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 na hireannaigh. 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

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 church and state ever-roaring on the Irish territorial waters (with the infantile then a fully-fledged Stephen 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 ivytwined 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 prosewriting 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. Go maire 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. That le mot juste (6.) is. With a stroke of a pen. Exceptionnellenment blessures (7.). All one. Have nice equal days! Yours fraternally! Marty. P.S. : I shove 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 wordy Brdy. 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 everroaring 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 selfcontained 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 youthself 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 -8-

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 farfamed 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 air in 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! 4-32-1-0 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, Tussling Westbound Albatross 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, Tussling Westbound Albatross of a wanton son! Shun! The Seething Umber Nebulae 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.) my beloved 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, youthful limbs resembling the buds of inchoate antlers on the heads of alert and juvenile fawns. When found, actived Judith A. Resniks PEAP was. My, my learned Daedalus, hey friend! An nl bhfuair glic go leor? (22.) Where, if any, Icaros personal egress air pack 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 the unknown 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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Yeah. So, better around lit doc ya poke. Benito Cereno. Braggart soldier. What that braggart means? On the tip of my. Babits. Poet laurate. Look to your larynxes. Smoke I too. Knock it off, Marty. A funk the mere thought of having the laryngeal knot cut. Tracheal intubation succesfully performed. Apart from the slight mucosal bleed, no complications. Every dobacconist has its day of indubation. I am dorry, dust a cold dis is! You, however palmleafstetsoned marlboro-boy, r-toed-booted smooth ostrich mock-up of the frontier! You will also put your catheter where the flavor was! Guarantee. Poseurs go under the lockback-blade of their own! We one and all will go? When? Then. Baldwin. Lower. Lower. Right. There ya go. Brenda. Well-founded that yours paralell, Marty. Sort ocold Im. Window at a crack. Asleep toes are. Uncross! Third paragraph. Thats the spot! Im game, Brenda. Brenda Maddox says: Joyce never conquered his fear of Noras old loves" (4). It is accordingly this propensity, the susceptibility to be envious what may bear a resemblance with the mythological Deadalus corresponding fright of being menaced, the fright of having the autarchy of his talents surpassed by his nephew of good parts. Joyces recurrent flames of obsession with Noras putative unfaithfulness to him as well as her notorious reputation as the mankiller prior to their relationship made its way into Joyces poetry, his play Exiles, and Ulysses, let alone some raving and accusatorial letters to Nora (5.). Again, what further attribute, if any, could most plausibly have propelled Joyce into modelling and naming his protagonist after Daedalus? Is there any additional equivalence we ought to take to be between their aspirations and lots than those aforementioned? Sharps the word. Sure! The idea! Here what we do is. Hold on for the time being Daedelus course. Alack, alack! Having bewailed his dead son Daedalus continued on his way to Sicily where he came to stay at the court of Cocalus in a place called Camicus. The analogous relation between that preceding evolution of the fabula and of Joyces actual defection is that both the Greek boffin and the Irish man of tortuous letters could feel the vivid warmth of the successful new arrivals sensing

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firm ground under their feet after a long voyage of precarious denouement. After having been forbearing his nations paralysis, the economic and intellectual conditions that prevail in his country permitting not the development of individuality(6.) Joyce hitched up and zipped the motley attire of his self-acting sovereignity and yielding to his artistic urges took off in quest of the crucial evidence of his talents of prophetic significance. So far so good. So-la-so-mood Im in a. Or rather. The moment when the pips started. What the blazes did? Pips? Than one no more Pip ever was. For him no greater an anticipation was. Than Estellah. Thats satis!(23.) Go on! On second thought once I did in the wendy-house give a stella of a coleen Hershey's Kisses though. Or dreamt just that. Estellah. With the kiss of wife me you would revive. Gooey gimmickry. All one. The moment when the pips started going for him to bid farewell being sparked off besides his obvious surfeit of his fatherland by nothing less but his resolve to go the whole hog and give at last full rein to his literary ambitions, Joyce unceremoniously took to the road. I am not likely to die of bashfulness but neither am I prepared to be crucified to attest the perfection of my art. I dislike to hear of any stray heroics on the prowl for me. (7.) First he travelled to Zurich but finding not the job that was to await him he was compelled to sally forth to Trieste where his plans about setting to work likewise went all awry (8.). Bad job! Still. When the going gets tough the tough go making an epoch-making feller. Workaday vicissitudes were all grist for his ebullient mill I guess. Others die fromem toss and tumbles. He died of it anyway. Matter of course. Why, the cain that one raised while alive. Decent paterfamilias or what I read he was. Thats set. That guy is regularly set. Homebody pacing aslant on his chessboard of a chequered hearth-rug, pensively, for the main, while bringing off the coup, the cunning bishop, of making the circuit of the town distant, in truth, the world distant, holding this fugitive life in check. This skedaddling, bowing-out queen of the reality of experience(p.253), ever-vanishing behind the thin smoke-screens of her ballroom, mingling

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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, the pawns, 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? Shalala lala,shalala lala just for you just for now but then lettus in! In-in! In the

evening too 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 and fall with us into the waters. Comon, pop, let your heart go shalala like 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) of soaring 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 congenital and 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 cogwheels 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 the pupation 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 of being present with the mind of the outsider is 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 with a cunningly screwed-up, farsighted 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 of Exiles 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 heroes before 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 eradefining 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 to promote the use of the MLK Memorial Park. Luther Junior declaimed 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 an pearsa aonair a bheidh ag seoladh trdla n gairme eile go haonraic n i gcomhphirtocht (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 under the vault of 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 theoretical golden 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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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. In silence, with a cunningly screwed-up, farsighted 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'fhonn dearmad, a str mthair. (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-fledged Stephen 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 forth an 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 muchdespised 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 need and to whom they 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, pristinelooking 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 dearmad chianaosta (36.). Mine dear mad kitchen maid! Out of the window with stripped potato jackets and apple parings along, my own Murchadha, you threw your nisin 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 storytelling 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 animated with 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 yetslumbering 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 into Stephens 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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b) Glass him with care, lady! Rather, invite us to go up-stage of what came to be depicted!

- Dear attendant visitors of ours! And now, let us adjourn to the corner of that fair space over the narthex and survey the forthcoming ternary image of this inward and self-reflecting painter of a protagonist of ours that, again, perfectly attest to the richness of the blue period and the introverted state of mind in question. This way, please! Sorry for the dust! You see, renovation is under way. Could you, please, sir, scoot a bit over to the other side of the confessionals? You see, hazardous pillar there. Thanks so much. Now, the arabic numerals overhead point to the fact. Psht! None of your sauce, ya amber-pinafored! The udder(ed) side of the pond I am from anyway. Wont have limey lasses redirections and putting my face eggs all over. Sick of I am that guidess whole shebang anyway. Could you please, sir. Will you give what for jiggling me! Over my jig was. Honking silly thing, you! Rotten regimentation with yours. An idea! Hey, linaria vulgaris! Ya can somehow make amends. Ask the renovating dudes first to gettus up there onem scaffolds or whats! Arrange for it! Now! Work ya here, right? Pull the strings! Go, ducky! And pity us, bleary-eyed and get moving and! Ya think what the pox can we see here from? Zilch. Not a single Arabic numeral! No way! 40) ! ).! Off we go on them scaffolds! I mean, comeon! Sear sizzlingtors! Nix point in blinkin six feet under that mural or what! Whas that up there? To boot she slurred voice has. Emery-wheel! Great! Softer, dudes up there! I mean do neither see nor hear I here right now, down. Say ya what? School-yard? Let all our eyes be focused this time on the central figures, pardon, you all, my French, broadminded eyes, sitting on the fence of his self-imposed detachement off the yard-rails, observant, awed, nay resigned. Let me, now, read out. Let me now. Let me now. Let me now. Let me know, ducky, whether ad infinitum (41.) will I have listen to your civil-doings? Would you please, sir, be so kind as to refrain from pummeling that ledge there? It is at least one thousand years old. Zap! Did not

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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 - 34 -

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 inflame 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 - 35 -

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 storyteller 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. Molehills. 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 resembles I 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. Ohoo-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)

1 A 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 a sine qua non for him to restitute the dry-rotten keel of the past, 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 depthrecorder 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 mustering one another begrudgingly and giving their fellow countrymen a handle against themselves, a stick to beat themselves with! Your hand were to cause you to sin off you cut it and throw it away. Away, came it away! Enter into life maimed. Welcome! O knife! It is therefore this ever-growing seed of virulent dissension of the Irish that in truth loaded and continue to load the dice for them and make the garrotter specter of belligerency appear. At the other end of the dusty wake of the Irish history the poltergeists of those anarchical leaders stand whose long-ago-conceived national vices, grudge fights and selfdevouring perfidies made them the primer and gaunt movers of those irreversible and unalterrable conditions that, it costs us to acknowledge, in the perpective of several hundred years mediately led to the necessity under the weight of which Stephen, along with the hundred and odd clongowesan students stoops, poring over the nice sentences in Doctor Cornwells Spelling Book (p.10). That is James Cornwalls introduction to his advanced text entitled An English School Grammar: With Very Copious Exercises and Systematic View of

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the Formation and Derivation of Words... and issued by the English-oriented Intermediate Education Board for Ireland (27). Halt! Wait and see! Boy, I mean whose bitter lingo this present-time Stevo and the hundred and odd shock-headed clongoweans are, willy-nilly, coerced to swallow? Sorry thats private fishing! Just by leave of authority. Futile. Where? Really. Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why.(28.) God, goad those sins my curiosity to re-kill the immemorial convicts. Would it impertinent if one ask where and when the adumbrative supremacy of the aliens unfurled its membranaceous wings above a vixenish, skirmish-ridden, green-white-orange-jacketed forwards of a nation? I mean, I do wonder for reals, really. Insatiable warring lads, hungered. In a scrimmage. Hackles up. A bit like us. Arpads folk. Envision the sallow serpents egg the doppelganger of war, the Werewolfs mistress, the Vixen hatches ever-ending, from where the Monstrosity of iniquity and hostility erects its ugly head, the Djinni, that squeezes the warriors spear-gripping hands, sprays the wrathful angina under their hauberks and lingers there in the smoke of the cannonade, gloating. A drga fik hullanak vrben a hra napra nap (43.). Larynx. Heavens! Dear Michael! For their poor souls to pray forte, for also their larynxes, let me ask you, being that a poets forte! Spurred by the heat of delving into the Irish past in an attempt to alight upon the first, or, if you like, the primaeval traitor I found Diarmaid Mac Murchadha, or anglicized as Dermot MacMurrough, the King of Leinster to be the sceptered one who had commited the original sin, prompted by the sway the weasel-faced muse of dominance held over his heart (29.). The ever-diffusive roots of the crisis, however, started their accession in the very cores of the dissension sown by the abovementioned MacMurrogh, sank on his knees, woebegone in the twelfth century. After six centuries of armed occupation and more then a hundred years of English legislation, which has reduced the population of the unhappy island from eight to four million, quadrupled the taxes, and twisted the agrarian problem into

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many more knots. The Irish know that the cause of all their sufferings.(30.) What is also incremental in further supporting the same issue stems from another essay of his and reads as follows: For seven centuries she (Ireland) has never been a faithful subject to England. Neither, on the other hand, has she been faithful to herself. She has entered the British domain without forming an integral part of it. She has abandoned her own language almost entirely and accepted the language of the conqueror without being able to assimilate the culture or adapt herself to the mentality of which language is the vehicle(31.). This linguistic friction also comes to be paraphrased in the dialogue between Stephen and the dean of studies by the latters incredulousness with regard to Stephens using the word tundish in reference to a funnel. On the face of it, this appears to be a difference that only lies in their denoting the same thing with alternate synonyms, however the word tundish strikes the dean as not only irrelevant but even as as alien expression. By the very reason of his being a humble follower in the wake of clamorous conversions, a poor Englishman in Ireland (p.188) he was caught fully unawares furthermore it is in fact this very incomprehension that made Stephen get a glimpse of a further instance of the profundity of his nations existence being overridden by an oppressive authority; so much as not any motion of her body parts does remain unnoticed but the language of Ireland is similarly a cut from the same cloth together with that of the royal English supremacy. In a swooned stupor, affronted, thus he ruminates: The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words home, Christ, ale, master, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. My soul frets in the shadow of his language(p.189). In the very egg of the primeval calamity, in 1014, the death of the famous High King Brian Boru lies dormant, from which time on Ireland was at almost constant civil war for two centuries. Let see! Heave-ho! Thatll be a mouthful! In 1131 High King of Ireland, Toirdhealbhach Mac Ruaidhr Ua Conchobhair, or anglicized as

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Turlough OConnor, apprehensive of Diarmaid Mac Murchadha being on the verge of making the next King of Leinster, bethought that it hardly augured well for the future and called for an overwhelming backlash. May his kingship be the crop that the verbose hail cut up. Thus his best wishes attendant on him might have sounded. By sending one of his allied Kings, the warring Tighearnn Ua Ruairc, or anglicized as Tiernan O'Rourke he brooded over scheemes of conquering Leinster and oust Mac Murchadha. ORourke at the outset had the
coony recourse to slaughtering the livestock of Leinster trying and trying his savage hand

at famishing the residents. There was thus a royal road for them to have Murchadha ousted whose efforts came, nevertheless, to be bolstered subsequently in tracing his way back into his marble halls by the Leister clans in 1133. Cor blimey! Murchada it was, again, in 1152, Diarmaid himself, indeed, at his earliest convenience, who did came out for the High King when it came to raiding the land of the renegade ORourke, actuated by his trepidation to
retort. He went as far as enticing, not to say abducting O'Rourke's wife, Dearbhforghaill

along with all her furniture and goods, with the aid of Dearbhforghaill's brother, a
future pretender to the kingship of Meath (32.). Now I have it. Fear. Oppress. Warring conqueror. Oust. Famish. Savage. Coony Slaughterer. Raid. Retort. Abduct. With all her furniture. Dearbhforghaill's brother. The future. A pretender.

II. Into the ashes of charred stubble-fields

These words reached me and pensively, nonplussed, I bethought that at the back of the
Irishs conscience the remembrance of a dark past is sticked so full of the pangs of these

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rhyming but saturnine notions as if it was merely a honeycombed pincushion on the seamstress worktable. Stupefying may that appear under the cope of the early years, yet the genetic map of Irish history shows a fearsome past paralysed with altercations of berserk conquerors overarching towards an even sterner future of scrounging pretenders and traitors. Ireland. Ire-land. The land of ire. How can I tell where the hothouse of anger caught alight and with its flames spreading over scorched the encompassing emerald meadows of a country and laid the swinging and whispering plants of an autonomous self-esteem into the ashes of a charred stubble-field? Every directorate secretes in her private mansion-yard the expropriated and vitiated sprouts of ambition and of lust for domination. Whilst still juveniles, they retrieve them, the rustling shoots, from the wide-flung mother earth of their nation only to end up addling them through their doing little more than a pitious and pestilent pilfering only to conduct the subsequent coquetry with their uprooted advancements. Certainly! Why acted the Irish contrariwise as they all did here below and do and will act till the end of the time? God wot wherefrom the primordial ire jabbed itself up to the hilt into MacMurroughs ribs and made the molten blood of vengeance run over its rims in his incandescent forge of a heart. In 1166, once having been edged out again of royalty by his arch enemy, Tighearnn Ua Ruairc, and his allies Mac Murchadha this time fled to An Bhreatain Bheag (44.) and from there to Sasana (45.) in order to find King Henry II and plead with him to be allowed recruit soldiers to bring back to ire (46.) and reclaim his kingship. Flee, flee MacMurrogh, the son of Donnchadh and what you are going to do, do quickly! Well-known as it could have been for any of na hireannaigh (47.) pious that whom osa (48.) had his words with in that same vein was the son of Simon Iscariot it would at the same time have been ever so much lesserknown that Macmurrogh was also about to purloin the chalice of a collective concern, in his case, that of nationality only to blemish the host of autonomy with his traitorous fingetips by

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selling it out at King Henrys yard-sale, by furiously bartering it for the small change his usurped Leinster treasury proferred him on its retrieval.

III The consummation the squalid and advanced imbroglio

So Diramad that was your little game. Well I never! Dermot of the Foreigners. You are a
fine fellow you are! That you got them into an abhorrent predicamen I daresay. Just had you to go and swell like a turkey-cock with them got high and mighty and. So it goes. Tell me the reason pray! Why? For the uncouth leave-breaker you are! Diarmaid, Diarmaid. Scene next. Another part of the platform. Enter ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing to what I shall unfold (33). Patricide it was thou did. Savor thou can the opprobious, nay flagrant measures that hath thou taken? Driven thine own fathers thou to earth! By heavens, and thine children, too! Get it through the hoggish mace of a skull of yours! No one under this warfevered canopy would ever descend to giving concurrent powers a handle against his own kinsfolk. Why, be blowed I will. Frigid-lipped dementia breathe forth will on mine temples as long as able I be that to conceive. The indelible discredit brought thou upon my name. You defiled the Murchadhas! Nay, the ignominy! Thou did let her to be defiled, nay to be desecrated. Alas! Now alien auxiliaries, mercantile and scowling squatters of a cavalry spread abroad of this door wade rampageously across her body and drag her death-rattling, gory sons through the mired earth upon her bosom to yield her their souls! That until the crack of doom will we groan! Under the yoke of that maimed our souls will be! Wait just! Just wait! Thou brought the doom of thine nation in your own wagon hitching it to the ill-star of that covetous intention of yours! Wretched that thou art! My son! My miserable one! How possibly is it that the look of intelligence and conpiracy, the knowing sneer they exchanged

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could perhance hath escaped thine observation? How? Tell me just! Wert thou as naked as regards thine discretion? Past the invasion the Normans, god-a-mercy, forth will abuse her, I what prohesy that is. Will they then, alack, play against one Irish family off the other. Woe is me! The dawn is to be broken up. As of it also of me. My hour is almost come when I to sulphurous and tormeting flames must render up myself (34.). The blood that into the earth the battering rams pounded and the war-horses wallowed through and again, via the pipes of radicles and rootlets, oozing, down did emanate and insomuch nettled the sepulchral tranquilitiy of the quadruped one I go halves wearing my shroud with that it nuzzled me to life. A glance stole I then on her convulsing war-ridden body and reading the signs of the times my new-blown cognizance gave way to the simmering rancour. Thine phantasm, my Diarmaid Mac Murchadha, thine wry shadow was I, crystal-gazer of this nefarious war, able to behold pulsating in her surging, constricted eyes, in her careworn and bloodshot glance, evidential of thine invoking the specter of this babel assaulting her. Instantaneously knew I. Boh! Least said soonest! Thou let the extraneous abusers to shred first then strain her to themselves, thou let her in fine to be ceded as well. Rest rest spirit perturbed(35.). Now, my rage sinking, receive then into thine heart the seeds of thine delusion and behold the bearings of thine gullibility spear. Mark me! Unbeknowst to thou, extorted thou, woefully, the advocacy of a cagey coon of a king, who laughing up to his cope-sleeve the Papal Bull laudabiliter had had a stealthy stranglehold on, jubilantly biding his time poised in his ringgirdled hand the peg, which an emerald ringlet was to be hung upon when did the pious occassion ever serve him so. Thou, all blithering tacticians, bless me, clout you all thine own litter smartly. Alas! But able he to come to Ireland was, and empowered to boot to decant the deserter Christians fermented wine into his royal drinking horn. Art not ye being apprised of that, the miry litter of despots, go-getters, and traitors carry incessantly on fighting like loose cattle all possessed ruefully casting thine strewn, warring, flail-lashing shadows on the King

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castle-walls, who dwells in his marble halls, quiescent. Ay, by heaven (36.), my son. Glum is the consummation the squalid imbroglio advanced by thine own debacle will reach for her. Down to earth herein hosted thou will be, in Ferns. The death untimely thou are to meet will bring forth the tether to she is come by. Mum! Let no pendent sentence slew me on a lay-by unintended. Let a touch of mine valediction graze now the crestfallen pate of yours. Do thine beads of elegies tell. Out thine flying days contritely live, I counsel, and die shriven of thine cupidity, cleansed. Adieu, adieu! Diarmaid, remember me. Remember me. Exeunt.

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II. The ordinary (Irish) mans bane of existence I. Booze-made ups. Drank we a fat lot. Or fortune knocks. The latter not. Though, I believe. .

Latching back again onto this side of the windtorn patchwork of the Irish history, to the
balusters and transom of the child Stephens and the hundreds and odd students Clongowean schoolroom poring over Doctor Cornwells Spelling Book. Once having sighted the coruscating countenance of the gaunt movers of the long-ago-conceived vices, grudge fights and self-devouring mendacities beyond curtain of wildfires of those tempestuous days several hundred years ago now we can put a radically new face on the outwardly axiomatic and evident matter of these students neccesity of learning and expressing themselves in the English language. Thenceforward the Irish has been partaking of the vicarious satisfaction of eating partly their superiors bread with the bent heads and the sweating brows of the inferiors. The ordinary Irismans bane of existence at Joyces time (or perhaps ever since then) beyond his awareness of his country being exposed to a whimsical supremacy could be the incontestable discordance caused by the internal and ubiquitous diversification of his fellow citizens, the rupture between the Unionists and the Nationalists. The Unionists were predominantly Protestants and supported a full constitutional and institutional relationship between Ireland and Great Britain based on the terms created by The Act of Union 1800/01 merging the two countries to form the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland while the Irish Nationalists urged a greater independence of Ireland from Great Britain and the majority of whom was in turn Roman Catholic. Prior to this act Ireland had been in personal union

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with England since 1544. Better check upon that date. 31. Or. No, not 3 was in it. Sure to have mixed that up. That not 21? Heckno. Forty is okay. Dad hollers. The thingummy does he want them tartars for? 1241. Oops. Ending really looked like that one with the invasion of the tartars. 1541. Here we are. Dad hollers. April or October? How I should know. Husky voice when shouts. Why shout? Please come in. See it for yourself. Ya that lot cigs should not eat.Unghia gialla sulla indice destra (49.). Cost plus an arm. Shoot the works he. Not getting stouter at least. Eighty if anything. Say, booze belly makes thirty. At least. None of your impudence! All one. Ya cut yir shouting out! Loud TV yous not mine. Come ben then. Wont shout back. He wants it really he will come in, right? Muhi though musta been in April. Great battles fought in spring. Guess cold they are not either hot it is not. Gonna read on. Imposed this Stevo boy, here is to this enfilade of analogous adversities by a nuisance of a boozer for a father. Interesting. See though perfectly I can through the freight-train of Stevos thoughts. When fain I was manys the time to saunter along from one gin-mill to the other with a pixyled beast of a father sinking under an invisible cargo, dishevelled, ponderous.

On the day on which the property was sold Stephen followed from bar to bar his father meekly.(p.93) - Blimey! Big bulk of a man. Black makes him look thinner though. Still Pot-belly. There is no holding it. A black or two more or less doesnt matter. Hair. Still wavy. That Peter Pickackafax beside him was his eldest son and that he was only a Dublin jackeen Mr. Daedalus told the same tale to the sellers, to the barmen and barmaids to - Combs he backwards. Perhaps quixotic project. over backwards. Baldpatchgleamsthrough.AuroraBorealis.Dandruff.Denselybestrewedtillin gs.Lanternsherds the beggars.(p.93) To conceal bent he

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Same spot for me? How soon? Better check when showering. Ouch! Slipped.Doo-doo. Trashy birds!

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Dad

hollers. Closer his voice from. Thats him. Here he struts. Or rather. Labors.

Snuffling commander. Dates are not my greatest asset, son. That goddam crossword that. Knew this. Kept an encyclo by the bed. Internet engaged. You I if were. Sits down. All one. Crumb of comfort: go on reading! It takes patience to. Left it off with Stevos what. Chatterlings. Haw! That done I deem is for the time being. Whats that here? Mr. Deadalus cup had rattled noisily against its saucer, and Stephen tried to cover that shameful sign (p. 94). What about Mr. Deadalus inward ruminations while elbow to elbow with his son at Newcombes drinking this-time away with coffees. That morning imagine after a night was once before that.
- Pain in the head. Hair of the dog. No go! Good they say it does. Drink for drinks sake. Lied they then. Lie that is part true. Wanted me to stand a round. Knew that then, too. Few times been I around the blocks. Bosky hearties like I know alla bout. Great talkers. Drank way more than is good again. Counter got nasty boots. Saw it crack. Damage is done. That was on the house, I reckon. The guy noticed. Went on serving. Booze makes up for it. Drank I there a fat lot. Or fortune knocks ones. The
latter not, I believe, though. Had to uncork these recollections.Adieu Cork!! Adieu cigar-wreaths! Adieu

South Terrace!

Dad coughes. Less hoarse voice. Jesus!Time presses. Put book aside.Be instant withim.No way!
-Still tapping, that hulk of a father. What next? Tartars done apparently. Let me be, dad! Pray! Half-crazed Ill get if you. Till the cows come home buddy will you wait until. The paunchy cows, you mean. Kinda wicked. Yeah. Just wait and see. Speech is silver. Space bar loose, anyway. Ill warn him. Told ya didnt I that gently does it! Not any more a typewriter. Ya heard that? Hands are all of a dither. Man! This guy all atremble is. Besott.Whatta deuce is that one doing at now? Strike work or mud yir name is. Wanna you buy that Delonghi or what? For you eye-opener that was, old chap, right? Hold! Cant ya afford that anyway. Even nest-egg guzzle you away. Whats there? Make deepfried dishes using haaaaalf. His shoulder obstructs. Blubbery is which that is. Kinda wicked. Crane neck. Make deep-fried dishes using half the oil of conventional fryeeeerrrrrrr. Damn. Now blocks his flask.Through seen is that a world green.Green green green.His even. His blood.. Em! I mean come to earth, Dad, back! Half the oil. Whatever. Hey, I mean, whats the square root of promotional humbug? Come on, you, wool-eyed king! Fish or cut the bait! Fish your deep fried one or. Anything else, mister besides usual cider-cup? Mails. Get you out of the way of mine computer while the going is good! Woe betide him if. Didnt he receive a letter. Huh. Close shave though. Scram! Lilting gait. Son is the likes his sire. Gracious! Swaying trees windfall it is spoiling for? To the earth stands

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though I believe this lumber of a father riveted. Sit now back, go to it. Dear me! Two weeks. Think it over! Still too much of a good thing. The idea comes its awright though. But where? Left off at tartars. 41. Thats when. Wheres the line? The one with prior to. Prior. Prior. Nope. Not anywhere. Upper roll it. Prior. Pri. Yeah. Right there underlined. Stygian lots ofem in green.Em! Gets me why. So. Prior to this act Ireland had been in personal union with England since. Watch out. 1. 4 not. I know. Once more.

Prior to this act Ireland had been in personal union with England since 1541 when the Protestant Ascendancy dominating Irish Parliament passed the Crown of Ireland Act 1542, proclaiming King Henry VIII of England to be King of Ireland (37.)

II. An analogous,nay, hawthornian distress of being excommunicated from society

Until the 1870s Irish people elected their MPs as Liberals and Conservatives who belonged to the main British political parties when the Home Rule League, a new moderate nationalist movement was established by Isaac Butt, whose duties after his death was taken over by William Shaw and in particular by a radical Protestant landowner, Charles Stewart Parnell, whose accession to office and messianic characteristics was the key episode I was working up to in the course of my foregoing historical digression. Joyce portrayed him as a betrayed hero, a God who was likened to Christ or Moses. Like Moses Joyce believed Parnell had arrived at the entrance to the Promised Land (an independent Ireland) but was refused entrance. Disgusted with his countrymens treatment of his hero Joyce returned to worship of Parnell over and over (38). To the end that I can further render the particular veneration and public esteem perceptible that Parnell was subject of in the judgement of the average nationalist Irishman and equally in that of Joyce himself who were all in favor of a self-reliant, sovereign model for a state and for whom he was indubitably an undisputed hero. Also, in order to further substantiate Joyces devoting his whole literary career to balance the welfare of his beloved bliss-and-blow homeland in the shade of the somber supporting pillars of the church

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and the state let me highlight upon an instance when Stephen returns from boarding school for Christmas vacation and is first allowed to sit at the adult table getting a few words in edgeways and doting upon the whirling discourse, which untramelled by the plain-spoken, fierce contributions leading straight up to the acrimonious cuts and thrusts of those sitting around culminating in the enraged Dante hissing fiend in disdain with a reference to Parnell and picking up her marbles and going home taking the shine off this festive board. As far as the bone of their contention, Charles Stewart Parnell himself concerned, the deferential allusions to whom made by the men are scattered through the chapter and the announcement of whom death takes place by the light at the pierhead of Stephens imagination. Growing languid it projects the fire of the infirmary rising and falling on the wall into the long dark waves drifting Brother Michael ashore who brings those harrowing tidings. By employing a sort of cinematoghraphical visualization of all screened by his hero Joyce actually perpetuates a moment of the grievous remembrance in Irish history. Having ...the most formidable man, that ever led the Irish(39.) subsequently deposed in 1891 Parnells political reputation came to be dragged through the mire causing his career and life to meet an untimely end-putting one in mind to his companion in a distress of parallel sexual nature, Oscar Wilde, by namewhen the scandal flared up about his being embroiled in the long-drawn divorce proceedings of Katharine OShea and his husband,Captain OShea, the fact of which made him in accordance with the Catholic doctrine of the time a co-respondent who consequently, in legal terms the properly so called cause or instigator of their break-up. The scandal triggered a split in the party and Parnell was replaced as leader and sidelined from political life. This hawthornian stage of being expelled from society and being browbeaten into a role of the transgressor incarnate, whose squalid hands not only did slosh the chalice of eccleistical restraint but by upturning it begrimed the velvet of the cloak of the state as well, and again who finally ends up becoming a supplanted pariah shouldered onto the posterior end of the

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society. It is very much reminiscent of the vein in which the newspapers, politicians, the churches and his countrymen forsook and spurned Parnell to in the end crush him to death. The self-styled Parnellite-model was unanimously considered to be the first modern British political party being the exquisite representative of such a wholesome resistance, control and radicalism that put it into a contrast with the loose rules and flexible informality found in the main British parties (40). His name was a byword for efficacious, innovative politician with aplomb. He was the uncrowned king of the nationalists whose ghost will weigh on the hearts of those who remember him when the new Ireland in the near future enters into the palace girded with golden fringes in varied colours (41.). Joyce on the one hand postulates that this all could have happened in a country that ...has betrayed her heroes, always in the hour of their need and always without gaining recompense (42.). On the other hand he proceeds to claim what with macabre recurrence falls into the lot of the luminaries of Irish society is a fate eclipsed by the suffocating haze of those general conditions, to which, in the long run, he himself has become an apparent heir, too: She (Ireland) has hounded her spiritual creators into exile only to boast about them. She has served only one master well, the Roman Catholic Church, which, however, is accustomed to pay its faithful in long term drafts.(43.)

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

One

of these unflinching and ardent church-goers is personalized by the fictional

controversialist Dante, the bigoted Catholic governess of the Dedalus children who comes to be at loggerheads with one of the pertinacious advocates of the Irish Nationalism, Mr.Casey. They are poles apart in terms of the the issue of whether the priests or the politicians struggle for a national dignity is of more primary recognition both as matters stand and throughout the conformation of Irish history. Let me interpose here parenthetically Joyce own minority report that came to be formulated during a colloquy with Arthur Power and sheds light on the spiritual and mental constitution of the average Irishman exemplified by the above characters and by the same token justifies the reason next in line that beyond his artistic aspirations and his search for identity could have precipitated Joyce into defection: You must remember that Ireland was never a highly civilized nation in the sense that Italy and France were. We are far removed from the main stream of European civilization to be really affected by it, and as a result the ordinary Irishman never seems intellectually to have got beyond religion and politics. And he goes on to say: In Ireland we have had a lot of war but it did never produce much art, in fact it stifled it altogether. As a result we have never produced a large body of art in the wide sense (44.). Conversely, he ends up enunciating and boasting about the Irish having excelled themselves with drama and prose writing creating the best English plays and prose works by such authors as Sterne, Wilde and Jonathan Smith. By doubling back to the altercation of the novel characters over this emblematical figure, Parnell, we can further portray the Irish preoccupation and obsession with what was going within the bounds of ecclesiastical and political intricacies. As for Dantes references whose very presence embodies the sheer Catholic aspect of transcendence and irrevocable predestination

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Parnell is a public sinner. In the sequel as she gradually gets aroused parallel to the squabble evolving into embittered diatribes they volley their respective reasonings with, Dante start calling him names using epithets like traitor, adulterer and eventually fiend who they- his potential opponents being abashed at his blasphemous conduct- rightfully crushed to death acting synergistic with the priests who were right to abandon him being the true friends of Ireland. All in a glow Mr. Casey who is the nationalist incarnate, and of downtrodden self-esteem rails feverishly against these accusations and exclaims: The priests pawns broke Parnells heart and hounded him into the grave. To further support his verdict he conjures up those past events in 1829 when it was the very Church of Ireland herself that was so conducive of denouncing the Fenian movement from the pulpit and in the confession box in the course of the Catholic Emancipation when by means of a measure of central significance Bishop Lanigan presented an address of loyalty to the Marquess Cornwallis. What a profound indignation and sense of betrayal it is that lies at the very portals of the Irish recollection and self-awareness! Between Scylla and Charybdis, beset between these everbrawling adversaries the voices of consternation bursts out of the whirlpool of the abased seeing the unctuousness light upon the sneering countenances of a perfidious church auctioneering the sanctified cause of the blessed nationality. The betrayal that imbues us and them with sense of deception is depicted as the capital crime Dantes Divina Commedia, too: the Satan is bound in the ice ...Judas Iscariot, who betrayed Christ, is the one in the middle and suffering most, and that the other two are Brutus and Cassius, who betrayed Caesar.(45..) As far as the fenians concerned we learn from Joyce himself in his essay entitled Fenianism that they have always refused to be connected with the English political parties and the Nationalist parliamentarians and were not one of the usual flashes of Celtic temperament that lighten the shadows for a moment and leave behind a darkness blacker than before. This party, made up of ardent supporters of the Irish nationalism, becoming a target

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to be mopped up and the efficacious intervention of the English goverment boiled down to the fact that ..in Ireland, just at the right moment, an informer always appeared.(46.) Even though fenianism was several times resuscitated under various pseudo-names to keep on formenting armed revolt against the British state in Ireland (47.) being at bay on the nationalists behalf Ireland failed in her success-bearing efforts. They just bring forth serial still-births of the various ideas conceived of in an attempt to vindicate her rights, be it contrived by the fenians about the armed resistence or by the nationalists supporting the agency of parliamentary tactics. Since Ireland seems to be a country, where each layer of the society is at variance with the rest of it being suffused by the resultant tension of the irreconcilable antagonisms of those putting forth clashing recommendations concerning the countrys ultimate prosperity. Weighed down by multiple duties, Ireland has fulfilled what has hitherto been considered an impossible task- serving both God and Mammon, letting herself be milked by England and yet increasing Peters pence (perhaps in memory of Pope Adrian IV, who made a gift of the island to the English King Henry II about 800 years ago, in a moment of generosity).(48.) As far as Mr. Caseys references to the Catholic Emancipation and Terence Bellew Macmanus go one can lay down the fact that the evocation of the former event further tarnishes the dignity of the Church. It so happened that dear bishops of the sacrosant church deigned to commit the deed infra digitanem of selling the aspirations of their nation in return for their procuring the removal of the restrictions on Roman Catholics.. that had beforehand obliged them ..to abjure the spiritual authority of the Pope and transubstantiation.(49.) While the name of the latter character alludes to one of the leader members of group of zealous and impetous nationalists and more precisely to the insurrection they were hatching. Unlike that of the feninanists, this uprising was according to precedent killed already in the egg perfectly modelling the typical failure next in line that could be attributed to the pestilential Irish disposition for letting their feelings run too high and acting

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too precipitately. The church, therefore, in a way, has fallen into discredit as an institution for all those who cherished the notion of independence on account of her ineptitude made itself manifest in her acts done in achieving anything that comes under the category of worked-out autonomy or genuine sovereingty. By adopting a supplementary quotation for good measure based on one remark of Joyces relevant to the above mentioned it also comes to light that what is really paralysed by the influence and admonitions of the church is virtually the individual initiative(50). And he goes on to say in conclusion, as he already did on divers occassions, trying not to mince matters: No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar.

4.. A h istory of betrayals, of eloquent inactivity, of absurd and narrow belief

From the time of the Treaty of Limerick, in 1691 millions of Irishmen have left their native land...and won on many battlefields the laurel of victory for their adopted masters.(51.) For the economic and intellectual conditions that prevail in their own country did not permit the development of the individuality. The soul of the country is weakened by centuries of useless struggle and broken treaties,...while its body is manacled by the police, the tax office, and the garrison.(52.) Despite his being so censorious, however, on closer examination, one can nail down the fact that it is again his very propensity to opt so habitually for the critical path method what really attests to his being as preoccupied with the daily rounds of his country, with the formation of her fate forever and ever as an apprehensive, dour, stern but fond father who always keeps an eye out on his tumbling, much-afflicted, indisposed son being frequently obliged to drink the bitter cup to the lees. Whereas this paternal attention and monitoring is also prone to speak of his beloved one in high terms when it cannot help but admit certain tour de forces, memorable attainments or whenever his rascal son would put up a good show. Although the present race in Ireland is backward and

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inferior, it is worth taking into account the fact that it is the only race of the entire Celtic family that has not been willing to sell its birthright to a mess of pottage.(53.) He brought that up as an object-lesson to exemplify the Irish insistence to their blood and lineage whenever ..the Danes, the Firblogs, the Milesians from Spain, the Norman invaders, and the Anglo-Saxon settlers have united to form a new entity, one might say under the influence of a local deity. (54.) And in the face of the flames of the first and foremost aim and principal preoccupation of the progeny of latter ones in the former enumeration, the English, that flare up now and then to keep the the country divided(55.) Joyce decided to leave Dublin in 1904. He spent the ensuing nearly three year in different Italaian cities and when he returned for the second time in 1907, by this time his command of Tuscan dialect made such a great leap forward that he was called upon to give 3 public lectures in Italian at the Universit Popolare, in Trieste. It was in the course of these speeches where he declared oneself in a fashion that is typical of the previous quotations and all which just give us the proof of his particular bitter-sweet linkage to Ireland but from where then he departed for good and all by having made a irrevocable resolution that he did not regret. I am sure that I, at least, will never see that curtain go up, (the curtain that will disclose the Irish ever being capable of reviving) because I will have already gone home on the last train.(56.) It was redundant for Joyce to draw a paralell in order to underscore the analogy between Trieste and Ireland on the basis of their both being Catholic, both being tethered by the short rope of a repressing and foreign domination and with both claiming their language distinct from that of the conqueror. But he felt compelled to point out that his country had its history of betrayals, of eloquent inactivity, of absurd and narrow belief. His attitude, though he calls it objective, wavers between affectionate fascination with Ireland and distrust of her(57.). For the sake of counterbalancing the lopsided ship of Joyces tempestous and prevailing backlash relative to the history, policy, mental and physical constitution of his nation let me bring up the rear by

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announcing and quoting Joyce taking this time pride in the Irish culture, in the calibre of a string of her achievements by asserting what is not an empty boast(58.) and what reads as follows: The art of miniature in the ancient Irish books, such as the Book of the Dun Cow, which date back to a time when England was an uncivilized country, is almost as old as the Chinese, and that Ireland made and exported to Europe its own fabrics for several genarations before the first Fleming arrived in London to teach the English how to make bread.(59.) My essay drawing to an end let me mention a current series of programmes and lectures take place in Belvedere College, in Dublin, the scene of so much of Joyces writing and in particular, of The portrait of the artist as a young man, the novel, this essay is intended to elaborate upon. Belvederes most famous past pupil(60.) as one of the main organizers refers to Joyce, whom this event is meant to be a tribute and whose portrait hangs in a prominent position on the walls, his books are in their libraries and his true worth as a literary genius of remarkable stature is well understood.(61.) This is the place where the fictional Stephen ,though flattered, but end up not yielding to the temptation of indulging into the idea of taking the holy orders having awoken to the fact that he was destined to learn his own wisdom and to learn the wisdom of the others himself wandering among the snares of the world. (29.)We see him shove off on the white arms of the roads coveted by the sweetness of their promise of close embraces and then we see him scan those offshore lands beyond the black arms of tall ships that stand against the moon lulling his conscience while listening to their tale of nisin imiginiil(50.) (p.253).

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CONTENTS
1. 2. 3. 4. Deane, Seamus, Joyce the Irishman, Cambridge University Press, 2004. Deane, Seamus, Joyce the Irishman, Cambridge University Press, 2004. Gifford, Don, Joyce Annotated, University of California Press, 1982. Fitch, Lynnette Elizabeth, Bloom Bewitched, Fear of female sexsuality in Circe. Critical Analysis of Joyces Views on Sexuality, University College Dublin, 1999. 5. Fitch, Lynnette Elizabeth, Bloom Bewitched, Fear of female sexsuality in Circe Critical Analysis of Joyces Views on Sexuality, University College Dublin, 1999. 6. 7. 8. 9. Joyce, James, Letter to Stanislaus Joyce, Richard Ellmann, Viking, 1975 Joyce, James, Letter to Stanislaus Joyce, Richard Ellmann, Viking, 1975 James Joyces life in chronology, Monaco: Princess Grace Irish Library. James Joyce life in chronology, Monaco: Princess Grace Irish Library.

10. Joyce, James, The critical writings: Ireland, Island of Saints and Sages, 1907. 11. Cheng, Vincent John, Joyce, Race and Empire, Cambridge University Press, 1995. 12. Joyce, James, Alone, Classic Poetry Series Poemhunter, 2004. 13. Joyce, James, All day hear the nosie of waters, Classic Poetry Series, 2004 14. Gifford, Don, Joyce Annotated, University of California Press, 1982. 15. Joyce, James, The critical writings: Ireland, Island of Saints and Sages, 1907 16. Martin Luther King, I have a dream, delivered Lincoln Memorial, Washington, 1963. 17. Joyce, James, Exiles, Act III, www.readprint com. 18. Naganowski, Egon, Joyce, Gondolat, 1975. 19. Joyce, James, Ulysses, Penguin Books, 1992. 20. Gifford, Don, Joyce Annotated, University of California Press, 1982. 21. Joyce, James, Finnegans Wake, Part I, section vii, Penguin Books, 1976.

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22. Martin Luther King, I have a dream, delivered Lincoln Memorial, Washington, 1963. 23. Joyce, James, Selected Letters of James Joyce, ed. Richard Ellmann, 1975. 23.-25. Blades, John, How to study James Joyce, Macmillan, 1996. 26. Kenner, Hugh, Flaubert, Joyce and Beckett, The stoic comedians, Dalkey, 1962. 27. Gifford, Don, Joyce Annotated, University of California Press, 1982. 28. 29. 30. Joyce, James, Selected Letters of James Joyce, ed. Richard Ellmann, 1975. Duffy, Sean, The Macmillan Atlas of Irish History, Macmillan, 1997. Joyce, James, The critical writings: Ireland at the bar, Faber and Faber, 1959.

31. Joyce, James, The critical writings: The Home Rule Comet, Faber and Faber, 1959. 32. Duffy, Sean, The Macmillan Atlas of Irish History, Macmillan, 1997. 33.-36. William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5, Parragon1993. 37. Duffy, Sean, The Macmillan Atlas of Irish History, Macmillan, 1997. 38. Ruth, Mark, Who was Charles Stewart Parnell, Pagewise, 2002. 39. Ruth, Mark, Who was Charles Stewart Parnell, Pagewise, 2002. 40. Charles Stewart Parnell, Wikipedia. 41. Joyce, James, The critical writings: The Shade of Parnell, Faber and Faber, 1959. 42.-43. Joyce, James, The critical writings, The Home Rule Comet, Faber and Faber, 1959. 44. Power, Arthur, Conversations with James Joyce, Barnes and Noble, 1974. 45. Alighieri, Dante, The Divine Comedy, Penguins Books, 2001. 46.-48. Joyce, James, The critical writings: Fenianism, Faber and Faber 1959. 49. Duffy, Sean, The Macmillan Atlas of Irish History, Macmillan, 1997. 50.-59. Joyce, James, The critical writings: Ireland, island of saints and sages, Faber, 1959. 60.-61.Bradley, Bruce, James Joyce and the Jesuits-A sort of homecoming, Divine Word Missionary Publications, 2004.

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LIST OF FOREIGN PHRASES

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

Go maire t! Leath-dall seo roteoir s. fear-faire Admhil! tout le suit le mot juste exceptionnellenment blessures brd gnail dilach bte-noire picadores

Irish-Gaelic Irish-Gaelic Irish-Gaelic Irish-Gaelic French French French Irish-Gaelic Irish-Gaelic French Spanish

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

corrida de toros capote torero Brthair Pdraig oubliette Szknk a sttsg ell. Falakon trohanunk. Felhkrl lbat lgatunk. Ezek mi vagyunk. A szabadsg vndorai. koyaniisquatsi Addg mg gy van. Azt se tudjuk mg. Vagy l? Holt-e? ,, . An nl bhfuair glic go leor? satis aon tr

Spanish Spanish Spanish Irish-Gaelic French Hungarian Hungarian

19. 20.

Hopi Indian Hungarian

21. 22. 23. 24.

Greek Irish-Gaelic Latin Irish-Gaelic

Congratulations! Half blind that referee is. lookout-man Acknowledge! immediately exactly the right word exceptional stringencies proud decent chap person someone dislikes most a man who annoys and weakens the bull in a bullfight by sticking long spears into it bullfight a quite large rag of purple and yellow color "bull handler, the main performer in bullfighting Brother Patrick a small space in an old castle where prisoners were kept We fore Darkness fleed Walls through we stampede We are those who on the skyey billows swing ours leg. Migrants on the loose. life out of balance The like unwitting we are the long as it is. Whether breathless he is or either he breathes. My God, my God why hast thou forsaken. Were you not cunning enough? enough one country

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25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

pearsa aonair a bheidh ag seoladh trdla n gairme eile go craim n i gcomhphirtocht sobriquet D'fhonn dearmad, a str mthair tr dhchais caoin, urramach a pist fin Baile tha Cliath nisin rs an oilen cairdeas saoil dearmad an dearmad chianaosta sttben bjkl gondolat Munkatrsam mr a vonalban trelmetlenkedik Pronto, Pronto! Miss Fatica
!!

Gaelic

French Irish- Gaelic Irish-Gaelic Irish-Gaelic IrishGaleic Irish-Gaelic Irish-Gaelic Irish-Gaelic Irish-Gaelic Irish-Gaelic Irish Gaelic Hungarian Hungarian Italian Arabic Latin French Hungarian

ad infinitum gaul crivain deuxieme A drga fik hullanak vrben a hra napra-nap

44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

An Bhreatain Bheag Irish-Gaelic Sasana Irish-Gaelic ire Irish-Gaelic na hireannaigh Irish-Gaelic osa Irish-Gaelic Unghia gialla sulla indice Italian destra. nisin imiginiil Irish-Gaelic

individual carrying on either solely or in partnership a similar profession the unofficial title or name To forget, my precious mother. benign, respectful motherland her own children Dublin nation race the island friendship a lifelong mistake the primeval mistake idea skulking in the dark Our correspondent jiggles his phone already. answering the phone Miss Impatience Nothing! Believe! O you, goosey hopeless! forever and ever French writer of second rank From-day topple the boys precious To-day onto the snow bloodous. Wales England Ireland the Irish Jesus Yellow nail on right index-finger. distant nation

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Works consulted:

1. 2. 3.

Aubert, Jacques, The aesthetics of James Joyce, The Hopkins University Press, 1992. Blades, John, How to study James Joyce, Macmillan, 1996. Bradley, Bruce, James Joyce and the Jesuits-A sort of homecoming, Divine Word Missionary Publications, 2004.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

Brenda, Maddox, Nora-The real life of Molly Bloom Houghton, Mifflin, 1988. Burgess, Anthony, Here comes everybody, Faber and Faber, 1965. Butler, Christopher, Joyce the modernist, The Cambridge Companion, 1990. Deane, Seamus, Joyce the Irishman, Cambridge University Press, 2004. Duffy, Sean, The Macmillan Atlas of Irish History Macmillan, 1997. Finch, Elizabeth, Joyces views on sexuality, English Department, Dublin 1999

10. Gifford, Don, Joyce Annotated, University of California Press, 1982. 11. Gross, John, The haunted inkbottle, Joyce Fontana Modern Masters, 1970. 11. Gross, John, The voyage out, Joyce Fontana Modern Masters, 1970. 12. Heekin, David, Applying their minds to Unknown arts, Internet source. 13. Joyce, James, The critical writings of James Joyce, Faber and Faber, 1959. 14. Kenner,Hugh, Flaubert, Joyce and Beckett, The stoic comedians, Dalkey Archive Press, 1962. 15. Naganowski, Egon, Joyce, Gondolat, 1975. 16. McInerny, Ralph, James Joyce, Ethics Center, 2005 17. Paulin, Tom, The Classic Monuments of Unaging Intellect, www.penguinclassics.ca. 18. Rawlinson, Zsuzsa, Beyond the safe shores of traditional narrative, Pannon University, 2004.

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19. Riquelme, John-Paul, Stephen hero: transforming the nightmatre of history The Cambridge Companion, 1990. 20. Ruth, Mark, Who was Charles Stewart Parnell, Pagewise, 2002. 21. Shakespeare, William, Hamlet, The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Parragon, 1993. 22. Verschuyl Chris, Stephen Dedalus Villanelle Religionless and Asexual, 1996.

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