Ulysses by James Joyce: Cast list

One obvious way of thinking about a book is not the plot, narrative or style, but slicing it up by characters and actions. This is especially handy for ‘Ulysses’ in which a cast of over 200 named characters weave in and out of the narrative as they weave their way around Dublin. You could get cute and say that many phrases and individual key words recur like characters, weaving in and out of the text to create complicated resonances and motifs, which is true, but listing them would take a book. Just creating this cast list deepened my own understanding of the characters and their significance.

The list is in order of first appearance – I wasn’t sure whether to put it into alphabetical order but Wikipedia already has an alphabetical list, if you want one:

I omitted chapter 15, ‘Circe’, because it is a beast unto itself, with over 100 characters with some of them of questionable nature (for example the various inanimate objects who have active or speaking parts) and would make this list unmanageably long. You can read my Circe review with its cast list, separately.

Chapter numbers and names

Here’s a reminder of the 18 chapters and their Homeric titles i.e. the episodes from Homer’s Odyssey which they are based on or reference. (Always worth emphasising that these titles don’t actually appear in any edition of ‘Ulysses’ where the chapters are just given as plain numbers; they are the names given by Joyce to early promoters of his book and which have been used by scholars and fans ever since they became known in the 1930s.)

Part 1. Telemachiad

  1. Telemachus
  2. Nestor
  3. Proteus

Part 2. Odyssey

  1. Calypso
  2. Lotus Eaters
  3. Hades
  4. Aeolus
  5. Lestrygonians
  6. Scylla and Charybdis
  7. Wandering Rocks
  8. Sirens
  9. Cyclops
  10. Nausicaa
  11. Oxen of the Sun
  12. Circe

Part 3. Nostos

  1. Eumaeus
  2. Ithaca
  3. Penelope

Cast

Numbers in brackets refer to chapters the characters appear in. They’re as complete as I could make them but probably not definitive.

1. Telemachus: at the Martello Tower

Stephen Dedalus (1, 2, 3, 9, 14, 15, 16, 17) aged 22, hyper-intelligent, extremely well-read, bookish young man with literary ambitions – described as ‘a lithe young man, clad in mourning, a wide hat’, mourning his recently dead mother. Called back from a brief sojourn in Paris by his father’s telegram telling him his mother is dying, Stephen caused scandal by refusing to kneel and pray at her bedside. Earns a bit teaching at Deasy’s school. In the National Library propounds his Shakespeare theory to sceptical traditionalists who aren’t impressed (10). Depressed, he appears to spend the rest of the day drinking, reappearing in the ‘Oxen of the Sun’ episode, making drunken smart remarks in the gang of drunk medical students when sober Bloom arrives. He is mortified that it is superficial Buck Mulligan who gets invited to the important literary soiree of George Moore and not the much more clever him. When the party in the maternity hospital breaks up, Stephen staggers off to the red light district where he encounters Bloom again, who rescues him from a confrontation with a British soldier and takes him home for cocoa and a chat.

On this reading of ‘Ulysses’ I realised that Stephen, for all his smarts, is a frustrated loser, stymied at every turn. By the time we get to the later chapters, his highfalutin quoting of Aquinas or whoever which felt impressive in the opening chapters, has come to seem a pathetic compensation for his failure.

I don’t feel sorry for Stephen, he’s had plenty of advantages to his start in life; I feel sorry for his impoverished younger brothers and sisters. He encounters one in chapter 10, Wandering Rocks, Dilly (Delia) Dedalus, at a bookseller’s cart, where Dilly has bought a French primer. He feels pity for her pathetic attempts to educate herself and he has his wages in his pocket to help her… but he doesn’t; he prefers to spend all his wages on alcohol and then on prostitutes. So no sympathy for Stephen.

Mary Dedalus – Stephen’s mother, recently dead. Mulligan castigates him for refusing to kneel and pray by her bedside as she was dying, a refusal that leaves him plagued by guilt throughout the novel, climaxing in the Circe chapter where he hallucinates her reproaching him. Her recent death explains why for the whole of Bloomsday Stephen is dressed in mourning. For me the often-overlooked fact is that his poor mother had 13 pregnancies, from which there are nine surviving children.

Malachi ‘Buck’ Mulligan (1, 10, 13) – plump, witty young medical student who has rented a Martello tower to live in and is letting Stephen rent a room. Mockingly dismissive of Stephen’s literary pretensions, he crops up again in the Scylla and Charybdis in the National Library taking the mickey out of Stephen’s Shakespeare theory. Stephen is repelled by his flashy cynicism. Hugh Kenner points out he is given no interior monologue i.e. he has no insides. Yet again he appears mid-way through an episode in the maternity hospital in Oxen of the Sun, yet again upstaging Stephen, before disappearing off to catch the last train out to the tower at Sandymount.

Haines (1) – Englishman temporarily staying at the Martello tower. Prone to nightmares which have kept Stephen up all night and put him in a grumpy mood. Well-meaning but imperceptive upper-class Englishman who typifies the colonial attitudes Stephen resents.

The old milk woman (1) – appears in ‘Telemachus’ when Haines tries to speak Irish to her which she can’t understand, asking if he’s speaking French: so, the comedy of a British Gaelic revivalist trying to use a half-dead language that the genuine locals don’t speak any more. For context, see:

2. Nestor: at Clifton Boys’ School, Dalkey

Cyril Sargent (2) – at Clifton Boys School, Stephen gives a history lesson then keeps this boy, Sargent, back after class to help him with sums, prompting the simple comment ‘Futility’. Stephen reflects that nonetheless his mother loves him, that a mother’s love is the one consistency in life, and then feels racked with guilt at hurting his dying mother.

Garrett Deasy (2) – pompous antisemitic Unionist headmaster of the (unnamed) school in Dalkey where Stephen is teaching in ‘Nestor’. As a ‘West Briton’ (remember, this was the insult levelled at Gabriel Conroy in ‘The Dead’) he represents unionist, Protestant and capitalist views, and so is a foil to Stephen’s nationalist, Catholic, artistic temperament. We see him a) paying Stephen his wages (£3 12s 0d) and b) finishing writing and then handing to Stephen a letter regarding foot-and-mouth disease which he wants him to take to the offices of the Evening Telegraph (and which we see Stephen deliver in chapter 7, Aeolus, and facetiously discussed by the drunken crew in chapter 14, Oxen of the Sun).

4. Calypso: at the home of Leopold and Molly Bloom, 7 Eccles Road

Leopold Bloom (4 and onwards) – aged 38. Used to work for Wisdom Hely’s, where he was a traveller for blottingpaper, now he is a freelancer canvasser for adverts i.e. advises clients about design and then tries to place them in newspapers. In Nosy Flynn’s view ‘He’s not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He’s been known to put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O, Bloom has his good points.’

Crucial to understanding the entire book is that Bloom knows his wife, Molly, is going to have sex with her concert impresario Hugh ‘Blazes’ Boyle, who’s popping round to her house around 4pm. All day long Bloom is haunted by this knowledge and from time to time sees Boyle in the street (signalled in the text by Boyle’s trademark straw hat).

Bloom himself is fleetingly seen in passing by other characters as ‘A darkbacked figure’. According to Lenehan ‘He’s a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He’s not one of your common or garden… you know… There’s a touch of the artist about old Bloom’. According to the narrator of Cyclops who sees him hesitate about taking a cigar, ‘he’s a prudent member and no mistake’ and, later, as he gets impatient with Bloom’s endless talk, describes him ‘with his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about’. He is similarly cautious in Oxen of the Sun where he accepts a drink from the other roisterers but then quietly pours it into his neighbour’s glass, thus proving the only respectful man among them.

As the book proceeds we come to realise Bloom is quite highly sexed and has numerous sexual fantasies. In the ‘Nausicaa’ chapter he apparently masturbates to the sight of a young childminder displaying her stockinged legs and knickers (although there is apparently scholarly debate about whether this actually happens or is just Bloom’s fantasy). And then in the extended ‘Circe’ chapter, among other transformations, Bloom is humiliated and turned into a woman for the sadistic pleasure of hallucinated prostitutes. This confirms the sense that he is actively conspiring in his own cuckolding (why doesn’t he confront Molly about it? turn up at the house at the appointed time, to prevent it?) because he gets a kick from sexual humiliation (see his correspondence with Martha, below).

Molly Bloom (4 and onwards) – née Marion Tweedy, daughter of Major Brian Tweedy and an unnamed mother from Gibraltar. She is a soprano singer, ‘Dublin’s prime favourite’ and going on a concert tour arranged by the producer Hugh ‘Blazes’ Boylan who has a date to come round her house that afternoon and have sex with her. Molly is plump. Leopold ‘looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat’s udder’. John Henry Menton says ‘a good armful she was’. Lenehan describes sharing a taxi ride with her and says ‘She has a fine pair, God bless her.’ The lowlife narrator of chapter 12 calls her a ‘fat heap’. In the spoof Celtic Revival style she is described as ‘The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms.’ Molly reads popular romances and Bloom spends some time at a second-hand stall looking for new ones to buy her. Her first appearance is lazing while Leopold beings her breakfast in bed. The novel famously ends with a long chapter devoted entirely to her freeflowing stream-of-consciousness thoughts as she falls asleep.

Milly Bloom (4) – Leopold and Molly’s 15-year-old daughter, recently left home to work as a photographer’s assistant in Mullingar, where she is seeing a young man named Alec Bannon. This Bannon turns up in Oxen of the Sun.

Rudy Bloom (4 and thereafter) – the infant son of Leopold and Molly Bloom who died at just 11 days old, about a decade before the events of Ulysses. As the couple’s only son, his death haunts Leopold, triggering recurring feelings of loss, guilt and regret at the lack of an heir.

Martha (4) – married woman who Bloom is having an ‘affair’ with via post, under the assumed name of Henry Flower. He’s never actually met her, he just enjoys exchanging risqué correspondence in which she calls him her naughty boy and threatens to spank him, more evidence of Bloom’s wish to be sexually humiliated.

Rudolph Virág (4) – Leopold’s father, a Hungarian Jewish immigrant who converted to Protestantism, which explains why despite being nominally Jewish Bloom has very few thoughts about Jewish history, theology, traditions or practices. What he does ruminate on is the fact that Rudolph committed suicide by taking poison. Rudolph appears as a hallucination in Circe to criticise his son.

Athos (4) – Rudolph’s dog, pined away and died after his owner killed himself.

Dlugacz (4) – Bloom’s local butcher (referred to as the ‘ferreteyed porkbutcher’). He is a Hungarian Jewish immigrant, similar to Bloom’s own background, yet he sells pork. He wraps Bloom’s kidney in a sheet of newspaper that advertises a Zionist land-settlement project named Agendath Netaim (Hebrew for ‘Union of Planters’) which Bloom reads and whose name recurs.

Sweny’s (4) – specifically, F.W. Sweny & Co. Ltd, the chemist’s shop where Bloom goes to order a lotion for his wife, Molly, and buys a bar of lemon-scented soap, promising to come back later and pay, which he doesn’t, despite nagging thoughts.

Hugh ‘Blazes’ Boylan (mentioned in 4, 10, 11) – flashy, popular concert promoter who’s arranging a concert tour for Bloom’s wife, Molly. In chapter 4, ‘Calypso’, Bloom picks up a letter from his doormat from him to Molly and hands it to her in bed. Somehow he knows that they’ve made a date for today, 4pm, when Boylan is going to come round and have sex with her, and is haunted by the knowledge all day and keeps catching glimpses of him in the street. Boylan is a ‘spruce figure’ wearing ‘a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit of indigo serge’. In ‘Wandering Rocks’ we see him buying fruit as a present for Molly and, characteristically, flirting with the salesgirl. In ‘Sirens’ he flirts with the barmaids and buys drinks for himself and Lenehan.

5. Lotus Eaters: Bloom wanders round central Dublin, from Sir John Rogerson’s Quay through Lime Street toward Westland Row, Lincoln Place (near Sweny’s pharmacy) and ending near Merrion Square

Charlie M’Coy (5, 10, 15) – small-time local conman, swindler and acquaintance of Bloom’s; asks Bloom to add his name to the list of Dignam’s mourners, despite not attending the funeral. Crops up in ‘Wandering Rocks’ accompanying Lenehan.

Bantam Lyons (5, 8) – a shabby gambler. In ‘Lotus Eaters’ (5) while looking for racing tips, Lyons asks to borrow Bloom’s newspaper, Bloom tells him to keep it because he was ‘going to throw it away’ which Lyons interprets as ‘Throwaway’ being the name of a horse to bet on. When Lyons mentions this to others, Bloom acquires a spurious reputation for having ‘inside information’. The joke outcome of this little storyline is that the horse ‘Throwaway’ actually wins the race, much to the vexation of Lenehan and other characters.

6. Hades: Paddy Dignam’s funeral at Glasnevin Cemetery

Paddy Dignam (6) – dead, died a few days before the novel starts, dropped dead of ‘apoplexy’ probably meaning heart attack. We learn that Dignam had mortgaged his life insurance policy to pay off debts, leaving his wife and five orphans penniless. His funeral is a central event in the first half of the narrative, attended by Bloom, Simon Dedalus and others. ‘As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said.’ His young son, Patsy, pops up briefly in Wandering Rocks. He may be an avatar of the Homeric figure of Elpenor in The Odyssey, who dies after he drunkenly falls overboard. After the funeral ‘Wandering Rocks’ shows Bloom visiting the Dignam home on Newbridge Avenue to offer assistance, but he also seems to visit her again. The reason Bloom looks into Barney Kiernan’s pub is he’s looking for Martin Cunningham to jointly pay her another visit; they are going to fiddle Paddy’s insurance policy to get her some of the money Paddy had mortgaged away.

Patrick Aloysius ‘Patsy’ Dignam (6, 10) – young son of Paddy Dignam, appears in ‘Hades’ and again in ‘Wandering rocks’. Represents the pitiful next generation, impoverished by this generation’s fecklessness.

Simon Dedalus (6, 7, 10, 11) – Stephen’s father. According to ‘Portrait’ was affluent enough in his early married years to send Stephen to a fee-paying school, but then went steadily downhill, unable to keep a steady job and continuing to impregnate his wife (who endures 13 pregnancies!). In ‘A Portrait’ Stephen gives a comic resumé of his father’s career:

Stephen began to enumerate glibly his father’s attributes. —A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a storyteller, somebody’s secretary, something in a distillery, a taxgatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past.

Now he mostly makes money by pawning family possessions. He’s one of the three others with Leopold in the carriage to Paddy Dignam’s funeral. Bloom thinks: ‘Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son’ but also: ‘Most amusing expressions that man finds’. Wears glasses. Pops up in the newspaper office in Aeolus, in the National Library in Scylla and Charybdis, briefly in Wandering Rocks, and at the Ormond Hotel in Sirens, eating, drinking and then singing along with other characters who play the piano and perform. He sings the aria ‘M’appari tutt’amor’ from Friedrich von Flotow’s opera Martha, a song about lost love that moves Bloom thinking about his own marital situation.

Martin Cunningham (6, 12) – one of the three others with Leopold in the funeral carriage, a kindly sympathetic friend to Leopold Bloom. He organises help for the Dignam family and defends Bloom against antisemitic slurs in ‘Hades’ and ‘Cyclops’. He has a beard and looks a bit like Shakespeare. He has to cope with an alcoholic wife.

Mr Power (6) – one of the three others with Leopold in the funeral carriage – a Dublin official associated with the Royal Irish Constabulary at Dublin Castle – good looking – keeps a mistress – commits a faux pas when (in the funeral carriage with Bloom and two others) he opines that suicide is ‘the greatest disgrace to have in the family’ unaware that Bloom’s father, Rudolph, committed suicide.

Corny Kelleher (6, 10, 15) – an undertaker’s assistant working for H.J. O’Neill’s funeral parlour, a shadowy figure connected to both death and the police, maybe an avatar of Charon the ferryman. He appears in ‘Hades’ (6) and ‘Wandering Rocks’ (10). In ‘Circe’ (15) he helps handle the police but doesn’t offer to take drunken Stephen home, that’s left to Bloom.

Ned Lambert (6, 7) – at the cemetery, a cheerful, well-connected Dubliner, a friend of Simon Dedalus. He is a seed and grain merchant who manages a grain store in St. Mary’s Abbey. He appears at Paddy Dignam’s funeral (6) then the Evening Telegraph offices (7) then showing the reverend Hugh Love around the Abbey in ‘Wandering Rocks’. Known for his wit and boasts about his influential relatives like his uncle, the Vice-Chancellor.

Father Coffey (6) – officiates at Paddy Dignam’s funeral, muscular, and ‘jowly’. Bloom thinks he ‘barks’ the funeral mass. Insofar as he mediates between the world of the living and the dead, maybe an avatar of Cerberus the dog at the entrance to Hades in Greek mythology.

John O’Connell (6) – real-life Superintendent of Dublin’s Glasnevin Cemetery, a respected local figure known for telling humorous stories e.g the one about the two drunks and Mulcahy’s statue. Insofar as he presides over the cemetery, an avatar of the Greek god of the underworld (Hades in Greek, Pluto in Latin).

Tom Kernan (6, 10) – tea salesman, agent for Pulbrook Robertson & Co. tea merchants. He was the central figure, the heavy drinking alcoholic who his friends set out to reform in the Dubliners short story ‘Grace’. Here we learn that Kernan is a Protestant, a detail that surfaces when he is part of the funeral party in ‘Hades’ and critically comments on the ‘rushed Catholic services’. In ‘Wandering Rocks’ he discusses a recent shipping disaster with Bloom and then in ‘Sirens’, encourages the baritone Ben Dollard to sing ‘The Croppy Boy’. His friends mock him for his use of pretentious phrases.

Joe Hynes (6, 7, 12) – unreliable, small-time reporter for the Freeman’s Journal who covers Paddy Dignam’s funeral; in his subsequent report he misspells Bloom as ‘Boom’, an error which rings through the rest of the story. Similarly, he asks for the name of a mystery man at the funeral and mishears the reply that he’s wearing a mackintosh for the man’s name, which he reports incorrectly as ‘M’intosh’, another joke error which recurs. Known for his financial unreliability, he borrows three shillings from Leopold and doesn’t repay it. Previously appeared in the Dubliners story ‘Ivy Day in the Committee Room’.

John Henry Menton (6, 15) – a petty, arrogant solicitor and commissioner of affidavits who we meet in the ‘Hades’ chapter. He holds a long-standing grudge against Bloom who beat him in a game of bowls and so coldly rebuffs Bloom’s attempt to fix his dented hat after the funeral. Insofar as he spurns the hero (Bloom/Ulysses) he is maybe an avatar of Ajax, a Greek hero spurned by Odysseus, who ignores him when Odysseus visits the underworld. He appears in the hallucinated jury of the ‘Circe’ chapter.

Reuben J. Dodd (6) – a real-life Dublin solicitor and moneylender, portrayed by other characters as an avaricious Jew. At the cemetery other characters discuss rumours of his son’s suicide attempt in the River Liffey.

7. Aeolus: in the newspaper offices of the Freeman’s Journal on Prince’s Street

Red Murray (7) – a minor character in ‘Aeolus’, an employee at the Freeman’s Journal office who helps Bloom arrange for a newspaper paragraph to appear about his client, Alexander Keyes.

Joseph Nannetti (7) – a real-life historical figure, a rising Dublin politician and printer who was working as the foreman at the Freeman’s Journal where Bloom encounters him. The real Nannetti went on to be Mayor of Dublin (1906 to 1908).

Professor McHugh (7) – brilliant but lazy, haphazard academic. Encountered hanging out in the Freeman’s Journal office bantering with other time wasters like Ned Lambert, Simon Dedalus and J.J. O’Molloy. ‘Professor MacHugh’s unshaven blackspectacled face’. His most significant moment is reciting a (real) speech by barrister John F. Taylor which compared the Irish language revival movement to Moses leading the Israelites to the Promised Land.

For an interesting article about all the characters found in the newspaper office, see:

J. J. O’Molloy (7, 10) – a once-promising but now struggling Dublin lawyer, portrayed as down on his luck and in debt, haunting newspaper offices like the Freeman’s Journal, for loans while maintaining a veneer of respectability and knowledge of oratory. Crops up in ‘Wandering Rocks’.

Myles Crawford (7) – pompous, alcoholic editor of the Evening Telegraph and Freeman’s Journal, dismisses Bloom’s polite approaches but fawns over Stephen when he later appears.

Matthew Lenehan (7) – a parasite, hanger-on, freelance journalist and horse-racing tipster. One of the two characters in the Dubliners story, ‘Two Gallants’ where he leaches on a fancy man who screws money out of his girlfriend. Desperate scrounger. He appears in ‘Aeolus’, ‘Wandering Rocks’, Sirens’ and among the medical students in ‘Oxen of the Sun’. He is obsessed with the Ascot Gold Cup, backs a horse called Sceptre and is infuriated when Bloom’s tip, Throwaway, wins instead.

Mr O’Madden Burke (7) – a smooth, sophisticated music critic and reviewer who we first meet in the Dubliners story ‘A Mother’ and who here appears in the newspaper office in ‘Aeolus’). He reappears in ‘Cyclops’, ‘Ithaca’ and is mentioned in ‘Penelope’. Pretentious and self-interested.

8. Lestrygonians

Bloom wanders central Dublin, walks past the Irish House of Parliament and Trinity College, moving from O’Connell Street toward Grafton Street and Kildare Street, deciding not to have lunch at Burton restaurant but grabbing a gorgonzola sandwich and glass of Burgundy at Davy Byrne’s pub on Duke Street, before walking on and ducking into the National Library to avoid Blazes Boylan.

Mrs Josie Breen (née Powell) (8) – former flame of Leopold Bloom and friend of Molly Bloom, long-suffering wife of the mentally unstable Denis Breen, ‘beauty and the beast’. When Bloom encounters her in ‘Lestrygonians’, he is sad that she looks shabby and haggard-looking.

Denis Breen (8) – Josie’s mentally ill husband – ‘Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison’s hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old times. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly.’ He has recently received an anonymous postcard with ‘U.P.: up’ on it which has made him panic. Scholars interpret it to mean ‘Your time is up’ or ‘You are all washed up’ and more broadly, in the context of the novel, to symbolise failure, paranoia, mockery and modern confusion – recurring themes in the novel.

Little Alf Bergan (8, 12, 15) – a Dublin character and assistant to sub-sheriff Long John Fanning. In ‘Lestrygonians’ he spots Denis Breen and explains the story about the ‘U.P.: up’ postcard. He plays a role in ‘Cyclops’ by bringing to Barney Kiernan’s pub a cache of applications for the job of state hangman which triggers a tipsy discussion about hangings. Crops up (like everyone else) in Circe.

Nosey Flynn (8) – a greasy, gossipy Dublin pub regular, often found at Davy Byrne’s, known for his intrusive questions and snuffling manner. First appeared in the Dubliners story ‘Counterparts’.

Davy Byrne (8) – owner of the eponymous bar where Bloom drops in for a ‘gorgonzola cheese sandwich with mustard and a glass of burgundy’. A careful, moral man who doesn’t gamble. The sandwich and wine give Bloom wind which he passes under cover of a passing tram at the end of ‘Sirens’.

Paddy Leonard (8, 15) – minor character seen around the pubs who crops up in ‘Lestrygonians’ and ‘Circe’.

Tom Rochford (8) – struggling inventor who in ‘Wandering Rocks’ shows off his device, designed for music halls to show which act is on stage, which he hopes to promote to Blazes Boylan.

Sir Frederick Falkiner (8) – a real Dublin magistrate (Recorder of Dublin) known for his antisemitic judgments, appears as a symbol of legal hypocrisy and judicial bias, particularly towards Jews like Bloom. Bloom encounters him in ‘Lestrygonians’ and later hallucinates him sentencing him to prison in ‘Circe’.

Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell (8, 10) – a real-life Dublin eccentric known as ‘Endymion’, appears in ‘Lestrygonians and ‘Wandering Rocks’, recognized by his long name, tight hat, and dangling stick-umbrella-dustcoat.

9. Scylla and Charybdis: in the director’s office of the Irish National Library on Kildare Street

The quaker librarian (9) – unnamed Head Librarian of the National Library, tiptoeing in and out of Stephen’s lecture about Shakespeare in ‘Scylla and Charybdis’.

John Eglinton (9) – fictional name for real-life essayist William Kirkpatrick Magee, a literary figure and librarian, who listens sympathetically to Stephen’s Shakespeare lecture.

Mr Best (9) – another of the auditors of Stephen’s Shakespeare lecture, based on the real-life Irish Celtic scholar and librarian Richard Irvine Best, he is depicted as a refined but shallow young man, signalled by his frequent use of the phrase ‘don’t you know’.

A.E. (9) – pseudonym of the real-life Irish poet, writer and mystic George Russell, who used the pseudonym Æ, a central figure in literary circles and a spiritual advisor. He is the main audience for Stephen’s Shakespeare lecture where he represents the old, spiritual, platonic view of art and so is unsympathetic to Stephen’s aggressively realist and autobiographical reading of Shakespeare.

10. Wandering Rocks: 19 vignettes depicting numerous Dubliners, many of them real-life figures

John Conmee S.J. (10) – ‘The superior, the very reverend John Conmee S. J.’ first figure we meeting in ‘Wandering Rocks’ having a series of encounters with passersby in which he is blandly polite. Real-life figure, rector at Clongowes Wood College who was kind to a young James Joyce and instrumental in securing scholarships for Joyce and his brothers to Belvedere College.

Master Brunny Lynam (10) – boy who Father Conmee gets to post a letter for him at a postbox across the road.

Mr Denis J. Maginni (10) – a real-life Dublin dancing professor – ‘professor of dancing &c, in a silk hat, slate frockcoat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots’. In ‘Circe’ when Stephen dances with prostitutes in Bella Cohen’s brothel, he imagines Maginni is there coaching him.

Mrs M’Guinness (10) real-life figure who owned a pawn shop, M’Guinness’s, where Stephen’s sisters (Katey and Boody) attempt to pawn some of Stephen’s books to buy food. Mrs M, ‘stately, silverhaired’, is greeted and bows to nice Father Conmee.

Katey, Boody and Maggy Dedalus (10) – boiling clothes, making yellow peasoup, living in poverty, shaming clever Stephen who had all the advantages in life.

Almidano Artifoni (10) – a music teacher and singer who appears briefly in ‘Wandering Rocks’, bumping into Stephen and suggesting he pursue a lucrative professional singing career, which Stephen rejects.

Miss Dunne (10) – typist, secretary to Blazes Boylan, sits in her office daydreaming or reading a romance novel. Types the date ’16 June 1904′, the only confirmation of the date on which Ulysses takes place (Bloomsday). She speaks with Blazes Boylan via telephone, relaying that Lenehan will be at the Ormond Hotel at four o’clock.

The reverend Hugh C. Love (10) – amateur historian being shown round St Mary’s Abbey by Ned Lambert, who’s in charge of the grain store in the abbey’s cellar.

Dilly Dedalus (10) – one of Stephen’s impoverished siblings. He bumps into her in ‘Wandering Rocks’, where she asks if he’s seen their father, then shows him a tatty French primer she’s bought at a second-hand stall, prompting Stephen’s feelings of pity and guilt.

Ben Dollard (10, 11) – large, good-natured and formerly successful Dublin bass singer with a big beard, often called ‘Big Ben’. Friend of Simon Dedalus, appears in ‘Wandering Rocks’, plays the piano and sings the sentimental ballad ‘The Croppy Boy’ in ‘Sirens’.

John Wyse Nolan (10, 12) – a minor nationalist character in ‘Cyclops’ who shares anti-British nationalistic views with the but is more moderate and briefly sympathetic to Bloom.

Long John Fanning (10) – fictional subsheriff of Dublin, first referenced in the Dubliners story ‘Grace’, appears here being discussed in ‘Aeolus’, appears briefly in ‘Wandering Rocks’ then appears in his role as sub-sheriff in Bloom’s masochistic court fantasy in ‘Circe’.

John Howard Parnell (10) – real-life figure, the brother of the superfamous Irish nationalist leader Charles Stewart Parnell who, at the peak of his power, was ruined by being cited as the co-respondent in a divorce case and died soon after, in disgrace, in 1891. John was a city marshal in Dublin and the registrar of pawnbrokers but his role in the novel is to be a ghostly figure symbolising the haunting memory of Irish political failure. He is spotted by Bloom in ‘Lestrygonians’. In ‘Wandering Rocks’ he is seen in a bar playing chess against himself.  Inward-turning, failed, paralysis, all Joyce’s themes. In the phantasmagoria of ‘Circe’ Bloom imagines him offering a blessing, linking the ordinary, fading John Howard with the immense, mythic status of his dead brother.

11. Sirens: the bar and dining room of the Ormond Hotel on Ormond Quay on the north bank of the River Liffey

Richie Goulding (11) – Stephen’s uncle, brother of Stephen’s dead mother, May, married to Sara hence Aunt Sara. A struggling solicitor’s clerk, depicted as a slightly pathetic figure, with a bad back, often weighed down by a legal bag but enthusiastic about music. In ‘Sirens’ Bloom has dinner with him at the Ormond Hotel.

Miss Mina Kennedy (11) – one of the two barmaids in the Ormond Hotel in the Sirens episode who align with the sirens of the Odyssey. Golden-haired in contrast to Lydia Douce, who is bronze-haired. The pair are like ‘malicious mermaids’ coolly observing the (useless) men in the bar. She is more reserved than the flirtatious Miss Douce.

Miss Lydia Douce (11) – the other of the two barmaids in the Ormond Hotel in the Sirens episode who align with the sirens of the Odyssey. Bronze-haired barmaid in contrast to golden-haired Mina Kennedy. She is the more outgoing, flirtatious of the two: acting in a suggestive behaviour such as reaching up to emphasise her bosom, snapping her garter for Lenehan, suggestively stroking the phallic-shaped beer pull, and flirting with Blazes Boylan who pops in for a drink and who she has a crush on.

Pat (11) – waiter at the Ormond, old, bald and hard of hearing, moving between the dining room (where Bloom has dinner) and the bar. ‘Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait.’

The piano tuner (11) – young, unnamed character known as the ‘blind stripling’. Kindly helped across the road by Bloom in ‘Lestrygonians’; rudely bumped into by Cashel ‘lamppost’ Farrell in ‘Wandering Rocks’; arrives at the Ormond Hotel to retrieve the tuning fork he’d left behind, and where he plays the piano, among others.

George Lidwell (11) – real-life Dublin solicitor and acquaintance of Joyce’s father. Offices nearby on Upper Ormond Quay, Lidwell is a ‘suave solicitor’ flirts with the barmaids. (Joyce consulted Lidwell in 1912 regarding legal issues with the publisher of ‘Dubliners’.)

12. Cyclops: Barney Kiernan’s pub

Narrator (12) – drops into Barney Kiernan’s pub to see the Citizen.

Geraghty (12) – doesn’t appear but is described as a ‘foxy’ (red-haired) plumber and a debtor who has stolen goods from a merchant named Moses Herzog.

The Citizen (12) – dominant figure in chapter 12, Cyclops. Supposedly based on Michael Cusack, the real-life founder of the Gaelic Athletic Association though scholars argue he’s more of a composite of radical nationalists of the era. The Homeric parallel is with the Cyclops Polyphemus because, like the one-eyed giant, the Citizen is depicted as narrow-minded, aggressive and blinded by his own prejudices.

Garryowen (12) – the Citizen’s mangy dog whose constant rumbling and occasional barking put everyone on edge. At the end of the chapter the Citizen sets him on Bloom who only just manages to jump onto a cab and make his escape. Comedically, Garryowen is mentioned by Gerty MacDowell in the ‘Nausicaa’ chapter (13) as actually belonging to her grandpapa Giltrap, and she calls him ‘a lovely dog’, really bringing out her rose-tinted view of everything.

Bob Doran (12) – first appeared a respectable, anxious employee in a wine-merchant’s office in the Dubliners short story ‘The Boarding House’. Since then he’s gone downhill and is now encountered as a drunk, weeping, rambling figure in Barney Kiernan’s pub, getting maudlin about the death of Paddy Dignam, adding to the general atmosphere of degraded chaos.

Terry O’Ryan (12) – bartender in Barney Kiernan’s pub – ‘Same again, Terry’.

Pisser Burke (12) – nickname of Andrew Burke, minor character and associate of the Cyclops narrator, known for spreading gossip around Dublin, tells stories from when he knew the Blooms when they lived at the City Arms Hotel.

13. Nausicaa: Sandymount Strand

Cissy Caffrey (13) – one of the three young women on the beach, looking after her young twin brothers, Jacky and Tommy. A non-nonsense straight-talking contrast with Gerty (see below) for example the way she goes straight over to loitering Bloom to ask him the time. In ‘Circe’ she returns in degraded form, apparently working as a prostitute while interacting with British soldiers.

Edy Boardman (13) – one of the three young women on the beach, the only mother so pushing a pram, she represents reality and maturity in contrast with Gerty’s self-deceiving romanticism. Makes cutting remarks which irritate Gerty. She and Cissy equate to the retinue of fine ladies who accompanied Princess Nausicaa in Homer’s Odyssey.

Tommy and Jacky Caffrey (13) – boisterous twin brothers looked after by their much older sister, Cissy.

Gerty MacDowell (13) – the young woman on the beach who Bloom watches from a distance, provocatively posing for him as he masturbates and while her head overflows with romantic, reality-denying fantasies.

14. Oxen of the Sun: National Maternity Hospital, Holles Street

Dr Horne (14) – a real-life figure, Sir Andrew J. Horne, a prominent Dublin obstetrician and the Joint Master of the National Maternity Hospital.

Nurse Quigley (14) – continually telling the drunken gang off for keeping the pregnant women in the ward above awake with their racket, inn the Homeric parallel, for disrespecting the sacredness of fertility – ‘an ancient and a sad matron of a sedate look and christian walking, in habit dun beseeming her megrims and wrinkled visage’.

Dr Dixon (14) – junior doctor at the hospital. Recognises Bloom and invites him to join the party in the common room. Later goes to attend Mrs Purefoy who’s finally had her baby.

Crotthers (14) – ‘the Scotch student, a little fume of a fellow, blond as tow’ – ‘Crotthers was there at the foot of the table in his striking Highland garb, his face glowing from the briny airs of the Mull of Galloway’.

Madden (14) – ‘the squat form of Madden’ – another drunk medical student.

Frank ‘Punch’ Costello (14) – medical student, the drunkest member of the party, frequently interrupting the quiet of the hospital with ribald drinking songs. Nicknamed ‘Punch’ from his habit of ‘dinging’ any table he’s sitting at with his fist.

Alec Bannon (14) – brought along by Mulligan to the hospital. Boyfriend of Bloom’s 15-year-old daughter, Milly.

Nurse Callan (14) – nurse working at the National Maternity Hospital on Holles Street, half-way through the chapter announces the birth of a son to Mina Purefoy.

Bridie Kelly (14, 15, 16) – young working-class woman Bloom lost his virginity to and reminisces about in ‘Oxen of the Sun’ (she also appears in ‘Circe’ and ‘Eumaeus’). One of the chapter’s Gothic paragraphs describes her as ‘the bride of darkness, a daughter of night’.

15. Circe

Too many to be listed. See my standalone review of Circe.

16. Eumaeus

Gumley (16) – nightwatchmen asleep in his ‘sentrybox’ by the docks.

Corley (16) – unemployed, scrounging son of a Dublin police inspector who asks Stephen for money – first appeared in the Dubliners story ‘Two Gallants’, extracting money from a naive girlfriend – nicknamed Lord John Corley because his mother was a servant in the house of an aristocrat

D.B. Murphy (16) – a sailor, teller of tale tales, possessor of impressive tattoos.

Skin-the-Goat (Fitzharris) (16) – owner of the shelter.

Streetwalker (16) – ‘glazed and haggard under a black straw hat’, briefly looks through the door of the shelter and makes Bloom duck behind the newspaper in embarrassment so is she Bridie Kelly who he tells us he lost his virginity to.

17. Ithaca

Stephen and Bloom.

18. Penelope

They don’t actually physically appear, but present in Molly’s thoughts are quite a few final characters:

Mrs Riordan (18) – who we met as Dante, nanny to young Stephen Dedalus in ‘Portrait’.

Mary Driscoll (18) – the Blooms’ scullerymaid.

Bartell DArcy (18) – tenor singer who kissed her in church.

Mrs Hester Stanhope (18) – adult friend when Molly was a girl.

Lieutenant Mulvey (18) – ‘beau’ of the 15-year-old Marion, they kissed.

Mrs Rubio (18) – elderly Spanish housekeeper of the Tweedy family in Gibraltar, Mrs Rubio.

Lunita Laredo (18) – Molly’s mother, a Gibraltarian of Spanish/Jewish descent.

Mrs Fleming (18) – useless cleaner they had, sneezing and farting everywhere and you had to follow her round fixing her work.

Dr Collins (18) – Molly’s gynaecologist, impressed her with his long learnèd words.


Credit

‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce was published by Shakespeare and Company in 1922.

Related links

Joyce reviews

James Joyce’s Ulysses: Nausicaa

A dream of wellfilled hose.
(Leopold’s Bloom’s favourite fetish)

O Lord, that little limping devil.
(He ponders his post-tumescent willy)

A reminder of the chapter numbers and names in ‘Ulysses’:

Part 1. Telemachiad

  1. Telemachus
  2. Nestor
  3. Proteus

Part 2. Odyssey

  1. Calypso
  2. Lotus Eaters
  3. Hades
  4. Aeolus
  5. Lestrygonians
  6. Scylla and Charybdis
  7. Wandering Rocks
  8. Sirens
  9. Cyclops
  10. Nausicaa
  11. Oxen of the Sun
  12. Circe

Part 3. Ithaca

  1. Eumaeus
  2. Ithaca
  3. Penelope

Homeric parallel

The thirteenth chapter of James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ is based on or reflects the Nausicaa episode from Homer’s Odyssey. In Homer’s Odyssey, Nausicaa was daughter of King Alcinous and Queen Arete of Phaeacia. She is famous for one day coming down to the shore of her kingdom, accompanied by her retinue of maids and servants, and discovering the shipwrecked Odysseus washed up on the beach. She has her people take him to the palace, give him a bath, clothes and food, and it’s at a grand feast that the hero gives an account of his famous adventures.

In the ‘Nausicaa’ chapter of ‘Ulysses’ the novel’s main protagonist, Leopold Bloom, wanders out of Dublin city centre to the shore at Sandymount Strand. Here he watches a young woman, Gerty MacDowell, who’s with two friends and minding some children, as she flashes her legs to excite him. He eventually becomes so excited that he masturbates to climax (keeping his willy concealed inside his trousers i.e. at no point exposing himself).

So you can see how the reincarnation of the elegant Homeric princess (and her retinue) and the doughty Greek warrior, as a flirty young woman flashing her knickers at a middle-aged advertising salesman who proceeds to jerk off, are saturated in irony, satire and bathos.

Parody

‘Nausicaa’ continues the pattern first broached in ‘Aeolus’ and crystallised in ‘Cyclops’, of having large parts of the text written as parody of a particular style or genre. In this case, the entire first half of the chapter is written in the style of a late-Victorian ladies’ romantic novel, so lavish in sentimental clichés that I didn’t really ‘get’ the central incident of Bloom masturbating until it was pointed out to me in all the commentaries on the book. I.e. it’s the opposite of a ‘graphic’ description; I half thought so but wasn’t quite sure, not least because this kind of thing is so rare or non-existent in ‘classic’ literature. Nonetheless, this was the scene which, once the authorities had had it pointed out to them, led to ‘Ulysses’ being banned in Britain and the United States.

(To be precise, the July-August 1920 issue of the Little Review in which ‘Nausicaa’ initially appeared was seized by the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice and cited as evidence of the novel’s obscenity in the court case that led to ‘Ulysses’ being banned in all English-speaking countries.)

After Bloom has climaxed, the style undergoes a shift to a more realistic, sober style. Thus the chapter’s style cleverly reflects the stages of sexual activity: slow arousal, leading to intense excitement, climax, and then post-climax return to sober normality. Tumescence and detumescence.

Bloom’s big fear

You can’t understand this chapter or ‘Ulysses’ as a whole, unless you realise that for the whole long day which it describes its central character, Leopold Bloom, is traumatised by the fact that he knows that his voluptuous wife, Molly, is preparing herself to have sex with the flash man-about-town and concert promoter Hugh ‘Blazes’ Boylan. Somehow (it’s really not made clear) he knows Blazes’ visit to his house is timed for 4pm, so for all the chapters leading up to then, he is in agony of anticipation, at around that time he is crushed by humiliation, and for the hours afterwards (now, around 8pm), he is haunted by the fact the deed was done.

Thus when Bloom notices his watch has stopped, he realises it was at the symbolic hour of 4.30 i.e. right in the middle of his wife being unfaithful to him. So this adds a big further dimension to the chapter’s complex of ironies around sex. The question is what if any colour or shadow Bloom’s knowledge of his wife’s infidelity sheds over his own rather pitiful solo performance.

Brief summary

On a beach outside Dublin, three young women are minding toddlers and a baby. One of them is nursing a grievance about her boyfriend who recently jilted her. She notices a middle-aged man leaning against a rock not very far away who is eyeing her up. Possibly encouraged by the time of the month (which is obliquely but repeatedly mentioned) she shows off her legs to him and realises he is playing with himself, inside his trousers. Excited by this, she persists in exhibiting her legs, despite the sarcastic comments of her friends who realise something is going on. In a nearby church a Catholic service starts up and its movements through the stages of the Mass ironically counterpointed with the growing sexual excitement of the masturbator. Until the start of a firework display a) distracts her friends away from her onto the beach so that b) she can really lean back and show off her legs right up to her knickers and stays like that until the man climaxes. At which point she waits a bit more then goes to join her two friends and the kids down on the main beach. The middle-aged man cleans himself up and sets off walking the 4km back into Dublin.

More detailed summary

Part 1

The lady’s story parody is very funny and all the funnier because it masks such scandalously unladylike behaviour. Joyce nails the tone of voice, the high-minded sentimentality, the unashamed deployment of threadbare clichés, in a very entertaining concoction.

Why have women such eyes of witchery? Gerty’s were of the bluest Irish blue, set off by lustrous lashes and dark expressive brows.

Through this sea of slush we learn that:

Gerty takes iron jelloid pills to make her skinny frame bulk out. She follows beauty tips in the magazines to use eyeliner etc. (Commentators helped me see that Gerty refers to quite a few beauty products that she uses and this is appropriate for Bloom who works in advertising and thinks in terms of products and adverts.)

She has catfights with bitchy Bertha Supple. She’s been dumped by handsome Reggy Wylie, a keen bicyclist but who’s told her he needs to stop seeing her and concentrate on his university entry exams. Her costume is described in great detail, as well as her appearance which the narrator slyly says is worthy of a princess. She has put on her finest dress and undies because she is hoping that Reggy Wylie might be out and about and bump into her. Her goal in life, like every nice young lady’s, is to be married and she fantasises about the strong man who will take her in his arms etc. Partly this is because she is getting on – she’ll be 22 in November. Partly she wants the success of marriage to spite her bitchy critics like Bertha and Edy.

In a surprise revelation, we learn that her grandfather, surname Giltrap, has a dog named Garryowen. Well, that’s the name of the dog owned by the Citizen in the preceding chapter so either the Citizen is Gerty’s grandfather (!) or borrows the dog from her grandfather. It is an entertaining detail because Gerty thinks it’s a lovely doggie, almost human, whereas we’ve seen it as a mangy cur running barking after Bloom only a few pages earlier. A classic example of Joyce’s interest in parallax or two spectators seeing and interpreting the same thing from completely different perspectives.

Slowly we become aware that Gerty is very conscious of ‘the gentleman opposite’. He can’t be that close or they’d have to talk. And why don’t the two other girls notice him?

On and on her thoughts ramble. They hear singing start up from a nearby mission house (which the commentaries tell us is St. Mary’s Star of the Sea Church) and this triggers memories of her father who drinks too much and occasionally beats his wife. He knew Paddy Dignam (who Gerty therefore met and knew when he visited the house) but was unable to attend his funeral due to gout.

The twins’ ball goes down towards the beach and the rock where the stranger (Bloom) is sitting. He bends down and throws it back up to the group and it rolls under Gerty’s skirt. She lifts her skirt to kick the ball back to the twins to play with. Only now do we learn that throughout the preceding passages she and the stranger have been exchanging glances. And that dusk is falling.

Gerty poses looking out to sea but is acutely aware of Bloom’s gaze: ‘Yes, it was her he was looking at, and there was meaning in his look.’ She can tell from his complexion that he’s a ‘foreigner’ and because he’s dressed in mourning (for Dignam) turns that into a deep and soulful sorrow, converting him into her ‘dreamhusband’, consoling him for his secret sorrow etc.

The twins are playing close to the water so Cissy gets up and runs over to them and Gerty is bitchily jealous, thinking she’s only doing it because it shows her petticoat and fine legs off to the gentleman i.e. they’re both vying for Bloom’s attentions.

The service in the nearby church is described in some detail and this is another contrast, comparison, juxtaposition and irony, that as the holy office proceeds Gerty becomes intensely focused on what to show Bloom, and starts to swing her leg back and forth so as to show off her see-through stockings. She knows she has aroused him and enjoys it:

He was eying her as a snake eyes its prey. Her woman’s instinct told her that she had raised the devil in him and at the thought a burning scarlet swept from throat to brow till the lovely colour of her face became a glorious rose.

The other two girls know what is going on and to spite Gerty, Cissy says she’ll go and ask the gentleman the time. Gerty sees Bloom hurriedly take his hand out of his trousers (where she had presumably realised he was masturbating) and put on a serious face to answer Cissy’s question about the time from his pocket watch. In fact it’s stopped but he thinks it’s about 8pm.

Cissy returns to the girls with a sarcastic comment but it’s getting dark fast now, Gerty resumes swinging her stockinged leg and Bloom his masturbating with his hand in his trouser pocket, all of it hilariously conveyed in the slushy tropes of sentimental fiction.

His dark eyes fixed themselves on her again drinking in her every contour, literally worshipping at her shrine. If ever there was undisguised admiration in a man’s passionate gaze it was there plain to be seen on that man’s face. It is for you, Gertrude MacDowell, and you know it.

The others are packing up their things and tidying stuff away and joke about Gerty’s boyfriend Reggy which briefly angers her. The two priests officiating at the Mass reach the climax of the service. Even as she shows her legs and knows Bloom is playing, her mind dwells on fallen woman and sex workers and revolts against them, disgusted by their low degradation because no! she, Gerty, is high-minded and pure! She is saving this poor abandoned man, she can save and redeem him etc.

At that moment fireworks start going off in the sky. They’re from a bazaar way over back in the city, the same bazaar we saw the Lord Lieutenant riding in procession to open, back in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ chapter. Edy, Cissy and the boys run down to the beach to get a better view and call after Gerty. But she knows Bloom hasn’t finished yet, and irritably maintains her post, swimming her legs, showing him her stockings and knickers.

She looked at him a moment, meeting his glance, and a light broke in upon her. Whitehot passion was in that face, passion silent as the grave, and it had made her his. At last they were left alone without the others to pry and pass remarks and she knew he could be trusted to the death, steadfast, a sterling man, a man of inflexible honour to his fingertips. His hands and face were working and a tremor went over her. She leaned back far to look up where the fireworks were and she caught her knee in her hands so as not to fall back looking up and there was no-one to see only him and her when she revealed all her graceful beautifully shaped legs like that, supply soft and delicately rounded, and she seemed to hear the panting of his heart, his hoarse breathing, because she knew too about the passion of men like that…

Leaning back further and further, deliberately showing Bloom her fine new panties, ‘nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven, on account of being white’, and then:

And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind blank and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lovely, O, soft, sweet, soft!

Bloom comes in his pants, and it is only now, as Gerty realises this and returns to a more discreet posture, it is only now that we are told his name. In the whole preceding passage he had merely been referred to as ‘the gentleman’. Only now are we told ‘Leopold Bloom (for it is he)’ leans back against the rock. Only now does he emerge from the anonymity of being seen solely through Gerty’s romance-drenched eyes, out into the common light of day.

(This, as I keep pointing out, is the second act of sex in the day. A few hours earlier, between 4 and 5pm, Blazes Boylan had sex with Bloom’s wife. We are never shown this, instead Bloom in a musical delirium in the Sirens chapter, verbally imagines it:

Bloom. Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music out, in desire, dark to lick flow invading. Tipping her tepping her tapping her topping her. Tup. Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the feel the warm the. Tup. To pour o’er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush, flow, joygush, tupthrob. Now!

The language of the two orgasms can be compared and contrasted.)

Part 2

The style doesn’t transform at a stroke (so to speak); it is for a little while longer a variation on the lady’s fiction style but somehow less excited, more exhausted sounding for a few more paragraphs. Then Gerty stands up and makes her way amid the rocks and driftwood down to her friends on the beach. At which Bloom, watching from his rock, realises with a shock that she’s lame! And this revelation jolts the narrative style back into the ‘initial style’ of free indirect speech which we’re so used to:

Mr Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poor girl! That’s why she’s left on the shelf and the others did a sprint. Thought something was wrong by the cut of her jib. Jilted beauty. A defect is ten times worse in a woman. But makes them polite. Glad I didn’t know it when she was on show. Hot little devil all the same. I wouldn’t mind. Curiosity like a nun or a negress or a girl with glasses. That squinty one is delicate. Near her monthlies, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. I have such a bad headache today. Where did I put the letter? Yes, all right.

He reflects that he’s glad he didn’t masturbate in the bath this morning; this was more intense and enjoyable and his thoughts are a characteristic mixed-up ramble of probably what are now sexist clichés, how women dress themselves up for the sacrifice, joke saying that they lose a charm with every pin they take out, how women get horny at a certain time of their menstrual cycle, how his teenage daughter and wife sometimes menstruate in synch, menstrual blood is meant to wither flowers or turn milk, and a host of similar free associating ideas…

Sterile sex

One thought leads to another and he is curious why his watch has stopped.

Funny my watch stopped at half past four. Dust. Shark liver oil they use to clean. Could do it myself. Save. Was that just when he, she?
O, he did. Into her. She did. Done.
Ah!

Ah indeed. At 4.30, just as he imagines Blazes Boylan was ejaculating inside his wife. He did. Into her. Ah. The two sex acts are clearly meant to mirror and play off each other (so to speak). What strikes me about both of them is they are barren. Masturbating obviously doesn’t fertilise anything. Gerty is clear in her mind that she doesn’t mind masturbation, it’s ‘the other’ which nice girls aren’t allowed. So Bloom and Gerty are both about infertility, a barren, unfertilising form of sexual activity. As to Blazes and Molly, they are (presumably) having traditional penetrative sex but (presumably) one or other of them uses some kind of precaution (?) which makes their sex act, also, barren, sterile. None of them are behaving as Church, State and respectable society wants them to.

Cleaning up

Only now does Bloom turn to the obvious problem of the mess he’s made.

Mr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wet shirt. O Lord, that little limping devil. Begins to feel cold and clammy. Aftereffect not pleasant.

Fans can quote the famous sentence which introduces our hero:

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.

Well, the clearing up sentence deserves to be nearly as well known. It’s just as characteristic of our author and his character, who returns to his amiably middle-brow rambling thoughts. He considers how fortunate it was that he passed wind earlier in the day, thus leaving his general groin region lighter and able to play. But it’s a fiddly business:

This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the foreskin is not back. Better detach.
Ow!

There’s a long passage of scrambled memories of having sex with various prostitutes (I think), how it must feel to be one and proposition men in the street and be ignored. I.e. although Poldy takes what it probably nowadays a sexist view of all this, he is clearly meant to be a kind person, as in going out of his way to help Paddy Dignam’s poor widow. Not too kind though:

Sad about her lame of course but must be on your guard not to feel too much pity. They take advantage.

He remembers what Molly told him about her first kiss and losing her virginity (events which will, of course, recur in her final soliloquy).

He wonders who teaches women to flirt, marvels at their supernatural ability to size up men, for example spotting disabilities other men never do. Constantly on the watch, sizing up the opportunities, not for sex, for fathers and providers. All told in the ‘initial style of curtailed and abbreviated sentences.

Typist going up Roger Greene’s stairs two at a time to show her understandings. Handed down from father to, mother to daughter, I mean. Bred in the bone.

The millions ways women tease men:

Dress up and look and suggest and let you see and see more and defy you if you’re a man to see that and, like a sneeze coming, legs, look, look and if you have any guts in you. Tip. Have to let fly.

And he assesses the whole incident thus:

Did me good all the same. Off colour after Kiernan’s, Dignam’s. For this relief much thanks.

I imagine in the highly moral, Christian, judgemental atmosphere of 1922, let alone the still-Victorian world of 1904, the way Bloom shows not a shred of remorse or guilt or worry about what he’s done, but just concentrates on the physical and psychological benefits of masturbation, must have caused a scandal. Not only does it depict ‘immorality’, and a complete absence of moral or religious feeling, but in effect actively promotes it. Scandal. Banned for 14 years.

The aftercloud of Gerty’s perfume, still on the air, floats over him and this triggers a ramble about women’s perfumes, the smells of different women, Molly’s favourite perfume, the contrast with the reek of women on their period. This leads him to wonder about men’s smells, ‘Mansmell’ and to make the eccentric gesture of bending his head down into his waistcoat to smell his own aroma. Lemon! Then he remembers it’s that bar of soap he bought this morning and been carrying round all day. Which in turn reminds him that he needs to go back to Sweny’s chemist to pick up Molly’s lotion, and to pay for both.

Now it is fully dark and the lighthouse is working, triggering a new train of thought:

Howth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to change or they might think it a house. Wreckers. Grace Darling. People afraid of the dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time. Jewels diamonds flash better. Women. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt you.

He keeps thinking about the happy early days of his and Molly’s courtship, but constantly shadowed by today’s disaster. Things go in circles. Life. Year. Seasons.

Longest way round is the shortest way home.

A bat flits around and he wonders whether it was disturbed from the belfry of the church by bells ringing. Light goes on in the priest’s house, he remembers the priest is brother to Gabriel Conway (protagonist of the famous short story The Dead). The rotating lighthouse light makes him thinks of ships at sea, tremendous danger, sinking, drowning.

For a moment the narrative switches to an actual third-person narrator, observing the final sinking of the sun, newsboys shouting the evening edition of newspapers in the street. Then back to Bloom’s thoughts and he summarises his day so far:

Long day I’ve had. Martha, the bath, funeral, house of Keyes, museum with those goddesses, Dedalus’ song. Then that bawler in Barney Kiernan’s.

He wonders if Gerty will come back the next evening. Should he come back in case? Nah. He finds a stick in the sand and idly starts to write a message, gets as far as I AM and runs out of space, and motivation, throws it away and rather miraculously it lands bolt upright in the wet sand:

Now if you were trying to do that for a week on end you couldn’t. Chance. We’ll never meet again. But it was lovely. Goodbye, dear. Thanks. Made me feel so young.

In fact the stick which landed in the sand could be interpreted as a stick in mud, so the words Bloom began to write create a visual pun: ‘I AM’ and then a stick in the mud. Echoing the central issue of all Joyce’s writings: paralysis and stasis and blockage and trapment.

(Confirmed several chapters later, in ‘Circe’, when Bloom’s hallucination of him tells Bloom: ‘O Poldy, Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud!’)

In the nearby house of the priests a quaint cuckoo clock marks 9pm with a series of 9 mechanical cuckoos, as Bloom starts to drift off into a nap, which explains why the last sentence of the chapter becomes more babyish and doesn’t end with a full stop but just breaks off as he falls asleep:

Because it was a little canarybird that came out of its little house to tell the time that Gerty MacDowell noticed the time she was there because she was as quick as anything about a thing like that, was Gerty MacDowell, and she noticed at once that that foreign gentleman that was sitting on the rocks looking was

Cast

Leopold Bloom – main protagonist of ‘Ulysses’. After escaping from Barney Kiernan’s pub where the citizen hurled abuse and a biscuit tin at him, and then gone with Martin Cunningham to visit Mrs Dignam to review her late husband’s insurance policy (an episode which goes entirely undescribed) Bloom has come for a quiet walk by the sea on Sandymount Strand.

Cissy Caffrey – ‘awfully fond of children’, ‘A truerhearted lass never drew the breath of life, always with a laugh in her gipsylike eyes and a frolicsome word on her cherryripe red lips, a girl lovable in the extreme.’ – ‘Madcap Ciss with her golliwog curls.’ She’s the older sister, and in charge of:

Tommy and Jacky Caffrey – ‘two little curlyheaded boys, dressed in sailor suits with caps to match and the name H. M. S. Belleisle printed on both. For Tommy and Jacky Caffrey were twins, scarce four years old and very noisy and spoiled twins sometimes but for all that darling little fellows with bright merry faces and endearing ways about them.’

Edy Boardman – friend of Cissy and Gerty, minding the baby in the pram, ‘Edy Boardman prided herself that she was very petite but she never had a foot like Gerty MacDowell, a five, and never would.’

Gertrude ‘Gerty’ MacDowell – ‘as fair a specimen of winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see.’ On the thin side although she’s been taking pills to be less anaemic. ‘Gerty’s crowning glory was her wealth of wonderful hair. It was dark brown with a natural wave in it. She had cut it that very morning on account of the new moon and it nestled about her pretty head in a profusion of luxuriant clusters…’ We find out her backstory and then, of course, get her point of view of teasing and arousing Bloom.

Canon O’Hanlon – shown celebrating the evening Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament at St. Mary Star of the Sea Church in Sandymount while Bloom is masturbating to Gerty, in a glaring counterpoint of the sacred and the profane. He was a real-life Irish Catholic priest, serving as the parish priest of Sandymount and Ringsend from 1880 until his death in 1905. He was also a prolific writer, famous for his monumental work Lives of the Irish Saints and his historical studies. Apparently he knew Joyce and offered him a position as a tenor in his church choir, which Joyce declined. He must have been livid to be included in this context.

Father Conroy – assists Canon O’Hanlon perform the evening Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament at St. Mary Star of the Sea Church, the sounds of which drift across the rocks where Bloom is masturbating to Gerty’s display.

Contrast with Cyclops

‘Cyclops’ was about stereotypical masculinity, over-masculinity, the toxic masculinity of the drunk angry Citizen. By stark contrast, ‘Nausicaa’ can be said to be about femininity but just as exaggerated and stereotypical. Gerty isn’t a woman so much as a collection of female cliches and stereotypes: fussing about her appearance, makeup, her clothes and living with only one goal in mind, to marry the perfect manhusband and become the perfect wife. They are both gender stereotypes.

Another contrast, focusing on Bloom, is that in ‘Cyclops’ his foreign appearance makes him an outsider and leads to an attack on him – repulsion. Whereas in ‘Nausicaa’ it is precisely his ‘foreign’ appearance which Gerty likes – attraction.

Is Gerty a comment on Stephen?

You know how in ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’, passionate young Stephen Dedalus makes various avowals that he will serve no-one but will be free, will flee Ireland to follow his own path, will devote himself to Art etc etc? And how I suggested that these ringing statements can not be taken as Joyce’s own position, because they are voiced by a character in a book who is shown to be a callow immature student?

Well, Stephen’s avowals are further subtly undermined by being shared by Gerty who is an epitome of uneducated shallowness. Just as Bloom is about to climax, Gerty’s romanticised inner version of everything also reaches a climax with her impassioned declaration:

Heart of mine! She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Nothing else mattered. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free!

Is that last phrase not a subtle parody and mockery of Stephen Dedalus’s similar-sounding vaunts at the end of ‘Portrait’?

I will not serve that in which I no longer believe… I shall express myself as I am… I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned… I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience…

Is not the mature Joyce comparing Gerty’s passionate but naive and sentimental declaration of freedom with similar passionate declarations by Stephen Dedalus, in order to parody, mock and undermine him?


Credit

‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce was published by Shakespeare and Company in 1922.

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Ulysses by James Joyce: Cyclops

—Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your God was a jew. Christ was a jew like me.
Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.
—By Jesus, says he, I’ll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name. By Jesus, I’ll crucify him so I will. Give us that biscuitbox here.

The division of James Joyce’s epic novel ‘Ulysses’ into three parts – of 3, 12 and 3 chapters each – is clear for everyone to read in its table of contents. Here is that table of contents. (Note: none of the Greek title names are actually indicated in the text; they were given by Joyce to early commentators who published them in books and articles about the novel, and have been used by critics and commentators, including me, ever since):

Part 1. Telemachiad

  1. Telemachus
  2. Nestor
  3. Proteus

Part 2. Odyssey

  1. Calypso
  2. Lotus Eaters
  3. Hades
  4. Aeolus
  5. Lestrygonians
  6. Scylla and Charybdis
  7. Wandering Rocks
  8. Sirens
  9. Cyclops
  10. Nausicaa
  11. Oxen of the Sun
  12. Circe

Part 3. Ithaca

  1. Eumaeus
  2. Ithaca
  3. Penelope

But the book can also be informally split into two halves, breaking after ‘Sirens’ thus:

Part 1. Initial style

  1. Telemachus
  2. Nestor
  3. Proteus
  4. Calypso
  5. Lotus Eaters
  6. Hades
  7. Aeolus
  8. Lestrygonians
  9. Scylla and Charybdis
  10. Wandering Rocks
  11. Sirens

Part 2. One-off chapters

  1. Cyclops
  2. Nausicaa
  3. Oxen of the Sun
  4. Circe
  5. Eumaeus
  6. Ithaca
  7. Penelope

This is because the first ten or so chapters are all done in a roughly similar stream-of-consciousness style. Joyce himself in a letter referred to them as being in ‘the initial style’. From ‘Sirens’ onwards, however, each individual chapter has not only a style but a format of its own. They are all longer and, in their different ways, more contrived and artificial than the initial ten. So I’m going to give individual explanations of these final seven chapters starting with chapter 12, ‘Cyclops’.

Chapter 12. Cyclops

‘To hell with the bloody brutal Sassenachs and their patois.’ (the Citizen)

1. First-person narrative

Unlike the first 11 chapters, this one is not narrated by a (sort of) third person narrator, but switches to a highly flavoured first-person narrative given by an unnamed Dublin lowlife and drinker, a self-described ‘collector of bad and doubtful debts’. He’s currently working a job on behalf of a Jewish tea merchant (Herzog) who is owed money by a man called Geraghty.

This narrator describes dropping into Barney Kiernan’s pub along with Joe Hynes, where they encounter a person referred to throughout only as The Citizen, who is an aggressive and intimidatingly fierce Irish Nationalist figure. Unwisely, Leopold Bloom later drops into the pub (looking for Martin Cunningham) and he is subjected to needling and then outright abuse, with some other characters coming to his partial support.

(Incidentally, the unnamed Citizen is generally believed to be a satirical version of Michael Cusack, a founder member of the Gaelic Athletic Association.)

2. Mock epic

The second element which makes this chapter stand out as unique is that there is a second narrator or figure who intersperses the first-person narrative with really long passages of mockery. On almost every page the first-person narrative of events is interrupted by a long passage parodying a range of ‘official’ types of content or tone. To begin with these passages parody the high-flown romantic tone of the Celtic Revival, mocking the heroic figures of Irish legend and the sentimental-heroic style they were written about by authors of the Celtic Revival in the generation before Joyce.

Here’s what I mean. First here’s the tone of the colloquial and half-drunk narrator:

I was just passing the time of day with old Troy of the D.M.P. at the corner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloody sweep came along and he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned around to let him have the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging along Stony Batter only Joe Hynes.

By contrast, here’s just part of the long first passage in the sentimental mock nationalist style:

In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy Michan. There rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty dead as in life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant land it is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the gurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse, the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed coarse fish generally and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be enumerated.

As you can see, this starts out as slushy sentimentalism but quickly becomes, as Monty Python would put it, ‘silly’. In the tradition of learnèd wit which stretches from Rabelais through Don Quixote to Tristram Shandy, one way of mocking the heroic style (and book learning generally) was by concocting absurdly long lists. The Cyclops chapter is bulked out with plenty of these:

Thither the extremely large wains bring foison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach, pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs, drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of mushrooms and custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red green yellow brown russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples and chips of strawberries and sieves of gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious, and strawberries fit for princes and raspberries from their canes.

There is much more where this came from. If you have the leisure time to really savour these interruptions, they are often very funny. Here’s a description of Terry the barman at Barney Kiernan’s pub bringing the boys another round.

Terence O’Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup full of the foamy ebon ale which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh and Bungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning as the sons of deathless Leda. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and mass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat.

So: by describing the setting and the Citizen in the flowery, exaggerated style of Celtic legends or medieval epics, Joyce mocks the tendency of the culture of his day to romanticize Irish identity and history.

He also deploys the strategy of the mock heroic genre (which itself goes back to ancient times) i.e. to portray bathetic, lowlife, contemporary figures in the style of the grand epics associated with Homer for comic and satiric purposes. Which is of course, in a sense, the fundamental approach of the entire novel.

Thus Joyce’s absurdly inflated style elevates the drunken, narrow-minded Citizen into a mythical, giant-like figure to create a humorous, mock heroic parallel. And the Homeric comparison with the one-eyed Cyclops is a scathing satire on Joyce’s conception of violent Irish nationalism for being as ‘one-eyed’ (i.e. narrow-minded, bigoted and violent) as the giant Cyclops is in the Odyssey.

3. Many parodies

But it’s not just Celtic legends that Joyce satirises. There are 32 of these long, overwritten insertions in this chapter and some of them go on to mock what Joyce saw as other forms of pretentiousness, including bad literary style, sports jargon, absurdly formal language, a séance (in which the spirit of dead Paddy Dignam speaks!), pompous academic writing, and the Bible (‘for I will on nowise suffer it even so saith the Lord.’) At one point it drops into a parody of Hansard, treating the crew of drunks in the pub as if they were MPs in the House of Commons:

Mr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat.): Arising out of the question of my honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right honourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that these animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming as to their pathological condition?
Mr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.): Honourable members are already in possession of the evidence produced before a committee of the whole house. I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. The answer to the honourable member’s question is in the affirmative.

In other words, nothing is safe, nothing goes unmocked, nothing is sacred.

What actually happens

The overall shape of the narrative is clear but it’s pretty hard to make out the detail of what happens without some kind of guide or crib. The key events are that the narrator and a pal, Joe Hynes, drop into Barney Kiernan’s pub and are greeted by the Citizen; they order drinks and are soon joined by Alf Bergan and Bob Doran (very drunk). Leopold Bloom enters, is offered a drink but wisely opts to take merely a cigar proffered by Joe Hynes, not wanting to be obliged to buy a round later.

Alf Bergan has got hold of a bundle of job applications sent to the Dublin High Sheriff from men volunteering to be the official hangman, which he gives to Joe and Joe reads out to everyone’s disgust. This points to the grim reality of capital punishment under British rule but also, in stark contrast to the nationalistic talk in the bar, indicates there are plenty of Irishmen ready to hang their fellow countrymen for pay. They discuss the urban legend that being hanged gives male hangees an erection. Or, in mock scientiese:

The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would, according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be calculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus…

Bloom insists on taking a scientific view of the matter and this riles the half-drunk Citizen, who aggressively yells an Irish toast for their next drinks. Bloom explains he was only looking for Martin Cunningham about aspects of Paddy Dignam’s will. It is about 5pm. All the fandango about the elaborate parodies can’t hide the fact that we are down among real lowlife, violent shiftless drunks:

Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told him if he didn’t patch up the pot, Jesus, he’d kick the shite out of him.

Talk turns to the foot-and-mouth disease which is being discussed at the cattle markets and by some local politicians including Nannetti who we met in the newspaper offices. Once again, Bloom, stone cold sober, launches in on a scientific explanation of the issues which really riles the drunk Citizen and the narrator who calls him ‘Mister Knowall’.

A remark about a ban on playing Irish games in the park leads into a discussion of Irish sports. The narrator is really cross with Bloom continually interrupting these drunk rambles to give lucid sensible analyses. When Alf mentions that Blazes Boylan is rumoured to have made £100 betting on a boxing match, Bloom hurriedly tries to continue the existing topic. He wants to avoid any mention of Blazes, his nemesis, the man who is probably screwing his wife as they speak.

Incidentally the boxing match, between Myler Keogh (‘Dublin’s pet lamb’ and an Irish champion) and Percy Bennett (‘the Portobello bruiser’ a sergeant-major representing British forces) is fictional and clearly another representation of the central them of the antagonism between Ireland and Britain. At the same time it is described in an extended parody of sports journalism. Nothing is sacred.

They are joined in the pub by J. J. O’Molloy and Ned Lambert who have passed the madman Denis Breen and his worried wife Mrs Breen. Breen madly wants to bring a libel case which prompts discussion of recent lawsuits, one of which is then described in flowery Medieval English. Someone involved in it was Jewish which sets the Citizen to lamenting that we ever let ‘them’, the Jews, into the country.

Next to enter the crowded pub are John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan ‘with him with a face on him as long as a late breakfast’ because they lost money betting on the Gold Cup horserace, but this is a digression from the Citizen who delivers an extended vision of Ireland restored to her rightful place on the high seas and fine industries and thriving population – ‘All wind and piss like a tanyard cat’ according to the jaded narrator.

The Citizen gets distracted into a rant about the appalling conditions in the Royal Navy which triggers a blasphemous interpolation.

They believe in rod, the scourger almighty, creator of hell upon earth, and in Jacky Tar, the son of a gun, who was conceived of unholy boast, born of the fighting navy, suffered under rump and dozen, was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third day he arose again from the bed, steered into haven, sitteth on his beamend till further orders whence he shall come to drudge for a living and be paid.

Bloom is foolishly sober and pedantic:

—Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was…

The episode is overtly presented as a clash between bigoted nationalism and a Jew, a case of antisemitism – which it explicitly is – but as always with Joyce, it’s other things too.

1) It’s a clash between sobriety and drunkenness. Bloom is not teetotal but he chooses to drink nothing while the ten or so Dubliners around him proceed to get very drunk, angry, arguing, fighting drunk.

2) It’s a class thing. Bloom is lower middle-class and we know about his calm intellectual curiosity about things, whereas most of the others are portrayed as real lowlifes, parasites, leaches, drunken gamblers (O’Molloy the lawyer isn’t nor, in fact, is the Citizen himself). Bloom is not just a nice Jewish boy who’s stumbled into a den of bigots; he’s a nice middle-class man generally, who’s stumbled into a den of drunken roughs.

Then the Citizen asks Bloom direct what his nation is and, when Bloom replies ‘Ireland’, the Citizen hawks and spits in disgust. Suddenly Bloom loses his temper and briefly speaks about the repression of his people, here and now. It’s worth quoting in full:

—And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Also now. This very moment. This very instant.
Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.
Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs to us by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle.
—Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.
—I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.
—Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.
That’s an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he’d adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse’s apron on him. And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag.
—But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it’s the very opposite of that that is really life.
—What? says Alf.
Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now…

Of course the irony is that Bloom is preaching the gospel of love promoted by Jesus Christ to supposed Christians but this so infuriates the Citizen that he swears he’ll murder him, he’ll crucify him, for all the world sounding like the Jewish and Roman authorities who conspired to execute Christ.

After he’s stalked out, Lenehan mistakenly spreads the rumour that Bloom had a hot tip on the Gold Cup race, Throwaway, and has gone to collect his winnings. And this triggers venomous gossip about Bloom undermining the nationalist cause, and his father being a swindler.

At this point, at the end of the episode, nice Martin Cunningham arrives and his arrival is described in cod medieval style, maybe parodying Walter Scott.

Our travellers reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from their palfreys.
—Ho, varlet! cried he, who by his mien seemed the leader of the party. Saucy knave! To us!
So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice.
Mine host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard.

Disappointingly, Martin joins in the general slagging off of Bloom and pads out the accusation that his father helped the British authorities in Dublin castle draw up repressive legislation and practices. At which point Bloom unexpectedly and unwisely appears back in the pub, in search of Cunningham to do good for Dignam’s widow. But nobody believes this story; his name is thoroughly blackened now, and the narrator thinks:

There’s a jew for you! All for number one. Cute as a shithouse rat.

He and Martin exit, getting up into a cab but the Citizen finally staggers to his feet and makes his way to the pub door and yells after Bloom: ‘—Three cheers for Israel!’ drawing the attention of passersby. Bloom, incensed yells back:

—Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx and Mercadante and Spinoza. And the Saviour was a jew and his father was a jew. Your God.

The Citizen is so incensed by this that he stumbles back into the pub, looking for the knackered old biscuit barrel his dog had licked clean of its last crumbs, as a weapon. He grabs it, returns to the door and throws it at the horse-driven cab (terrifying the horse) as his furious mangy hound Garryowen runs after the carriage and passersby laugh at these yelling drunks.

The throwing of the biscuit tin is a mock heroic reference to the end of the Cyclops story in the Odyssey, where Odysseus, having tricked the Cyclops, escaped from the cave where he had been imprisoned, made it to his ship and sailing away, is incautious enough to yell taunts at back at his captor. At which the giant Cyclops picks up an enormous boulder and hurls it at the ship, only narrowly missing. Heroic version: giant rock. Modern mock heroic equivalent: biscuit tin.

The Arranger

Canadian critic Hugh Kenner says that the critic David Hayman was the first to identify and name Ulysses’ main technical innovation, which was the irruption into the text of a voice which belongs to none of the characters nor to any narrator, but just intrudes, as we’ve seen happens in ‘Cyclops’.

Its first significant appearance in the text takes the form of the 63 newspaper captions which punctuate the ‘Aeolus’ chapter. Who is ‘saying’ these headlines? Nobody. And as the chapters follow you realise that, yes, we are still getting the famous ‘stream-of-consciousness’ thoughts of the leading characters but that there is another voice who adds phrases in among the characters’ thoughts.

Hayman gives it a name, calling it The Arranger. Kenner devotes a whole chapter to describing its effects and I note the name is still being used by modern commentators. And this chapter 12, the ‘Cyclops’ chapter, is the first one where we really see The Arranger fully in action. Who speaks the 32 comic parodies and exaggerations which punctuate the text? Not the lowlife narrator of the episode, not the narrator of the initial sections, who is by and large close to the idea of a traditional third-person narrator. No, someone else.

At one level, obviously it’s James Joyce who wrote the whole thing. But I really like Hayman’s idea that, within the experience of reading the text, it’s someone else, something else, a powerful supra-authorial entity, a science fiction invader from some other realm of discourse, concocting these solid blocks of text. This makes them not only funny, but spooky, adding to the luminous sense of ‘Ulysses’ coming, in some sense, from another world.

General xenophobic insults

The Citizen isn’t just rude about the Jews.

  • The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Do you know what it is? They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland.
  • the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven’t we had enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from George the elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that’s dead?
  • [Of Nannetti the Italian]
    Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the darling of all countries and the idol of his own.
  • [Of the English king]
    We have Edward the peacemaker now.
    —Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. There’s a bloody sight more pox than pax about that boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin…
    And what do you think, says Joe, of the holy boys, the priests and bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in His Satanic Majesty’s racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses his jockeys rode…
    —They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says little Alf.

Comic phrases and vivid speech

The face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain.

—Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. [handing over money]

—I beg your parsnips, says Alf.

Mister Knowall. Teach your grandmother how to milk ducks.

Gob, he’d have a soft hand under a hen.

—Me? says Alf. Don’t cast your nasturtiums on my character.

—What’s up with you, says I to Lenehan. You look like a fellow that had lost a bob and found a tanner.

—Who made those allegations? says Alf.
—I, says Joe. I’m the alligator.

—Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan.


Credit

‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce was published by Shakespeare and Company in 1922.

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