the poetic contrasting, the reason being it fluttering

with its floppy patches in order to be able to keep up floating as birds do. Yep. Carry on! As a

matter of course, it is also inherent in the existence of a ball to be ad interim air-bound. The

bird and the ball having a mutual basis for comparison and the artist being on the

contemplative side of the fence and having the mandatory withdrawn attitude together opens

the door, or rather, in this instance, the sky for us to broaden the scope of our apprehension

concerning certain objects by his uniting them in the course of the creative depiction and

rendering their inherent linkage perceptible. Likened to a juddering warbler of the skies the

leather ball significance is intensified and is made to exceed its intrinsic limits. It comes to be

the celestial herald of the boys radial exhiliration, prancing temperament, or the yet-

slumbering ambitions of their imminent and awkward adolescence.

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II. On the fence of his self-imposed detachements at zero altitude

a) Pronto, pronto, Mrs Fatica! Put me through to his brittle psyche!

Let us now see further examples of Joyces providing us with revalatory insights intoStephens self-simmering speculations. Having the sundry niches of the narrative space at his

disposal perpetually partitioned off what his much sought-after aspiration appears to be is his

finding the wherewithals to be able to beckon his protagonist of brittle psyche in and

rendering a solo act of the overall orchestration of the span of the distinct chapters. Lets see

going. Lets see going. Lets. Gone! Gotcha! Sttben bjkl gondolat! (37.) No quarter!

Haw-Haw! Guffaw. Goofy fawn. Underhooves I you have. All one. Let us take the case of the

clammy-handed, frothy-browed and indisposed Stephen indulged in hazy chimeras in the

infirmary. That the fey clongowist beholds through the rippling waves of the hearth, cast on

the wall in the shape of the prancing but shadowed sea-fire, the flickering but elegiac

pageantry of past heroes, is again, what one considers an objective, an epiphanistical vision

pertaining to creative fancy impreganated by the manifestation in line. Manifestation.

Moneyfestation. Money, money, money. Always sunny.In the rich mans world. Aha-ahaaa.Must be funny. Ahaaa. Hey, you, Anni-Frid and Agnetha! My cutie singing-birdies! A bitty

thicky thatty is! I mean, from a historical angle, at present, far that from the truth is. Though

being a well-to-do person of royal intelligence, say, in Charles Parnells world was not it

always sunny. And funny. Ya, Swedish gals, know that? Thats Ire-land! Ahaaa! Nothing

doing. Likker absorbs wampum here. Through this vision of Stephens the mercurial Joyce, an

author of resource, piercingly illuminates the subdued but unrescindable memory of the death

of the king, Charles Parnell, for whom his fathers eyes were full of tears and Mr. Casey

sobbed loudly and bitterly(p. 40). More a lot on that later. Promise! Bye. And now

something else.Munkatrsam mr a vonalban trelmetlenkedik. (38.). Pronto, pronto Miss

Fatica! (39.).

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realize. A sizzling flush. Like stuck pigs they looking and looking. Roots of hair getting pins.

Stareem out. Only chance. So, as I mentioned, dear guests of ours. Quit wry-smiling, chit!

Im going to read out to our guests from the painters (author!) personal memoirs inviting you

to go up-stage of what came to be depicted here on these beautious multifold panel pictures.

And a lisping ducky at that! Would I not employ tongue-tied guidesses. No way! Know a good

speech clinic missus! It is as follows: The fellows laughed. In the silence of the soft grey air

he heard the cricket bats: pock. That was a sound to hear but if you were hit then you would

feel a pain. He looked at Athys rolled up sleeves and knuckly inky hands. He had rolled up

his sleeves to show how Mr. Gleeson (p. 45). Glass with care, ladies and gents! For fear he

should feel even the pocks of the cricket bats a pain. Ecco! The flare-up lights of a sensitive

psyche, pardon my French, guide us in interpreting the world-around depicted from a

cosmeticizing distance. What ails ya about them French? By the way, them flare-up lights I

wish showed us around hundred times more than you missus once. Kinda wicked. Bvlgari. Ill

be bound that someone has it. Cosmeticizing? Jesus! Gloryfying distance or something about

the same like. Heavens, about she is to read on.

c) Elutriating the universal residue. Ahaaa! Clear as mud

- Or, to proceed on, folks, a couple of reminiscences highlithing upon the times of his first

communion: God was put on the altar in the middle of flowers and candles at benediction.

When the rector had stooped down to give him the holy communion he had smelt a faint winy

smell off the rectors breath after the wine of the mass (p.46). Is he, whom the protagonist is

a dispatch of, the author, is he the only one, ladies and gents, who is capable to notice that the

altar is festooned with flowers and twinkling candles? Or the winy touch of a breath that

shortly before were steaming up the chalice-brim of the covenant? Youre right maam! The

drab-hatted ladys bowing her tepid assent evocative of her scepticism and reveals her just

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deliberation over what I would term as the collective capacity of any of us in discerning the

like phenomena aforementioned. Notwithstanding these awakening and smiling acquiscences

I can see lighting upon your faces all around, there is only a measure of justice in their

asserting the authors being on an akin, on-par basis with the sensations of the ordinary

intellect. What? Ease her, missus! The counterrotating cogs of overeaction permitting, the

author is, in my esteem, the elective one for the possession of the special caliber necessitated

in the appraisal of his and the general human experience and, subsequently in, though with

frenzied efforts, elutriating its universal residue.Ahaaa! Clear as mud. Though a point there,

missus. Must be a drop in her eye. O. Wicked. It is the author, dear habitus, who is the

partaker of the tranmissivity and the discernment, by the means of which human experience is

susceptible of creative summation and the ensuing improvement. He is not only capable of

noticing those flowers on the altar-cloth, but of espying the age-old human manner of

wreathing garlands of vigilant gladiolis and admonitory tapers, or, if you like, the priests in-

flame index-fingers around the altar-bound and intangible divine presence. Jesus! That

guidess is set! Regularly set! Furthermore, relative to the wine,I believe, he is the one, again,

who, with a grim sense of foreboding, gets, in a flash, imbued by the qualms of a potential

macabre interrelationship between the wine that, when misused by a skewed intent, discolors

the actuating conscience and the one that, when nominated by a sacred presence to be the

drink of life, transubstantiates into be the blood of the same. Such a thing? Went over my

head. Riddle me this. Take I will a running jump after this long-distance ducky.

d) Being adrift on the hazy waterway of fiction. Whom ya are at aiming, my luv?

As for me to avoid keeping your eyes too long off from the delectable pictures by mine

long-drawn soliloquies of these, let me be allowed, folks, to bring it to an end by reciting the

last diary-excerpt. Wo! He passed along the narrow dark corridor. He peered in front of him

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and right and left through the gloom and thought that they were portraits of of the saints and

great men of the order who were looking down on him silently as he passed (p.56). What

rises here to view as an unprecedented feature of our observations is rather peculiar to an

introspective, testy errant of a protagonist. Gently does it missus!By roster!Word and word

about! Being entitled by his ventursome maker of an author to regard his own mind as, if you

like, the zero altitude, which all the heights of the outside world are correlated to and lend

their order of importance for him in accordance with their respective measure of that

correlation, consequently, in this novel it is Stephens, the protagonists consciousness that

acts as the organizing nucleus of symmetry.I like that cutie!Make a mental note let me there!

Joyce seems to leave no stone unturned to let his hero spin the events of the daily round in his

very mind and the kinetic energy evaporating from that subliminal latitude as perpetually

tenaciously and yet airily weaves the reality of experience(p.253) around the bobbin of a

finger of the protagonist as a spinning-wheel rotates its spokes and whiskery yarn when

driven by apaced feet. Would you, missus, try corroborating that one more time for, say, for

good measure? For sure a legal claim that is. Please, do. Step this way, please. From here we

can get a clear view of Stephen on the dim hallway. Go ahead, sir, just safely cant that railing.

Go ahead, sir just safely. Refrain from pummeling. Butter him up. Sure. And comb ere my

hair missus for what. So it goes. Vonnegut. Still the better I dig her. For Stephen, artist in the

bud, adrift on the gloomy hallway of his self-speculations next astern, it is an embryonary

sense of a special embassy what kindles while feeling the weight of his succeeding mission

under the vigilant tableau of the those who already went to their account after a meritorius

life. She must mean Ricci, Loyola, Xavier Gonzaga, Kostka and the rest of them so fulfilled

the Jesuits were. Sure, missus.You on the ball are. For Joyce, adrift on the hazy waterway of

fiction, artist in the bloom, or Bloom with a capital b, if you like, a juvenile sense of a special

embassy kindles, while feeling the weight of a succeeding delegation under the imaginary

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tableau of the those, who already went to their account after a laudable life in experimenting

with making their central figures mind more or less the determinative force of their novels.

Interesting! Whom ya are at aiming, my luv? An entrant Stephens adventures meant for

Joyce in his unbounded probing into the till-then uncharted depths of a potential guidance

proffered on a silver tray by the all-important counsciousness of his character (s). Ahaaa!

Ahaaa! Right on! A woman of an angel she is. Always sunny. And a Joyce-connoisseur to

boot. Cant place you, my ducky! His major precursor, who had first used in his novel entitled

Les Lauriers sont coups in 1888 those interior monologues that initiated the incommunicably

affluent bonanza of widely and, if you like, wildly diverse facilities for the smith of a story-

teller in his forging in the smithy of his soul, was douard Dujardin, a gaul crivain

deuxieme (42.) (23.). My sweet, I just cant hack your if-you-likes any more. Say it flat! A

proposito! Tthat again run by me, luv, who that? douard who? Petiska? Sure not. Mole-

hills. Critics asseverates, however, that the tradition of stream of consciousness- the very issue

under investigation- is not so much untapped as it is hoary and is of great antiguity in the

history of fiction.(24.) Joyce's major innovation was to carry the interior monologue one step

further by rendering, for the first time in literature, the myriad flow of

impressions...Methinks...half thoughts...that this...associations...pretty little

linaria...lapses...or narcissus...and hesitations...or you name it... incidental worries...who she

really resemblesI really wonder... and sudden impulses...Gee! I got it! A svelte sunflower she

is like!...that form part of the individual's conscious awareness along with the trend of his

rational thoughts (25.).Joyce, like Flaubert isolate the words of his sentences, examining

them in all their unusual bearings. When composing idioms out of them he wishes to attract

our attention to the parody or mockery that in posse lie in these coinages. (26.) And theres

the end of it! So these are the autobiographical particulars, which the author so to say, pardon

my French, establish the underlay the roofing and the masonry upon, in order for the structure

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of his multiple vision to be underpinned, eleven feet high, and to have it translated into the

keen-edged remembrance of the past conglowean among others! Step she is to by me. Stand

by me Bvlgari! That so yir little parfume, missus! My senses ya made, watch out, cutie,

reeled. The bus is to leave at 6 sharp. 20 to 6 it is. So Id emphatically request everyone to get

done with viewing in five minutes before 6 and let us assemble by the front door! Thanks!

Oh-oo-oh. Do not mention it. You're in the army. Oh-oo-oh. In the army now. Eye eye G.I.

Jane! We by the front door will be. Stand-to!See mention must be made, though, now The

Status Quo of what miss ducky said about them hazy waterways of fiction or the blazes what it

were. Pitched it she too high though. Vehement. Redolent with Bvlgari. Ill bound be. Brought

the same from Madrid for the yoke-fellow. Gorgeous splash of galanga, and vodka drizzled

over notes of iris and dark chocolate. Read it every morning on the bath-shelf though.

Whataver. Oh-oo-oh. Scratch that just right now. As it so good now. In her arms I now. Oh-

oo-oh. Thats the status quo.

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CHAPTER III.

I.The self-devouring perfidies of unleashed poltergeists with battering rams, pounding

(with a clongowean Stephen and the hundred and odd stooping students)

1A rather copious but systematic view of an abduction

And now, dear readers we solemnly commence our rappel towards our mutual

inheritance, the past, through the malleable shafts of recollection. Light carburetted

hydrogen. Hare off. Into the underworld harewise in fobbed waistcoat. The clongowean

Stephen, Joyces little gillie aids him in setting the scene in pursuance of the anatomy of an

extinct, stuporous age of ones early life, the little one, whom face his own physiognomy are

emblazoned on, whose motions, attributes and sentiments are modeled after his and whose

reanimated presence is asine qua non for him to restitute the dry-rotten keel of thepast, the

vertebrae of the boat of oblivion afloat on the billows of the mulish passing. The past is

consumed in the present, and the present is living only because it brings forth the future

(p.251). This vehicle of the past is markedly of volatile stability and even if only for an

instant, is to be re-established for fear the dark, bulky mass, slowly being hove astern,

impregnated, should keel over and be awashed hissing toward the watery gate. Back all! It

allows of no delay! The writer by definiton must be such an itinerant with a fisted depth-

recorder who gets beyond his present-day depth and not only does he venture beyond the

domain of his personal matters-as they stand-but also transcends the margin of his nations

bygones and not letting them be bygones he conjugates the universal experience to the

individual and vica versa. What if that you narrowed? Aye. As in the case of Joyces Ireland

the road towards the corporate recollection happens to be a gigantic, stonewalled causeway

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formed by the flow of lava of an unleashed malignancy adjoining to the crape-black sea of the

past and rank treacheries into which Irish precipitated Irish with one countryman having a

weight hung round the anothers neck. A millstone better they would have been off wearing

about their necks! Verily them I think of as them maiming their little ones. My, unrelenting

rage. Have pity on them! What they were doing didnt they then know. And in spite of

everything Ireland remains the brain of the Kingdom. The Irish, condemned to express

themselves in a language no their own, have stamped on it the mark of their own genius and

compete for glory with the civilized nations. This is then called English literature. (Joyce

recited this an other vignettes while at the Berlitz school in Trieste in 1922). So there! It is

here in Clongowes that Joyce first makes his little back-room boy throughout the wizardry of

his summonings what has passed confront with the bearings of the case relative to the Irish

paying the interests of the high money of their insurmountable loggerhead twist, their age-old

leaning towards musterin

academic thesis on james joyce

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