Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 1 | P a g e The Joyce of Food: A Negotiation of History, Politics, and Society By Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke B.A (hons) Griffith University, Dip. Arts (Literature) University of Southern Queensland The School of Humanities, Arts, Education, Law Group Griffith University The thesis is submitted in fulfilment of the requirements of the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. Submission Date: December, 2015 Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 2 | P a g e Abstract: Joyce’s art establishes a liminal space in which he interrogates hegemonic positions on colonialism, politics, religion, and gender, and this cultural work makes a significant contribution to reimagining the Irish social contract. Joyce’s use of ‘parallax’ in Ulysses complicates understandings of each of these issues as he reveals a complex intermingling of structural impediments that paralyse Dubliners through inter- generational memory, and thwart social agency. Joyce challenges Platonic dualistic thought and the traditional hierarchy of the senses by paying particular attention to food, a fraught topic in post-Famine Ireland. My examination of Joyce’s treatment of this central human concern reconsiders Irish politics, history, religion, culture, society and makes a specific case for the role that literature can play in refiguring memory and addressing the effects of the past on the social contract. This work has not previously been submitted for a degree or diploma in any university. To the best of my knowledge and belief, the thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made in the thesis itself. Signature: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 3 | P a g e For my mother, Margaret (Maggie) Rowen, in memoriam. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 4 | P a g e Contents ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS...................................................................................................................................................5 NOTE ON THE LITERARY TEXTS .......................................................................................................................................5 ABBREVIATIONS.............................................................................................................................................................8 INTRO DUCTION .............................................................................................................................................................9 JOYCE’S PARALLAX...................................................................................................................................................... 13 MODERNIST SCHOLARSHIP AND PRAGMATISM: A PARALLACTIC APPROACH .................................................................. 19 JOYCE’S NEGOTIATION OF HISTORY ............................................................................................................................. 26 THE SCHOLARSHIP OF EVERYDAY LIFE: DAILY EXPERIENCE AND STRUCTURE .................................................................. 34 TRADITIONAL PHILOSOPHICAL DUALISMS AND THE NEW SCHOLARSHIP OF GASTRO-CRITICISM ...................................... 38 JOYCE’S INTERROGATION OF THE FEMININE / MASCULINE DUALISM ............................................................................. 44 THESIS OUTLINE ......................................................................................................................................................... 51 CHAPTER 1 - JOYCE, THE FA MINE AND COLONIAL VIOL ENCE .......................................................................... 56 YEATS, JOYCE AND NATIONALISM................................................................................................................................ 59 THE FAMINE, HISTORY AND COLLECTIVE MEMORY ...................................................................................................... 64 JOYCE AND THE GREAT FAMINE................................................................................................................................... 71 THE POTATO: FAMINE MEMORY AND POLITICAL VIOLENCE ......................................................................................... 84 CONCLUSION.............................................................................................................................................................. 92 CHAPTER 2 – SP ECTRES OF FA MIN E: ‘FA MISHED GHOSTS’ .............................................................................. 93 CLACHAN AND ENGLISH POLITICAL ECONOMY.............................................................................................................. 96 COLLECTIVE TRAUMA AND HAUNTINGS ..................................................................................................................... 101 ‘SEE THE ANIMALS F EED’ .......................................................................................................................................... 108 ‘STRANDENTWINING CABLE OF ALL FLESH’: CORPSECHEWERS .................................................................................... 121 CONCLUSION............................................................................................................................................................ 125 CHAPTER 3 – PARN ELL, FAILED HO SPITALITY AND DECLINE OF THE DOMESTIC REAL M ......................... 128 THE UNCROWNED KING ........................................................................................................................................... 131 THE JOYCE OF CHRISTMAS DINNER ............................................................................................................................ 135 THE COFFIN OF ‘HOME’: THE HOMOSOCIAL CIRCLE AND ANTI-TREATING ................................................................... 143 JOYCE AND SENTIMENTALITY: ‘WANDERING ROCKS’ .................................................................................................. 155 CONCLUSION............................................................................................................................................................ 165 CHAPTER 4 – YOU ARE WHA T YOU EA T.............................................................................................................. 167 JOYCE, DISEASE AND M EDICINE................................................................................................................................. 168 JOYCE’S POOR S TOMACH AND THE MATTER OF INNARDS ........................................................................................... 174 ‘YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT’ ...................................................................................................................................... 182 WHITE BREAD AND SUGARY TEA............................................................................................................................... 190 CONCLUSION............................................................................................................................................................ 195 CHAPTER 5 – THE N EW EP IC F EAST...................................................................................................................... 197 THE CONTINUATION OF THE EPIC .............................................................................................................................. 198 HEROES AND OTHER WASTE MATTER ....................................................................................................................... 204 ‘GREEKER THAN THE GREEKS’: THE CLEVERNESS OF LEOPOLD BLOOM ....................................................................... 209 ‘WOMANLY WISE’: G ERTY’S ‘BREKKY’ AND MOLLY’S MEAT AND SEEDS .................................................................... 222 CONCLUSION............................................................................................................................................................ 236 CONCLUSIONS .......................................................................................................................................................... 238 APPENDIX .................................................................................................................................................................. 243 LIST OF WO RKS CITED ............................................................................................................................................. 245 Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 5 | P a g e Acknowledgements I would not have been able to complete this thesis without the support, encouragement and assistance of a number of people. First and foremost I want to thank my Principal Supervisor, Professor Chris Lee. I could not have asked for a more incisive and supportive mentor. Chris’s enthusiasm for what literature does, and why it is so important, is a constant source of inspiration. I thank him for thinking the topic was a good idea in the first instance, and for encouraging me to ‘keep on writing’. He has taught me so much and has demonstrated such generosity. I hope to emulate his example of mentorship throughout my career. I would also like to extend special thanks to my Associate Supervisor Associate Professor Jock McLeod. Jock’s advice in the final stages of the thesis has been invaluable and I am very appreciative of the time he has given me and the interest he has shown in the project. My candidature was unusual as it was undertaken at two institutions, firstly the University of Southern Queensland and then Griffith University. The move was a result of my supervisor’s new role at Griffith, and I need to thank Griffith for their support and granting me a scholarship to continue my project under Chris Lee’s guidance. It would be remiss to not also acknowledge USQ who awarded me an APA scholarship, and who also provided some funding towards my conference and research trip in 2013. Without these funds I would not have had the opportunity to undertake archival research at the National Library of Ireland, attend the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery, or the XXth Congress of the International Comparative Literature Association at the Sorbonne. This trip enabled me to gather some fascinating primary research, meet food enthusiasts such as Dr. Mairtin Mac Con Iomaire from the Dublin Institute of Technology, and present my work at an international conference. As I had been a Griffith student during my undergrad and honours degrees, the move ‘back’ was relatively smooth, but I am indebted to the Griffith Higher Degree Research Office and Dr. Amanda Howell who helped me navigate my way through to the administrative process. I also would like to thank the Griffith School of Humanities for providing me with the opportunity to present my work in a friendly and supportive environment at the Emerging Scholars Day. There are many academics who have provided advice or support along the way. In particular, I would like to extend my Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 6 | P a g e heartfelt thanks to Assoc. Professor Laurie Johnson, Dr. Jessica Gildersleeve, Dr. Éidín O'Shea, Dr. Robert Mason, Dr. Celmara Pocock, Richard Gehrmann, Dr. Dan Timbrell, and Dr. David Akenson. The librarians at both USQ and Griffith have been fantastic attending to my endless requests for books and articles, and I am very grateful for their assistance. I am thankful for the generous and supportive ‘Irish lit’ attendees at the 2013 Irish Studies Association of Australia and New Zealand conference, who both inspired me and provided invaluable advice. I am also appreciative for the opportunity to present papers at a number of postgraduate symposiums (at USQ, the University of Queensland, and Griffith University) and would like to thank fellow postgrads for their ongoing encouragement. In particular I would like to acknowledge a group of fellow postgrads, many now Doctors, whose friendship and support will always be remembered with great fondness: Dr. Eddie Thangavelu, Dr. James Stenzel, Sarah Peters, Elizabeth Cuskelly, Dr. Wendy Richards, Dr. Alexandra Lawson, Dr. Mark Emmerson, Tarn McLean, and Karen Austin. Thanks for the many chats in the postgrad room. I save the final thanks for my family. A thesis is a long road that a spouse also takes by default, so I am forever grateful for my husband Toby’s forbearance and encouragement. I also want to thank my son Charlie and daughter Honor who have demonstrated great patience for little people, especially in the months leading to completion. To my Dad and family, a special thank you for your support. It has been a long and at times difficult journey and it was wonderful to have you cheering me on. I have dedicated this thesis to my mother who sadly passed away in the first year of my candidature. She would have been proud I think. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 7 | P a g e Note on the Literary Texts Ulysses is the focus of the study, for both its richness of food references and the multifarious ways in which the food can be ‘read’. Where necessary some chapters will refer to Dubliners. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is of key importance to Chapter Three as it follows the Dedalus family’s demise. A number of decisions were made about what editions of Joyce’s work to utilise. The authoritative Norton Critical Editions of Dubliners and Portrait are used, and the Hans Walter Gabler ‘Corrected Text’ (Random House 1986), what is now considered to be the ‘standard edition’ of Ulysses (Sheehan 114), is the one referred to throughout the essay. Sean Sheehan has noted that as many British and American publications of this text have the same page and line numbering it has become the most used edition for Joyce scholars. As such I follow the predominant convention and use the episode and line number format for the in-text citations. While the Gabler edition has chapter numbers and no chapter titles, I follow the Joycean practice of naming the familiar Odyssean episode titles, as outlined in the Gilbert and Linati schema. Chapter Five focuses on Joyce’s continuation of the Odyssean epic, and what his version of heroics says about power and gender, and so Homer’s Odyssey is of central concern. This chapter analyses portions of this Homeric epic, and while I draw on the introductions of the Robert Fagles and E. V. Rieu (revised by D. C. H. Rieu) translations, the textual references are drawn from the Samuel Butler translation. Although it is noted that Joyce first came into contact with Odysseus in Charles Lamb’s accessible translation (see for example Kenner Dublin’s Joyce), and Frank Budgen recalls Joyce using the Butcher and Lang translation (Budgen James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses 323), the Samuel Butler translation was published in 1900, and as Hugh Kenner states, ‘hence the most up-to-date version available when Ulysses was being thought out’ (110-1). Kenner notes that the Butcher and Lang translation ‘comes from later years, when Joyce was studying Victorian-Homeric diction in order to parody it in “Cyclops”’ (110-1). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 8 | P a g e Abbreviations The following abbreviations for Joyce’s texts will be used in subsequent in-text citations. Dubliners and Finnegans Wake are not abbreviated. Ulysses — U A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man — Portrait Stephen Hero — SH The Critical Writings — CW Occasional, Critical and Political Writings — OCPW Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 9 | P a g e INTRODUCTION a man might eat kidneys in one chapter, suffer from kidney disease in another, and one of his friends could be kicked in the kidney in another. (James Joyce Letters II 436). Recent developments in Modernist studies have identified Modernism as a ‘liminal space’. Rather than a ‘break’ from the past, it is conceived more in terms reflective of William James’s and John Dewey’s Pragmatism. For these Pragmatists new art, new habits and new ideas develop as conventional artistic forms, established norms and traditional ‘truths’ are rearranged and reworked as the past is renegotiated in light of present concerns. This ‘space’ is politically charged. Joyce’s treatment of food and food insecurity — that central human concern — demonstrates his complex politics as he considers his version of nationalism and problematises ‘history’, ‘memory’, betrayal, and the power of discursive binaries. He suggests how Ireland might imagine its independence, progress and future outside the established paradigms of ‘power’, ‘strength’, ‘heroics’ and ‘victory’ which are enacted through violence. For Joyce ‘strength’ is exhibited by ruminating on historical complications, and a ‘strong spirit’ is derived from persevering despite incertitude (Gibson The Strong Spirit 5). As Andrew Gibson maintains, Joyce marries strength to ‘fragility’, ‘brokenness’ and ‘doubt’ (5). It is in these ‘spaces’ where the repressed can perceive inconsistencies and contradictions and begin to organise effective resistance and negotiate an alternate path (Sinfield Faultlines 35; Schwarze Joyce and the Victorians 3). Most importantly for Joyce, the conflict against the status quo ‘must be fought out behind the forehead’ not with violence (S. Joyce My Brother’s Keeper 109; Gibson 5). For Joyce being modern was being a historicist; recognising the historicity of ‘people, cultures, [and] worlds’ (Gibson Strong Spirit 3). Indeed, Andrew Gibson contends that Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 10 | P a g e the complexity of Joyce’s work is due to his wrestling with ‘freedom’ and ‘justice’, and a concern for ‘justice’ necessitates engaging with history. To this extent Joyce was extraordinarily sensitive to ‘the fleeting precisions of historicity’ and his work demands ‘historical micrology’ (3). His work has been described as a labyrinth (Gibson suggests like studying Irish political history), where ‘the victim loses themselves in a seemingly endless wilderness of fissures, splits, rifts, [and] divisions’ (5). The labyrinth is not just an allegory for reading Ulysses, but points to the ‘political implications of the novel’s aesthetic strategies’ (6). But rather than considering victims ‘losing themselves’, this thesis explores Joyce’s parallax, that ability to present things from multiple perspectives and thus proffering the opportunity for the fullest insight. This stylistic ploy illuminates innumerable colonial pathologies and explores contradictions. Joyce probes the state of the Irish through food, and his multidimensional ruminations on the past and its impact on the present — through explorations of Famine, hunger, violence, parental neglect, poverty, unemployment, alcoholism, health, nutrition discourses, abundance, memory, vegetarianism, patriarchy, sex, death and life (amongst other things) — demonstrate his working through the hegemonic positions on colonialism, politics, religion and gender. Food is a fraught topic for post-Famine Ireland. The devastation of The Great Famine and the ongoing food insecurity and malnutrition of turn of the century Ireland is suggestive of an abortive social contract between Ireland and England.1 Throughout history, individuals have sacrificed their freedom — the ‘original state’ — for the benefits of self-preservation and security which can only be gained through association (Rousseau The Social Contract I: vi). The ‘social pact’ of James Joyce’s Ireland, however, is problematised by its long history of oppression and turn of the century Irish politics. From the Irish perspective there is no ‘proper bond of rational obligation’ (Wraight 34) between the imperial power and Ireland. If a people decide via ‘prior covenant’ to act together in such a way that surrenders their freedom to a ruler, the agreement which forms the political group and social order has necessarily been established before a ruler enters the political order. The covenant — or ‘transfer of each associate, with his rights, to the whole community’ — is the essential precondition for a well ordered society (Rousseau I: v, vi; Wraight 34). This is not the relationship 1 I use the terms ‘England’ and ‘English’ rather than ‘Britain’ and ‘British’ as Ireland was still part of Britain at the time Ulysses was set, and in general this thesis is examining imperial power as the antithesis to Irish agency and development. By referring to ‘England’ and ‘English’ throughout this thesis I am referring to the imperial centre (the imperialism of the Empire). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 11 | P a g e between the colonial power and a subjugated people. The English suppression of Irish interests has a long history, and Famine and the concomitant decimation of rural society elicit questions about the legitimacy of power. In addition to incremental violations of Irish freedom, England used a natural/agricultural disaster and food insecurity as a means to secure a more complete subjugation. Instead of the ‘minority’ submitting to the will and needs of the ‘majority’ (Rousseau I: v; Wraight 30), any semblance of a social contract was rendered void with England’s prioritising of agricultural ‘reform’ — the rationalisation of the small family holdings and the communal system of subdivision, or clachan. The desperation of the starving Irish is further evidence of their status as colonial subjects. Joyce’s texts, particularly Ulysses, explore this historical event and its resonance for post-Famine generations. However, his multi-dimensional perspectives on the state of the Irish presents more complex deliberations. Joyce interrogates not only ‘history’ but also Irish ‘memories’ of the Famine, the betrayal of the Irish by their own people, and the complicity of the Irish in their own subjugation (at the behest of the imperial power, the Catholic Church, and the internalised state of patriarchy). Betrayal became central to Joyce’s perception of the Irish (Ellmann James Joyce 32; Joyce OCPW 138-41). Alongside the Famine, the betrayal of Charles Stewart Parnell (by the Irish, by the Irish Parliamentary Party, by the Catholic Church, and by the British Government) typifies the seeming inevitability of duplicity, and the consequent failure of anyone dedicated to political freedom for Ireland (Smyth ‘Trust not Appearances’ 254-71). Importantly, central to the political demise of Parnell is another betrayal: adultery. Parnell undermined the institution of marriage in his affair with Katherine O’Shea and in so doing destroyed his reputation amongst his staunch, Catholic constituency. In what was a fragile political climate, the supporters Parnell relied upon felt that he had betrayed them. Pointedly, Joyce enacts his own treachery through his adulterated form. Counter to other brands of Irish nationalism and the efforts of the revivalist movement to imagine and create an authentic cultural-nationalism and the Irish epic, Joyce’s ‘anti- representational tendency’ and his hybridisation of popular forms challenged patriarchal nationalist discourse and its desire to restore ‘the lineage of the fathers in order to repossess the motherland’ (Lloyd Anomalous States: Irish Writing in the Post-colonial Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 12 | P a g e Moment 89, 105). As David Lloyd points out, the anxiety of betrayal circulates thematically and stylistically throughout Ulysses reflecting ‘the condition of colonial Ireland at virtually every level’ (106). Through an analysis of food and eating in Joyce’s work, I contend that his parallactic form reveals the oppressive terms of the colonial / subject social contract, but he also subjects the Irish, the Church, and patriarchy to close scrutiny. This multifarious view of the state of things is complex. Although blame is scathing at times, it is not neatly laid in any one corner. Joyce’s parallactic art and the complex examination of history, politics and society, and what these structures mean for food security, necessitates the consideration of an eclectic field of scholarship. These include Pragmatic Modernism (which explores the importance of the past for Modernists); Joyce and History (which by extension explores Joyce’s politics); Everyday Life (specifically, the structural impediments and agency surrounding everyday life); the field of Gastro-criticism (covering vast literary periods but providing a number of interesting perspectives, such as ‘taste’, ‘the body’, and psychoanalysis); and gender studies (especially in Modernism, its gendered hierarchies, and the subversive tactics against patriarchy). Food is essential for our existence and our identity, and as Claude Fischler reminds us, it too is ‘multidimensional’. If Joyce’s form demands heterogeneous research and analysis, so too does food. Food ‘runs from the biological to the cultural, from the nutritional function to the symbolic function’ and ‘links the individual to the collective, the psychological to the social’ (Fischler ‘Food, Self, Identity’ 275). For Fischler, a non-multidimensional approach, one lacking the ability to see food from various perspectives, fails to address some key questions, such as ‘How do organisms and representations, biological individuals and their culture, interact with each other and with their environment?’; ‘How do socially constructed norms and representations become internalised – inscribed, so to speak, in taste-buds and metabolisms?’; Do these norms and representations also have a biological side?’; ‘How do they tie into ecosystems in which subjects and societies experience them?’ (275). The burgeoning interdisciplinary field of food studies endeavours to attend to food from multiple perspectives: the biological, nutritional, environmental, social, cultural, political and the historical. A multi-dimensional study of food in Joyce’s work reveals all of these perspectives in the context of turn of the century Ireland. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 13 | P a g e Joyce’s use of ‘parallax’, broadly conceived of as his operationalising of different lenses through which to try to understand the past and the various ways it impacts upon the present, opens various aspects of Irish history and turn of the century life up to scrutiny and critical review. These multiple perspectives highlight the interconnectedness of the legacies of the Great Famine, colonialism and religion, and the continued subjugation of the Irish. It explores the Irish people’s comparative poverty, political apathy, the prevalence of alcoholism and malnutrition, and the oppressiveness (for men and women) of patriarchy. Leopold Bloom — a character at odds with the pretence of ‘masculine’ Modernism — gives Joyce great scope for multi-dimensional perspectives. However, Joyce’s parallax is achieved through innovations in form: characterisation more broadly, structure and juxtaposition, intertextual cues, allusions, and modernist techniques such as interior monologue and stream of consciousness. Importantly, the abundance of food in Ulysses, particularly, locates the continuation of Odyssean epic in the ‘everyday’ and the ‘domestic’. Joyce’s historical, political, cultural and social considerations of food defy the philosophical and gendered dualisms which underpin turn of the century gender politics and their dispossession of women. Joyce’s Parallax ‘Parallax’, the ability to see things from different perspectives in order to gauge a situation more fully, is a key word in Ulysses. Bloom signals its significance by contemplating its etymology as he works to understand the meaning: ‘Parallax. I never exactly understood. There’s a priest. Could ask him. Par it’s Greek: parallel, parallax’ (U 8: 110-12). It is ‘Bloom’s problem word’ (Kiczek 292). The word comes via the French (from New Latin) parallaxis, from the Greek parallassein to change (para and allassein meaning ‘to alter’ or ‘alternate’, to ‘exchange’, or ‘to vary’, akin to allos, ‘other’), and in the late sixteenth century was used in the general sense of ‘seeing wrongly’ (Collins Dictionary, Random House Kernerman Webster's College Dictionary, Oxford Dictionary). The Oxford English Dictionary online defines the term as the ‘difference or change in the apparent position or direction of an object as seen from two different points’. Bloom has Sir Robert Ball’s book, The Story of the Heavens (1885), which frequently uses the term, and he ponders the concept throughout the day. As Justin Kiczek astutely notes, even in his subconscious Bloom claims to have chatted to his ‘old pals, Sir Robert and lady Ball’ (U 15: 1010-11; Kiczek 292). It is Ball’s use Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 14 | P a g e of the word in relation to perspective that is most relevant in Ulysses. Ball explains that ‘it is by parallax that the distance of the sun or, indeed, the distance of any other celestial body, must be determined’ (181). He explains the concept thus: Stand near a window whence you can look at buildings, or the trees, the clouds, or any distant objects. Place on the glass a thin strip of paper vertically in the middle of one of the panes. Close the right eye, and note with the left eye the position of the strip of paper relatively to the objects in the background. Then, while still remaining in the same position, close the left eye and again observe the position of the strip of paper with the right eye. You will find that the position of the paper on the background has changed. As I sit in my study and look out of the window I see a strip of paper, with my right eye, in front of a certain bough on a tree a couple of hundred yards away; with my left eye the paper is no longer in front of that bough, it has moved to a position near the outline of the tree. This apparent displacement of the strip of paper, relatively to the distant background, is what is called parallax. (181-2) Bloom tries the experiment and ‘faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm’s length towards the sun’. ‘Wanted to try that often’, he thinks, and he successfully illustrates the concept: ‘Yes: completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun’s disk. Must be the focus where the rays cross’ (U 8: 564-7). Apart from a scientific interest in all manner of things, after this experiment Bloom’s thoughts of outer space are countered with a perceived pointlessness to existence given the vastness of the universe, and his astronomical interest is drawn down to realities of domestic life: ‘Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas: then solid: then world: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like that pineapple rock’ (8: 580-5). When his mind shifts to something more positive — ‘[t]he moon. Must be a new moon out, she said’ — his stream of consciousness soon flows to Molly and her impending meeting with Boylan: ‘She was humming. The young May moon she’s beaming, love. He other side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm’s la-amp is gleaming, love. Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes’ (8: 584-91). Though Bloom engages with Ball’s astronomical meaning of parallax, here we can also perceive parallax metaphorically via Bloom’s stream of consciousness and his alternation of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 15 | P a g e thoughts of awe and irrelevance, interest and indifference. Here parallax is more than an experiment with objects ‘out there’. The ability for parallax enables a fluid shift of perspectives and foci. Parallax can be uncomfortable, confronting or joyous, rather than interesting for its own sake. As David Chinitz observes in the ‘Ithaca’ episode, Bloom’s poetic reflection of the stars — ‘The heaventree of the stars hung with humid nightblue fruit’ (17: 1039) — soon shifts to dry, scientific discourse and a comparison of the greatness of the ‘evermoving’ wandering stars from ‘immeasurable remote eons’ to the ‘threescore and ten, of allotted human life’ which forms a ‘parenthesis of infinitesimal brevity’ (17: 1042-56). If optimism in the future, ‘progress’ (17: 1068), relies on looking forever ‘inward’ — for example all the ‘myriad entomological organic existences concealed in cavities of the earth, beneath removable stones, in hives and mounds, of microbes, germs, bacteria, bacilli, spermatozoa’ (17: 1059-61) — then for the resolutely inward and outward looking Bloom, ‘nought nowhere’ will never be reached (17: 1068-9). If there was life on other planets Bloom supposes that the redemption of other races would necessitate a benevolent redeemer, for like inward focussed humans they too would probably ‘remain inalterably and inalienably attached to vanities, to vanities of vanities and to all that is vanity’ (17: 1083-5, 1099-1100; Chinitz 435-6). Parallax thus shifts from Ball’s specific application to Joyce’s artistic one, used to amplify the shortcomings of the preoccupied and narrow minded and the gift of open, parallactic thought. Over three decades ago, Barbara Stevens Heusel observed that critics’ interpretations of the relationship between Bloom and Stephen were idiosyncratic and revealed their ‘blindspots’ (‘Parallax as a Metaphor for the Structure of Ulysses’ 135, 140). Only ‘active’ and ‘experienced’ readers will recognise the ‘depth’ of their meeting, as they attend to Joyce’s use of parallactic images and encourage the reader to view life with ‘two eyes’ at once, not one eye at a time; that is ‘(Stephen’s, the artist’s) and then the other (Bloom’s, the common man)’ (135, 140). As Heusel charts the seven occurrences of the term ‘parallax’ in Ulysses she highlights how the metaphor provides an outer ‘structure’ which reveals ‘the difficulty of perception and, therefore, the complexity of viewing life’ (135). Joyce’s method encourages the reader ‘to synthesize the shifting perspectives’ of the two main points of view (Stephen’s and Bloom’s) so that when the two ‘join’ in the urination scene in the ‘Ithaca’ episode, what is represented is a ‘fuller vision of life’ (135). Hugh Kenner comments on the effect of Joyce’s repositioning of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 16 | P a g e events and bodies so that ‘each speck in this book has somewhere its complementary speck, in a cosmos we can trust’ (Ulysses 76). Though Heusel’s liberal-humanist approach is not specifically interested in the ‘social’, it is an important formalist grounding for the approach taken in this project. Heusel’s argument emphasises Joyce’s ‘complex artistry’ and the scholar’s role in deciphering the ‘cues’ within, but beyond the liberal-humanist discourse, the notion of a ‘three-dimensional’ world, and the theme of the complexity of life remain persuasive. So, while Patrick McCarthy also comments on how ‘the juxtaposition of various perspectives [Bloom’s, Stephen’s, Molly’s] hints at the larger, fully human, viewpoint toward which Ulysses reaches’ (‘Ulysses’: Portals of Discovery 5; also see Kiczek ‘Joyce in Transit: The “Double Star” Effect of Ulysses’ 298), this thesis is predominately concerned with more materialist lenses, and thus how structure precludes, qualifies or enables ‘fully human’ experience. Parallax is a way of approaching any complex societal concern. While Heusel sees parallax in relation to the complexity of life (exhibited via the bringing together of Bloom’s and Stephen’s different views), I wish to demonstrate Joyce’s wider operationalising of the idea of parallax. If we follow the food and not the more narrow and specific ‘cues’ of the term, we see that within Ulysses (and across other Joyce texts) Joyce weaves a complex web of perspectives and contexts. Throughout the chapters numerous perspectives on food are explored — for example, history, power, status, memory, hunger, starvation, health, gender sustainability — and these perspectives are not limited to individual characters. Some perspectives are held by more than one character or the narrator, and multiple perspectives can be held by one character. Bloom and Stephen, for example, do not hold just two of these possible perspectives, but often represent considerations of multiple perspectives. Ways of seeing important social issues are also revealed via fleeting thoughts, inaction or juxtaposition, and that supposed un-Modernist notion of ‘sentiment’. These are but some of the elements of Joyce’s form that contribute to the whole story of food. Kenner and André Topia remind us there is nothing interior about Joyce’s interior monologue. Bloom’s random thoughts, for example, are often from the public realm, for instance originating from books, common understandings and new knowledges (Kenner Joyce’s Voices 32; Topia ‘The Matrix and the Echo: Intertextuality in Ulysses’ 103-25). Tony Thwaites argues that interior monologue reflects ‘content’ that ‘arrives Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 17 | P a g e from elsewhere’ and a character as being influenced from ‘elsewhere’ (‘Mr. Bloom, Inside and Out’ 367). Drawing on Slavoj Žižek’s The Parallax View, Thwaites argues that the significance of Joyce’s operationalising of parallax is his inversion of the conventional understanding of the term. Instead of the apparent displacement of an object being caused by provision of a new line of sight (demonstrated through Bloom’s ‘thumb’ experiment), Joycean parallax begins ‘with objects out there in the real world, and with the ways in which they triangulate, place, and make demands on the subject’ (Thwaites ‘Molly and Bloom in the Lists of “Ithaca”’ 499). For Thwaites, parallax ‘is not that what I see in the world changes according to my position in it’ but rather ‘that what I am is already inscribed in the world’s materiality, as that point from which the world gazes back at me, and from which I am under its gaze’ (500). In addition to objects ‘out there’ demanding ‘notice and response’, there will always be a ‘blind spot’ which signals the observer’s inclusion in the world (Žižek in Thwaites 500). As Thwaites explains, in this view of parallax an observer can never glean a complete picture as there is always something still left to be noticed or accounted for, or ‘something in this clamor of meanings that does not yet make sense’ (500). The incompleteness of the world is not a failing of the observer but a result of the observer being ‘already there as a fold in the world . . . making sense of it’ (Thwaites 500). Indeed at times Bloom and Stephen seem oblivious or defensive about their own lack of action and the consequences of inaction. I will reveal throughout the thesis, however, that some observers’ views are more incomplete than others. Characters like Bloom, though flawed with ‘blind spots’, strive to obtain more perspective, while others entrench themselves more deeply in their ‘folds’. As Kiczek comments, ‘we learn something more about Bloom from each parallactic angle’, even when he is seemingly trumped by the one eyed Cyclops and Blazes (‘Joyce in Transit’ 298). I think we need to make an addition here though; we also learn more about the Dubliners around Bloom, the city in which he lives, and the history, politics and public memory of the nation. Stephen, in contrast, is consumed by his ‘shadow’, and in ‘Proteus’ we see how he desires to rid himself of the hindrance: ‘I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here?’ (U 3: 412-4). While the sun may elucidate things for Stephen, his shadow is formed, as Kiczek notes, by an eclipse of his body and the sun (294). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 18 | P a g e In my conceptualising of parallax as Joyce’s über form I move away from Kiczek, Chinitz and Heusel and their focus on Bloom and Stephen’s relationship as wandering bodies that are eventually brought together. Bloom seems nihilistic about the vastness and uncontrollability of the universe and the ‘waste of time’ thinking about it, and equally pessimistic about the alternate focus on ‘involution’, but he spends much of his time thinking ‘big’ and also occupied with thoughts of the ‘inner’ (both his body and his thoughts and memories). Bloom stands in contrast to Stephen as he notices more around him and attempts to ameliorate what he sees. At the end of the ‘Ithaca’ episode a weary Bloom rests, for ‘he has travelled’ (U 17: 2320; emphasis added); travelled more than any other Dubliner that day in terms of his effort to see his world from all perspectives. I therefore draw on Thwaites’s analysis in my consideration of how characters give account of themselves in relation to external influences. Though narration and other literary devices throw light where Bloom cannot, Bloom’s ‘otherness’ translates to a heightened awareness of both entrenched institutions and where agency is deficient. The methodology for this project is necessarily eclectic in order to penetrate the parallactic nature and purpose of Joyce’s art, and the way he ruminates on central concerns of Modernist aesthetics, Ireland and his era. In particular I am interested in the complex meaning of food that emerges through the lens of ‘Pragmatism’ (for example, William James [1842-1910] and John Dewey [1859-195]), where the present is inextricably woven with the past, but where the present is open to new formations of meaning. All chapters have a New Historicist approach but as Andrew Gibson has stated, such an approach needs to be ‘in a manner appropriate to Joyce, determined by Joyce himself’ (Strong Spirit 1). The method used to scrutinise Joyce’s problems with ideological narrative can best be described as ‘thick description’ (Geertz The Interpretation of Cultures) as I undertake historical investigations that engage with the Joycean historical turn and Irish historiography, and respond to Joyce’s demand for ‘historical micrology’ (Gibson 2). The thesis also draws on cultural studies of the period to help reconstruct the particularities of the Irish ‘voices’ within Joyce’s texts, and historiographic studies to contextualise and explore areas such as turn of the century socio-economic indicators. The divergent primary research — such as Joyce’s letters and essays, Famine ‘recipes’, Irish newspaper advertisements and journal articles — augments the contextualising secondary scholarship on the Famine, colonial politics, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 19 | P a g e Irish nationalism and the decline and death of Parnell. As the background is brought to the foreground, alongside the parallax of Joyce’s literary texts, we can better interrogate Joyce’s problematising of history and what this says about his perceptions of art, the ‘present’ and the future. Joyce teaches us ‘an appreciation of difference’ (Attridge Joyce Effects 84) and this methodological approach facilitates what the post-colonialism scholar Marjorie Howes identifies as the investigation of internal differentiations — such as gender, religion, socio-economic status — and what this means for ‘a given situation, population, or individual’ (Howes ‘Joyce, Colonialism, and Nationalism’ 260). Modernist Scholarship and Pragmatism: a Parallactic Approach Emerging research suggests that the dominant narrative of literary Modernism still privileges the ideology of the avant-garde and emphasises Modernism’s break with the past. Too often this narrow story neglects Modernism’s thoughtful contextualisation and constructive and purposeful renegotiation with history (Ellis Virginia Woolf and the Victorians 2007; Schoenbach Pragmatic Modernism 2011; Cuda The Passions of Modernism 2010). The stylistic innovation and mind-set of Modernism has become synonymous with: ‘break-up’, ‘dissolution’, ‘catastrophe’, ‘shock’, ‘crisis’, ‘disaster’, ‘collapse’ and ‘chasm’ (Bradbury and McFarlane ‘The Name and Nature of Modernism’ 1976). ‘New Criticism’, which developed as a critical approach in the 1930s to teach the ‘art of reading’ ‘difficult’ and ‘serious’ literature, effectively wrote the narrative of Modernism as a rejection of Victorian forms of literature; a story that was largely unchallenged for several decades. Malcolm Bradbury and James McFarlane (1991) cited key literary and art critic Herbert Read’s 1931 appraisal of Modernism. For Read the concern was not the ‘logical development of the art of painting in Europe, not even with a development for which there is any historical parallel’ but instead with ‘an abrupt break with all tradition . . . the aim of five centuries of European effort is openly abandoned’ (in Bradbury and McFarlane Modernism 1890 – 1930 20). Two decades later Modernism is still, for C. S. Lewis (1954), ‘shattering’: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 20 | P a g e I do not think that any previous age produced work which was, in its own time, as shattering and bewilderingly new as that of the Cubists, the Dadaists, the Surrealists, and Picasso has been in ours. And I am quite sure this is true . . . of poetry . . . I do not see how anyone can doubt that modern poetry is not only a greater novelty than any other ‘new poetry’ but new in a new way, almost in a new dimension. (in Bradbury and McFarlane 20) This framing of the story of Modernism, however, is evident in much more recent texts such as Peter Nicholls’s Modernisms: A Literary Guide (1995), that notes the break with a Victorian literary tradition by asserting Modernism’s privileging of ‘intellect over emotion’ and the aggressive enforcing of ‘strong and authoritative versions of self’ (Nicholls 203,193; Cuda 5). Philip Weinstein (Unknowing: The Work of Modernist Fiction 2005) also emphasises the surprise and arrest of the modernist texts, arguing that the work of Franz Kafka, Marcel Proust and William Faulkner aims to subvert the familiarity and narrative progression that is intrinsic to realist fiction, undermining, in the process, the enlightenment project of ‘knowing’. Ariela Freedman observes that while the ‘cliché of the autonomous aesthetic modernist object’ has been displaced, many critics seem compelled to read the modernist aesthetic as ‘a relic of privilege, wilfully detached from social history and significant only insofar as details of the world can be read through the work’ (cultural studies), or as ‘accountable only to itself and its own aesthetic tradition’ (formalists/Liberal Humanists) (Freedman ‘Did it Flow: Bridging Aesthetic and History in Joyce’s Ulysses’ 853). The cultural studies field that emerged in the 1980s politicised aesthetics (Hunter ‘Aesthetics and Cultural Studies’ 347) and American literary criticism identified aesthetics with New Criticism’s apolitical, formalist judgments (Gilmore ‘Romantic Electricity, or Materiality of Aesthetics’ 467; Freedman 865). In addition to the questioning of Modernism as a ‘break’ with the past, recent scholarship suggests that Modernism is not a rejection of Victorian ideals and emotive forms, but rather a space for thinking and making sense of the changing world: a liminal space (Ellis; Schoenbach; Cuda; Schwarze Joyce and the Victorians 2002; Scholes Paradoxy of Modernism 2006; Feldman Victorian Modernism: Pragmatism and the Varieties of Aesthetic Experience 2009; Uhlmann Thinking in Literature: Joyce, Woolf, Nabokov 2011). This is not to suggest that there were no previous challenges to the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 21 | P a g e framing of discussions of Modernism in terms of ‘revolutionary’ ideologies of the avant-garde, where ‘success in life’ and ‘ecstasy’ stands in contrast to the ‘habits’ and a ‘stereotyped world’ (Pater ‘Conclusion’ to The Renaissance [1873] in Modernism 114; also see Shklovsky [1917] ‘Art as Technique’ in Modernism 219). For instance, in his recent work Robert Scholes recalls when Clive Hart contacted him in 1964 about ‘a problem he was having with a little essay . . . he had written’, as the Joyce scholarship ‘did not want to hear about Joyce’s sentimentality’ (Scholes 122). By sentimentality, Hart referred to ‘a demand for emotion not justified by the subject matter and a certain indulgence in emotion for its own sake’ (Hart ‘James Joyce and Sentimentality’ 26 -7). While Hart noted in his essay that ‘modern critics’ considered sentimentality ‘inherently immature and debilitating’, he reminded the Joycean critics that it is a feature of the best literature in the world (Hart 27). The durability of some of the key works of Modernism, such as Joyce’s Ulysses, is due to the familiarity of certain literary conventions. Long narrative, Scholes argues, requires an emotional investment in the characters. Of comedy, sentiment and suspense, he suggested, long narrative needs as least two out of three, and ‘many of the best have all three in abundance’ (Scholes 124). As Hart argued more than fifty years ago, New Criticism’s almost pathological ‘fear of sentimentality’ has thus been ‘inhibiting and limiting’ for Joyce scholarship (28; Scholes 123, 126). Wyndham Lewis, exemplary advocate of hard, new, masculine Modernism, in fact ‘has remained largely unreadable, despite serious critical effort on his behalf, mainly because his fiction is totally lacking in sentiment’ (124). ‘If Joyce’, Sholes argues, ‘had been as unsentimental as Lewis, Bloomsday would not be an international event’ (132); instead, ‘the scaffolding would have collapsed long ago’ (126). While Hart thought that Joyce’s propensity to deal with sentimental subjects distinguished him from ‘his more hard- boiled contemporaries, such as Eliot and Pound’ (in Scholes 134), critics such as James Longenbach (‘Randall Jarrell’s Legacy’ 2003) have noted that T. S. Eliot’s and Ezra Pound’s best work comes from the same ‘sentimental propensity’. For example, Longenbach notes that Eliot includes a number of ironic asides in ‘Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’, not to distance himself from the emotion in the poem, but ‘to allow those emotions into the poem’ (359; Scholes 134). Anthony Cuda likewise resuscitates the classical meaning of ‘passion’ (‘to suffer’ or ‘to be moved’) and highlights the ‘passion’ in high Modernist literature. The oft noted characteristics of Modernism — Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 22 | P a g e its experimental forms, ‘defensive ironies’, its ‘ubiquitous trope of mastery’, and privileging ‘intellect over emotion’ (Nicholls Modernisms) — are far from a rejection of emotion, Cuda argues, but reflect the modernists’ need to be moved. As Cuda states, there was ‘an urgent desire among modern writers to meaningfully encounter powerlessness, to both know and feel what it means to be moved instead of the mover’ (Cuda 5). In this light Virginia Woolf can be conceived of as ‘Post-Victorian’, not to emphasise her dissent with a Victorian past, but to represent the dialogical nature of her work. Ellis argues that the ‘clichés’ of Woolfian criticism, such as the reference to Woolf’s statement that ‘on or about December 1910 human character changed’ (Woolf ‘Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown’ Selected Essays; Ellis 5), has uprooted important ‘moments’ or ‘landmarks’ in Woolf’s work and used those to perpetuate the master Modernism narrative of rupture. Ellis argues though that this uprooting misses the ‘pervasive preoccupation’ in Woolf’s work with ‘the relationship between Victorian and modern culture and its sense of loss and gain, of desire and rejection’ (6). Woolf attempts to ‘communicate with, retrieve and proclaim’ a link with the past that acts ‘as a resource for the present day in the problems it faces’ (8). It may come as a surprise, Ellis ventures, how often Woolf’s ‘exhilaration’ for the contemporary, and the resultant ‘sense of emancipation’ is accompanied by ‘anxiety, insecurity . . . and regret’, thus feeding the nostalgia that informs her ‘Victorian retrospect’ (7). Pragmatism, particularly the philosophies of William James (1842-1910) and John Dewey (1859-1952), is useful for scholars as they challenge periodisations and consider the importance of ‘the past’ in literature (Feldman Victorian Modernism: Pragmatism and the Varieties of Aesthetic Experience 2009; Schoenbach). Pragmatism tends to be suspicious of dualisms, ‘eschews monisms’, and is ‘anti-dogmatic, anti-metaphysical, anti-foundational, anti-positivist, and anti-systematic’ (Feldman 2). James’s Pragmatism views the world as ‘innumerable little hangings-together’ within the larger ‘hangings-together’ (James Pragmatism: A New Name for Some Old Ways of Thinking 95). There are ‘little worlds’ within the ‘wider universe’ where the same part might figure in many different systems’ (95). The world isn’t a monistic system — ‘each in all and all in each’ — but a collection of ‘parts’. These ‘disjoined’ fragments, nevertheless, may ‘hang together by intermediaries with which they are severally Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 23 | P a g e connected’, and where ‘some path of conjunctive transition by which to pass from one of its parts to another may always be discernible’. James calls this ‘hanging-together’ ‘concatenated union’, in contrast to the ‘through-and-through’ type of union which characterises metaphysical conceptualising of the world (James Essays in Radical Empiricism in Feldman 11). In such a complex and multidimensional world the idea of ‘truth’ is up for interrogation. James’s conceptualisation of truth is inherently active and connected to its temporality, and is thus ‘evolutionary’ (Evans William Faulkner, William James, and American Pragmatic Tradition 4, 7; Feldman 2). ‘Truth lives’, states James, ‘for the most part on a credit system’, where thoughts and beliefs are maintained only if they remain unchallenged (Pragmatism 142). In contrast, philosophy generally insists that ‘reality’ is ‘ready-made’, with an ‘agreement of ideas’, and foretold ‘virtue’ (155). For James the diversities of reality are as important as their connections, as foregoing everything else for the cause of ‘mystical’, ‘abstract unity’ means ‘com[ing] to a full stop intellectually’ (91-2). Working within the multidimensional world of Pragmatism, Feldman abjures both the notion of ‘The Victorian Novel’ and ‘The Crisis of Modernity’ (3). She instead examines the concatenated union of discernible features of literature written in the ‘Victorian period’ which defies the periodization of the grand narrative of both ‘Victorian’ and ‘Modernist’ literature. Feldman’s emphasis is not ‘Imagination’ — that unifying whole that ‘dissolves’ and ‘diffuses’ in order to ‘recreate’ — but ‘Fancy’, which must make art from materials ready made from the law of association. ‘Fancy’ is concerned with ‘dead objects’, ‘rearranging’, ‘decorating’ and ‘ornamentation’, and is equated with ‘woman’s work’ (11), but if a detailed ornamentation successfully obscures ‘readymade material’ and even gives the concatenated union a ‘life of its own’, then ‘to decorate or ornament is intrinsically to challenge the notion of unified, mastering form’ (11). Works of modern art have thus been interpreted as expressions of ‘strife, rupture, loss, and gap’ and have not been sufficiently explored for ‘Fancy’; ‘for peaceful dwelling, plenitude, and continuities that reach across gaps’ (5). Key modernist figures, such as Gertrude Stein and Marcel Proust, were interested in central questions of Pragmatism; questions about the relationship between tradition and innovation’ and ‘habit and shock’ (Schoenbach 5). In contrast to the narrative of the avant-garde, pragmatic Modernism initiates its engagement with modernity on a deep Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 24 | P a g e awareness of the power of ‘habit’. As Schoenbach reiterates, for John Dewey (Human Nature and Conduct 1922), there is ‘no alternative to habit, no space outside habit’, but new habits do develop (Schoenbach 7). Habit can be both ‘stultifying and enabling’, but Pragmatism is distinguished by its active, ‘dialectical understanding of habit’ and its ability to ‘maintain a critical stance toward mindless repetitions’ whilst refusing to romanticise shock or conflict (6). Like William James, John Dewey saw ‘habit’ — James’s ‘Fancy’ and ‘dead objects’ — as an essential medium in which all human thought and action takes place (6). As Dewey suggests, ‘a mystic intuition of an ongoing splurge’ might be a ‘poor substitute for the detailed work of an intelligence embodied in custom and institution’, which creates ‘by means of flexible continuous contrivances of reorganization’ (Dewey 74). As habits come into conflict with each other a conscious search transpires — thought happens (Dewey 67) — and with this a reorganisation of custom and institutions (Schoenbach 7). While habits are continually in tension, Pragmatism does not emphasise the ‘shattering of custom’ and the ‘destruction of institutions’ (7-9), but a ‘reintegration’, ‘recontextualisation’, and steady ‘reorganisation’ as new habits feed back into the social fabric (7). It is obtuse to set up habit and thought as oppositions, as ‘[t]hought which does not exist within ordinary habits of action lacks means of execution’, and in ‘lacking application, it also lacks test’ (Dewey 67). Anthony Uhlmann’s analysis of Joyce, Woolf and Nabokov speaks to this new shift in criticism where Modernism might be conceived of as a ‘machine for thinking’. Though underpinned by a different philosophical framework (Gilles Deleuze, G. W. Leibniz and Spinoza), Uhlmann explores how new meaning develops from the creative integration of old habits. Nabokov’s work, for example, is ‘full of patterns of connections’, and these connections weave together to not only form a new texture but also to create a new being that has meaning, that is situated as an agent in the real world (Thinking in Literature: Joyce, Woolf, Nabokov 118). While the new agent may draw meaning out of connections that ‘seem hidden and unexpected’, the new meaning is able to be ‘verified’ through a close reading of the details within (118). Importantly, experimental Modernist techniques are highly amenable to this exploration of connectivity. Indeed, Uhlmann points out that the term ‘stream of consciousness’, adapted from William James, has largely become reductive and limited to the interest in interior monologue, rather than the fuller account of ‘thought and thinking’ of internal and external modes of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 25 | P a g e thought and the interactions between (2-3). As Liesl Olson affirms, the negotiation of habits reveals the agency of individuals. Following James’s concept of ‘habit’ Olson argues that people create habits by choosing from the ‘stream of consciousness’ of everyday life, and as they select habits they organise the ‘chaotic flow’ (Modernism and the Ordinary 92). In contrast to Walter Pater, who sees habit as a lack of receptiveness, James’s ‘habits’ give scope to personal will (95). While Modernism is ‘saturated with style’ there is a dialectical nature to it as it oscillates between a literature of ‘pure style’ and a literature that rejects ‘purely style’ (Barthes ‘Style and its Image’ 10; Hutchinson Modernism and Style 6, 10, 42). With reference to the ‘weight of classical culture which can be felt constantly pressing on [Modernism’s] textual surfaces’, Hutchinson suggests that Modernism’s rejection of pure style is evident in the double working of myth: to conserve and commemorate, and to attack and destroy (42-3). Indeed, this double bind is evident in Joyce’s see-saw assertion and rejection of the importance of the Odyssean myth for Ulysses (see Chapter 5). We might also consider the Modernist disruption of the familiar and enduring bildungsroman, where the ordered charting of the protagonist from childhood to maturity is reworked to represent a stalled and suspended experience of adolescence (Etsy Unseasonable Youth: Modernism, Colonialism, and the Fiction of Development 2011). Here ‘habit’ and ‘Fancy’ are reorganised and reconsidered in light of changing experiences of ‘truth’. The new form comes via the concatenated union, a hanging together, of a recognisable form, informed by the rejection of anthropological-structural thinking. For all the talk of the ability of personal will to renegotiate ‘tradition’ and ‘habit’ Joyce’s texts also reveal the insidious nature of tradition — ideology and dominant structures — and in the confused negotiation of these exposes grounds and opportunities for future resistance to the status quo. Tracey Teets Schwarze doesn’t specifically relate Pragmatism to Joyce, but she relates Joyce’s form, such as dissimilar discourses and contradictions, to Joyce’s ‘difficulties in existing and creating’ outside the sphere of the dominant ideological forces of ‘gender constructs, colonial politics, and religiosity’ (Joyce and the Victorians 2-5, 10). Like Uhlmann, for Schwarze the form creates a liminal space for negotiating the late-Victorian and Edwardian ‘authorities’ of ‘Nation, Church, Manliness, Morality, and Womanliness’ (4). The Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 26 | P a g e inconsistencies in Joyce’s political essays, and the contradictory remarks about the Church and women’s inequality, reveal both Joyce’s desire to ‘stand against the subordinating force of social discourse’ but also ‘its insidious ability to infuse his own thoughts’ (5). Joyce’s characters, like himself, are ‘simultaneously bound by, as well as critical of, the ideologies of his life’ (4). Rather than Althusser’s and Fredric Jameson’s assertions that subjectivity is constituted in ideology (Jameson The Political Unconscious 152; Schwarze 3), Schwarze draws upon Alan Sinfield’s consideration of the possibilities for resistance: ‘If we come to consciousness within a language that is continuous with the power structures that sustain social order’, Sinfield asks, ‘how can we conceive, let alone organize, resistance?’ (Sinfield Faultlines 35; Schwarze 3). For Sinfield ‘dissidence’ doesn’t originate with the independent thoughts of the individuals, but in the ‘faultlines’ or ‘contradictions’ that are ‘contained within and among dominant structures themselves’ (Sinfield 41; Schwarze 4). The faultlines ‘create spaces’ where ‘the self may dissociate from the ascendant social order’ (Schwarze 4). This seems to resemble Iser’s remarks about novels; though they deal with ‘norms’ they don’t necessarily reproduce societal values as readers respond to the ‘divergence from the familiar’ (The Implied Reader xii). Molly Bloom, for example, performs several subversive roles, ‘doing and undoing ideological gender acts’ (Devlin ‘Pretending in “Penelope”: Masquerade, Mimicry, and Molly Bloom’ 81). She makes and remakes herself, and in so doing neutralises and exposes ‘the contradictions and double standards’ of the power structures, ‘whose control is rooted in their very imperceptibility’ (Schwarze 11-2). Characters may not be able to enact change for themselves, but the ruminations highlight the faultlines where transformations or dissidence might take place (12; Sinfield 49). Joyce’s Negotiation of History For the Marxist critic Jameson, the ‘narrative object’ of history is the ‘ground and untranscendable horizon’, constrained by ‘hegemonic strategies of containment’. The stories, supposedly told by individual subjects, are the stories of human collectivities within the false consciousness of individualisation (The Political Unconscious 82-3, 102, 283; Hofheinz ‘Joyce and the Invention of Irish History’ 13). Jameson reads Joyce through his categories of human collectivity where the ‘universal fragmentation’ of capitalism reveals a ‘sociopathology’ of nostalgia for more authentic forms of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 27 | P a g e community (Jameson ‘Ulysses in History’ 128-31). History may well be the ‘horizon’ in which actions and narratives about actions occur, but as Derek Attridge observes, Joyce’s texts seem to suggest that ‘all versions of history are made in language’ and are thus ‘ideological constructs’. Reflecting Pragmatism’s reorganisation of ‘habit’, Attridge notes how histories weave and reweave ‘old stories, fusions of stock character types, blendings of different national languages, dialects, and registers’ (Joyce Effects 79-80). Ideologies are narratives in the ‘most general sense’ as human imagination works with and upon ‘the materials of language’ in order ‘to present to itself a version of experience with which it can live’ (79). Finnegans Wake is the ‘fullest statement’ of this view of history as Joyce exploits linguistic signifiers ‘to mix and conjoin narratives from a multiplicity of cultures, periods, disciplines, and discourses’, but this is also very evident in Ulysses (80; Hofheinz 27). The nightmare from which Stephen is trying awake is not just the ‘untranscendable horizon’, but also the production of history (by the Church, the British Government, and the Irish themselves). As Attridge observes, narratives of ‘exploitation, exclusion, and domination, of racial, national, gender, and class hegemony’, are ‘tricked out’ by both ‘oppressors and victims’ (79). Joyce’s multiplicity of narratives do not make claims about the non-existence or existence of a ‘Real’ history (81). Joyce, instead, spawns ‘actions, characters, speeches, memories, fantasies, speculations, and hallucinations’ which dismantle preconceptions about how ‘existents and occurrences are constituted entirely by the language in which they are presented’ (81). Joyce demonstrates the ‘immense power’ of language as he ostensibly presents a ‘Real’ history while at the same time ‘drawing attention to the linguistic and literary processes through which this effect is achieved’, and thus intimates the degree to which other kinds of ideological narrative ‘depend on the same power’ (81-2). If Joyce exposes the production of ideological narratives, he also exposes the violence which is metered out to ensure the predominance of particular imperialist or nationalist narratives. In few other places is colonial violence, and the nationalist revolutionary violence this gives rise to, ‘so sustained and long-drawn-out as in Ireland’ (S. Brown ‘The Great Criminal, The Exception, and Bare Life in James Joyce’s Ulysses’ 781). Stephanie J. Brown draws on the work of two of Joyce’s contemporaries, Carl Schmitt’s Political Theology: Four Essays on the Concept of Sovereignty (1922) and Walter Benjamin’s ‘Critique of Violence’ (Selected Writings I 1921), to explore the ethics of the exercising of sovereign power, and particularly the ‘monopoly to decide’ when laws Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 28 | P a g e can be suspended, as it is the ‘exception’ that is attached to the violent origin of the state (Schmitt 10, 13; Brown 782, 784). While I argue in subsequent chapters that the problem with ideological narratives is their misrepresentation of the past in order to bolster a version with which it can live, Brown argues that an additional problem is how sovereign and nationalist narratives continue to use ‘coercive behaviours’ to protect their hegemonic thinking (787). Both Jacques Derrida and Walter Benjamin argue that when violence is used to found a state the only means of preventing revolutionary violence is through a consolidation of power and the continued threat of violence (Derrida ‘Force of Law’ 33; Benjamin 293-5; Brown 789). Future order is the imperial and nationalist justification for violence (789-91). Thus, an envisaged lawful and peaceful place at some future point — either the successful colonial subjugation of Ireland and its compliance with economic rationalisation, or the nationalists’ successful overthrowing of the imperial power and the establishment of an independent state — means that violence can be retrospectively legitimated if the goals are accomplished (787). Paralysis is a central theme for Joyce studies, but the stagnation of political inaction, and hints of past and future failed political action, are amplified by the presence of Bloom who may be able to show the Irish a way out of stasis by ‘generating new frameworks of understanding political agency’ (Brown 785). If we apply Sinfield’s terminology to Brown, Bloom amplifies the ‘faultlines’ and ‘contradictions’ of dominant structures, creating a space for the dissociation from the ‘ascendant social order’ (Sinfield 35; Schwarze 4). As Brown proposes, Bloom’s imagining of the impossible, and also his persistent attempts to orientate himself towards a possible future, ‘genuinely threatens the status quo’ (786). That is, through Bloom Ulysses proposes a new social contract, ‘a new mode of citizenship’, which ‘critiques a sovereignty inaugurated through violence’ and the Irish nationalists’ replication of imperial ends/means legitimisation of violence; violence justified via assertions of prior or ‘origin stories’ (792). The instructiveness of Bloom’s appeal to ‘Love’, not ‘Force, hatred, history, all that’ (U 12: 1481) is palpable because Bloom’s audience at Barney Kiernan’s pub respond so poorly to it (Brown 792). Bloom’s view of a future, written with the benefit of hindsight after the First World War and the Easter Rising, seems impossible from the ‘historical moment in which he finds himself’ (786). Bloom’s instructive role notwithstanding, he appears flawed in the context of turn of the century Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 29 | P a g e Ireland. Bloom has not undergone Revivalist-style redactions where raw material is sublimated or excluded which does not serve ‘nationalist ends’. His apparent inconsistencies, however, are necessary for Joyce. Ulysses implies, Brown proposes, that ‘no narrative can adequately account for history’, and so incongruities suggest a narrative that hasn’t been tampered with (792; original emphasis). I contend, therefore, that it is not just through Bloom that we see the ‘faultlines’ and the possibility of dissension, as Joyce presents other characters as responding to competing demands. For example, this thesis will consider Simon Dedalus’s mourning for Ireland’s lost ‘king’, the solace he finds in the homosocial circle, and how he struggles to perform his responsibilities to his children after the death of his wife. While Bloom’s actions may be ‘ground clearing’, helping ‘found a future-oriented citizenship’ (Brown 792), Joyce’s ruminations on the Irish social contract are most fully appreciated by mapping his more parallactic considerations. For most of the twentieth century Joycean criticism was based on the perception that he was a ‘rootless and elite intellectual’, ‘apolitical and cosmopolitan’ (Orr Joyce, Imperialism and Postcolonialism ‘Introduction’ 2). Joycean scholarship reflected Modernism’s central concern with ‘the theme of human freedom’ and ‘subjective life at its most intense’, ‘personal and private, [and] wholly individual’ (Platt James Joyce: Texts and Contexts 82; see Ellmann and Feidelson eds. The Modern Tradition 1965). The structuralist and poststructuralist focus of the 1970s and 1980s continued depoliticising Joyce. Historicising Joyce’s texts may now be at the centre of Joyce studies but it was not until the 1990s, with some qualified exceptions, that colonial Ireland, Irish life and culture progressed from mere superficial considerations, to having a fundamental place in critical readings (Platt 81-2). Colin MacCabe’s James Joyce and the Revolution of the Word (1976) was one of the first works that attempted to fill the silence about Joyce’s political concerns and respond to the assertions of Marxist critics that Joyce was disengaged from reality. For MacCabe, Joyce’s aesthetics were political and subversive, where, like Derek Attridge and Daniel Ferrer’s Post-Structuralist Joyce (1984), the ‘political’ was more metaphysical than historical. MacCabe states, in relation to Ulysses and Finnegans Wake, that Joyce’s texts aren’t concerned ‘with representing experience through language’ but rather ‘experiencing language through a destruction of representation’ (4). As Vicki Mahaffey suggests, the links between text and history are analogous rather than more immediate (Reauthorizing Joyce 1988). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 30 | P a g e Dominic Manganiello’s Joyce’s Politics (1980) might signal an early shift towards New Historicism, though the approach is biographical and limited to a survey of the key figures and movements of Joyce’s time, rather than a contextualising or politicising of Joyce’s texts. The 1990s paradigm shift to New Historicism, Cultural Studies and Post-Colonial Studies (and, as Leonard Orr adds, ‘along with other interdisciplinary or transdisciplinary and transcultural approaches such as trauma studies and diaspora studies’) made it impossible to ignore the previously denied or disregarded aspects in Joyce’s work: ‘empire, colonialism, postcolonialism, nationalism, and constructions of race and gender’ (5). Broadly ‘emphasising continuity and the aftermath of the “colonial”’ (Attridge and Howes Semicolonial Joyce 5-7), post-colonial scholars ‘seek to uncover the subjugated knowledges and buried histories’, global forces — such as migration, the flow of money, and political ideas — and ‘internal division’ — such as religion, economic status, gender and regionalism — and what this means for a ‘given situation, population, or individual’ (Howes ‘Joyce, Colonialism, and Nationalism’ 260). Gregory Castle (‘Ousted Possibilities: Critical Histories in James Joyce’s Ulysses’ 1993), James Fairhall (James Joyce and the Question of History 1993), and Robert Spoo (James Joyce and the Language of History 1994) focus on the idea that Joyce’s texts create a liberating space free from absolute ideologies and master narratives. Castle argues that critics have assumed Stephen’s repudiations of history in Portrait and Ulysses are also Joyce’s repudiations. Like Spoo, who draws on Nietzsche’s belief that the ‘malady of history’ was destroying the intellectual rigour and moral health of the nineteenth century (6), Castle argues that Joyce ‘struggles against the historical imperative . . . in order to make room for his own alternatives to it’ (309). Joyce creates the type of ‘tribunal’ Nietzsche calls for that would ‘scrupulously examine’ a multiplicity of histories, and finally condemn parts of the past that are ‘worthy to be condemned’ (Nietzsche Untimely Meditations 75-6; Castle 309). There are three principle judges on the tribunal —Stephen, Bloom and Molly — with Bloom questioning the narrative of Christian salvation (and we should add ‘nation’ and masculinity), while Molly, through the historical trope of ‘memory’, deploys a ‘fundamentally anti-historical narrative’ as her remembering is free from all coercive authority (Castle 315, 321). Instead of the ‘entrapment’ of the poststructuralist Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 31 | P a g e ‘prisonhouse of language’, ‘we might see freedom’ Fairhall suggests, ‘at least a freedom from absolutist concepts and ideologies’ (9). In a similar vein to Castle’s argument, Spoo argues that Stephen’s concerns with history are the ‘persistent historiographic concerns of Ulysses’ and the text takes up these battles (8). In terms which I suggest reflect Oswald de Andrade’s Manifesto Antropófago (1928), which uses the ‘cannibal’ as a symbol of resistance against colonising Portuguese culture, Spoo sees Joyce as the ‘historical Devourer’ and historical orthodoxies are formally challenged ‘by means of its textual praxis, as well as thematically, on the levels of plot and characterization’ (7). Joyce’s ‘ironic counterdiscourses’ in Ulysses, such as the ‘winking assaults’ at the Citizens’ ultranationalist reductionism, are marshalled to challenge those representations (Spoo 7 - 8). On the topic of ‘doubleness’ Derek Attridge and Marjorie Howes suggest that for Joyce, ‘to identify points of difference . . . is to articulate a kind of connection’. Irish ‘separatism or unionism’, ‘nationalism or antinationalism’ are ‘not entirely separable’ but ‘conflated’, so that identifying with one side ‘is as stultifying as it is irresponsible to make no distinction at all’ (Howes and Attridge Semicolonial Joyce 2). Noting the significance of the time period in which Joyce wrote the novel (1914 -21), Enda Duffy (The Subaltern Ulysses 1994) asks the challenging question: ‘Might an IRA bomb and Ulysses have anything in common’? (1) He developed a Republican reading of the text, where the novel acts as a ‘guerrilla text’ (10), written with the forces of anticolonial revolution in view’ (7). For Duffy, Spoo’s ‘winking assaults’ are described in terms of ‘the bitter pleasures of personal ressentiment and resentful nationalism’ and their subsequent abandonment (27). The superficial ‘kitsch’ — ‘stereotyped versions of communal subjectivity (nationalism) and individual subjectivity (romantic alienation)’ — such as the hackneyed tropes of ‘Saxon Greed’, are ‘peeled away’ (27). The familiar narratives are ‘supplanted by the suggestion of a simultaneously occurring national life that is at the least a blueprint for the condition of a heterogeneous national community whose members coexist peacefully together’ (27-8). For Andrew Gibson (Joyce’s Revenge 2002) Joyce’s ‘revenge’ is more subtle. Gibson suggests that the pacifist Joyce translates ‘a ferocious political struggle into the literary arena’, thus ‘releasing it from its most debilitating features, notably passionate violence’ (15). The revenge — those ‘wicked practices upon the colonizer’s culture’ (15) such as ‘causing the language of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 32 | P a g e Milton and Wordsworth to utter all but unimaginable filth and treason’ (Eglinton [1935] in Gibson 1) — is ‘liberating’ rather than ‘disabling’; it ‘repeatedly function[s] as delicate, ironical negotiations between a range of political positions that Joyce found unacceptable as wholes’ (15). More recently Richard Begam (‘Joyce’s Trojan Horse: Ulysses and the Aesthetics of Decolonisation’ 2007) develops this line of argument, by suggesting we think of Joyce’s work as Odyssean rather than Achillean, as Joyce employs modernist techniques ‘undercover’ as a kind of ‘Trojan horse’ instead of a more Duffy imagined ‘bomb’ (186). Echoing Castle, Fairhall and Spoo, Begam also argues that Joyce’s stream-of-consciousness and mythical method ‘undermine ahistorical or transcultural aspirations’ (186; original emphasis). Vincent Cheng (Joyce, Race and Empire 1995), in line with Duffy, reads Joyce as a dissident colonial subject revolting against a dominant power, and he interrogates constructions of race and racism. When applied to the Irish of the nineteenth century, the word ‘race’ sits in opposition to the superior English race, linked to the discourse of Empire, and ‘fostered by the nature of nineteenth-century scientific racism’ (18). Emer Nolan (James Joyce and Nationalism 1995), controversially, interrogated one of the widely accepted politicised readings of Ulysses — one that argues that in the ‘Cyclops’ episode Bloom is ‘reasonable universalism’ pitted against the violence and bigotry of the Citizen. ‘Joyceans’, Nolan states, ‘read their sacred texts in a spirit of benign multiculturalism, which they imagine to be identical to Joyce’s own’ (3). Irish nationalism, thus read, is ‘a symptom of local idiocy’ (5) and the Citizen’s ‘verbal skill in parody and . . . invective’ demonstrate the ‘cynicism of xenophobia of his brand of Irish nationalism’ (92). Pointing to the similarities between Joyce’s 1907 essay ‘Ireland, Isle of Saints and Sages’, and the Citizen’s Irish nationalist charges that the English handling of the Famine was akin to genocide, Nolan argues that this must inevitably take on ‘other implications and suggestions’ beyond the reading of the Citizen that is based on ‘repudiation and mockery’ (99). Nolan acknowledges that Ulysses doesn’t vindicate violence, but through Bloom, she argues, we are given ‘an important insight into the pacifism of the oppressed’ (113). As Bloom recounts his success over the Citizen to Stephen, he, like the Citizen, ‘creatively misinterprets his history, in order to better play the role of paternal advisor to Stephen’ (113-4). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 33 | P a g e This thesis is indebted to many of these scholars, and their work is cited repeatedly throughout the following chapters as I consider the significance of food for the post- Famine generation of Joyce’s Dublin. Food, as Fischler argues, is multidimensional (275) and an analysis of food in Irish post-Famine literature cannot do justice to the ‘cultural’, ‘social’ or ‘biological’ lenses without investigating one of the central, traumatic and determinative events in Irish history. Considerations of food in Joyce’s work must entail a parallactic approach that starts with an interrogation of Joyce’s politics; specifically his multifaceted ruminations on contradictory narratives of history and their resonance. Relevant revisionist Irish historiography will be explored in Chapters One and Two, however, it is appropriate to stress here that the long cycle of colonisation and violence resulted in the decimation of the rural populations during the Great Famine. The desperation of the Famine years resonates in turn of the century Ireland with protracted poverty and the continuation of Irish emigration. Furthermore, the political–economic policies of the British Government — their complicity in the starvation, mass mobilisation and eviction of great portions of the rural population justified by the ends of ‘agricultural reform’ — confirmed the sub-human status of the Irish as they were reduced to desperate acts for survival, whilst Irish farmland was made more manageable and economically viable for the Anglo-Irish. As Brown proffers, the other indelible mark of colonisation was that the Irish were wary of whom they could trust, as informants and members of Metropolitan police surveyed their fellow Dubliners ‘in service of the British Government’. As a result building relationships, let alone a sense of political community, amongst ‘friends, strangers, neighbours, families, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, immigrants and emigrants’ was fraught (S. Brown ‘Bare Life in James Joyce’s Ulysses’ 785). Irish historiography and Joycean scholarship on the Famine reveal the complexity of Irish suffering and duplicity in the post-Famine era. I also contend, however, that the domestic realm, where ostensibly Irish people might feel secure and be nourished, is correspondingly undermined by the Church and the British Government and through Irish-Catholic internal divisions over the fall and death of Parnell. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 34 | P a g e The Scholarship of Everyday Life: Daily Experience and Structure Theoretical considerations of the ‘everyday’ have been a popular resource for cultural studies, and this study on a central, everyday resource and human activity — food and eating — reflects a number of the key concerns of some of the originating scholars. Informed by Marxist thought, four French figures at the heart of the theory of ‘the everyday’ — Henri Lefebvre, Roland Barthes, Michel de Certeau, and Georges Perec — argue that the neglect of the everyday in philosophy, social theory, art and literature undermines our ability to live fully (Sheringham Everyday Life: Theories and Practices from Surrealism to the Present 2006). The last decade has seen numerous studies across disciplines that have operationalized the work of these theorists (Sheringham 479; Highmore 28), published in the period roughly between 1960 and 1980. Along with Ben Highmore’s edited volume (The Everyday Life Reader 2002), Michael Gardiner has published Critiques of Everyday Life (2000), and two journals have dedicated issues to the area of inquiry (New Literary History 2002; Cultural Critique Fall 2002). Everyday life, Andrew Epstein observes, ‘has indeed emerged as an important organising principle and theoretical problem in literary and cultural studies, sociology, and across the humanities in general’ (‘Critiquing “La Vie Quotidienne”’ 477). As Michael Sheringham argues though, various strains of Anglo-American cultural studies have misappropriated aspects of the theory of ‘everyday’, particularly Michel de Certeau’s The Practice of Everyday Life (1984). These theorists ‘advocate radical critique that would force us to be more conscious of the connections between lived, daily experience in the twentieth century and the oppressive economic and political structures of modern, capitalist society’ (Epstein 478). As Sheringham argues, de Certeau’s influential account of the consumer as a creative ‘poacher’ of the dominant culture ‘is not about popular culture, nor is it a study of consumer behaviour’ (Sheringham 213). De Certeau’s customers were wilier, dissident agents who relied on a number of ‘tactics’ to evade power structures (Sheringham 213). Henri Lefebvre and the ‘Situationist International’ movement argue that the idea of the ‘everyday’ begins with the notion that the everyday has been colonised by dehumanising capitalism and the only way to awake from the trance is an active, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 35 | P a g e radical, ‘revolution’ in everyday life (in Epstein 482). He is concerned with the twentieth century and the changes of the modern world, which meant a shift from the ‘old obsessions about shortages’ and when things were made and built ‘one by one’ and ‘existed in relation to accepted moral and social references’ to the ‘abundance’ of the first world and the destructive colonisation of the developing world and the environment (‘The Everyday and Everydayness’ 9). As will be explored, particularly in Chapter Four, the functional element of the everyday was ‘disengaged’ and ‘rationalized’ with the advancement of technologies. Through persuading and constraining advertising, and also economic and political lobbies, more industrialised products (including food) became universalised (8). The study of the everyday illuminates history (10). It has always been repetitive, but with increased modernisation the repetitive gestures of work and consumption overpower the repetition of cycles — such as ‘nights and days, seasons and harvests, activity and rest, hunger and satisfaction, desire and its fulfilment, life and death’ (10). One might suggest that Lefebvre sits between de Certeau’s more positive exploration of agency and Barthes more negative Mythologies (for example, see Sheringham 4). Lefebvre recognises the ‘organised passivity’ of modernisation and argues that the passivity of universalised consumption and ‘gestures’ weigh ‘more heavily on women, who are sentenced to everyday life, on the working class, on employees who are not technocrats, on youth—in short on the majority of people’ though it never happens in the same way to everyone at once (10). Joyce, it will be suggested, represents the implicit and continuous negotiation of organised passivity. The concept of ‘everyday life’ as an object of study and aesthetic endeavour is inherently ambiguous, and as argued by Lefebvre and Maurice Blanchot, it rests upon a central paradox (Lefebvre ‘The Everyday and Everydayness’; Blanchot ‘Everyday Speech’). This point is explored by Sheringham, as he states that the ‘everyday’ is ‘neither objective fact’ nor ‘subjective fantasy’. It is lived experience that we cannot ‘arise and go’ to (in Yeats phraseology), as we are already in it. For this reason it is often only noticed when it ‘weighs heavily on us’ and we react by depreciating it, or ‘glorify it into something that it usually is not’ (Sheringham 21). The key question for Sheringham then is: how do we pay attention to and represent the everyday without killing it? Everyday life is everyday life because it is vital, elusive, inconspicuous, and has a ‘resistance to form’ (22). This thesis highlights, however, how Joyce preserves Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 36 | P a g e the vitality and meaningfulness of the everyday with his modernist techniques and parallactic approach. As Highmore and Sheringham argue, conventional realism, established genres and aesthetic forms often fail to do justice to the complexity of everyday life (Sheringham 15; Epstein 480). Artistic practices that have been successful in representing the ‘everyday’ without losing the vitality are hallmarks of Joyce’s work: indirection, ‘friction and fusion of genres’, experimentation of form, and ‘other subversive practices that cut across generic divisions’ (Sheringham 122, 45). As Sheringham notes, the goal is to bring about a transformation that will make it visible (‘Attending to the Everyday’ 188). Recent research examining the everyday in relation to literary Modernism — for example Briony Randall’s Modernism, Daily Time and Everyday Life (2007), Liesl Olson’s Modernism and the Ordinary (2009), and Lorraine Sim’s Virginia Woolf: The Patterns of Ordinary Experience (2010) — are themselves ‘successful’ for their appreciation of the ‘central paradox’ and their illumination of how key modernists were concerned with commonplace activities. In these studies, even in the context of war and other political crises, modernist representation of quotidian detail was a counter-force to the aesthetic of heightened effect that Modernism is often associated with. Randall and Olson work with the key theorists of the ‘everyday’, but they take issue with the privileging of space at the expense of daily time. While de Certeau states that above all he is concerned with the use of space (The Practice of Everyday Life xxii), Randall, for example, is also interested in the new ways Modernists imagined and represented the present in ongoing daily time (7). According to Randall the ‘temporality of dailiness’ is critically neglected, but the transformations (making the invisible visible), to which Sheringham refers, are for Randall also literary techniques writers develop and make use of to convey the everyday and its temporality (7). For this reason, like Olson, Randall utilises the theories of both William James and Henri Bergson; James’s being concerned with the importance of ‘sameness’ for the unity of self (Psychology: Briefer Course 215), and Bergson’s contemplation of breaking down the illusion of homogenous time (Time and Free Will 200). Exemplifying the critical neglect of time in studies of everyday life, Randall points to the limited ways in which the structure of Joyce’s Ulysses is interpreted. Taking T. S. Eliot’s ‘Ulysses, Order and Myth’ as the primary example, Eliot sees the dailiness of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 37 | P a g e Ulysses (with the whole novel taking place on 16 June, 1904) as the ‘surface matter’ under which lays the ‘real substance’ of the text, particularly its division into the ‘episodes’ analogous to Homer’s Odyssey (Randall 7-8). According to Eliot, by organising the novel around the structure on Homer, Joyce ‘give[s] a shape and a significance to the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history’ (Selected Prose 177). Other critics, such as Robert Humphrey, focus on the stream of consciousness in Joyce’s work, and argue that ‘the formless nature of the psychic life of the characters forced Joyce to impose exterior patterns on the narrative’, one pattern being the eighteen hours of one day (Humphreys in Randall 8). Reflecting Joyce’s use of parallax, Randall suggests that rather than seeing the mythic and psychological depth overlaid with a ‘daily surface’, we should consider Joyce trying to make sense of daily depth by overlaying it with a variety of structures (9). Joyce’s allusion to the Odyssey, for example, is thus more than an external pattern but also acts as a signal for his challenges to traditional ‘dualisms’ and gendered hierarchies; a point explored in Chapter Five. For Olson, Joyce gives everyday life ‘texture’ and ‘believability’ by simultaneously ‘pinning it down’ and ‘letting it go’ (34). By logging the experiences of a single day in Dublin 1904, Olson suggests, Ulysses represents both ‘the reality of a particular moment’ and ‘gestures towards what cannot be included in a literary text’; he acknowledges ‘a difference between an ordinary event and a representation that often changes the event into something extraordinary’ (34). Joyce and other modernists like Woolf, Stein and Mansfield, were not the first authors motivated to make art from quotidian things; Wordsworth, is a notable precursor. As Olson points out though, Joyce’s art is unique for its cultural and political commentary. In the context of a burgeoning Irish Revivalist literature which was mythologising Ireland’s past, Joyce’s sustained consideration of common life ‘steps away from an Irish nationalism characterised . . . by a propensity to overlook facts about modern life’ (34; emphasis added). Olson contrasts Joyce’s earlier use of epiphany, which she argues ‘extracts the individual from a context of community and civic commitment’, with Ulysses, which demonstrates how ‘the everyday does not evade historical conditions’ (35). In Olson’s consideration of the lists in Ulysses, she proposes that instead of indicating a ‘closed’ system (see Kenner The Stoic Comedians), where ‘language marks what lies within and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 38 | P a g e what lies outside the boundaries of knowledge’, Joyce’s lists indicate the openness of everyday life (46). Traditional Philosophical Dualisms and the New Scholarship of Gastro-criticism This thesis is also inspired by the interdisciplinary scholarship on food in literature, or ‘gastro-criticism’. This emerging research covers a great expanse of literature, from the ancients (Gowers The Loaded Table: Representations of Food in Roman Literature 1993) to the contemporary (Sceats Food, Consumption, and the Body in Contemporary Women's Fiction 2000), though the vast portion of the field tends towards examining food in Renaissance, Romantic, and Victorian literatures. Joan Fitzpatrick’s edited volume Renaissance Food from Rabelais to Shakespeare (2010) and Robert Appelbaum’s Aguecheek's Beef, Belch's Hiccup, and Other Gastronomic Interjections: Literature, Culture, and Food among the Early Moderns (2006) both undertake an interdisciplinary approach, bringing together historical, cultural and literary perspectives in their examination of food in literature. Central to studies of food in Romanticism is aesthetic ‘taste’, for to be ‘in good taste’ in this period was to exclude references to literal taste, and yet Romanticism is resplendent in its culinary allusions. Joselyne Kolb’s The Ambiguity of Taste: Freedom and Food in European Romanticism (1995), Timothy Morton’s edited volume Cultures of Taste: Theories of Appetite Eating Romanticism (2004), and Denise Gigante’s Taste: a Literary History (2005), all point to the challenge to literary decorum wielded through food. As Gigante notes, the enormous cultural changes of the Romantic period were the result, not only of the Industrial Revolution, but a Consumer Revolution also, where the ‘Man of Taste’ had ‘to navigate an increasing tide of consumables’, and sought distinction through ‘the exercise of discrimination’ (3). In contrast to ‘appetite’, aesthetic taste was ‘guided by certain fixed rules that taste philosophers set out to identify’ (7). Taste was situated, Gigante reiterates, at the intersection of appetite and manners, and was predominately a middle-class affair to produce ‘tasteful subjects’ (7). Kant, for example, (Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View 1798) thought that the dinner party transcended physical gratification and ‘aesthetically united’ companions in pleasure (Kant 187; Gigante 9). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 39 | P a g e As Gigante explores the Romantic poets for their negotiation of food she reveals the conflict between the Lake Poets (Wordsworth, Shelley, and Coleridge), who transcended the grosser experiential realms, and the more sensuous poets. There is quite a difference, Gigante argues (reiterating Fred V. Randel), between Wordsworth’s ethereal ‘drinking of visionary power and feeding upon infinity’, or Coleridge’s ‘imbibing the milk of Paradise’ by eating honey-dew melon, and Charles Lamb’s more grounded ‘taste for roast pig’s crackling or bread and cheese with an onion’ (Randel in Gigante 94). Whilst being ‘a carnivore in Romantic-era vegetarian discourse’, Gigante attests, ‘was merely one step away from being a cannibal’ (100), Lamb’s ‘Dissertation Upon Roast Pig’ fictionally critiques ‘taste’ in the Romantic era, and its ‘masochistic fascination with the arts of carving, cookery, and culinary animal tortures’ suggest epicurean cruelty as a precondition of what Lamb labels ‘low-urban taste’ (90). In contrast to the vegetarian Lake Poets, Lamb represents meat eating as an advance in civilisation (104). Like Lamb, Byron’s food metaphors were not of the ilk of the Lakers. As Carol Shiner Wilson notes (‘Stuffing the Verdant Goose: Culinary Esthetics in Don Juan 1991), Byron thought the Lake poets wrote only ‘funeral baked meats’, coldly set on the breakfast table for all of Great Britain (Byron in Wilson 50), while his poetry was more richly varied. His poem Don Juan, for example, captures the complexities and ambiguities of life. The poem is a ‘conundrum of a dish’ (XV.21.8), and the culinary images contribute to the plurality of experience (Wilson 50-1). Penny Bradshaw argues in her essay ‘The Politics of the Platter’ (in Morton Cultures of Taste/Theories of Appetite 2004) that the political implication of food was central to Romanticism. The era was characterised by a clash between the image of the Prince of Wales (‘great George weighs twenty stone’ Don Juan VIII.126.1008), and the malnutrition of the poor (Bradshaw 63). For example, Coleridge writes to a patron in 1801 that he has a ‘true heart-gnawing melancholy’ when he contemplates ‘the state of [his] poor oppressed Country’: ‘it is as much as I can do to put meat and bread on my own table; & hourly some poor starving wretch comes to my door, to put in his claim for part of it’ (in Gigante Taste 10). Norbert Lennartz argues that the Romantics’ inclination to vegetarianism can thus be understood as a protest against a system where ‘power and egotism were defined by over-indulgence in food’ (‘Introduction’ The Pleasures and Horrors of Eating 17). As Chapter Five of this thesis explores, this Romantic framing of vegetarianism is made more complex when scientific, imperial Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 40 | P a g e and gendered discourses surrounding meat are considered. Interestingly, Sarah Moss (Spilling the Beans: Eating, Cooking, Reading and Writing in British Women's Fiction 2011) examines works of women novelists of the Romantic era, that ‘ran parallel’ to ‘Romanticism’. Women novelists such as Frances Burney, Mary Wollstonecraft, Marie Edgeworth and Susan Ferrier have a different position to ‘corporality, domesticity and economic’ to the canonised male poets. For example, she argues that Burney’s work reveals the feeding of the female body is inseparable from feeding the mind. For Wollstonecraft ‘good mothering, which includes good writing, depends on good eating, which means constant surveillance of potentially disordered appetites’ (10). As will be noted in Chapter Four, this Romantic understanding of nutrition continues in Victorian and turn of the century nutritional discourses. Of all periods being examined for their utilisation of food, it is perhaps the Victorian period that has been explored most thoroughly, though as Sarah Moss notes the scholarship more or less ignores the daily purchase, cultivation, preparation, ingestion and digestion of food (Spilling the Beans 6). To be fair, women in Victorian literature are rarely seen eating (Silver 50). Anna Krugovoy Silver (Victorian Literature and the Anorexic Body 2002) and Laurence Talairach-Vielmas (Moulding the Female Body in Victorian Fairy Tales and Sensation Novels 2007) both examine the body in Victorian literature; how the appetite was regulated, moulded and monitored in service to femininity (Silver 23). Silver, for example, in her fascinating study of the shared characteristics of anorexia nervosa and central aspects of Victorian gender ideologies, argues that anorexia — a disease that stems from the Victorian era, diagnosed simultaneously in Britain, France and America in the mid-nineteenth century — is deeply rooted in Victorian values. Normative qualities and feminine ideals of Victorian womanhood — spiritual, non-sexual and self-disciplined (Silver 3) — share what Leslie Heywood describes as ‘anorexic logic’ (Dedication to Hunger: The Anorexic Aesthetic in Modern Culture 1996). The central premise of Silver is ‘that control over the body, a fundamental component of Victorian female gender ideology and anorexia nervosa, theoretically links the model of the passionless or self-regulated Victorian woman with the anorexic woman’ (11). As feminist critics have argued, Victorian women were not solely idealised as angelic beings, for they were simultaneously viewed as potential demons, ‘aggressive, angry, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 41 | P a g e and sexually voracious – ruled by their physiology, particularly their menstrual cycles’ (Silver 10). Self-control, therefore, was integral as the Victorian woman was expected to control her behaviour, speech and appetite (10), and as such slenderness signified contained desire, controlled impulse and restrained hunger (Bordo Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture, and the Body 189). While Silver acknowledges that there is no clear, direct correlation between a particular narrative and ‘a real woman’s slim body’, narrative is important, not only as discourses directly and indirectly influence behaviour, but because ‘the ideologies of the slender body help us understand what the Victorians thought about the relationships of eating to femininity and to class’ (Silver 10). William A. Cohen (Embodied Victorian Literature and the Senses 2009) suggests that writing about the body gave Victorian authors a way of ‘giving form to intangible thoughts and feeling’. One of the achievements of Victorian realism, Cohen argues, is ‘characterological psychology, consciousness, and inner depth’ that seem to ‘exceed the representation’. For Cohen, Victorian writers such as Charles Dickens and Charlotte Brontë achieved this impression by ‘physical embodiment in characterisation’, in addition to other rhetorical features such as setting and dialogue (27). Silver’s approach is thus twofold; she analyses how hunger and appetite work within a particular text and what they signify within those texts, but also she relates those texts to culture at large, as part of an ‘ongoing cultural dialogue’ (3). Though Silver does not concentrate squarely on food, this dialectical role of food in literature will be a prominent focus in this thesis. Drawing on Hélène Cixous, Tamar Heller and Patricia Moran argue that the writer can, by ‘writing the body’ (Cixous ‘Laugh of the Medusa’ 1975), break down dualisms of flesh and spirit that traditionally silence women (‘Introduction’ Scenes of the Apple: Food and the Female Body in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Women's Writing 2003). For Hellar and Moran, the cultural constructions of woman, for example, as desiring and therefore necessarily self-denying, are more complicated than they initially appear (3). The self-effacing anorexic of Victorian literature, they argue, is problematised when considered in relation to the ‘hefty Queen Victoria’ (3; Munich ‘Good and Plenty’). As the mouth has a dual association of eating and speaking, food thus symbolises bodily and sexual experience, and also language and voice (2). The Genesis narrative of the ‘fall’ of Adam and Eve, Cixous claims, is the guiding myth of Western culture: ‘a fable about the subjection of female “oral pleasure” to the regulation Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 42 | P a g e of patriarchal law’ (‘Extreme Fidelity’). But, it is also a genesis of the ‘artistic being’ in which the writer (for Cixous, the transgressive woman) not only encounters the cultural prohibitions of the body but also encounters the ‘realm of language which encodes them’ (Hellar and Moran 1). As Helena Michie argues, orality is ‘deeply linked with the question of authority and . . . authorship’ (The Flesh Made Word 28). Michie, Malcolm Bedell and Elaine Showalter have illustrated this tension in their studies of Louisa May Alcott. Showalter, for example, noted that Alcott repeatedly re-enacted in her fiction the tension between ‘patriarchal authority’ and ‘female self-assertion’ (see Hellar and Moran 2-3; Showalter Little Women x). Michie notes that as Jo March ‘stuff[s] apples into her mouth as she writes in her garret’, she transgresses the ‘hunger to write and to know . . . translating trespass into the source of power’ (28). As Alcott’s biographer Bedell notes, the author reacts to her father’s attempts to tame her unruly appetite by shutting her in a room with an apple she was forbidden to eat (The Alcotts 81-2). The predominant theoretical framework for examining food in Victorian and Modernist literature is psychoanalysis, though Susanne Skubal (Word of Mouth: Food and Fiction after Freud 2002) has reasserted the importance of actual food (not just what food might mean). As Skubal observes, for Freud the oldest instinctual domain – the oral – is at the core of self-affirming judgments humans make about themselves and the world: ‘this will be part of me; this other won’t’ (3). Curiously, Skubal notes, Freud and other psychoanalysts such as Karl Abraham don’t focus on an appetite for life, but rather mourning and melancholia which is marked by ‘guilt-driven rejection of food’ and ‘lack of appetite’ (4). While Skubal privileges the psychoanalytic lens, she criticises Freud who looks for the significance of eating ‘elsewhere’: the sexual body, the reproductive body, the used body, the euphemistic body, the laughable body. Skubal asserts in her study that ‘eating it ultimately its own metaphor’, and the mouth is a site for both nourishment and desire (8). Like Skubal, for Michel Delville (Food, Poetry, and the Aesthetics of Consumption: Eating the Avant-Garde 2007) the tongue, the organ of taste and self-expression, becomes the site of aesthetic and philosophical negotiations for modernists such as Gertrude Stein, F. T. Marinetti and Wyndham Lewis, as ‘bodily processes and self-consciousness run in parallel and interact with each other’ (3). Delville explicitly mentions how ‘gastro-critics’ in recent years have rejected the supremacy of ‘vision’ over ‘taste’, and also challenge a metaphysics, stretching from Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 43 | P a g e Plato to Kant, that endorses the classic hierarchy of the senses, and its postulation that ‘the bodily senses are irrelevant to the apprehension of works of art’ (Hegel in Delville 1). Hegel’s hierarchy of the senses, for example, is described in the following way: [T]he sensuous aspect of art is related only to the two theoretical senses of sight and hearing, while smell, taste, and touch remain excluded from the enjoyment of art. For smell, taste, and touch have to do with matter as such and its immediately sensible qualities . . . For this reason these senses cannot have to do with artistic objects, which are meant to maintain themselves in their real independence and allow of no purely sensuous relationship. What is agreeable for these senses is not the beauty of art. (in Delville 1-2). Though the body was a Modernist consideration, until recent decades literary criticism and philosophy have tended to steer clear of bodily functions. For philosophers food has been seen, until relatively recently, as ordinary, embodied and temporal whereas Western philosophy is concerned with loftier, abstract, eternal, mental, disembodied and atemporal matters (Flammang The Taste for Civilization: Food, Politics, and Civil Society 142; Heldke ‘The Unexamined Meal is Not Worth Eating’ 202; Curtin and Heldke ‘Introduction’ Cooking, Eating, Thinking: Transformative Philosophies of Food xiv). Plato, however, at least pondered food, and while he was condemnatory of taking pleasure in food (through the voice of Socrates in Gorgias and in The Republic) Lisa Heldke suggests that is still an important precedent for seeing food as an interesting and worthy subject (‘Unexamined Meal’ 203; see Flammang for Plato’s food references 142-4). Plato might be a precedent but in the early 1990s philosopher Deane Curtin argued that philosophy must reject dualistic thought — ‘mind/body, self/other, culture/nature, good/evil, reason/emotion’ — that stemmed from Plato (‘Food/Body/Person’ Cooking, Eating, Thinking 5). For Curtin these dualisms are ‘distinctions of ontological kind and value that have been inimical to serious philosophical interest in food’ (5). As food is incorporated into the permeable self we are obliged to reconsider food as part of the ‘self’ rather than the ‘other’ (see Fischler ‘Food, Self, Identity’ 279; Martin ‘Food, Literature, Art, and the Demise of Dualistic Thought’ 28). Rather than a discrete, disembodied ego, the self is connected with and dependent on the rest of the world (Curtin ‘Introduction’ xiv). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 44 | P a g e Flammang argues that a ‘major barrier to understanding the centrality of food and culture, and of women and food, is the pervasiveness of the philosophical approach to knowledge that separates the mind and the body’ (Flammang 142). Constrained by the mind/body dualism women are the ‘body’ and involved in foodwork — that ‘knack gained by experience’ that is ‘aimed at gratification and pleasure’ (Plato in Flammang 143) — while men are the ‘mind’ and doing ‘higher-order activities’ that transcend bodily needs and desires (Flammang 142). Flammang argues that philosophers not attending to food, and the trivialisation of foodwork generally, has been ‘detrimental to women, to self-understanding, and to knowledge about human culture, society, economics, and politics’ (142). Until work like the path-breaking book The Madwomen in the Attic and its consideration of the body (Gilbert and Gubar 1979), literary scholars still ‘read’ through the Hegelian hierarchy of the senses. Allie Glenny observes, for example, that although food is abundant in the work of Virginia Woolf, it appears invisible to many critics (Ravenous Identity: Eating and Eating Distress in the Life and Work of Virginia Woolf 1999). Joyce’s Interrogation of the Feminine / Masculine Dualism The close analysis of food in modernist literature necessitates considering how the ‘feminine’ was suppressed. While Joyce was allowing for ‘doing and undoing’ in his fiction, the destruction of World War I caused other modernists to embark on the task of distinguishing their style and content from the ‘feminine’. While war may not have been an overt subject for all modernists, it was considered in a ‘concatenated union’ with their other political concerns, as they renegotiated a less certain era and questions about humanity, progress, and the ‘woman question’. William Courtenay’s The Feminist Note in Fiction (1904) criticised the ‘New Woman’ novel for its ‘sex problems’ and ‘failing to realise the neutrality of the artistic mind’ (in Mullin ‘Modernism and Feminisms’ 137). ‘Virile’, manly Modernism of the ‘men of 1914’ was contrasted with the flaccidity of women’s nineteenth-century writing (Mullin 139). Declarations, manifestos and periodical by-lines, such as the Egoist’s ‘For virile readers only’, gendered Modernism and defined the guidelines for legitimate participants. Filippo Tommaso Marinetti’s desire to fight ‘every opportunist cowardice’ such as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 45 | P a g e ‘moralism and feminism’; Wyndham Lewis’s journal’s bidding to ‘BLAST years 1837 – 1900 / Blast . . . RHETRIC OF EUNUCH AND STYLIST / SENTIMENTAL HYGIENICS’; and Pound’s declaration that ‘[n]o woman should be allowed to write for The Little Review’, claiming that ‘most of the ills of the American little magazines are . . . due to women’, are just a few of the better known examples of the overt hostility that prevented women’s accepted artistic participation in Modernism (in Mullin 137-142). Michael North points out that the conflation of the ‘artistic mind’ and masculinity found pseudo-scientific endorsement from 1922 linguist Otto Jesperson (Language: Its Nature, Development and Origin), who argued that the influence women have on language is insignificant (North Reading 1922: a Return to the Scene of the Modern 174). As Jesperson states: ‘the highest linguistic genius and the lowest degree of linguistic imbecility are very rarely found among women’ however ‘[t]he greatest orators, the most famous literary artists, have been men’ (in North 174). While the examples of this repression abound — T. S. Eliot’s criticism is particularly replete with examples of patriarchal criticism — Eliot’s framing of Katherine Mansfield’s work and North’s revisiting of Willa Cather’s suppression prove good examples. Though Eliot ‘recognises’ Mansfield’s skill, the material is ‘minimum’ and therefore ‘feminine’ (Eliot After Strange Gods 35-6; Mullin ‘Modernisms and Feminisms’ 145). North explores the critical reception of One of Ours, winner of the 1922 Pulitzer Prize, and how Cather was criticised for her conventionality and dullness (174-5). North, however, points out that though male Modernism was simultaneously ‘realist and imaginative’, Cather’s work was criticised for its homeliness and artificiality (175). Even though representing a similar balance of technique (mimesis / poesis), ‘homely’ and ‘artificial’ are strategically, hierarchically inferior to ‘realist’ and ‘imaginative’. In short, the distinction between Modernism and feminine writing was insistent because the resemblance was too close for comfort (North 179): ‘the emotional charge built up at this time may come from the guilty secret harboured . . . that male Modernism itself was not so much a defiance of convention as an exacerbation of the contradiction within it’ (175). Suzanne Clark (Sentimental Modernism: Women Writers and the Revolution of the Word 1991) argues that women’s writing was denigrated by modernists and modernist critics as flaccid, emotional and prosaic. This disallowing of the ‘emotional’ was particularly vehement in Wyndham Lewis’s attack on ‘sentimental Gallic gush’, criticising it for its ‘sentimental hygienics’, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 46 | P a g e stating instead that in ‘[o]ur Vortex . . . everything absent, remote, requiring projection in the veiled weakness of the mind, is sentimental’ (Clark 125-6). By the early 1990s a number of anthologies framed Modernism in a new way, reconstituting Modernism as not ‘exclusively defined by the valorisation of formal as well as thematic characteristics . . . associated with masculinity’ (DeKoven ‘Modernism and Gender’ 182). Bonnie Kime Scott’s edited volume The Gender of Modernism: A Critical Anthology (1990) was ground breaking in its insistence on gender being a primary concern for Modernism and modernity. In addition to giving a voice to the less vaunted female makers of Modernism, Scott and her contributing editors redirected attention to gender in the canonical modernist texts, thus exposing the gender politics in the critical framing of Modernism. This was also the central concern in Lisa Rado’s edited volume Rereading Modernism: New Directions in Feminist Criticism (1994), where instead of identifying the misogyny in male modernist texts, the emphasis is examining how Modernism’s assumption about gender informs modernist texts. Rita Felski’s The Gender of Modernity (1995) affects a paradigmatic change to understanding modernity by exploring women’s varied experiences of modernity, and gives ‘feminine phenomena’ — such as selling, shopping, travel, social and political activism, radical discourses of feminine sexuality, and experiments with literary form — a central rather than marginalised place in the analysis of the culture of modernity. Elizabeth Jane Harrison and Shirley Peterson ‘unman’ Modernism by interrogating the traditional, masculine modernist aesthetic by examining how women writers created their own Modernism through the melding of the sentimental, the domestic and the maternal with experiments with plot, voice and point of view (Unmanning Modernism: Gendered Re-Readings 1997). Marianne DeKoven’s Rich and Strange: Gender, History, Modernism (1991; and ‘Modernism and Gender’) explores the density, dislocations, and gender-inflected ambiguity of Modernism. For DeKoven, Modernism evolved as a means of representing the threat of cultural and political change. While modernists wanted change in gender politics, for example, male modernists feared the loss of power that accompanied the empowered feminine, and female modernists feared punishment for desiring change. DeKoven’s exploration of the irreconcilable ambivalence toward what Perry Anderson calls the ‘revolutionary horizon’ thus informs the form of Modernism (184; Anderson ‘Modernism and Revolution’ 96-113). Interestingly, Ann Ardis doesn’t exclude Joyce from her account of the male high Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 47 | P a g e moderns (Pound, Joyce and Eliot) and their use of radical, formalist poetics to conceal their conservative cultural and sexual politics (Modernism and Cultural Conflict, 1880- 1922 2002). North argues that as the ‘conventionality’ of the gendered delineation of feminine writing became unhinged, the contradictions within masculine writing could no longer be differentiated by an aesthetic and emotional division of labour (192). Instead, contradictions began to appear within the modernist male aesthetic; ‘a doubling or changing’ of the self, due to the ‘conflicting demands of male creativity’ (192). Using James Joyce’s Ulysses to illustrate the point, North refers to descriptions of Leopold Bloom – ‘a bit of an artist’, ‘a mixed middling’ – and reminds us that Bloom was ‘an anomalous man at least part woman’ even before his fantastic transformation in the ‘Circe’ episode (192). In the last twenty years critics such as Cynthia Lewiecki-Wilson (Writing against the Family: Gender in Lawrence and Joyce 1994), Christine Froula (Modernism's Body: Sex, Culture, and Joyce 1996), Beryl Schlossman (Objects of Desire: The Madonnas of Modernism 1999), Tamar Katz (Impressionist Subjects: Gender, Interiority, and Modernist Fiction in England 2000), Hugh Stevens and Caroline Howlett (eds. Modernist Sexualities 2000), and Geraldine Meaney (Gender, Ireland, and Cultural Change: Race, Sex, and Nation 2009) have explored this interconnectivity between male and female modernists and the disruption of a gendered aesthetic. Lewiecki-Wilson argue that Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man begins to deconstruct gendered theories of meaning; a deconstruction that continues in Ulysses. In contrast to T. S. Eliot’s argument that the modernists’ incorporation of ancient myth was a way of ‘controlling, of ordering, of giving a shape and a significance to the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary life’ (Selected Prose 175-8), Meaney suggests that Joyce’s use of myth represents interconnections between gender and Irish nationalism, and gender and Modernism. Drawing on Stephen Jay Gould (Time’s Arrow, Time’s Cycle: Myth and Metaphor in the Discovery of Geological Time 1987), Meaney reiterates that after the Enlightenment ‘time’s cycle’, as opposed to the scientific and empirical ‘time’s arrow’, becomes the ‘space of myth and mythic thought’ (98). In contrast to the ‘arrow’s’ realm of progress, the ‘cycle’ became identified with conservativeness, ‘presenting aspects of human experience as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 48 | P a g e unchanging and hence unchangeable’ (98), reflective of the feminine delineation of the aesthetic. Meaney implicitly speaks to the scholarship of pragmatic Modernism and Schwarze’s consideration of the function of Joyce’s ‘faultlines’ and contradictions. She suggests that far from myth providing order, myth in Ulysses becomes a place for those who have been aliened by history — immigrants and women for example — to change the unchangeable direction of ‘the arrow’ and redefine history. By drawing on Homi Bhabha, Meaney argues that Joyce’s utilisation of The Odyssey provides a context for reading Ulysses as an engagement of issues of gender and national identity (99). For Froula this adulteration of the masculine modernist aesthetic is used by Joyce to mount a critique of his culture. Rather than viewing Joyce as misogynist, Froula associates Joyce’s rhetorical devices with an effort to bring the Irish culture’s unconscious knowledge into consciousness. A crucial key to Ulysses, Froula argues, is grasping the parody of the once mentioned subtitle of Ulysses: ‘His Whore of a Mother’. Stephen’s Shakespeare theory puts the figure of the mother/wife/whore at centre stage, arguing that masculine creativity issues from a dialectic of sexual difference in which strong women act as the originating term of the male creator’s nightmare, wish, or dream (Froula 87). Repressed by gender conventions, Stephen regains his ‘maternally identified self’ ironically through rediscovering the figure of the woman/mother/whore upon which masculine culture establishes itself (Froula 88). Feminist philosophers — such as Julia Kristeva, Luce Irigaray, Hélène Cixous and Judith Butler — have been helpful for understanding how Joyce was able to use his highly self-conscious form to ‘ruminate’ upon the constructs of ideological forces. In broad terms they suggest that women writers, in particular, use avant-garde linguistic forms to escape the confines of patriarchal language (Mullin 146). As Elizabeth Grosz points out though, each philosopher works within a specific theoretical paradigm and has different interpretations of ‘sexual difference’ (Grosz Sexual Subversions 100-104). Kristeva accepts the oedipal structure and essentially works with the tools of psychoanalysis. For Kristeva (Desire in Language 1980; The Revolution in Poetic Language 1984) avant-garde texts ‘reject all discourse that is either stagnant or eclectically academic’ and ‘stimulate and [reveal] deep ideological changes that are currently searching for their own accurate political framework’ (Desire 92-3). The Kristevian aim is to ‘uncover the women’s (repressed) masculinity and men’s Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 49 | P a g e (disavowed) femininity through the acknowledgement of a repressed semiotic, sexual energy or drive facilitation on which both male and female “identities” are based and to which they are vulnerable’ (Grosz 100-1). Here, ‘sexual difference’ entails dissolution of all sexual identities ‘into a dispersed process of sexual differentiation, relevant to both sexes’ (Grosz 100). Irigaray, in comparison, is derisive of the oedipal structure and Freud’s asymmetrical, masculine, regulative principle of sexual organisation (Grosz 103) wherein the ‘desire for the auto . . . the homo . . . the male, dominates representational economy’ (Irigaray Speculum of the Other Woman 26). Irigaray’s conceptualisation of ‘sexual difference’ refers to women’s sexual autonomy and specificity (Grosz 100). Her argument is that Western discourse presents ‘sex’ as ‘masculine sex’. Male sex or ‘sex’ is ‘the privilege of unity, form of self, of the visible, of the specularisable, of the erection’ (Irigaray ‘Women’s Exile’ 64). ‘No sex’ has been assigned to the woman as ‘her sex is not visible nor identifiable or representable in a definite form’ (64). While Kristeva’s work is insightful for the examination of the interconnections between male and female Modernism, such as the womanly man and the manly woman, Irigaray has provided underpinning, implicitly in the case of Michael North, for work on the repression of women modernist writers (DeKoven ‘Modernism and Gender’; Felski The Gender of Modernity 79; Michael North Reading 1922; Smith ‘Gender in Women’s Modernism’ 92). Irigaray links the repression of the feminine voice to the vigilant repression of the feminine ‘origin’ of life and the ‘mystery’ of the man’s role in reproduction (DeKoven 179). Her power for giving life is repressed and reassigned and all ownership of reproduction and naming rights fall under what Lacan calls ‘The Name of the Father’ (Irigaray Speculum 330-353). Importantly, this results in the hierarchy of dualisms prevalent in Western culture, for example, masculine / feminine, culture / nature, and higher / lower (DeKoven 179). However, as claimed by DeKoven, it is in Freud and Modernism in general that the ‘power of the maternal feminine comes closest to erupting into representation, and therefore is met by an even more cruelly powerful act of repression’ (179). The theories of both Judith Butler and Michèle Le Doeuff, I suggest, prove particularly useful for exploring the ways in which Joyce uses food as a focal point for his ruminations on gender, and for their implicit links to Pragmatism. While Sarah Moss Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 50 | P a g e reminds us that ‘we perform with food’, the performance is more than the physiological performance and the political power to maintain social inequality that Moss is primarily concerned with in her research (7). This project investigates the ways that characters perform in relation to food, and how gender constructs are challenged. Judith Butler (Bodies that Matter 1993; The Psychic Life of Power 1997; Undoing Gender 2004) uses Michel Foucault’s concept of ‘subjectification’, by which he means ‘the subject is constituted through practices of subjection’ and renders this idea as both ‘the process of becoming subordinated by power as well as the process of becoming a subject’ (The Psychic Life of Power 2). As Moya Lloyd notes, for Butler it is at the moment that the individual is subjected to gender norms that ‘he or she becomes a gendered subject who can resist those norms’ (Judith Butler 64-5). While gender, as performative, requires the mandatory reproduction of normalised gender practices, gender can be performed against the grain (Butler Bodies that Matter 95). As a result of this disruption, the gendered norm may be subversively denaturalised, or the transgressive performance is punished for its unnatural behaviour (Lloyd 64; Butler Undoing Gender). Michèle Le Doeuff provided an early, valuable theoretical frame through which to negotiate Joyce’s High Modernism, his challenges to narrow conceptions of Modernist aesthetics, and his challenge to ideological constructs. Le Doeuff’s ‘mid-way’ approach seems to resonate with Pragmatism, but also Sinfield’s conceptualisation of Modernism as a space where ruminations can occur. In a 1979 essay, ‘Operative Philosophy’, Le Doeuff rereads Jean-Paul Sartre’s most misogynist text Being and Nothingness (1977). In this book Sartre relies on patriarchal designations of masculine and feminine and uses this binary imagery in his understanding of knowledge. For example, he proclaims that ‘to see is to deflower’, that ‘knowledge is at once a penetration and a superficial caress’, and he expresses the fear of the ‘slimy’ ‘in-itself’ that threatens to engulf the sovereign ‘for-itself’. The ‘viscosity’ of the slime is ‘comparable to the flattening out of the overripe breasts of a woman lying on her back (Sartre in ‘Operative Philosophy’ 50-1; Grosz 212). The default to the feminine to represent the feared castration of masculine philosophy is familiar. Sartrean existentialism is incapable of explaining oppression because of its heavy stress on responsibility and free choice, and Modernism — defined and protected by its masculine classifications but espousing innovation, imagination and experimentation — rings in the same tone. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 51 | P a g e Yet in her analysis of Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex (1949), Le Doeuff claims that de Beauvoir works within a male philosophy to use it to produce feminist insights, rather than radically breaking with male dominated history of philosophy as Irigaray and Kristeva do (Grosz 212). While readers of de Beauvoir often wish to separate her adherence to Sartre’s existentialism from her feminism, Le Doeuff claims that Beauvoir uses Sartre’s philosophy as an ‘operative viewpoint’ for exposing the character of the oppression of women (‘Operative Philosophy’ 48; Grosz 213): Luce Irigaray’s books insist on the idea that, since it is philosophical discourse that lays down the law for all discourses, the discourse of philosophy is the one that has first of all to be overthrown and disrupted. At one stroke, the main enemy comes to be idealist logic and the metaphysical logos. Simone de Beauvoir’s book leaves me with the contrary impression, since, within a problematic as metaphysical as any, she is still able to reach conclusions about which the least one can say is that they have dynamised women’s movements in Europe and America for over thirty years. (Le Doeuff ‘Operative Philosophy’ 48) This thesis does not incorporate a dense philosophical exploration of Feminist theory, but these theories have informed the approach to Joyce’s experimental aesthetics. They help navigate the food in Joyce’s work and assist in the analysis of his stylistics for their ruminations on ideology and history. Joyce’s work provides an ‘operative viewpoint’ that enables not only an interrogation of gender constructs and the oppression of women, but also ruminations on Irish politics, history, religion, culture and society. It makes a specific statement about the role that literature can play in refiguring memory and addressing the effects of the past on the state of the Irish and their relationship with an imperial power. Thesis Outline Underpinning the historical turn, this thesis is indebted to the key Joycean scholars who have challenged the long held assumption of Joyce’s ‘apolitical’ stance and disavowal of history. I draw upon the work of Emer Nolan, Enda Duffy, Andrew Gibson, Vincent Cheng, James Fairhall and Robert Spoo (amongst others) over the course of the thesis as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 52 | P a g e I exhibit Joyce’s awareness of ideological ‘nets’ as he ruminates upon the impact of history. Recent articles on food in Joyce, notably by Miriam O’Kane Mara (‘James Joyce and the Politics of Food’ 2009), Marguerite Regan (‘“Weggebobbles and Fruit”: Bloom’s Vegetarian Impulses’ 2009), Lauren Rich (‘A Table for One: Hunger and Unhomeliness in Joyce’s Public Eateries’ 2010), Bonnie Roos (chapter in Hungry Words, ‘Feast, Famine and the Humble Potato in Ulysses’ 2006), Julieann Ulin (‘Famished Ghosts: Famine Memory in James Joyce’s Ulysses’ 2011), Kevin Whelan (‘The Memories of “The Dead”’ 2002), and James Wurtz (‘Scarce More a Corpse: Famine Memory and Representations of the Gothic in Ulysses’ 2005), have been invaluable starting points for my investigations, particularly in their considerations of food in relation to the Famine, Irish history and politics, gender, and post-Famine culture. I draw on numerous theoretical frameworks over the course of the thesis, such as Collective Memory and Inter-generational Trauma, both used to help explore the significance of Famine for identity construction in the post-Famine era. This thesis develops through a series of topic based chapters. Rather than include a review of all the relevant scholarship throughout the thesis in the introductory chapter, the individual chapters highlight the key scholarship relevant for each ‘topic’. The chapters focus on: the collective memory of the Great Famine (Chapter 1); the embodied trauma of the Famine and fractured community (Chapter 2); the impact of the betrayal and decline of Charles Stewart Parnell and the disintegration of the domestic realm (Chapter 3); the interrogation of imperial appropriations of new knowledges, particularly nutritional science (Chapter 4); and Joyce’s subversive tactics against patriarchy and his rumination on the need for a new kind of heroism (Chapter 5). Chapter One explores how Joyce was a consummate historicist, interested in the impact of the past on the present, and allowing the possibility for considering new possibilities of Irishness and an alternate social contract. This chapter situates Joyce in the context of Irish nationalism. In contrast to Anglo-Irish revivalists like Yeats, Joyce is critical of the conjuring of the ancient Irish mythical past and its presentation as a collective Irish identity to inspire heroic, nationalist action. For Joyce, this falsifies and romanticises the past and perpetuates the violence of colonial subjugation. While Ulysses reflects Joyce’s scathing indictment on the English mismanagement of the Famine, Joyce also problematizes the notion of one collective memory of the Famine as he alludes to the ways in which the Irish are complicit in their own oppression. Joyce’s essays highlight Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 53 | P a g e the parallel between Joyce’s politics and some more nationalistic rhetoric in Ulysses, particularly in the ‘Cyclops’ episode. This chapter engages with the key scholarship which explores Joyce’s interrogations of history and politics, for example Emer Nolan and Andrew Gibson, and is also indebted to the work of Julieann Ulin and Bonnie Roos. Both Ulin and Roos specifically consider the significance of food in the ‘Circe’ episode; my analysis of the episode draws on them but is also informed by work in Irish historiography (for example David Nally), sociological theorising of collective remembering, and a theoretical consideration of colonial violence. Chapter Two points out that Joyce’s Dubliners are generally second generation Famine survivors who did not experience the Famine themselves, but they still seem to be paralysed as they wander around Dublin like the Famine’s dispossessed did sixty years prior. Joyce reworks the modernist flâneur and a number of Gothic tropes to indicate that ‘times past are not times past’, and I draw on theories of collective trauma (for example, the work of Pierre Nora and Marianne Hirsch) to help frame the ‘ghostliness’ of Joyce’s Dubliners. While current scholarship notes a ‘collective memory’ of the Famine in broad terms, I draw on the work of Irish historians and consider how the reorganisation of the Irish coterie system fractured the link between geography, community and identity. This produces an ‘intergenerational trauma’ (Hirsch) which prevents the Irish from developing an effectual ‘prior covenant’ and the means to negotiate the terms of their social contract. Lauren Rich and James Wurtz both consider the resonance of the Famine for Joyce’s Dublin. I explore this idea further, however, by examining the connections between the eating of soup in Ulysses and the soup relief scheme of the Famine. Chapter Three considers the ‘betrayal’ and death of Charles Stewart Parnell (1846-91) as a key event of Irish history prevalent in Joyce’s work, and its contribution to the destruction of Irish community, the passivity of Irish politics, and the decline of the domestic realm. Joyce’s representation of this Irish hero’s political downfall through his essays, Portrait and Ulysses highlights the tensions encapsulated by Stephen Dedalus’s two key phrases: ‘History . . . is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake’, and ‘In here it is that I must kill the priest and the king’ (Ulysses 2: 377; 15: 4436-7). The Christmas dinner scene in Portrait exhibits how the ensuing post- Parnellite paralysis impacts on Dubliner families, and I contend that the proto-feminist Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 54 | P a g e Joyce explores paternal neglect in relation to homosocial drinking culture. While they are seemingly neglected in contemporary scholarship, Hans Walter Gabler’s and Michael Toolan’s essays on the Christmas dinner scene in Portrait have been invaluable. Although there are implicit judgments made against Dubliner men in Dubliners, Portrait and Ulysses, Joyce’s ruminations on drink are more considered. Joyce’s use of juxtaposition and sentimentality, particularly in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode, highlights the complexity of patriarchy, Irish subjugation, and political independence. This chapter employs sociological considerations of ‘hospitality’, and more anthropological approaches to homosocial drinking culture to investigate Joyce’s parallactic considerations of these themes. Chapter Four addresses Joyce’s personal experiences of hunger and his interest in medicine, which is given full scope in Ulysses with Leopold Bloom. This fascinating area of Joycean scholarship is explored by J. B. Lyons and more recently Vike Martina Plock. Joyce’s explorations of food, nutrition and health in Ulysses are tempered by a scepticism for the medical profession. Joyce interrogates the various rhetorical devices and discourses that the English use to marginalise the Irish, such as the nationalistic appropriations of new scientific knowledges. The so-called ‘choices’ the Irish make are also problematised, and the ‘faultlines’ of Ulysses point to the double bind of the Irish as the British Government and the Catholic Church simultaneously undertake the project of pacification. I explore sugar, that complex commodity symbolic of imperialism, slavery, luxury, energy and productivity, and malnutrition. While I follow the potato in Chapter One, here I also consider Bloom’s ‘offal’ and explore his ‘vegetarian moment’. The size and title of Joyce’s self-conscious epic insists that we see Homer’s Odyssey as an intertext for Ulysses. Chapter Five explores how in Joyce’s hands a new type of hero springs to life. The experience of the First World War and the sham of ‘heroics’ meant Joyce couldn’t start with the heroic Achilles; he needed to pick up from the Odyssey where the epic had started with the ‘home bound’ hero and a story that gave due attention to the domestic realm. Here I explore the gendered relationship between meat and power in the Odyssey, and how Joyce uses food and eating to highlight how his epic reframes heroism through its negotiations of patriarchy and challenges to ‘Irishness’. If Bloom isn’t considered Irish, Catholic, a Jew, a ‘Man’, then he surpasses these Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 55 | P a g e identifications with ‘Greekness’ and his embracing of Spinoza. Chapters Two and Three indicate that the danger of living in the past is the risk of stagnation and emotional paralysis, but here I consider how Molly and Leopold Blooom’s positive, personal histories eventually prevail and show the way towards the subordination of patriarchy and creating the space for a new narrative for Ireland. Joyce’s attempts to finish Ulysses were frustrated by ocular troubles and he proofread Ulysses ‘with blurred and impaired vision, armed with a magnifying glass’ (Plock 1). Physical impediments notwithstanding, Joyce’s skill in using parallax proffer lenses to examine colonialism, politics, religion, and gender and that cultural work makes a significant contribution to a reimagining of the Irish social contract. My contribution to the field of scholarship is my consideration of that central human need for food from numerous perspectives; not just via ‘Famine memory’, but through nuanced assessments of colonial violence, collective memory and inter-generational trauma, the impact of a fractured domestic realm, discourses of health and nutrition, and the reconsideration of the notion of what constitutes a hero. In so doing I reveal Joyce’s shunning of dualisms, reflective of Pragmatism, and ‘hear him more historically’ (Gibson Strong Spirit 7) as he both questions the origin of Irish society and identity, and interrogates the legitimacy of continued English occupation, dispossession, eviction and the marginalisation of the Irish. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 56 | P a g e Chapter 1 - Joyce, the Famine and Colonial Violence The satiated never understand the emaciated (Hugh Dorian [1896] in Kissane 53) The Great Famine, though often ambiguous, is pervasive in Ulysses, and this is in contradistinction to the nationalist project of Joyce’s Revivalist peers. In contrast to the nationalism of W. B. Yeats, for example, who seeks to inspire through ‘ancient’ history and ‘heroic’ memory, Joyce’s nationalism problematises Irish ‘collective memory’ and pursues an interrogation of the narratives of history (including the Famine) to reveal the pathologies of colonisation. For Joyce, post-Famine colonial pathologies, such as silence and passivity, mythologising the past, ultranationalism, complicity and hypocrisy, and the Anglicisation of language, complicate the revivalists’ imagining of nationhood. Joyce’s Pragmatic Modernism considers how the past resonates in the present, but Joyce enacts a type of treachery (against the English and against Irish nationalism). He probes the ‘collective memory’ of the Famine and the universal status of ‘victims’, and also highlights the illegitimacy of the Ireland / England social contract. Rather than Ireland having any ‘social pact’, Joyce emphasises how acts of violence are inextricably linked to the origin of a state (Schmitt Political Theology 10, 13; S. Brown 782, 784), far removed from Enlightenment notions of ‘association’, ‘social pact’ and ‘rational obligation’ (Rousseau The Social Contract). It is only through suppression and violence (in its many guises) that England can ensure its ruler status. Joyce does exhibit Irish subversion (for example, in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode), but the ‘Circe’ episode demonstrates, I contend, how Irish agency is ultimately self-regulated via the memory of violence. ‘Circe’ has been examined as a scathing indictment of colonisation (for example, Andrew Gibson and Vincent Cheng), but if we follow the potato Joyce’s ruminations on the persistence of colonial rule become more complex. It is here, at the ‘faultlines’ of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 57 | P a g e this highly stylised episode, where we can perceive Joyce revealing the contradictions of history, and the fraught nature of a political association bound by the insecurity of colonial subjects and the dominance of the imperial power. Recent scholarship closely examines a number of episodes in Ulysses for its representations and ruminations of the Famine (Roos ‘The Joyce of Eating: Feast, Famine and the Humble Potato in Ulysses’; Ulin ‘“Famished Ghosts”: Famine Memory in James Joyce’s Ulysses’). Bonnie Roos has very interestingly followed this blackened and shrivelled root as a symbol of Famine memory, through the lenses of feminism and psychoanalysis. In her analysis of the ‘Circe’ episode she explores the gender issues that link the potato, symbol of the Famine, with prostitution and the exploitation and suppression of women. Julieann Ulin’s consideration of the same episode considers Joyce’s representation of both the unreliability and persistence of historical memory. In answer to Eagleton’s ‘Where is the Famine in . . . Joyce?’ (13), Ulin responds that its presence is in the ‘textual iconography’ such as the exposed corpses, the dogs that devour bodies, and the impoverished or homeless Dubliners scattered throughout the Ulysses. While this chapter draws on multiple Joycean sources, it is particularly indebted to the work of Roos and Ulin for their innovative and subtle considerations of the Famine. Following their work I also explore the ‘Circe’ episode, but my examinations draw together some recent historical research, for example David Nally, on the violence of the Famine and colonial suppression. Though ‘memory’ is noted by most scholars writing about Joyce and the Famine, specific research into the field of Social Remembering raises some important issues about the significance of written texts, for example, and the distinction between ‘public’ or ‘presentist’ memory, and ‘collective memory’ as explored by Maurice Halbwachs (1877-1945). I argue that the potato, rather than a catchall symbol of Famine and Famine memory, is more precisely a symbol of the memory and experience of imperial violence. Bloom’s actions and manner in the ‘Circe’ episode, as they relate to the possession, dispossession, and repossession of the potato, reveal the extent of the dehumanization and subjugation of the Irish. The Famine is, as Bonnie Roos suggests, the ‘Allimportant’ key to Ulysses. It makes a significant statement about the persistence of the cultural legacy of the Famine, Joyce’s politics, and his view of history. Joyce’s parallactic style belies any simple statements about each of these, as he represents a complex interrogation of English, Anglo-Irish, and Irish nationalist perspectives of the Famine. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 58 | P a g e Although history is now a central consideration for Joycean studies, it should be noted that it wasn’t until the late 1980s that literary critics really broke the general ‘silence’ about the centrality of the Famine in Irish history and literature, and its persistent cultural legacy. Mary Lowe-Evans (Crimes Against Fecundity: Joyce and Population Control 1989), Terry Eagleton (Heathcliff and the Great Hunger 1995), Christopher Morash (Writing the Irish Famine 1995) and Margaret Kelleher (The Feminization of the Famine 1997), and more recently George Cusack and Sarah Goss (eds. Hungry Words: Images of Famine in the Irish Canon 2006) examine Irish literature for how it echoes or challenges more dominant political narratives of The Great Famine. It is no surprise that this relatively recent burgeoning of interest in the Famine in literature coincided with a significant shift in Irish historiography. Apart from Cecil Woodham- Smith’s The Great Hunger: Ireland 1845-49 (1962), which is an anomaly for breaking the silence about the Famine and locating it in the colonial/imperial framework, both Irish historiography and Irish memory ‘have been notoriously reluctant to confront the catastrophe of the famine’ (Lloyd ‘The Indigent Sublime’ 173). Cormac Ó Gráda (Ireland: A New Economic History 1994), Christine Kinealy (A Death-Dealing Famine: The Great Hunger in Ireland 1996), and Kevin Whelan (‘The Revisionist Debate in Ireland’ 2004) all explore the absence or at least relegation of the Famine’s significance and impact in Irish historical research. Patrick Sullivan (ed. The Meaning of the Famine 1997) and Cormac Ó Gráda (Ireland: A New Economic History 174; Ireland Before and After the Famine 78) comment that the sidelining was more prolonged, arguing that the Great Irish Famine was largely neglected until the 1990s when more popular and academic interest developed surrounding the commemoration of the Sesquicentennial of the disaster. It initially appears somehow incongruent to analyse the Famine in Joyce’s very urban work. The more direct, catastrophic impact of the Famine, after all, was in rural Ireland, particularly the West. Historians emphasise, however, that Dubliners were witness to the Famine as North and South Dublin Union workhouses filled with people from a devastated rural Ireland (Guinnane and Ó Gráda ‘Mortality in the North Dublin Union’ 487). Dublin was the destination for thousands from rural areas searching for relief, and as the main port for ships to Liverpool its citizens saw the procession of starving en route to elsewhere. Interestingly, Timothy Guinnane and Ó Gráda note that the North Dublin Union was also the destination for the infirm and disabled paupers Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 59 | P a g e ‘dispatched’ from England and Scotland (494). Modelled on the English Poor Law of 1834, the Irish Poor Law of 1838 divided the country into 130 ‘Unions’ with each administering its own workhouse. By 1845 these workhouses were operational with relief available to those who needed it. As Guinnane and Ó Gráda state, the willingness to accept the Spartan workhouse regime . . . was deemed sufficient evidence of need’ (488). By 1845 the workhouses were full to overflowing. The North Dublin Union, for example, with its original capacity of 2000, had by late 1847 doubled its capacity to 4000 with the conversion of the dining hall into a dormitory (492, 495). While some specifically entered the workhouses expressly to die and others arrived in a chronic condition, ‘[m]any more died of infectious diseases such as dysentery and typhoid fever contracted in workhouses’ (489). For example, the North Dublin Union workhouse death rate before the Famine was seven per day, though in 1847 during a cholera outbreak this rose to 39 deaths a day (489). Gail Baylis and Sarah Edge remind us that in addition to seeing the immediate effects of Famine, the Irish also experienced it as a mass media event. ‘Amply recorded in print’ the conditions were ‘reported in considerable detail in newspapers’ in Britain, North America, Europe and Australia (Baylis and Edge ‘The Great Famine: Absence, Memory, Photography’ 781; Kissane The Irish Famine: A Documentary History 123). Furthermore, as the Famine coincided with the development of print technology, enabling the mass distribution of woodcut illustrations, it also became something that was imagined in visual terms and became ‘memorable’ (Baylis and Edge 781). The photographs of the 1880s and 1890s Irish evictions were also interpreted as representations of the Great Famine. Though a visual representation of different circumstances, for those who did not experience the Famine these eviction photos added visual evidence and helped the generation after the Famine to imagine the mid -century event in a new visual context (787). Yeats, Joyce and Nationalism Irish literature works with and through Ireland’s long history of ‘famine, failed rebellion, emigration and colonial persecution’ and considers its representations of ‘loss, suffering and guilt’ (McDonald Tragedy in Irish Literature 2). However, as Rónán McDonald observes, identifying commonalities in Irish texts, and coercing Irish Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 60 | P a g e writing into an uneasy alignment, is a fraught enterprise (2). Such is the case when attempting to line up W. B. Yeats and Joyce. Yeats has long been positioned as Joyce’s political and artistic anathema, but as Alistair Cormack notes, over recent decades there has been a shift from pitting the two against each other in the ways fostered by New Criticism and the American liberal school: the traditional ‘Celtic’ nationalist Yeats vs the cosmopolitan internationalist Joyce (Yeats and Joyce 1; Nolan xiii; McDonald ‘The Irish Revival and Modernism’ 51-2, 57-8). Early in his career Joyce had indeed encouraged such an opposition. Joyce’s early essay ‘The Day of the Rabblement’ (1901) reveals his understanding of the individualism of art, and thus positions himself apart from the Irish Literary Theatre that ‘courts the favour of the multitude’ and entangles itself with ‘the contagion of its fetichism [sic] and deliberate self-deception’ (CW 71). Early in his career Joyce thought art should ‘be autonomous, above the realm of politics’ (Nolan 23). There is a ‘complex historical geography of modernism’, however, and many modernists struggled ‘to settle their accounts with parochialism and nationalism’ (Harvey in Nolan 2). Illustrative of such a struggle, by November 1906 Joyce qualifies his ‘apolitical’ stance, writing to his brother Stanislaus that ‘[i]f the Irish programme did not insist on the Irish language I could call myself a nationalist’ (Selected Letters 125). Thus between 1902 and 1907 Joyce’s view of ‘freedom’ would develop from a determination ‘to keep the spirit within him alive in the midst of all- pervasive squalor and disintegration’ to a ‘powerful desire for the settling of a historical debt’ (Gibson Strong Spirit 1, 5; S. Joyce My Brother’s Keeper 100). Kevin Barry maintains that Joyce ‘disguises’ his nationalist dialogue, and his ‘international and cult status’ conceals how his work ‘is part of an articulated and broad debate within the Irish literary revival’ (OCPW xxix; Cormack 13). Thus, Joyce’s art cannot be explored within a cosmopolitan and aesthetic vacuum, devoid of politics. Instead his gesture to internationalism and his self-imposed exile must be understood ‘as a response to the nationalism he was offered rather than simply a rejection of the very ideas of the national consciousness and liberation’ (Cormack 13; original emphasis; Nolan 10). Whilst Irish critics such as Declan Kiberd, Emer Nolan and Seamus Deane historicised Irish Modernism and corrected the purely aesthetic critical construction of Yeats and Joyce, to the point that ‘if there is a monolithic academic position’ in Joyce studies today it is ‘postcolonial historicism’ (Cormack 1), Joyce’s nationalism remains a different type of nationalism to Yeats’s (14). This political Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 61 | P a g e disparity is evident in Richard Ellmann’s description of Yeats’s and Joyce’s first meeting: The defected protestant confronted the defected catholic, the landless landlord met the shiftless tenant. Yeats, fresh from London, made one in a cluster of writers whom Joyce would never know, while Joyce knew the limbs and bowels of a city of which Yeats knew well only the head. The world of the petty bourgeois, which is the world of Ulysses and the world in which Joyce grew up, was for Yeats something to be abjured. Joyce had the same contempt for the ignorant peasantry and the snobbish aristocracy that Yeats idealised. The two were divided by upbringing and predilection. (Ellmann James Joyce 104) Yeats advocated a common cultural mission for Irish artists that would counter the ugliness of the modern world; a world that was sterile and lacked a sense of community (McDonald ‘The Irish Revival’ 51; Nolan 23). Disillusioned with contemporary Ireland, a place where ‘immediate utility’ had trumped idealism and the ‘traditions of the countryman’ were eclipsed by middle-class concerns and values, Yeats followed the great writers of ancient ballads and epics and in his early career fused Irish folklore and heroic legend into his art (Yeats Essays and Introductions 260; Pethica 138; Allison 190). He imagined an invigorated Irish nation via these ancient genres, revived from the once glorious Celtic civilisation, whose recreation could prove as ‘exotic and exciting an art as any devised by a fin-de-siècle London coterie’ (Nolan 24). For Yeats, folklore countered the ‘scientific’ and the ‘materialist’ modern world where the ‘sick’ and hurried existence produced ‘Grey’ and inhuman forms of truth (Yeats Variorum Plays 64-5; Pethica 129). Heroic action, Yeats believed, was the only way to fully express selfhood (129), but as Ellmann suggests, the great Yeatsean paradox was that he ‘disintegrate[d] verisimilitude’ to create a more ‘ultimate realism’ (in Balinisteanu 52). Yeats, along with fellow revivalists, wanted to purge the perception of Ireland as the home of ‘buffoonery or easy sentiment’ and instead present Ireland as the home of ‘ancient idealism’ (Yeats, Gregory and Martyn [1897] in Nolan 25). In his essay ‘Ireland and the Arts’ (1901) Yeats states: Art and scholarship like these I have described would give Ireland more than they received from her, for they would make love of the unseen more Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 62 | P a g e unshakable, more ready to plunge deep into the abyss, and they would make love of country more fruitful in the mind, more a part of daily life. One would know an Irishman into whose life they had come – and in a few generations they would come into the life of all, rich and poor – by something that set him apart among men. He himself would understand that more was expected of him than of others because he had greater possessions. The Irish race would have become a chosen race, one of the pillars of the world. (Essays and Introductions 210) In the context of Ireland’s early twentieth century social upheaval, Yeats supposed that the Irish self may be uncertain and inactive, but will know how to take control of social action through art (Balinisteanu 52). As Richard Kearney suggests, Yeats takes part in a broader Irish tradition of inspiring political action via myth. For example, the Celtic myth of the Rose — ‘emblem of Ireland’s eternally self-renewing Spirit’ (Kearney in Balinisteanu 52) — gave impetus to social change by joining with the political action of Easter 1916 in a ‘synchronic aesthetic experience’ (Balinisteanu 52). Such synchronicity is exemplified as one of the 1916 leaders, Joseph Plunkett, wrote a poem entitled ‘The Black Rose Shall be Red at Least’, in which he reworked an earlier lyric that had itself been inspired by wandering poets, who envisaged Ireland ‘as a goddess manifested in a Rose symbol’ (Kearney in Balinisteanu 52-3). After 1916, Yeats would perpetuate the symbolism in his poem ‘The Rose Tree’, where it is suggested that ‘Maybe a breath of politic words / Has withered our Rose Tree’, but in the end there is the realisation of necessary action: ‘There’s nothing but our own red blood / Can make a right Rose Tree’ (Collected Poems 206). In the end it is blood sacrifice that will give life force to Ireland as the ‘repertoire of nationalist symbols’ enables the ‘joining of narrative subject and subject of action’ so the ‘social subject may carry out the action of myth as social action’ (Balinisteanu 53). Yeats would lament in ‘Poetry and Tradition’ (1907) the passing of ‘Ireland’s great moment’, as conviction had been surpassed by ‘[i]mmediate victory’ and ‘immediate utility’ (Essays and Intro. 260). In his latter works though, he would propose that his ‘boyish plan’ (Variorum Plays 577) of inspiring heroism through the legends of Cuchulain, and his part in popularising these, had succeeded after all (Pethica 142). In ‘The Statues’, for example, the Easter Uprising leader Pearse summons Cuchulain to his side, which spurred the nationalist fighters into ‘historical agency’ (142). This Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 63 | P a g e retrospective judgment of inspiring political action needs some clarification. Peter Kuch reminds us that Yeats was ‘silent’ for four years after the Easter Rising, and although there were a number of contributing factors for this, such as a tumultuous time in his private life, there were political and aesthetic complexities he needed to work through (‘We Writers Are Not Politicians’ 62-2; see also ‘For Poetry Makes Nothing Happen’ 202). In these years Yeats reconstituted himself politically and also allowed time for the Easter Rising ‘to acquire its own myths’ (‘We Writers’ 62, 66). His politics shifted from a form of cultural nationalism to a more ‘confrontational politico-cultural nationalism’, and this subsequent brand of nationalism ‘found room for the violence’ (68). ‘Between the executions of the 1916 revolutionaries and October 1920’, Kuch notes, violent acts seems to provoke yet more violence, but for Yeats Ireland was enacting an ‘old historical nationalism’ and thus he was able to subsume the violence into the supernatural (68). As Kuch argues, in short Yeats expunged from the violence ‘its temporal specificity, its historical occasion’ and instead it became ‘part of a dialogue of self and soul, of the socio-cultural with the daemonic’ (68). As Edward Said suggests, in the aftermath of the dramatic actions of the Easter 1916 uprising, Yeats saw ‘the breaking of a cycle of endless, perhaps meaningless recurrence, as symbolised by the apparently limitless travails of Cuchulain, and an affirmation of the poet’s ability to conjure ‘a sense of the eternal and of death into consciousness’ as the true rebellion (300-1). If Yeats sought to inspire, then Joyce’s version of nationalism focuses on representing the multiple realities of Irish history and politics. ‘The problem of my race’, Joyce wrote, ‘is so complicated that one needs to make use of all means of an elastic art to delineate it’ (in Duffy 14). Importantly for Joyce, the ‘problem’ includes the uglier side of that reality: the Irish people’s complicity, hypocrisy and ‘selective’ memory, along with the physical violence metered on the Irish and, I suggest, the embodied collective memory of this violence. Following the development of Joycean scholarship since the 1980s (for example, MacCabe, Castle, Fairhall, Spoo, Howes and Attridge, Gibson, Duffy, Cheng, Nolan) research has repeatedly demonstrated that Joyce’s writing is shaped by politics, critiques political ideologies, and argues ideology. As Vincent Cheng argues, to regard Joyce as just ‘another icon in the Great Tradition of English Literature’, and disregard the specific ‘historical contexts and ideological contents’, is to act as if there were no difference between ‘an Irish-Catholic writer from Dublin . . . and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 64 | P a g e say, Lord Tennyson or Matthew Arnold’ (2). The irony is Joyce spent much of his life debunking ‘history’ and institutional authorities (2-3). Importantly, and reflecting the Pragmatist theoretical framework established in the introductory chapter, Joyce also represents how ideologies perform, thus exhibiting the interconnectedness of culture and society with the past. His representations, however, are subversive. As Seamus Deane emphasises: ‘Subversion is part of the Joycean enterprise . . . There is nothing of political or social significance which Joyce does not undermine and restructure’ (‘Joyce the Irishman’ 44). Ireland is the only Western European country that has had ‘both an early and a late colonial experience’, and as such, Deane argues, in the first three decades of the twentieth century its literature attempts to ‘overcome and replace the colonial experience’ with something ‘native’. This ultimately ended in failure as it deployed the very terms it needed to abolish (Deane ‘Introduction’ 2-3). Cheng sees Joyce’s work as a historical representation of the various social discourses of both hegemony and resistance (9). He also suggests that Joyce’s works form both an analysis and critique of the ideological discourses and the ‘resultant colonial pathologies’ (9). Rather than ‘homogenis[ing] difference’, by erasing rather than living through oppositions (Deane ‘Introduction’ 4), Joyce demonstrates how both Ireland and its colonisers expunge any complications to their respective narratives. He is not just concerned with power in terms of a ‘cause’ external to the Irish but also interrogates the ability of the Irish to exhibit agency (Marsden in Balinisteanu 212). The Famine, History and Collective Memory The most influential early political critique of the Famine was the work of journalist John Mitchel (Jail Journal 1854; Last Conquest of Ireland 1861; History of Ireland From the Treaty of Limerick to the Present Time 1868). Mitchel argues that the Great Famine was ‘starvation in the midst of plenty’ and a deliberate policy of genocide that would solve the British Government’s problem of Irish ‘population surplus’ as identified in the 1843 Devon Commission (Davis ‘The Historiography of the Irish Famine’ 17). Whilst this is not generally a thesis followed in more recent Irish historiography, it generally is agreed that the catastrophic nature of the Famine was due to the lack of political will from the British Government (Davis 17-8; Nolan 98). With Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 65 | P a g e Cecil Woodham-Smith’s The Great Hunger (1962) as the anomaly, henceforth there was a long silence about the Famine and its location in the colonial / imperial framework. Since the 1980s The Great Famine, or An Gorta Mór (The Great Hunger), has been interpreted as evidence of the evils of British colonisation: the doctrine of laissez faire capitalism; the acceptance of Malthus’s population thesis; and the judgment of providentialism (for example see also Davis; Gray Famine, Land and Politics: British Governmental Irish Relief, 1845-50 1999; Nally Human Encumbrances: Political Violence and the Great Famine 2011). David Nally explores the contradictions between the ideology of progress and improvement and the realities of devastating loss caused by the Famine. Rather than the genocide cited by Mitchel, for Nally there was ‘famineogenic behaviour’ — ‘behaviour that aids and abets famine’ (Nally 20) — that generated ‘mass vulnerability’ (65). The British Government was intent on protecting the propertied classes, and social, economic and agrarian reform was the long-term goal (Davis 18-9). Colonisation therefore is not only ‘the seizure, occupation and reconstitution of native domestic space’, but ‘the repertoire of cultural images that depict indigenous life as degenerate’, which justifies the ‘remedial interventions’ in the name of ‘improvement’ (Nally 65). As Peter Gray points out, the doctrine of Christian Providentialism meant that the Irish Famine was also seen as the opportunity for the Irish to develop a taste for ‘higher kinds of foods’ and ‘better food habits’ (in Davis 19; Gray ‘Charles Trevelyan’ 85). The reality of the Great Famine though was that it caused the deaths of one million, with two and a half million emigrating within ten years of the Famine, the elimination of approximately 300,000 family farms and the near disappearance of cottiers (plots of less than an acre), and the economic demise and impoverishment of innumerable towns (Crowley, Smyth and Murphy xiv). It was ‘Ireland’s defining national tragedy’; in this debilitated state it was unable to resist Empire (Roos 160-1; Lowe-Evans 16). In the post-Famine decades, however, the conservative foundations of Irish bourgeois nationalism enabled the imperial re-imaging of colonisation, as it focused on selecting a more amenable, canonised past for its political and social project of building a modern Irish state (Lloyd ‘Indigent Sublime’ 173). This bourgeois nationalism, after all, was mobilised by ‘urban petty capitalists’ and ‘strong farmers’, whose emergent social and economic status was in large part due to enforced economic rationalising and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 66 | P a g e consolidation of landholdings. The memory of the Famine (starvation, eviction, emigration) was not to be ‘summoned up’ as nationalists needed to subdue these more ‘Subaltern formations’ (173, 175). While the Famine ‘fossilized’ the peasantry, the revivalists’ nationalism relied on an idealisation of the peasantry and required an unbroken indigenous history that could replace the one imposed by colonisation (Cusack ‘Nationalism and The Playboy of the Western World’ 136-7; also Deane ‘Introduction’ Nationalism, Colonialism and Literature 9). W. B. Yeats made the point that ‘passive suffering is not a theme for tragedy’ (in Sullivan 5). What does invite empathy and support though ‘is anything that permits one to see the other as an agent’ (John Fraser in Sullivan 5), and thus Ó Gráda notes that popular accounts of the Famine move away from passive suffering to instead seek those who acted (in Sullivan 5; Ó Gráda Ireland: A New Economic History 204). Whilst Mitchel’s Irish history made ‘official’ the popular belief that the Famine was a deliberate act of genocide, this same history could not be canonised in its entirety as Mitchel unflinchingly represents an oppressed and defeated people on the verge of animality. As Mitchell states: There is no need to recount how the assistant barristers and sheriffs, aided by the police, tore down the roof-tress and ploughed up the hearths of village after village – how the quarter-acre clause laid waste the parishes, how the farmers and their wives and little ones in wild dismay, trooped along the highways – how in some hamlets by the seaside, most of the inhabitants being already dead, an adventurous traveller would come upon some family eating a famished ass – how maniac mothers stowed away their dead children to be devoured at midnight – how Mr. Darcy of Clifden, describes a humane gentleman going to the door of a house; ‘and when he threw the crackers to the children (for he was afraid to enter), the mother attempted to take them from them’ – how husband and wife fought like wolves for the last morsel of food in the house; how families, when all was eaten and no hope left, took their last look at the sun, built up their cottage doors, that none might see them die nor hear their groans, and were found weeks afterwards, skeletons on their own hearths. (in Morash ‘Making Memories’ 48) Morash makes the point that Mitchel’s Irish history is frozen, disconnected, from the full narrative of the Irish Famine (‘Making Memories’ 42). Mitchel’s history of Ireland Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 67 | P a g e stops at the point at which he leaves as a prisoner and impressions of the past become more vivid while he is a ‘solitary captive’ in a ‘lonely cell’: ‘there is more Irish history, too, this month’ he reflects in his journal, ‘if I could but get at it’ (Mitchel in Morash 42). The effect of this narrative suspension though is that while it has the sense of authenticity validated by Mitchel’s personal experience, thus challenging the definitiveness of British ‘history’, there is no ‘pastness’ of the Famine in his texts. Instead, for Mitchel the Famine is an ongoing experience inscribing it in the present of its readers (Mitchel in Morash 42). More than this, however, the popularity of Mitchel’s work meant that this experience became an imagined collective experience shared by subsequent generations. Joyce’s work is ‘pervasively disturbed by the presence of the famine’. It is often an unnamed horror in Ulysses, and Whelan suggests that its exclusion often makes its absence felt (Whelan ‘Memories of “The Dead”’ 67). Joyce is critical about the silence surrounding ‘reality’ and real history, and equally critical when collective memories are conjured that falsify, prune or romanticise the past. ‘Collective memory’ is a type of ‘social remembering’. It is distinct from ‘public memory’, or what Barbara Misztal terms ‘presentist’ approaches to memory, that focus on the institutionalization of ‘remembrance’ within national, public ritual and educational systems (see for example Hobsbawn and Ranger Invention of Tradition; Misztal 56-60). As operationalised here, collective memory is more dynamic as the focus is on ‘the active production and mediation of temporal meanings of the past’ (Misztal 67). It is characterised by negotiation, and ‘questions the assertion that the maintenance of hegemonic control by dominant social groups is the sole factor responsible for memory content’ (68). While the Chapter’s focus is on colonial power, Joyce’s various evocations of memory seems to locate memory in what Susannah Radstone identifies as ‘the space between an imposed ideology and the possibility of an alternative way of understanding experience’: a liminal space (‘Working With Memory’ 18; also see Olick and Levy ‘Collective Memory and Cultural Constraint’ 922; Schudson ‘Lives, Laws and Language’ 4; and Kammen ‘Some Patterns and Meanings of Memory’ 340). It is important to acknowledge that Joyce’s fiction, in tandem with his essays, is a pronounced divergence from the folk memories, myths and legends which traditionally relied on oral performance. Oral traditions and folk memories rely on a familiar ‘rhythm’ if they have ‘any chance of their being repeated by successive generations’. In Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 68 | P a g e contrast to the revivalists’ continuation of the familiar, I suggest Joyce’s succession of essays and fiction generates what Paul Connerton calls ‘cultural innovation’ which allows for the detection of incoherence, inconsistency and contradictions (How Societies Remember 76). Interestingly, this notion of ‘cultural innovation’ seems to reflect Sinfield’s idea of the ‘faultlines’ as a space where dissidence is given the opportunity to emerge in light of the exposition of contradiction (Sinfield 35-49). Any exploration of collective memory inevitably begins with Maurice Halbwachs. Ulin mentions him in an endnote, to add a brief theoretical context to the implementation to The Irish Folklore Association (60), but the rationale here is to understand more fully how group memory is ‘generated, maintained and reproduced’ (Misztal 1) through Joyce’s work, and the significance and negotiation of images, experiences and emotions that ensue. Halbwachs transitioned from being a student of Henri Bergson to the protégé of Emile Durkheim in the early 1920s, and thus represents a shift in how memory was being considered in those interwar years. Halbwachs initiates the conceptualisation of collective memory as he moved from the predominant early twentieth century preoccupation with memory explored in the fields of philosophy and psychology — notably Freud, Bergson and Proust — and considered memory via the disciplines of sociology and anthropology (Misztal 4; Rossington 134-5). Exploring how present conditions and issues determine what aspects of the past societies remember, and continuing Durkheim’s belief that societies need to have a sense of continuity with the past, Halbwachs asserted that social groups develop particular memories to highlight their unique identity. Reflecting Durkheim’s (and Marcel Mauss’s) emphasis of time as a ‘social construct’ and not ‘intuitive’ (Douglas in Rossington 135), Halbwachs argues that while the individual brings recollections to mind, this is achieved ‘by relying on the frameworks of social memory’ (On Collective Memory 182). Importantly, Halbwachs also asserts the Durkheimian argument that a collective imagined past is necessary for the unity of a society and the reconstruction of social solidarity. ‘[S]ociety can live only if there is sufficient unity of outlooks among the individuals and groups comprising it’, Halbwachs contends, and as such societies tend to erase those memories ‘that might separate individuals’ or ‘distance groups from each other’ (On Collective Memory 182-3). Not surprisingly Halbwachs’s work drew lively debate from within the discipline he left. French psychologist and psychiatrist Charles Blondel (1926), for example, identified his neglect of the ‘glimmer of sensory Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 69 | P a g e intuition’, and argued that an individual’s construction of the past is based on ‘more than commonly shared materials’ (in Olick et al. eds. The Collective Memory Reader 150; also see Coser ‘Introduction’ 6, 10). This is not to suggest that Halbwachs thought there was ‘one’ collective memory for any given society, as he allows for a diversity of experiences and thus a multiplicity of collective memories: While the collective memory endures and draws strength from its base in a coherent body of people, it is individuals as group members who remember. While these remembrances are mutually supportive of each other and common to all, individual members still vary in the intensity with which they experience them. I would readily acknowledge that each memory is a viewpoint on the collective memory, that this viewpoint changes as my position changes, that this position itself changes as my relationships to other milieus change. Therefore, it is not surprising that everyone does not draw on the same part of this common instrument. In accounting for that diversity, however, it is always necessary to revert to a combination of influences that are social in nature. (Halbwachs The Collective Memory 48) Collective memory is ‘fostered and shared by family, religion, class, the media and other sources of the creation of group identities’, and although the individual is inseparable from the ‘collective’ (Rossington 134), there are a multiplicity of unique recollections. While Chapter Five of this thesis will consider Henri Bergson’s more psychological considerations of memory, it will remain an important part of my argument that individual memories in Joyce’s work, in particular Molly and Leopold Bloom’s, become real mainly due to these characters’ continual interrogation and negotiation of ‘ideological nets’ (Marsden in Balinisteanu 212). Contrary to more psychoanalytical Joycean scholarship, the diversity and different intensities of individual memories in Ulysses will largely be explored via the individual’s unique combination of collective experiences and the ability for parallax. Halbwachs also makes an interesting distinction between history and memory that is valuable for differentiating official English accounts of the past (‘history’), and Irish folklore (‘memory’). General history commences for Halbwachs only when social memory (or collective memory) fades: ‘So long as a remembrance continues to exist, it Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 70 | P a g e is useless to set it down in writing or otherwise fix it in memory’ (The Collective Memory 78). One might suggest then, that the social memory of the Famine in Joyce’s time was fading as few who had experienced the Famine firsthand were alive. The pervasive presence of the Famine in Joyce’s works interrogates the replacement, definitive history of the crisis, and the pervasive universal memory. Encompassing ideas reflective of Pragmatism’s rejection of periodization, Halbwachs rejects history’s arrogance that ‘the interplay of interest, general orientations, modes of studying men and events, traditions, and perspectives on the future’ transform from one period to the next (The Collective Memory 80). Like the Pragmatists writing at this time (Dewey Human Nature and Conduct 1922; Williams Pragmatism 1907), Halbwachs saw historical periods and ‘generations’ as threads of a fabric. Rather than two generations being like ‘two tree stumps that touch at their extremities but do not form one plant because they are not otherwise connected’, society is rather like ‘a thread that is made from a series of animal or vegetable fibres intertwined at regular intervals’ or ‘the cloth made from weaving these threads together’, the sections of which ‘correspond to the end of a motif or a design’ (The Collective Memory 80). As Allan Megill argues, ‘[i]t is not a question of a simple opposition: history vs memory’ (193). Instead ‘it is a matter of both writing and living in a situation in which some certainty can be achieved, but . . . finally, a background of uncertainty persists’ (193). While Megill comments on ‘our time’ his argument reflects Joyce’s messy grappling with both history and memory. When Haines states in the first episode of Ulysses that ‘history is to blame’ (U 1: 649), and Stephen struggles throughout the novel with his ‘nightmare of history’ (2: 377), Joyce refers to history in its numerous, messy manifestations: English versions of colonisation (the ‘civilising mission’ and economic rationalisation); Irish romanticised ‘history’; Irish complicity; but also the burden of trauma and collective memory. Drawing on Megill we might suggest that Joyce was concerned with the ‘arrogance of both history and memory’. That is, on the one hand he rejected the ‘the arrogance of definitiveness’ and on the other, ‘the arrogance of authenticity’ (Megill 196-7). In so doing, I suggest, he permeates the facade of ‘rational obligation’ between imperial power and colonial subjects. He also gestures to the inadequacy and inability of invocations to ancient mythology and imagined collective experience to enact real political change; real change, that is, outside the paradigm of violence and patriarchal possession. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 71 | P a g e Joyce and the Great Famine In Heathcliff and the Great Hunger (1995), Terry Eagleton argues that this silence surrounding the Famine also extended to literature. He asks ‘Where is the Famine in the literature of the Revival? Where is it in Joyce?’ Eagleton claims that when it comes to the work of the revival there is a ‘politics of form’, but ‘much of that writing is programmatically non-representational, and thus no fit medium for historical realism’ (13). If the Famine stirred some minor literature to ‘angry rhetoric’, Eagleton proposes, it seems to have traumatised the canonical literature into ‘muteness’ (13). Eagleton’s argument has now been countered by many scholars (for example Nolan, Morash, Ulin, Whelan, Roos, Melissa Fegan, Miriam O’Kane Mara) and this has opened up the ancillary commentaries surrounding the type of representation ‘the canon’ gave the Famine. I would like to highlight though that Eagleton was never as hard on Joyce as he was on other aesthetes and the revivalists. Though he objects to Joyce’s seeming recuperation of realism, which he argues becomes merely the redemption of nature for art’s sake and thus becomes ‘obtrusively artificial’, he yields that Joyce is not in ‘full flight from nature’ like Wilde, Moore and Yeats (13). Eagleton makes a number of points throughout his influential work that make his initial criticisms of apolitical art reflective of this thesis’s framing of Joyce’s Modernism as a liminal space. Joyce represents the very ambiguity that was present in turn of the century Ireland, and Eagleton contends that like the travesty of Auschwitz, ‘there would seem something trivialising or dangerously familiarizing about the very act of representation itself’ (13). We should hence attend to Joyce’s form, such as juxtaposition, allusions, symbolism, iconography, and characterisation, and not just the utterances of ‘famine’, such as the Citizen’s memory of the Black ’47. While Joyce’s anti-political aesthetics ‘is a politics all in itself’, Eagleton importantly adds that this modernist non-political politics appears ‘sharper’ in a society which lacks a mainstream liberal tradition’ (Heathcliff and the Great Hunger 235). While ‘European modernism is apolitical’, Irish writers might seem less political due to the ‘boisterous presence of [Irish] politics’ (299). In contrast to the Presbyterian Ulster, Catholic Ireland, ‘with the sea-change from Enlightenment republicanism to romantic nationalism’, did not have the ‘language of individual liberty’ but instead embraced the discourse of ‘collective emancipation’ (235). The Romantic nationalism of Ireland Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 72 | P a g e replaced the universalism of human rights with particularism, but when the revolution arrives, Eagleton asserts, its ontology is constrained by ‘God and nation’ (235). Taking Eagleton’s argument further, we can suggest that rather than Joyce representing turn of the century Irish nationalist politics, he represents what happens ‘after the revolution’. As W. J. McCormack points out, Ulysses is an historical novel, and so the Irish readership would have been aware of the interim years between 1904, when the novel was set, and the Ireland of 1922, when it was published (in Innes The Cambridge Introduction to Postcolonial Literature in English 201). The ‘Cyclops’ episode in particular, C. L. Innes notes, highlights the differences between ‘then and now’, and the ‘romantic and racially based nationalism espoused by the Citizen is brought into question’ (202): The cultural and political world represented in 1904 by ‘Citizen’ Michael Cusack, the Gaelic League, and the Gaelic Athletic Association had now been overlaid by the fearful bloodshed of World War I, the Easter Rising and subsequent executions, the elections that brought Sinn Fein to power in Ireland, the declaration of Irish independence, and the fierce fighting between Irish Republicans and the British Black and Tans. (Innes 202) Joyce thus arouses reflection: What happens to the universal freedoms and a people when the Church and its sanitised and canonised versions of the past provide the scaffold around which the new Irish state is to be built? Joyce represents England’s laissez-faire and providentialist Famine response, but also denotes other confronting realities such as the Irish people’s complicity in perpetuating their oppression and the paralysing effects of folk memory. In many ways Joyce is as radical as Mitchel because he leaves in the ugliness of what people are reduced to. This type of past (known but not regaled) will not do for a modern state’s history, and Irish writers drew upon Mitchel selectively. Louis J. Walsh, for example, (whom Joyce debated at university about Mangan’s status as a nationalist poet) appropriated aspects of Mitchel for his 1934 novel, The Next Time (Morash ‘Making Memories’ 46). Walsh’s hero asks: ‘Wouldn’t the greatest massacres in battle or even deaths at the stake have been pleasant compared with that slow torture [of famine]!’ As Morash states, this selective appropriation of Mitchel is important for Walsh’s nationalist cause as it allows ‘victims’ of the Famine to be re-imagined as military dead and part of the nationalist cause (46). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 73 | P a g e Joyce doesn’t romanticise the Famine and make martyrs of victims. Instead he presents colonial oppression and violence, a theme set down in his 1907 essay ‘Ireland, Island of Saints and Sages’. Joyce’s treacherous move in this essay is to also present a ‘silent people’ (‘Saints and Sages’ CW 165) complicit in their subjugation. He draws into comparison the two visits made by Queen Victoria to Ireland; the first in 1849 and then the 1900 visit, when Joyce was 18. Joyce described the mid-nineteenth century visit in intriguing terms. The Irish, he offers, were ‘antipathetic to the queen’; they ‘had not completely forgotten their fidelity to the unfortunate Stuarts, nor the name of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, nor the legendary fugitive, Bonnie Prince Charlie’ (164). Joyce represents this antipathy though in seemingly incongruous ways. He remarks that the Irish had a ‘wicked idea’ of amusing themselves at the expense of the Queen’s consort by ‘greeting him exuberantly with a cabbage stalk just at the moment when he set foot on Irish soil’ (164). Though Joyce also reports that the Irish ‘responded in a lively way’ to the Queen’s disparaging comments about the Irish people, there is a sense that the Irish actions were ‘little’ (164). Fifty years later when the Queen visited Ireland again, Joyce reflects that ‘the old Queen of England entered the Irish capital in the midst of a silent people’ (165; emphasis added). In this essay Joyce writes his most scathing indictment of Imperial oppression and England’s inaction during the Great Famine, but pointedly Joyce does not represent a desperate and angry Irish people. It is worth noting this section of the essay at length for although Joyce’s derision of imperial oppression is often cited (for example, by Nolan), this following section which signals Joyce’s awareness of Irish muteness is rarely considered in tandem: Along the way were arrayed the little English soldiers . . . and behind this barrier stood the crowd of citizens. In the decorated balconies were the officials and their wives, the unionist employees and their wives, the tourists and their wives. When the precession appeared, the people in the balconies began to shout greetings and wave their handkerchiefs. The Queen’s carriage passed, carefully protected on all sides by the impressive body of guards with bared sabres, and within was seen a tiny lady, almost a dwarf, tossed and jolted by the movement of the carriage, dressed in mourning, and wearing horn-rimmed glasses on a livid empty face . . . She bowed to left and right, with a vague and mechanical movement. The English soldiers stood respectfully at attention while their patroness passed, and behind them, the crowd of citizens looked at the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 74 | P a g e ostentatious procession and the pathetic central figure with curious eyes and almost with pity; and when the carriage passed they followed it with ambiguous glances. This time there were no bombs or cabbage stalks, but the old Queen of England entered the Irish capital in the midst of a silent people. (165) Compared to the meek and silent reception of 1900, the ‘wickedness’ of the cabbage wielding incident in 1849 was an out-and-out ‘bomb’. The ‘crowd’ aren’t looking at the ‘ostentatious’ procession from their balconies (from where the officials, unionists and tourists view the procession), but from behind the barrier of the English soldiers. But, despite the literal and figurative height of the Anglo-Irish in this reported scene and the strength of the ‘body of the guards with bared sabres’, the Queen is ‘tiny’, a ‘dwarf’, ‘empty’, ‘tossed and jolted’, ‘mechanical’ and ‘pathetic’. Instead of contempt for their current conditions and the poor English response to the Famine, the crowd ‘almost’ pities the melancholy old widow. Joyce’s ‘almost’ is important, however, for stronger than a sense of pity, the Queen’s physical, diminutive presence highlights to the Irish their complicity in their own suppression. The procession is humiliating for here the Irish bear witness to the impoverishment of the power by which they are still subjugated. Ulysses productively subjects the operations of power to scrutiny. According to Andrew Gibson, the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode is concerned with the ‘micropolitical formation’, signified by the episode’s ‘brackets’ of ‘[Fr.] Conmee at one end and the Viceroy at the other’ (Joyce’s Revenge 94); the microstructure replicating the macro level powers of the Catholic Church and the British colonial presence. Gibson argues that Joyce’s fragmented narrative technique highlights the ‘interfold[ing]’ of Dubliners’ lives, demonstrating a ‘circulation or permutation of repetitive elements’ and the resultant ‘false community’ who are complicit in their own condition (94). Gibson also suggests though that Dubliners in this episode exhibit non-compliance. While the episode exhibits what Irish republican and socialist leader James Connolly saw as the profound subjugation of the Irish — whereby the end of the colonial rule would still leave the Irish subjected to ‘the whole array of . . . institutions she has planted’ (in Gibson 96) — the episode still ‘flickers with resistance to the political and cultural authority of the colonial power’ (97). In some sense it is between the poles of resistance and complicity that the rest of Ulysses will ruminate, with Stephen, for example, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 75 | P a g e articulating his concern for this oscillation between ‘two imperial masters’ (Gibson 99): ‘Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I’ (10: 824). Although the response to the viceregal cavalcade of ‘Wandering Rocks’ is often in a ‘mixed and muted mode’, it is worth reiterating that Dubliners at the turn of the century would have been on their guard should any ‘public expression of political animus’ be grounds for arrest (Gibson 100-1). Joyce, however, had no such reasons for holding back. Little Patrick Dignam’s collar, for example, ‘sprang up’ in an ‘obscene or at least dismissive gesture’ (U 10: 1268; Gibson 101), at the same time as he ‘salutes’ the ‘gent with a topper’ (10: 1266). While John Wyse Nolan quotes ‘elegantly’ from the Merchant of Venice (10: 980), his eyes will remain ‘cool’ and ‘unfriendly’ (10: 1036), and he will ‘[smile] with unseen coldness towards the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland’ (10: 1212-3). Gibson suggests that while Simon Dedalus ‘stood still in midstreet and brought his hat low’ (10: 1200-1), his hat may have just prevented his penis ‘hanging out in fealty’ (Gibson 101). Parnell’s brother, John Howard Parnell, maintains his fixed gaze at the chessboard, while the ‘eager guests’ cast a shadow over his game (U 10: 1225-6). Of the figures that cast the shadow, Mulligan looks out the window ‘gaily’, whilst the Englishman Haines ‘gravely’ gazes at the sight. Although he supposes earlier that ‘history is to blame’, here Haines articulates the indirect connection between ‘history’ and Irish passivity: Their ‘moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of retribution’ (10: 1083-4). When considered alongside his description of the Queen’s visit in the ‘Saints and Sages’ essay, ‘Wandering Rocks’, written some ten years later, seemingly presents less passive Dubliners. I argue, however, that their actions highlight the diminutive and ineffective ways in which the Irish expressed ‘moral ideas’, ‘destiny’, and ‘retribution’. The ‘Cyclops’ episode presents a Dubliner who is far from guarded about his political stance. Like a number of turn of the century writers, for example Conyngham, Guinan, Walsh, and Sheehan (Morash ‘Making Memories’ 46-8), Joyce echoes the rhetoric of Mitchel’s history of the Famine in his prose and in the character of the Citizen. Joyce engages in what Patrick Sullivan calls ‘oppression history’, as the Citizen’s accounts of the Famine (death and migration) become subsumed into the larger ‘oppression, compensation, contributio n’ cycle (2): Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 76 | P a g e We’ll put force against force, says the citizen. We have our greater Ireland beyond the sea. They were driven out of house and home in the black ’47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were laid low by the batteringram and the Times rubbed its hands and told the whitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as redskins in America. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. But the Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full of crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay, they drove out the peasants in hordes. Twenty thousand of them died in the coffinships. But those that came to the land of the free remember the land of bondage. And they will come again and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan. (U 12: 1364-1375) Morash demonstrates that certain details of this oft quoted section of ‘Cyclops’ are paraphrases of well-known passages of Mitchel’s history: ‘the “Times rubbing its hands”, the “grand Turk” sending charity, and the mention of Rio de Janeiro’ are all from Mitchel (Morash 45-6). Nolan’s survey of the critical history of the ‘Cyclops’ episode draws attention to the work of Matthew Hodgart (James Joyce: A Student Guide 1978), who argues that ‘the version of history given by the Citizen is hardly at all exaggerated from that favoured by the IRA’, and ‘and only a little more from that taught in some Irish schools’ (in Nolan 98). Despite the reading of the Citizen as belligerent and ultranationalist (Fargnoli and Gillespie 40), Nolan argues that the straightforward charges of the Citizen’s ‘lying, ignorance or triviality’ need to be considered as representing nationalist memories of the disaster: some million Irish did starve to death in the disaster, and there is a general agreement that the English authorities did mismanage the crisis (98). This indictment of the complicity of the British Government is also heard in Joyce’s ‘Saints and Sages’. While the Irish revivalists were intent on recreating a heroic Irish history ‘cleansed of meanness, squalor, and vulgarity’, ‘Saints and Sages’ and Ulysses presents the reality of hunger, malnutrition and vulnerability, counter-offering the Revivalist heroism with ‘the anti-heroic, the dirty, trivial, and obscene’ (Gibson 113). As Joyce states in his essay: The English now disparage the Irish because they are Catholic, poor and ignorant; however, it will not be so easy to justify such disparagement of some people. Ireland is poor because English laws ruined the country’s industries, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 77 | P a g e especially the wool industry, because the neglect of English governments in the years of the potato famine allowed the best of the population to die from hunger. (CW 167) As Ian Miller and others have noted, while England attempted to apply food reform in the post-Famine era it tended to be in areas of agricultural education, a focus that benefitted cattle graziers who sold their cattle to the English markets (2): ‘English bankers seized control of abandoned pockets of Irish land, turning agricultural fields to cow pastures’, so that by 1880 ‘Ireland had been virtually transformed into a giant cattle pasture’. Furthermore, a decade later, ‘over 65 percent of Ireland’s meat production was being shipped to England’ (Rifkin in Regan ‘Bloom’s Vegetarian Impulses’ 471-2). Paradoxically, nutritious foodstuffs such as eggs, butter, and meat were exported out of Ireland, whilst less nutritious, cheaper food was being imported (Miller 2). In addition to the Citizen’s indictment, Bloom also identifies the continuing use of Ireland for the benefit of the England. On the way to Paddy Dignam’s funeral he notices sheep and cows out of his carriage window, and thinks of the ‘[d]ead meat trade’: ‘Tomorrow is killing day . . . For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for old England. They buy up all the juicy ones’ (U 6: 392-6). In the ‘Eumaeus’ episode, Skin the Goat has an ‘axe to grind’ bemoaning that despite all the natural resources — coal, pork, butter and eggs — ‘all the riches are drained out of it by England levying taxes on the poor people . . . and [England] gobbling up the best meat in the market’ (16: 985-93). In addition to Joyce’s explicit and implicit comments about the English administration of the Famine, he also parodies his peers and their reimagining of ancient idealism, and their representation of Irish hospitality. Joyce’s neo-Celtic allusions highlight discrepancy between the ridiculousness of the ‘pseudo-histories’ (Tymoczko 35) of the Anglo-Irish, Revivalist historiographies and the ‘actual’ (Gibson 107, 110). As Gibson points out, Standish O’Grady’s two volume History of Ireland (1878-80) is central to turn of the century Irish historiography, and Joyce’s awareness of its importance on Irish culture shouldn’t be underestimated (108). O’Grady, along with Yeats and Lady Gregory, who sustained O’Grady’s mode of ‘historical imagination’, believed that the ‘gigantic conceptions of heroism and strength . . . with which the forefront of Irish history is thronged, prove the great future of this race and land’ (in Gibson 108). Irish history ‘requires and creates heroic forms’, O’Grady argued, and ‘gigantism’ is Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 78 | P a g e authentically Irish (110). The ‘ancient idealism’ of Revivalist art needed to reimagine folk culture as both ‘ideological and artistic’, correcting previous misconstructions of Irish national character and create new images of the Irish race that eliminated stereotypes from future Irish art (Nolan 25). Early in the ‘Cyclops’ episode the narrator gives a survey of the Dublin markets which highlights the discrepancy between the romantic visions of the revivalists and the Citizen’s and Joyce’s view. Reading the survey as a pastiche of the ‘style of nineteenth- century translations and revisions of Irish poetry, myth, and legend’, Joyce draws upon select phrases from James Clarence Mangan’s translations of ‘Aldfrid’s Itinerary’ [Appendix 1], and ‘lampoons the style of Revivalist works such as Lady Gregory’s Gods and Fighting Men (1904)’ (Gifford 316; also see Nolan 109-10). Mangan writes of ‘fruitful provinces’ (l. 5), ‘Abundant apparel, and food for all’ (l. 8), ‘plenty of wheat and plenty of honey’ (l. 10), with ‘many a feast’ (l. 12), ‘milk in lavish abundance’, and ‘Flourishing pastures, valor, health’ (l. 47) and ‘Sweet fruits’ (l. 51). Laden with the romanticism of the revivalists, the ‘Cyclops’ episode exhibits what Cheng sees as ‘a number of extended and hilarious send-ups of sentimentalized, nostalgia-laden, heroic Irish literature and legend in Celtic-revival mode’ (199). Drawing on Maria Tymoczko’s terminology, we might then refer to this description as a ‘pseudo market’: And there rises a shining palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen by mariners who traverse the extensive sea in barks expressly for that purpose, and thither come all herds and fatlings and firstfruits of that land for O’Connell Fitzsimon takes toll of them, a chieftain descended from chieftains. Thither the extremely large wains bring foison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of spinach, pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs, drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale, York and Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of mushrooms (U 12: 87-99) . . . the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed ewes and shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares and polled calves and longwools and storesheep . . . sowpigs and baconhogs and the various different varieties of highly distinguished swine . . . polly bullocks of immaculate Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 79 | P a g e pedigree . . . sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from pasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy vales of Thomond . . . their udders distended with superabundance of milk . . . and oblong eggs in great hundreds (12: 102-16) While numerous allusions in these extended parodies have been explored by Don Gifford (Ulysses Annotated), it is worth exploring Mangan’s translation of Aldfrid further. Prince Aldfrid, afterwards King of the Northumbrian Saxons, was amongst the Anglo-Saxon students studying in Ireland around 684 (Longfellow ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology, See Appendix 1). The original was pointedly written in Irish, well prior to the Tudor conquest of Ireland and the Plantation, and the destruction of Gaelic culture. Apart from the description of abundance of produce, what is most striking in the poem are the many references to heroism and hospitality. While domestic, masculine hospitality is explored in Chapter Three of this thesis, it is ‘diplomatic’ hospitality that is of interest to me here. While Joyce parodies Revivalist nostalgia by drawing on the poem he problematizes both of these ‘ancient’ traits of heroism and hospitality that are central to Irish ‘pseudo’ histories. ‘Aldfrid’s Itinerary’ mentions that on his visits to all the ‘provinces’ he discovers ‘God’s people rich in pity’ (l. 11); ‘fond affection, / Holy welcome and kind protection’ in Armagh (l. 19-20); ‘Hospitality, vigor, fame’ in Connaught (l. 31); and ‘virtue, vigor and hospitality’ in Meath (l. 54). The ultimate result of this extension of diplomatic hospitality to ‘outsiders’ is noted by Joyce in ‘Saints and Sages’ where he reminds the Irish, as the Citizen does, that the ‘English came to Ireland at the repeated requests of a native king’ (CW 162). While the Citizen states ‘we want no more strangers in our house’ (U 12: 1150-1), he soon accepts that it is ‘[o]ur own fault. We let them come in. We brought them in’ (12: 1156-7). In less than one year after King Henry II landed with seven hundred men, he was ‘celebrat[ing] Christmas with guests in the city of Dublin’ (CW 162). As will be suggested in Chapter Three, this first English Christmas in Dublin seems to smite the ability for Irish familial and communal celebrations well into the future. Toward the end of the ‘Cyclops’ episode Joyce continues to problematise Irish ‘hospitality’ by parodying the ancient myths of hospitality in the context of colonial occupation. A group of men enter Barney Kiernan’s pub and demand ‘Bestir thyself, sirrah! . . . Look to our steeds. And for ourselves give us of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 80 | P a g e your best for ifaith we need it’, to which the proprietor informs them that ‘my poor house has but a bare larder’ (U 12: 1600-3). The proprietor’s visage changes dramatically though when the ‘masters’ inform him that they are on the King’s business: Cry you mercy, gentlemen, he said humbly. An you be the king’s messengers (God shield His Majesty!) you shall not want for aught. The king’s friends (God bless His Majesty!) shall not go afasting in my house I warrant me . . . What you say, good masters, to a squab pigeon pastry, some collops of venison, a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog’s bacon, a boar’s head with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and flagon of old Rhenish? - Gadzooks! . . . That like me well. Pistashios! - Aha! cried he of pleasant countenance. A poor house and a bare larder, quotha! ‘Tis a merry rogue. (12:1607-20) In addition to ‘hospitality’, Aldfrid observes the heroism of the Irish. Seemingly the enjoyment of the bounty and beauty of the Isle was due to the dual measure of defence. Salutations to ‘Nobel councilors’ of Armagh (l. 16); ‘Bravest heroes, ever victorious’ of Connall (l. 34); Ulster’s ‘Hardy warriors; resolute men’ (l. 38); the ‘valor’ of Leinster (l. 47); and the ‘bravery’ in Meath, intersperse the regaling of Irish hospitality and abundance. But what constitutes an Irish hero is also up for contestation. Tymoczko observes that while Stephen, Bloom and Molly are ‘culturally alienated’ from ‘pseudo history’ they represent ‘the heritage of all the island’s inhabitants as descendants of invaders’ (35). Thus every Irish citizen, including the Citizen — that ‘broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired freelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed longheaded deepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced sinewyarmed hero’ (U 12:152-5) — is an immigrant. We might focus here on the red hair and the Viking invasions from the late eighth century. Invasion theory of Ireland, Tymoczko notes, ‘is predicated on the notion that there are no aboriginal inhabitants of the island’ (35). Joyce’s ‘Saints and Sages’ was concerned too with Irishness as a convergence of identities. For Joyce, revivalists’ efforts placed on searching for an imagined Irish past were ill placed: ‘Ancient Ireland is dead just as ancient Egypt is dead (CW 173). Joyce does not imagine a pure Irishness but rather the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 81 | P a g e mix of the invaders’ blood with old Celtic blood (161). During the nearly eight centuries that span the time of the English invasion to the early 1900s, Joyce perceives the rise of a national Irish temperament as ‘the various elements’ of the ‘old Celtic stock and the Scandinavian, Anglo-Saxon and Norman races’, mingle and renew ‘the ancient body’ (161). The ancient enemies, Joyce argues, ‘made common cause against the English aggression’ with the Norman descendants — ‘more Irish than the Irish themselves’ — together with the Scandinavian descendants, championed ‘the cause of the Irish nation against the British tyranny’ (161). O’Grady and the Anglo-Irish revivalists wanted history to move away from English culture and towards a unique indigenous Irish one. Only then can the ‘intellect of man, tired by contact with the vulgarity of actual things’, find refuge in the idealised haven of ‘legends’ that offers ‘rest and recuperation’ (O’Grady in Gibson 111; Gibson 111-2). D. P. Moran argued in 1905 though that the talk of ‘ancient glories’ and the Irish being a ‘fine people long ago’ was an errant evasion of the political reality of contemporary Ireland (Moran Philosophy of Irish Ireland 39; Gibson 111-2). This approach actually Anglicised Irish culture via its ‘outlandish stylistic oscillations’ (Gibson 112). Joyce ostensibly endows his parodies with the Anglo-Irish binary of Celtic purity / English depravity (Cheng 199) but through the gigantism of Ulysses, and specifically the Citizen, this also works to highlight the Irish realities of hypocrisy. Although both the Citizen and Joyce rail against the injustices of England during the time of the Famine, Joyce’s parallax, here via the narration, also questions collective rhetoric and reveals that the Citizen himself profited from an ‘eviction’: The narrator remarks that ‘[a]s much as his bloody life is worth to go down and address his tall talk to the assembled multitude in Shanagolden where he daren’t show his nose with the Molly Maguires looking for him to let daylight through him for grabbing the holding of an evicted tenant’ (U 12: 1312-6). The Citizen may counter the sanitised version of history by reminding us of the providentialist and liassez-faire justifications for English inaction during the Famine, and remember the dead with a toast (12: 519), but Joyce pointedly reveals that the Citizen’s own actions perpetuate the injustices he decries (Ulin 51). Ó Gráda critiques the rhetoric of contemporary poets, novelists, scholars and psychotherapists arguing that collective rhetoric — such as invocations of ‘our memory of hunger’, ‘ourselves’, ‘Irish character’, ‘Irish people’, ‘this country’, ‘a country with a Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 82 | P a g e memory’, ‘our own’, ‘our memory’ — imagine the inclusiveness of all Irish and occludes the ‘uneven and divisive character of the famine’ (Ireland’s Great Famine 229). Christine Kinealy also remarks upon the unpleasant and hidden truths of the Famine: the ships that left Ireland laden with food during the Famine were doing so largely for the financial benefit of Irish merchants and traders. The large farmers who benefitted from the availability and sale of cheap land toward the latter end of the Famine were also Irish and, sometimes, Catholic . . . Corruption, stealing, hoarding, and even cannibalism are part of the darker reality of the Famine years, and should not be forgotten in an attempt to make the Famine a simplistic morality tale about the ‘goodies’ (the Irish en masse) and the ‘baddies’ (the whole of the British people). (‘The Great Irish Famine – A Dangerous Memory’ 248; original emphasis) Garrett Deasy in the ‘Nestor’ episode exhibits the more practical dangers of not talking about the Famine. He is usually read as ‘an older version of Buck Mulligan’, an anglophile complicit in English colonisation, both ‘stingy and ignorant’ (Roos 168; Cheng 164), but he also demonstrates the importance of Famine memory and how it is subordinated to romanticised versions of history and free market doctrine. Although he claims to have survived the Famine — ‘I remember the famine in ’46’ (U 2: 269) — he is ‘unreliable and inconsistent both in recalling it and in evaluating its political significance’ (Ulin 36). Though he tries to be Cassandra, that ‘truth teller’ and ‘prophetic seer’ (Roos 171), when he attempts to prevent another possible agricultural disaster by writing a letter to the English authorities about the spread and consequences of foot and mouth disease, he is unable to articulate the urgency of the situation: May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire which is so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue. (U 2: 324-30) Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 83 | P a g e Roos argues that Deasy’s ambiguous letter repeats the mistakes of previous writers (revivalists and historians of the ilk of O’Grady) who don’t mention the Famine (170). ‘His odd letter’, Roo states, tries to embody ‘many arguably inappropriate facets of Irish Revival ideals of self-sacrifice and hospitality in the context of a scientific and agricultural letter’ (170). Ulin makes the interesting point that while Deasy mentions laissez faire capitalism he does so in an incomplete sentence, thus only implicitly referring to the extent English inaction and laissez faire doctrine were responsible for the Irish suffering (Ulin 36). Though Deasy aims not to ‘mince words’ (U 2: 331) and perceives he has made his point in ‘a nutshell’ (2: 321), he is only able to articulate fully to Stephen the way the disease will impact Ireland: ‘You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle’ (2: 338-9). In comparison, Deasy’s letter destined for the British Government is ‘hypocritically courteous’ and ‘generous to the point of comedy’, and in the end obstructs his urgent message about the disease that could lead to starvation and famine (Roos 170). Foot and mouth disease — a disease that affects pigs, sheep, goats and cattle — was a recurring disease throughout industrialised Europe, but until 1912 it had not struck Ireland. With a post-Famine reliance on cattle and beef exports, and a domestic reliance on milk and milk products, the consequences would be devastating for Ireland (171). ‘In response to outbreaks of the disease’, Roos comments, ‘whole herds of cattle were habitually slaughtered, and in addressing the problem England proposed sanctions against Ireland’s imports of cattle when and if it appeared there’ (171). Though Joyce is prophesising about the future outbreak (171), he makes Deasy’s ‘point at issue’ unclear to highlight that real and urgent concerns cannot be communicated clearly in a style befitting a ‘hospitable’, Revivalist style: Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch’s preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor’s horses at Mürzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns. (U 2: 332-7) While action is urgently needed the letter is pointedly not specific about what action is required. It isn’t until the end of the letter that a full sentence appears, however, here he Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 84 | P a g e merely reverts to platitudes. While Deasy is a teacher, what he teaches — the perpetuation of cultural hegemony and English versions of Western history (Cheng 162, 165) — is not capable of articulating any problem that may counter hegemonic power. Though Roos encourages us to see Deasy’s letter, possibly, as heroic — an ‘attempt at the salvation of Ireland from future plagues’ (172) — in the end she suggests that the letter is a failure. Deasy remembers the Famine but the rhetoric available to him isn’t amenable to a full articulation of a more critical indictment of the English, nor is it able to express the possible calamitous impact of another agricultural disaster. The Potato: Famine Memory and Political Violence As will be explored throughout the thesis, Bloom’s relationship with food is multi- dimensional. It is particularly complex when this gustatory character is considered in relation to the Famine. As well as exploring the significance of that key Famine symbol — the potato — Roos suggests that Bloom’s comparative gluttony also says something about Irish complicity and a failure to act heroically. While Roos shows Deasy’s possibility for heroism, she leads her discussion of Bloom with a list of his heroic failures and his missed opportunities to demonstrate a communal conscience. In the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode, for example, while Bloom recognises Dilly Dedalus’s starvation — ‘Underfed she looks too. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It’s after they feel it. Proof of the pudding. Undermines the constitution’ (U 8: 41-3) — he buys bread for the ‘hungry famished gull’ rather than helping her (8: 62; original emphasis; Roos 175). Furthermore, as Bloom follows Stephen in ‘Circe’ to protect him he pauses to buy unnecessary food, and this is likely the cause of him losing track of Stephen (175). Bloom ‘appears, flushed, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a sidepocket’, and soon after stops at Olhausen, the pork butcher’s, and emerges holding a parcel in each hand: ‘one containing a lukewarm pig’s crubeen, the other a cold sheep’s trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper’ (U 15: 142-3, 155-9; original emphasis). Bloom’s excessive hoarding of food, Roos suggests, reflects the initial sequence of events that lead to the Famine, where the market was flooded with rotting potatoes before they had gone completely bad (175). Bloom indicates then the difficulty of both eating to excess and acting heroically (175). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 85 | P a g e Roos and Ulin’s reading of Bloom’s potato offers some insight into the complexity of Famine memory. As Roos traces the role of the potato in ‘Circe’ we are reminded that in Homer’s Odyssey Hermes gives Odysseus a ‘moly’ (a charm) to carry to prevent the Circean loss of memory (174). Like Odysseus’s ‘holy moly’ Bloom carries a potato in his pocket, but Roos maintains he doesn’t recognise its significance. For Roos the potato is a powerful symbol of ‘Irish subjection’ and the ‘memory of that experience’: Through metonymic substitution, the potato is ‘England’s exploitation; Ireland’s economic culpability; and the truth behind Ireland’s seeming “docility” — women prostituted for food, infanticide and even the horrors of cannibalism, caused by the effects of starvation’ (177). Roos argues, however, that Bloom sanitises the ‘distasteful memory’ of the Famine by referring to it instead as a mere good luck charm from his mother (U 15: 1313; Roos 177). Bloom as unheroic in his denial of the potato as a Famine symbol, as it is only by remembering this history, Roos contends, that Ireland can ‘win’ in its struggles against English oppression and prevent a repetition of the Famine (177). As with the Union and ‘free trade’, however, the initial expectations of advancing Ireland’s best interests in reality proved to further Irish suppression and the Irish complicity in their own subjugation (180). As Bloom surrenders the talisman to English Zoe he forfeits his ability to remember the memories attached to it. As Roos states: ‘To become part of this practice of colonization and empire requires a kind of forgetting of the Famine, a willful ignorance of the truth of colonization’, and so when Bloom pays the prostitute Zoe with the potato ‘he unknowingly prostitutes himself’ (180). Ulin contends that Roos overstates Bloom’s ignorance of the potato’s Famine significance, as he calls the potato ‘poor mama’s panacea’ (U 15: 201-2), suggesting his mother carried the potato as protection against famine’s recurrence (Ulin 56). Ulin perceptively points out that Zoe and Bloom’s mother both have the same surname, Higgins (U 17: 536, 15: 1279), so even if he unknowingly surrenders his mother’s memory of the Famine, he cannot escape it (Ulin 56). Nevertheless, for Ulin the potato is more about ‘familial identity’ rather than participating in a collective memory (57). I contend, however, that there is still more to explore about the potato as metonymic substitution for the collective memory of the Famine. In contrast to Roos, who argues that Bloom shirks from the ugly truths of the Famine, I think that Bloom’s potato is significant for its highlighting of the illegitimacy of Ireland’s social contract with England and the imperial power’s use of violence to maintain its power. The blackened Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 86 | P a g e potato indicates pathologies of colonisation, such as the loss of an ‘Irish’ language to articulate Irish history and debate issues specific to the Irish; the internalisation of liberal economic rationalisation; and also the memory of colonial violence. The memory of the violence of the Famine, that is the British Government’s economic rationalisation of the event and their purposefully inadequate humanitarian response, is given Joyce’s treatment and reimagined in more physical and brutal terms. The brutality metered on Bloom is also significant for its linking of violence to the state and the importance for neutralising challenges to legitimacy. Bloom’s persona alters according to his possession or dispossession of the potato — from a passive state, to ‘Anglo’ advocate of Irish concerns — but either way he cannot escape the pathologies of colonial suppression. It is noteworthy that after English Zoe puts ‘the potato greedily into a pocket’ (U 15: 1316; original emphasis) she encourages Bloom to make a ‘stump speech’. While initially Bloom’s speech is in response to Zoe smoking and the evils of tobacco, Zoe is complicit in inciting Bloom to speak in the knowledge that without the potato he is now unfettered from the memory of violence and the fear of violent reassertions of imperial power. She instigates not only his tobacco speech but his fantasies of being a liberator and saviour of Ireland, and his use of discourses that the Irish have learned not to use in public forums due to a pervasive English surveillance (Gibson Joyce’s Revenge 191). Though Cheng does not ‘follow the potato’ as such, he does note that the ‘Circe’ episode allows Bloom to prove his Irishness and counter the earlier mocking of the Citizen with more than a ‘soft answer’. While the Citizen taunted Bloom as ‘a new messiah for Ireland’ (U 12: 1642), I suggest that without the potato in his possession the ‘Circe’ episode gives Bloom the psychological and therapeutic space to ‘counter and refute all the Citizen’s innuendos and accusations’ (Cheng 219). Here we can perceive an alternative to Nolan’s issue with Bloom’s unheroic behaviour. For Nolan, Bloom’s self-proclaimed rhetorical victory over the Citizen, where he tells Stephen in the cabman’s shelter that he ‘simply but effectively silenced the offender’ and thus showed that a ‘soft answer turns away wrath’ (U 16: 1080, 1085-6), hasn’t really compensated him for the Citizen’s racist hostility, nor ably proven his membership into the Irish community (Nolan 525). However, if one follows the potato the focus shifts from the ‘unheroic’ to the pathologies of colonisation, not least of which concerns language. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 87 | P a g e Bloom may challenge the English and offer a new future for Ireland, but this is done via Anglicised rhetoric as he observes ‘linguist propriety’, or what Biddy the Clap calls ‘refinement of phraseology’ (Gibson Joyce’s Revenge 191; U 15: 4443). As Gibson points out, he ‘can only promote his side’ by demonstrating a kind of ‘irreproachability’ by joining the other side linguistically (Gibson 191, 193). Whilst it is true that Bloom soon falls into his own economic rationalisations for his reformed Ireland (194), unlike Deasy who cannot begin to clearly communicate Irish concerns in an English style of rhetoric, Bloom can. The Englishness of Bloom’s speeches, advice, and the whole coronation sequence (U 15: 1353-1752) reflect the necessary use of Englishness to allay authorities of any subversion actions. Bloom (and the other Irish characters in the episode) resort to ‘English idioms, English modes of self-presentation’ because they ‘find themselves under certain sorts of pressure or scrutiny, and involved in self- justification’ (Gibson 191). Even as Bloom is regaled with ‘prolonged applause’ and paid respect by a procession of a myriad important representatives, Gibson astutely points out that the signs and symbols of English colonialism, from the ‘sidars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the cloth of estate’ are present (U 15: 1417-8; original emphasis). Also present, and closely following representatives of ‘guild and trades’ (15: 1426), are various royal officials (15: 1436-9; Gibson 194). Bloom’s more heroic persona also exhibits the pathology of internalising imperial economic rationalisation. He laments that ‘[t]he poor man starves while they are grassing their royal mountain stags of shooting peasants and phartridges in their purblind pomp of pelf and power’ (U 15: 1395-6), and alludes to Henry George’s Progress and Poverty (1879) as he states forcefully that he stands for ‘[t]hree acres and a cow for all children of nature’, and also ‘universal language and a universal brotherhood’, and no more ‘patriotism of barspongers’ (U 15: 1685-93). However, Bloom is repeatedly ‘dragged back into patterns and connections he seeks to resist’ (Gibson 194). Thus while he addresses his ‘beloved subjects’ his ‘new Bloomusalem’ with its ‘colossal edifice’ is under construction, but ‘[n]umerous houses are razed to the ground and the inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes (U 15: 1542, 1552-4). Despite his utopian idealism, Bloom’s plans for reform start to cause evictions like those of the Famine era and into the late 1800s (see for example Kinnane The Irish Famine: A Documentary History). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 88 | P a g e Bloom’s play with power is short lived though as his apparent ‘Englishness’ is no longer leverage for the potential threat which his masculinity and quasi-nationalism poses. The Irish have been characterised persistently as a ‘feminine race’, and gendered binary oppositions proved effective in establishing a ‘providential’ and patriarchal hierarchy which rationalised the dominance of the Saxon ‘race’ and the inevitability if Irish subjugation (Curtis Anglo-Saxons and Celts 61; McDonald ‘Nothing To Be Done’ 72). Lewis Perry Curtis identifies that Victorian Literature repeatedly draws on patriarchal and Darwinian discourses as they identify the Irish as ‘unstable, childish, violent, lazy, feckless, feminine, and primitive’ (121). In distancing themselves from both the collateral damage of colonisation and also the particularities of Irish society, the English deemed the Irish were closer to ‘pigs, apes, and chimpanzees’ than the Anglo-Saxon ‘race’ (121). As McDonald notes, the Irish-English distinction is structured around these gendered discursive binaries: ‘Saxon versus Celt, civilisation versus barbarism, urban versus rural, progress versus tradition, faith versus superstition, modernism versus revival’ (‘Nothing To Be Done’ 72). Joyce highlights these entrenched dualisms as Bella / Bello, parodying Queen Victoria — ‘massive whoremistress’ (U 15: 2742) — reasserts England’s patriarchal predominance and punishes, rapes, and degrades Bloom. As Bella appears in the brothel her ‘eyes rest on Bloom’ and her ‘falcon eyes glitter’ (15:2751-3). She soon becomes fixated on possessing Bloom, from her initial ‘You are mine’ (15: 2774), to a more insistent ‘Be mine. Now’ (15: 2792), and then not long after she has physically broken him and emasculated him she claims her possession: ‘you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a thing under the yoke’ (15: 2965-6). As Bello weds Bloom saying ‘With this ring I thee own’ (15: 3068), the marriage reflects contemporary perspectives on Ireland’s oppressive Union with England, a Union that was bitterly opposed (Woodham-Smith 15-6). With Ireland as the ‘feminised protesting bride’ and heiress, whose supposed guardians had been bribed, she is dragged to the altar and is subject to the Queen’s (England’s) ‘brutal rape’ (Roos 186; Woodham-Smith 15-6). So too Bello initially has to coax Bloom out from under the sofa with ‘Come, ducky dear, I want a word with you, just to administer correction’ (U 15: 2882-3), but then violently grabs Bloom by the hair with an aggressive ‘I only want to correct you for your own good on a soft safe spot. How’s that tender behind? O, ever so gently, pet. Begin to get ready’ (15: 2884-7). A violent and brutal scene in itself, a scene where Bloom is left ‘fainting’ Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 89 | P a g e (15: 2889; original emphasis), Bello states plans for further violence, in terms that reflect the animalistic terminology often used by the colonial power as further justification for their continued oppression of their subjects. Importantly, this terminology also likens colonisation to cannibalism: Bello: (savagely) The nosering, the pliers, the bastinado, the hanging hook, the knout I’ll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubrian slave of old. You’re in for it this time! I’ll make you remember me for the balance of your natural life . . . Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling from baking tin basted and baked like suckling pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce. It will hurt you. (15: 2891-901) Bloom faints, ‘squeals’, ‘screams’ and ‘whimpers’ from the violence administered for his ‘own good’ (U 15: 2903, 2908, 2914; original emphasis), establishing his primitiveness (squealing like a pig), femininity (fainting and screaming like a woman), and child status (as he whimpers). Bloom claims that he has ‘been a perfect pig’ (15: 3397), implying that he remembers and acknowledges his inferior status and is thus deserving of the violence. As Joseph Nugent has recently reiterated, nineteenth century English representations of Irish peasantry were grounded in the castigation of peasants’ domestic cottages — their apparent odour and primitiveness — and the metonymic substitution of the peasants’ pigs for Irish national character (‘The Human Snout: Pigs, Priests, and Peasants in the Parlor’). Pigs throughout the ages, Peter Stallybrass and Allon White remark (The Politics and Poetics of Transgression), ‘seem to have borne the brunt of our rage, fear, affection and desire for the “low”’. Rather than creatures of the household, pigs were ‘creatures of the threshold’ (in Nugent 289). As a self- affirmed pig, Roos contends that through Bloom Joyce also represents how the Irish internalised the English critique of the Famine: Ireland required an unfortunate but necessary curbing of its population rates; that Ireland’s failure to industrialise led to the famine; that Ireland’s people were too weak and lazy to prevent their own starvation; that Ireland exaggerated the Famine to better squeeze the English; that England’s laissez-faire policies were designed to make Ireland a stronger nation. (Roos 162) Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 90 | P a g e Towards the end of his ordeal in ‘Circe’, it is interesting to note that as Bloom exclaims: ‘My willpower! Memory! I have sinned! I have suff . . .’ (U 15: 3215), he fully articulates his sin but cuts short his suffering. He appeals to his memory, but his second thoughts about parting with the potato — ‘I should not have parted with my talisman’ (15: 2794) — also point to his regret for forgetting imperial violence and his ‘place’. When he asks Zoe for his potato back he says ‘there is a memory attached to it’ (15: 3520). Bloom’s appeal to memory touches on possible reasons for passivity: the memory of imperial dominance will suppress the Irish voice but it will provide security from violence. As Zoe unrolls the potato from her stocking, Roos suggests that her comment that ‘those that hides knows where to find’ (15: 3524-6), indicates that the Irish have hidden their Famine memory, and only they themselves can find it (189). We might also consider that in the context of Ireland’s colonial status and England’s monopoly on violence the safest place for the memory is ‘hidden’. Cheryl Herr argues that ‘Circe’ is ‘as much the world of an imperialised experience as it is of the unconscious’, so while critics have predominately focused on ‘the purgation of various psychic problems of Stephen and Bloom’, the episode insists on being read as a representation of ‘cultural psychosis’ (Joyce’s Anatomy of Culture 167; Nolan 134). With this in mind the transformation of Bloom as he repossesses the potato demonstrates such cultural pathologies. Tellingly, his memory of violence heightens his fear of a physical altercation between Stephen and the British soldiers, and he undermines Stephen’s fearless inflammatory ‘truth telling’ at all costs (Roos 191-2). Stephen states, in the company of Privates Carr and Compton, ‘You are my guests. Uninvited. By virtue of the fifth of George and seventh of Edward. History to blame. Fabled by mothers of memory’ (U 15: 4370-2). He further claims that his ‘centre of gravity is displaced’, and that he must ‘kill the priest and the king’ (15: 4433-7), while Bloom urges Stephen to ‘Come home’ before he gets into trouble, or things get worse (15: 4511, 4732). Bloom makes excuses for Stephen: ‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Taken a little more than is good for him. Absinthe. Greeneyed monster. I know him. He’s a gentleman, a poet. It’s all right’ (15: 4486-8). Increasingly fearful of the escalation of the interaction, ‘terrified’ Bloom assures the soldiers: ‘He said nothing. Not a word. A pure misunderstanding’ (15: 4600; original emphasis). Gibson also notes that Bloom (and most other characters in this episode) reflect entrapment, where the presentation of ‘Englishness’, via language or through Anglicised Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 91 | P a g e ‘connections’ (for example, Masons, Trinity College, Royal Dublin Fusiliers), while causing a ‘self-disjunction’, is nonetheless necessary to be safe from authorities who require proof of the right ‘whiteness’ (Joyce’s Revenge 190-2, 195). As Roos poignantly observes, as Corny Kelleher and Bloom exchange masonic signs, now that they are assured the bobbies will not arrest Stephen, they are ‘merry’ and ‘mirthful’ but importantly remain ‘mute’ (193). They are successful because they are like ‘well- trained beasts’, ‘unable to shed their domestication’ (193). Jean-Michel Rebaté explores sodomy in Joyce’s work, that ‘fourth or missing corner of the “gnomon”’, evoked by the boy in ‘The Sisters’, that ‘ana-phanic counter-principle that hints of a dark and incomplete disclosure’ (167-8). Yet, I suggest that beyond Rebaté’s analysis of sodomy as the homoerotic, the metaphor of sodomy also speaks of Ireland’s long subjugation. Violence does not have to be as direct and brutalising as it is in the ‘Circe’ episode. In David Nally’s recent Human Encumbrances, he purposefully begins by quoting from John Hughes’s 1847 ‘Lecture on the Antecedent Causes of the Irish Famine’, establishing the vagaries and seeming innocuousness of political violence: The vice which is inherent in our system of social and political economy is so subtle that is eludes all pursuit, that you cannot find or trace it to any responsible source. The man, indeed, over whose dead body the coroner holds an inquest, has been murdered, but no one killed him. There is no external wound, there is no symptom of internal disease. Society guarded him against all outward violence; - it merely encircled him around in order to keep up what is termed the regular current of trade, and then political economy, with an invisible hand, applied the air-pump to the narrow limits within which he was confined, and exhausted the atmosphere of his physical life. Who did it? No one did it, and yet it was done. (in Nally vii) As Hannah Arendt cautions, the most despotic forms of domination do not rely on overt coercion, but on ‘a superior organisation of power – that is, on the organized solidarity of the masters’ (in Nally viii). Thus, political violence is not only that metered by brute force, but also via dehumanisation, so a person or population is ‘reduced to a position of virtual rightlessness through harmful economic policies, debilitating institutional Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 92 | P a g e programmes, prejudicial legislative actions, or misguided political doctrines’ (viii). For this second type of political violence, Nally and Arendt argue, no police force or army is needed, just greater organisation and political design (Nally viii). It is this violence, this ‘monological, authoritarian legitimisation of social power’ (Castle 307), which Joyce sets out to expose through the phantasmagorical ‘Circe’ episode. Conclusion Joyce perpetrates a number of treacherous literary acts in Ulysses, not least of which is the acknowledgement of the mid-nineteenth century Famine and the complex ways this still resonates one and two generations later. Joyce’s work stands in opposition to the Revivalist project of cultural production, which saw the need to bury any Irish history not amenable to its aesthetic experience, created to inspire political action, rebellion, victory, and the heroics of sacrifice. The parallactic aesthetic experience of Ulysses challenges the ilk of W. B. Yeats by, for example, invocating the ‘abundance’ of Ireland whilst throughout the novel presenting the reality of poverty of Dublin and alluding to Ireland’s status as an imperial resource. Reflective of Feldman and Schoenbach’s explorations of Pragmatic Modernism and Schwarze’s deliberation on the contradictions of Modernism providing a space for thinking, Joyce’s form produces ambiguity about Ireland’s past. As Nolan argues, despite the Citizen’s ultranationalism his indictment of England’s part in the scale of devastation of the Famine is reflective of Joyce’s own views. But, Joyce’s interrogations of Irish history go beyond Dubliners ‘remembering’ the Famine. Joyce ventures that the silence surrounding the Famine is not solely due to the disjuncture between the Irish nationalists’ cultural production and a narrative of the Irish as ‘victims’. Ulysses indicates that the Famine experience wasn’t homogenous as some Irish benefitted financially during this time. Importantly though, through the symbol of the potato, it indicates the Famine was an act of imperial violence and that ongoing violence is necessary in a state not formed on the principles of ‘prior covenant’, ‘social pact’ and ‘rational obligation’. By implication Joyce problematises Irish nationalism’s rationalisation of violence. While Joyce provides no direct answers, his aesthetics indicate that violence inspired by imagined ancient heroics isn’t a solution. He thus alludes to the need for a more complete national narrative and by implication a new kind of political action. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 93 | P a g e Chapter 2 – Spectres of Famine: ‘Famished Ghosts’ We keep the Irish dark and ignorant, and then we wonder how they can be so enthralled by superstition; we make them poor and unhappy, and then we wonder that they are so prone to tumult and disorder; we tie up their hands, so that they have no inducements to industry, and then we wonder why they are so lazy and indolent . . . No wonder that it should be part of the Irish character that they are so careless of their lives, when they have so little worth living for. (Thomas Campbell [1733-95] in Nally 33) Mid-nineteenth century Dubliners were both spectators and victims of starvation, disease and inadequate Famine relief. In addition to Bloom’s remembering of colonial violence and Joyce’s representation of the complicity and lack of agency of the Irish, we can also perceive in Ulysses a rumination on the long-term effect of destroyed rural communities. One generation later, Joyce’s Dubliners have a collective memory of ‘The Great Hunger’ and the experience of the violence of subjugation. They are a traumatised intra- and intergeneration of the post-Famine era, still experiencing what Hannah Arendt identifies, in relation to post-Second World War revolutions, as the collective violent action of ‘progress’. The exploration of theories of collective trauma by, for example, Pierre Nora, Cathy Caruth and Marianne Hirsch, explain in psychosocial terms how trauma is transferred from one generation to the next. Part of this trauma, I suggest, is considered in recent developments in Irish historiography which interrogate the geographical and social implications of the mobilisation of the Famine era. This multifaceted exploration of Joyce’s treatment of the Famine is interested in the apparent state of Dubliner paralysis but also the political ramifications a disruption of community has on the ability for association and ‘prior covenant’, and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 94 | P a g e thus the political agency needed to negotiate the political order and the terms of ‘rational obligation’. As David Nally’s Human Encumbrances reminds us, an analysis of the mid-nineteenth century Irish Famine cannot be sufficiently appreciated if we don’t consider the duration and complexity of Ireland’s colonial history and the ‘long cycle of confiscation and banishment’ (25, 32). While the contemporary Irish historian, Cormac Ó Gráda, disagrees with the idea that there can be a ‘collective’ memory, he does argue that a traumatic event like the Famine can damage communities. English policies of economic and agricultural rationalisation espoused the ‘progress’ of these transformations, and in Joyce’s work we see what Christopher Morash identifies as ‘atrocity’: the disturbance of the anticipated sequence of ‘cause and effect’ that prevented a coherent, Irish, narrative of improvement (Morash ‘Literature, Memory, Atrocity’ 114-7). In addition to the more overt and direct consequences of the Famine, David Lloyd considers the ‘spatial’ aspects of Irish subjugation and the fractured ‘mental geographies’ of land reform (‘Indigent Sublime’). Joyce’s Dubliners, generally, are second generation Famine survivors who did not experience the Famine themselves but still seem to be paralysed; caught in the present as they wander aimlessly around Dublin like the dispossessed and banished victims of the Famine sixty years before. Joyce’s reworking of both the ‘flâneur’ and gothic tropes distinguishes his work from Modernists who saw the crowd as a threat, and other forms of Irish Gothic that either internalise the great ‘woe’ or demonise the ‘other’ (the Irish). Ulysses, as with many other Gothic texts, perceives that ‘times past are not times past’; the separation of history blurs and wavers (Punter ‘Scottish and Irish Gothic’ 112). As David Punter suggests though, the resonance of history in the Scottish and Irish Gothic is distinct from much of the English form, as there are the nagging questions about what life would be like without being subjugated, or ‘settled’ or ‘conquered’: ‘What if?’ (106). This chapter addresses these questions in terms of the destruction of rural community and how fractured community impacts on political agency. The ‘famished ghosts’ of the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode have been identified by Lauren Rich and James F. Wurtz as a continuation of the tragic history of the Famine (Rich ‘A Table for One: Hunger and Homeliness in Joyce’s Public Eateries’ 87; Wurtz ‘Scarce More a Corpse: Famine Memory and Representations of the Gothic in Ulysses’ 109). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 95 | P a g e For Rich, Joyce’s Dubliners, and especially the men, are ‘unhomed’ and not able to ‘feel at home’ in any meaningful way (74). In contrast to Suzette Henke’s perspective of the men at Burton’s, ‘driven by a megalomanic rage to stuff their gullets and fill the angry void inside’ (Joyce’s Moraculous Sindbook 125), Rich’s more political analysis of the scene considers the images of hunger and cannibalism as systematic of colonisation and the pressures of colonial urban modernity (73, 87-8). For Wurtz, beyond the mythic parallel with the Odyssey’s cannibal ‘Lestrygonians’, the Gothic figure of the vampire is evoked by Joyce to reflect the ‘past’s grip’ over the present, and how the living are transformed into the ‘undead’ (109). This chapter develops Rich and Wurtz’s work by delving even more deeply into the historical causes of modern Dubliners’ ‘fraught relation to history’ (Wurtz 109). James Fairhall argues there is ‘something nightmarish’ about the ‘intertwined history of city and country in Ireland’. He highlights the demography of turn of the century Ireland and its ‘closeness’ to the Famine by investigating the migrants from the countryside moving to Dublin in the 1890s. He notes the resonance of ‘the country in the city’ throughout Dubliners and reiterates that James Joyce’s wife Nora Barnacle was from Galway, a tiny city of ‘great poverty and misery’, surrounded by ‘ocean, mountainous bogland, and farmland owned by absentee landlords’ (Question of History 75). Julieann Ulin makes the attentive connection between the soup the Dignam children eat in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode and the soup relief scheme of the Famine. While Ulin briefly includes some historical research — Alexander Sullivan’s New Ireland (88) — highlighting the ‘humiliation’, ‘degradation’, and ‘demoralization’ of the scheme (in Ulin 32), this chapter explores primary research surrounding Alexis Soyer’s ‘soup kitchens’ and points to the intra- and inter-generational trauma of this scheme for Joyce’s Dubliners. While the decaying flesh, bile and ‘corpsechewing’ can be perceived as the unavoidable pull of nature (Fairhall ‘N ature, Existential Shame, and Transcendence’), the self-devouring May Dedalus also acts as an inter-generational umbilical cord that binds the Irish to the Famine. Joyce neither advocates the nationalism of traditional and violent heroics, nor wants an Irish society to build its identity on the memory and trauma of the Famine, but rather wants an Ireland that learns and progresses. Instead of ‘human breath and compromises’ Ireland needs to ‘hurry up’ and wake up from the past (‘Saints and Sages’ CW 174). Here, however, Joyce’s represents the state of haunting between the traumatic event and the anticipated Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 96 | P a g e awakening. I suggest that while Joyce’s Ireland is traumatised, due to the loss of ‘true memory’ and the destruction of the bonds that brought people together and fostered trust and cooperation, the violence and oppression of colonial rule has implemented a new ‘social contract’ that breeds distrust. Clachan and English Political Economy As Joyce points out in ‘Saints and Sages’ (159-61), the Vikings (from 795AD) and the Normans (from 1169AD) well preceded the English, but their settlements inevitably merged with ‘Indigenous Irish . . . language, customs, and brehon laws’ (Nally 26), whereas the English remained vehemently distinct. As late as the fifteenth century English rule was confined to ‘the pale’. Conscious that ‘Englishness’ was vulnerable to being subsumed by Irishness, the English were aware that ‘colonial demarcations of difference would require vigilant and constant reaffirmation’ (26). Therefore, The Statute of Kilkenny (1336) decreed ‘that no alliance by marriage, gossipred, fostering of children, concubinage or by amour, nor in any other manner, be henceforth made between the English and Irish’ (in Nally 26). Acculturation was a criminal offence with those in breach liable to have ‘lands and tenements’ legally seized and confiscated (26). From the sixteenth century on the pale was extended and this demarcation was accompanied by a series of policies of broader displacement. Henry VIII’s policy of ‘Surrender and Regrant’, the policies of confiscation and plantation of Edward VI and Elizabeth I, and Cromwell’s brutal suppression of rebellion and further dispossession and displacement, all contributed to the marginalisation of the Irish (Nally 28-32). As Patrick Brantlinger notes, whilst the Cromwellian conquest of Ireland did not set out to destroy the Irish, the effect was genocidal. From an estimated Irish population of just under 1.5 million in 1641, prior to the conflict, the conquest left a death toll of 600,000 with a further 140,000 were forcefully sent to the West Indies as servants and indentured labourers (Johnson in Brantlinger 96; Nally 32). The 1652 Act for Settling Ireland aimed at ‘a total reducement and settlement’, the ‘reducement’ of which commenced with the execution of 100,000 rebels and the confiscation of Irish land to pay Cromwell’s soldiers (Brantlinger 96; Nally 32). The Irish landed class who were permitted to retain their land were relocated to the most marginal land of Connaught and Clare (to ‘Hell’), ‘[f]orbidden to appear within four miles of the seas and ten miles of the Shannon’ (Nally 32). The Penal Laws (from the late seventeenth century to the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 97 | P a g e mid-eighteenth century further debilitated Catholics by barring them from voting, obtaining an education, and renting or purchasing land (32). It is no surprise then that this long cycle of displacement meant that Irish land ownership fell from 90% in 1600 to 12.5% by 1700, and to 5% by 1778 (Johnson in Brantlinger 96; Edwards and Hourican in Nally 31). The Irish population, however, was ‘neither completely removed nor wholly anglicised’ as planters needed Irish tenants to make their estates viable (Nally 30). As David Lloyd (‘Indigent Sublime’), Kevin Whelan (‘Pre and Post Famine Landscape Change’) and Robert Scally (The End of Hidden Ireland) have argued, despite being relegated to the bogs and mountainsides along the inhospitable western seaboard, the Irish developed ‘sophisticated and ecologically inventive’ means of subsistence on the basis of the potato crop (Lloyd 153). On this relatively poor quality farming land, the Irish were capable of yielding enough food for the family for almost a year on a one acre plot. The system of small scale potato cultivations on small rented plots, combined with occasional labour on larger farms for low wages or some payment in kind was known as cotterism (154). In contrast to the Famine and post-Famine years, early marriage and high fertility rates were the norm due to the way family holdings could be subdivided. Furthermore, a Gaelic system of clachan (or rundale) — a communal system of land holding facilitated by continual subdivision — meant a tenant could have access to a variety of land types, from mountain plots for a small number of sheep to more fertile potato growing patches. While a family’s landholding could be scattered across the landscape, it also encouraged groupings of cabins that created intimate communities and communal labour – meitheal (154). Though historical anthropologist Estyn Evans is rather backhanded in appreciating the clachan system, Robert Scally nonetheless indicates that his description of clachan reflects the inextricable link between geography, community and identity: It was egalitarian, and could operate without the benefit of a landlord, but it was complicated by the subdivision among the co-heirs and in former times by the periodic reallocation of the holdings, which were scattered in many small plots so that all shared land of varying quality. The word used to describe the confusion of innumerable scattered plots and tortuous access ways in the infield Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 98 | P a g e was ‘throughother’, a word that has been applied to other aspects of Irish life. (Evans in Scally 13) David Lloyd states that this spatial organisation produced a remarkable vital culture, a ‘deeply imbricated material and cultural space’, that sustained an alternate conception of social relations (155); or in Scally’s words, the system produced a ‘mental geography’ (16). Alexis de Tocqueville would comment on the ‘stunningly vigorous and civil social cohesion amid the mud and rags’ (in Scally 10-1). At the time of the Famine, the landscape underwent systematic ‘improvement’; that is, English economic rationalisation demanded that the ‘confusion’ of the Irish space was reshaped into an ‘orderly geometry’, consolidating the web of clachan into larger farms based on the English agricultural model (Lloyd 154). As the 1847 ‘Report of the Select Committee of House of Lords on Colonisation from Ireland’ declared, the clachan system, where ‘a Man’s Holding of Five Acres was probably in Twenty different Divisions of Farm’, had to be rooted out thoroughly (in Nally 203). As a consequence, all but the most marginal wasteland was enclosed, there was a shift to grain farming and grazing, and small holding tenants were evicted (Lloyd 154). Charles Trevelyan, the British Treasury official responsible for administering famine relief, thought the Famine a godsend: ‘Unless we are much deceived, posterity will trace up to that famine the commencement of a salutary revolution in the habits of a nation long singularly unfortunate, and will acknowledge that on this, as on many other occasions, supreme Wisdom has educed permanent good out of transient evil’ (in Lloyd 159). Representative of the English and the ‘Protestant Ascendancy’ take on the Famine, Lord Hill in Gweedore Ireland also made clear that the failure of the potato crop and the Famine offered opportunities: ‘The Irish people have profited much by the famine, the lesson was severe; but so rooted were they in their old prejudices and old ways, that no teacher could have induced them to make the changes which this visitation of Divine Providence has brought about, both in their habits of life and in their mode of agriculture’ (in Nally 206). Ireland had benefitted from trade with England, and indeed had transatlantic trade in the eighteenth century buoyed by Western industrialisation. However, as Emmet O’Connor notes, this economic growth dried up with the political union of England and Ireland in 1800 and the monetary and customs union in 1825. The Union was to Ireland’s Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 99 | P a g e disadvantage as it was unable to compete with ‘the workshop of the world’ and ‘proto- industries sank into decay’ ushering in the overwhelming problem of ‘deindustrialisation, long before most other countries had begun to industrialise’ (O’Connor A Labour History of Ireland 201; O’Connor ‘Labour and Politics, 1830- 1945’ 28). As Marx and Engels argued, the geographical restructuring and depopulation of Ireland was far from benevolent. It was a policy that responded to the English political and economic programme and expansion. As Engels notes, ‘Today England needs grain quickly and dependably – Ireland is just perfect for wheat-growing. Tomorrow England needs meat – Ireland is only fit for cattle pastures’ (in Nally 212; Marx, Engels et al. Ireland and the Irish Question 191). Rather than a godsend for the Irish then, the geographical and cultural transformations were merely ‘out of kilter with imposed disciplines of modernisation’ (Lloyd 155), and thus necessitated what Marx recognised as the ongoing instance of ‘primitive accumulation’ (157; Marx 704). The collective customs of Ireland’s rural poor, sustained by its ‘throughother’ spatiality, (Lloyd 155) were seemingly invisible to the English, who in the Devon Commission saw the Irish as ‘human encumbrances’ to implementing the ‘English system’ of agriculture and economy (in Nally 211-2). To draw on Hannah Arendt’s perception that violence has an instrumental character, designed and used for multiplying strength, in the case of Ireland we see how violence is ‘[justified] through the end it pursues’ (46, 51). Power equated with violence is necessarily expansionist: ‘Just as in the realm of organic life everything either grows or declines and dies, so in the realm of human affairs power supposedly can sustain itself only through expansion; otherwise it shrinks and dies’ (Arendt 74). As a young university student at University College Dublin, Joyce wrote that ‘Subjugation is “almost the essence of an empire and when it ceases to conquer, it ceases to be”’ (‘Force’ CW 24). The apologists for the violent ‘revolutionising’ of Ireland’s agricultural system, that expunged the obstacles to development, accepted this approach as ‘organic’ and inevitable. As Arendt argues, however, ‘[n]othing . . . could be theoretically more dangerous than the tradition of organic thought in political matters by which power and violence are interpreted in biological terms . . . violence is justified on the grounds of creativity’ (75; emphasis added). While the context of Arendt’s On Violence is post World War II ‘revolutions’ and totalitarian regimes, the pattern of political rhetoric and violence is consistent. Arendt argues that ‘glorifiers of violence’ — and here we can insert such names as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 100 | P a g e Trevelyan, Thomas Carlyle, Thomas Malthus and William Thornton, numerous Commissions and the Times — ‘appeal to the undeniable fact that in the household of nature destruction and creation are but two sides of the natural process, so that collective violent action . . . may appear as natural a prerequisite for the collective life of mankind as the struggle for survival and violent death for continuing life in the animal kingdom’ (Arendt 75). In addition to Arendt’s perspective on violence, Lloyd’s arguments have great relevance for Joyce’s work. Lloyd suggests that the force of violence was not due to the apparent wretchedness of the Irish, but rather as a result of the ability of the Irish to successfully live and flourish in a system coeval to the English political economic model. Despite the poor living conditions in which the rural Irish lived, what they marked for the English was a ‘countermodern effect of modernity’, and this ‘alternative track’ for organising life presents to the modernisers a haunting and ‘uncanny glimmer’ of an alternate ‘definition of human life’ (155, 160). While the Poor Law Commission (1835) noted the ‘foolish attachment to home’ makes ‘amelioration’ difficult (Nally 210), Lloyd suggests that what this type of criticism seeks to deny is the ‘specter of Irish abundance’ and contentment (157). Lloyd argues that both recent and mid-eighteenth century scholarship affirms the incongruity of the need for ‘improvement’. There is evidence that the Irish population, for the most part, were sustained by the potato with occasional supplements of ‘buttermilk, lard, or salted fish’, and were in fact ‘healthier, taller and stronger’ than their English counterparts (154). Therefore the ‘backward’ system of clachan and cotterism was a viable mode of existence and the ‘vehemence of the desire to extirpate the clachan’ indicates the degree to which it was ‘an alternative to capitalist social relations’, and a ‘material and moral culture that capitalism negated’ (159-60). Arendt pointedly finishes On Violence with the same perception; that power invites violence because those ‘who hold power and feel it slipping from their hands . . . have always found it difficult to resist the temptation to substitute violence for it’ (87). What I perceive in Joyce’s work is a literary representation of Paul Klee’s print, ‘Angelus Novus’ (1920), considered by Walter Benjamin as ‘the angel of history’: His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 101 | P a g e in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress. (Benjamin ‘Thesis on the Philosophy of History’ Illuminations 249) While Dubliners may be severed from a past and forced into a new future, this process of agricultural rationalisation and deindustrialisation, under the direction of the English, represents the violence that set in motion the cycle of Irish ‘debris’. Here I not only refer to the direct impact of a people mobilised, starving or dying from disease, but the more pervading type of destruction: militarism. Greg Winston argues that Ireland’s colonisation was militarist as England promoted the complete ‘social, economic, even geographical reorganisation of its citizens’ lives for the goal of increased military capacity’ (Joyce and Militarism 12). Thus, the colonial ideology and militarist orientation permeates ‘academic and educational institutions . . . shapes artistic activity, mass media, and other forms of cultural discourse . . . controls social structures, such as church, club, union, and guild’, and ultimately takes over ‘individual psychology, marital relations, and family dynamics’ (12). I suggest that this ‘chain of events’ is the ‘catastrophe’, the aftermath of which is Dublin’s ghosts and walking dead. These spectres have been deprived of an orientation towards the future; other possibilities of human sociality that might have organically emerged without English ‘benevolent’ modernisation. They are ‘ghost[s] of hopes’ as they internalise melancholy for the loss of ‘forms of agency’ and ‘forms of social relations’ that can no longer be named (Lloyd 153, 156, 174). Collective Trauma and Hauntings Pierre Nora’s essay ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire’ (1989) refines Halbwachs’s distinction between collective memory and history and offers considerations transferable to any society whose disappearing ‘peasant culture’ had been supplanted by post-industrial culture devoid of the ‘quintessential repository of memory’ (7). Nora suggests that the remnants of experience that are played out in the ‘warmth of tradition’, ‘the silence of custom’, ‘the repetition of the ancestral’, are Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 102 | P a g e experiences from the historical past that are ‘gone for good’ (7). This phenomenon of the slippage of real environments of memory into a distant past is what Nora refers to as the ‘acceleration of history’ and what it leaves in its wake is a secularised and amnesiac modern world (7-8). Nora refers to sites of memory (‘lieux de memoire’), such as the ‘museums, archives, cemeteries, festivals, anniversaries, treaties, depositions, monuments, sanctuaries, fraternal orders’, as the only memory available when real environments of memory, ‘milieu de memoire’, have disappeared (Nora 7, 12). Rita Sakr contends that Joyce purposefully places numerous monuments in his work because Dubliners have lost, or are on the precipice of losing, their embeddedness with lived memory (Monumental Space in the Post-Imperial Novel 41-80, 170). That is, those everyday gestures that were ‘experienced as the ritual repetition of a timeless practice’ no longer produce the same meaning (Nora 8). As Nora makes clear, ‘true memory’ exists in ‘gestures’, ‘habits’ and ‘skills’ passed down by ‘unspoken traditions’. True memory isn’t the same as ‘memory transformed’ (or public memory), as the latter is only ‘experienced as a duty’ and is ‘no longer spontaneous’ (13). This distinction leads me to contemplate Cormac Ó Gráda’s apparent reticence regarding a ‘collective memory’ of the Famine. While Ó Gráda bemoans the ‘collective rhetoric’ of Famine memory (Ireland’s Great Famine) where ‘we’, ‘us’, ‘Irish people’ are perceived as starving or forced to emigrate ‘with knock on effects to their traumatised descendants’ (229-30), he far from denies the long term impact of the Famine. Ó Gráda highlights a key point argued by Kai Erickson (A New Species of Trouble), that the real communal trauma is a blow ‘that damages the bonds attaching people together and impairs the prevailing sense of community’ (in Ó Gráda 231). Indeed this is what the Famine, agricultural reform and Union with England cemented; an oppressive ‘social contract’ safeguarded by weak, Irish social bonds and a preoccupation with counterproductive efforts to clarify ‘Irishness’ and therefore who isn’t part of the community. For my purposes of exploring Joyce in relation to the communal or collective trauma of the Famine I am not concerned with ‘cultural trauma’, defined by Neil Smelser as an ‘overwhelming event that is believed to undermine or overwhelm one or several essential ingredients of a culture or the culture as a whole’ (‘Psychological Trauma and Cultural Trauma’ 38). Today the Great Famine is still identified in these terms and remains an integral part of a national identity, where the ‘claim of traumatic cultural damage’ is established by ‘cultural Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 103 | P a g e carriers’ — ‘cultural specialists such as priests, politicians, intellectuals, journalists, moral entrepreneurs, and leaders of social movements’ — and continuously and actively sustained to reproduce the status of national/cultural trauma (Smelser 38; Ó Gráda 228 - 9; and McLean The Events and Its Terrors 154-7 explore this contemporary debate). I suggest that Joyce doesn’t want Ireland to build an identity on cultural trauma through public memory. He acknowledges the violence of colonial suppression and indicates the damage this has caused, but through the representation of the traumatised Dubliners in juxtaposition with those who attempt to live life, like Bloom, he shows how a more dynamic and honest relationship with the past can provide space for more substantial progress. Oftentimes it is the outsider Bloom’s observations and thoughts that highlight the damaged Irish community, and as will be explored more fully in Chapter 5, Joyce shows a way to build a new community and thus provide the unity to challenge their oppression. Cathy Caruth’s work on trauma is an interesting starting point when considering Joyce’s presentation of ghostly Dubliners who haven’t reflected on the impact of the ‘event’ and how it still affects their lives. Through her psychoanalytical approach Caruth, following Freud (Beyond the Pleasure Principle), argues that a trauma or ‘wound’ can be inflicted on the mind as well as the body. Unlike the injured body though, the traumatised mind can’t heal as the infliction of the wound ‘is experienced too soon, too unexpectedly, to be fully known’ and thus not available to one’s consciousness (Caruth ‘Introduction’ Trauma: Explorations in Memory 3-4; also see Unclaimed Experience). An event is traumatic because ‘it imposes itself again, repeatedly, in nightmares and repetitive actions of the survivor’ (4). The wound, therefore, has a complex pathology. It is not located in the ‘violent or original event’ but in its ‘unassimilated nature’; the way that ‘it is precisely not known in the first instance [but] returns to haunt the survivor later on’ (4; also see Eyerman ‘Social Theory and Trauma’ 42). The traumatic event can cause amnesia and repression, where the ‘victim simply forgets or denies that anything has occurred (Eyerman 42). This forgetting, what Freud called ‘latency’, where the traumatised still function in their everyday lives, can last for days or years. As Eyerman suggests, this identification of the pathology of individual trauma also resembles societal crisis (42-3). Walter Benjamin made an implicit connection between societal trauma and modernity as he identified how the mechanisation of warfare Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 104 | P a g e devalued the moral world; where ‘destructive torrents of explosions’ that were pitted against the ‘tiny, fragile human body’ devalued experience; not only that of the external world but that of the moral world also (‘The Storyteller’ Illuminations 84). Men who returned from the war did not return with communicable experiences as their experience was unfathomable, and the men were not enriched from their knowledge but ‘poorer’ and silent (84). Though Kevin Newmark remarks that Walter Benjamin does not specifically address ‘trauma’, his elaboration of Benjamin is analogous to the concept of trauma. Newmark clarifies that ‘experience’ for Benjamin always consists in the coordination of individual elements within a larger tradition (‘Traumatic Poetry’ 236). The subject’s experience of the modern world, however, causes a kind of ‘atrophy’ and ‘inability to provide the necessary links and connections . . . between individual and collective patterns or memory’ (236). Newmark affirms that ‘modernity names the moment’ when the subject is no longer completely in control of the events that ‘comprise “his” own past’ (238). The formal patterns of continuity that are presumed to be ‘grounded in traditional experience by the assimilation of consciousness to memory’ are disturbed, displaced and made incoherent (238). Thus we might perceive a complex layering of trauma for Joyce’s Dubliners; the impact of war (explored in Chapter Five) and the ongoing pathology of Famine memory. Marianne Hirsch’s theory about transgenerational transmission of the Holocaust trauma helps us reconsider Joyce representations of the Famine’s resonance. As noted in Chapter One there seem to be only two Dubliners (Deasy and the Citizen) who affirm a direct memory of the Famine. If we consider that a person would have needed to be at least, say, five years old to ‘remember’, this would make the characters 63 at the least. As the average life expectancy in Dublin in 1904 was 50 years of age (Ferriter in Shanahan and Quigley ‘Medicine in the Age of Ulysses’ 280) this paucity of direct remembrance is consistent with turn of the century Irish demography. ‘Postmemory’ is defined by Hirsch as: ‘the relationship of the second generation to powerful, often traumatic, experiences that preceded their births but that were nevertheless transmitted to them so deeply as to seem to constitute memories in their own right’ (‘The Generation of Postmemory’ 103). Signalling more than a temporal delay, the ‘post’ of postmemory indicates looking backward and ‘defining the present in relation to a troubled past’ rather than interrogating the past and ‘initiating new paradigms’ (10 6). Just as the ‘postcolonial’ does not refer to the end of the colonial, but ‘its troubling Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 105 | P a g e continuity’, postmemory ‘reflects an uneasy oscillation between continuity and rupture’ with its ‘inter- and trans-generational transmission of traumatic knowledge and experience’ (106). Postmemory is the ‘consequence of traumatic recall . . . at a generational remove’ (106; original emphasis), where ‘children of those directly affected by collective trauma’ inherit a horrific but ‘unknowable past’ that their parents, somehow, survived (112). As a result the second generation’s ‘fiction, art, memoir, and testimony’ develop their shape by representing the effects of ‘living in close proximity to the pain, depression, and dissociation of persons who have witnessed and survived massive historical trauma’ (112). Hirsch warns though being ‘dominated by narratives that preceded one’s birth or one’s consciousness’ runs the risk of ‘having one’s own stories displaced, even evacuated’ (107), and this, I contend, is the danger that Joyce alludes to. In examining the unnamed men in the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode Hirsch’s ‘intra-generational horizontal identification’ whereby a second generational child’s position is broadly that of other contemporaries (Hirsch 114-5), proves useful when considering the impact upon the second generation as a whole. The focus here then is not the ‘national/political and cultural/archival memory’ in Joyce’s work, which Hirsch classifies as ‘trans-generational’ (110). While there is ample evidence in Joyce of constructed symbolic systems — in various sites of memory (monuments for example) — my concern here is with societal ‘hauntings’; the ‘intra’ transference of the sense of lost hope and the seeming displacement and evacuation of the second generation’s articulation of a future narrative. Avery Gordon’s sociological consideration of ‘hauntings’ proposes that they are an important element of modern social life as it is only through apparitions that disappearances becomes real (Ghostly Matters 7, 63). Accordingly, a ghost is a symptom of what is missing (a loss or path not taken), but it also represents a ‘future possibility, a hope’ (63-4). In relation to Ireland’s past, Lloyd argues that the violence of history can be righted only by relinquishing the desire to set it right and instead allowing the restless ghosts of the ‘foundational violence of capitalist colonisation’ to speak of their alternate life (153, 161). For Lloyd there are two types of hauntings: the familiar sort of ghost that ‘seeks redress for the injustice of its negation’ and one which is the ‘phantom of “possible futures”’ (156). Joyce, I suggest largely advances the latter. Joyce redresses the past not through revenge and perpetuation of violence, or through mourning or commemoration (which fixes the dead in the past), but by ‘making Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 106 | P a g e room’ for the dead (Lloyd 152-3). Joyce did not advocate a future built on a silencing of the past. On the contrary, he was scathing of the economic impact of colonial capitalism, and thus conjures ghosts, both apparitions and also in the guise of walking dead Dubliners, to ensure there are witnesses to exorcise the past and begin what Joyce longs for: the ‘new play that we have waited for so long’ (‘Saints and Sage’ CW 174). With its Linati schema of the ‘Scene’ of ‘ lunch’, the key ‘Organ’ of the ‘Esophagus’, the ‘Technic’ of ‘Peristaltic’ prose, and the ‘Symbols’ of ‘Bloody Sacrifice, food, shame’ (Gifford 156), the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode is the most overtly food orientated section of Ulysses. Bloom moves across Dublin in search of a midday meal, and like other Modernist flâneurs Joyce’s wanderer works his way through the city observing his surroundings. At the turn of the century the altered cityscapes of empire capitals were places of grand state pageants and processions, but for the Modernists the streets were ‘a site of gratification’ where the Victorian ‘repulsive horror of the streets’ had been replaced with an emphasis on the ‘energizing frisson generated in the individual in the ever-stimulating, shocking city’ (Duffy Subaltern Joyce 57-8). Importantly, Modernists like T. S. Eliot, Kafka, Poe and Baudelaire were concurrently ambivalent about the forces of the crowd and what it might unleash (Duffy 58; Benjamin ‘Some Motifs in Baudelaire’ Illuminations 172-4). ‘Fear, revulsion, and horror’ Benjamin states, ‘were the emotions which the big city crowd aroused in those who first observed it’ (174). The crowd was ‘menacing’, ‘inhuman’, and worthy of ‘contempt’ (172), and thus the flâneur as representative subject in Modernist narratives stood as a mediator; the desire to aestheticize/represent the crowd stood beside a related desire to control it (Duffy 59). Duffy argues in opposition to essentialist accounts of flânerie, where the signifier of the early twentieth-century subject reacts to the ‘shock’ of city life and the ‘choking quality’ of modernity. This flâneur is ontologically specific; determined by ‘specific class and political assumptions’ (Duffy 56-7). Joyce differs from other Modernists and theorists because he engaged with the political factors that elicited the new size and tempo of the cities in the first place. Dublin is not another set-piece of ‘metro- representation’, but instead ‘one of the first cities of the colonial “other world”, the world that largely made the expansion of the European capitals possible’ (57, 63). Joyce’s flâneurs are not the flâneurs of ‘an empire capital’ and represent more than the ‘radical anomie’ of the cosmopolitan modern city; they reflect the immediate Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 107 | P a g e consequences of political transformation as the flâneur is brought into contact with the ‘spectacle of late-colonial domination’ and the ‘confrontation between the colonial administration and the native population’ (55-6). Dubliners are not partaking in ‘the nation’s victory parade’ as they walk through the city streets. Ireland was not a victor, and the Irish ‘at most’ had a ‘walk-on rather than speaking parts in the official public sphere’ (Gibbons ‘Where Wolfe Tone’s Statue Was Not’ 140). Joyce’s Dubliners experience the same marginalisation as the modernist flâneur, but importantly they are detached from the space through which they circulate (Gibbons 140). Duffy argues that a key distinction between the flâneur ‘set piece’ and Bloom is that rather than wanting to ‘control the masses’ Bloom’s viewpoint captures a ‘heterogeneous group of people, activities, and spectacles’ (62), ingesting the diversity of activity around him. However, there is one group of men that Bloom observes who are different; they are the famished ghosts in Burton’s pub. As James Wurtz points out, while critics have observed ghosts in Joyce’s work, the approach often fixes on guilt and psychoanalytical readings (Wurtz ‘Scarce More a Corpse’ 103; see for example Morrisson ‘Stephen Dedalus and the Ghost of the Mother’; and more recently Edmundson ‘Love's Bitter Mystery’). The intent here is to examine the gothic tropes but remain grounded in the historical and social perspectives of the Famine and the intra- and inter-generational trauma of the Famine. Wurtz argues that Joyce’s gothic is ‘engendered out of deep and repeated trauma’, such as the Famine and the demise (and betrayal) of Parnell (103). I would also add to this the trauma of the lost sense of community and culture (mental geography), the loss of hope for an alternate future due to evictions and the forced relinquishing of land, and the intra - generational memory of the demoralising soup kitchens. In this light I suggest an alternate reading to that of Emer Nolan who proposes that the men at Burton’s are representative of capitalism; the ‘the modern world . . . inhabited only by living dead, whose possession of human instincts is horrifying’ (Nolan 82). I suggest though that as Bloom thinks about the ‘Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline’, and that ‘Blood always needed. Insidious. Lick it up, smokinghot, thick sugary’ (U 8: 729-30), his vampiric allusion indicates the devouring of the colonised by the colonisers. It is Empire, as Arendt suggests, that is in perpetual need of more ‘blood’ for expansion. Significantly, Bloom punctuates his bloody thoughts with the ‘Famished Ghosts’ (8: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 108 | P a g e 730), not to castigate all Dubliners but to refer to the collective trauma of the Famine, its undermining of Irish agency, and its concomitant pathology of paralysis. As indicated in the previous chapter, the Famine was a real presence for Dubliners as they saw the workhouses overflowing and the hordes of people flowing from the countryside through Dublin on their way to a better life, or indeed just ‘life’. Thus, as James Fairhall contends, Joyce’s representation of paralysis is not just about Dubliners being trapped in the present, but the repression of something ‘nightmarish’ in the ‘intertwined history of city and country in Ireland’ (James Joyce and the Question of History 75; emphasis added). In the ‘Scylla and Charybdis’ episode, therefore, when Stephen Dedalus defines a ghost as someone living ‘out of time’, and elaborates that a fading into ghostliness might be due to something as banal as a ‘change in manners’, we can see the implications for the Irish (U 9: 147-9; Wurtz 102). In Joyce’s Dublin a good portion live ‘out of time’. As Fairhall states, ‘[i]n 1901, 33 percent of citizens of Dublin had been born elsewhere’; they flocked to the city from the countryside in the 1890s and 1900s and ‘filled the ranks of the shop-keeping classes in particular’ (75). Many of Joyce’s Dubliners are the petty-bourgeois and thus either ‘rural migrants themselves or were their children or grandchildren’ (75). Throughout Ulysses there is a blurring between the living and the dead, where the paralysis transforms ‘characters into ghosts’ (Wurtz 102) as the rural peasants’ sense of community fades as they enter the ‘timeless’ space of the colonial capital, where their story has no place. ‘See the Animals Feed’ The ‘Men, men, men’ (U 8: 653) Bloom sees upon entering Burton’s are an important example of the embodied memories of violence and the resultant intra- and inter- generational trauma of colonial subjects, but they also represent the danger of the ‘evacuation’ of individual stories (Hirsch 107). Joyce reflects Lloyd’s and Gordon’s position that ghosts must be allowed to speak, and they do through Bloom, but Bloom struggles to maintain his ‘speaking part’ in the process. The reason Bloom enters Burton’s and the impact it has on him is complex. Bloom seems to be aware of the impact the pub will have on him before he enters. Just as he thinks earlier in the episode that a ‘barefoot arab [standing] over the grating, breathing in fumes’ will deaden ‘the gnaw of hunger’ (U 8: 235-6), I believe that Bloom uses the Burton as a Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 109 | P a g e kind of sewerage grate to deaden the anxiety of Molly’s impending tryst with Boylan. When Bloom thinks, ‘Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then’ (8: 640), he is not necessarily indicating he must eat at the Burton, but that he happens to not feel good. The sights, smells and sounds will help him forget Molly’s ‘hungered flesh’ he could only ‘mutely adore’, which Blazes Boylan would soon gratify in their ‘creaking bed’ (8: 638-9). The assault to Bloom’s senses would stop the ‘pursuit’ (8: 641) of these thoughts. So intense is the stench it ‘gripped his trembling breathe’ (8: 651), but the pub has the initial desired effect; he temporarily loses Blazes Boylan from his mind’s eye: ‘Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said “Not here. Don’t see him”’ (8: 694-5; emphasis added). The by-product of Bloom’s exorcising of personal demons though is the stirring of the intra-generational famished ghosts. Upon Bloom’s entry he very quickly makes the connection between the diners and animals: ‘See the animals feed’ (U 8: 651-2). There upon he observes these men ‘perched’ whilst, ‘swilling’, ‘wolfing’, ‘shovell[ing]’, ‘spitting’, ‘bolting’, ‘scoffing’, and ‘ramming’ their food (8: 654-82). These aren’t times of famine, however, where starvation occasioned the kind of lapse into animality that Mitchel suggested (see Morash ‘Making Memories’ 48). These ‘animals’ are ordering decent food and there is a sense of abundance and not scarcity: ‘Roast beef and cabbage’, ‘stew’, ‘corned [beef] and cabbage’, ‘Roast and mash’ (U 8: 668-9, 680, 699). Despite this availability of food there is no long memory of plentifulness, so one man needs ‘an infant’s saucestained napkin’ around his neck (8: 658), and there seems to be an underlying fear of losing one’s food: ‘Every fellow for his own’ Bloom thinks, ‘tooth and nail . . . [e]at or be eaten. Kill! Kill!’ (8: 701-3). For Bloom this is no place to luncheon but a place where ‘animals’ are content to eat, spit, spill and urinate. ‘Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarettesmoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men’s beery piss, the stale ferment’ (8: 670-1) combines with the ‘pungent meatjuice’ (8: 651) to produce an overwhelming smell so that Bloom’s ‘gorge rose’ and he had to ‘tight[en] the wings of his nose’ (8: 672-9). Lauren Rich suggests that Joyce’s critique of colonialism in ‘Lestrygonians’ is demonstrated by the failed sense of community, with Dubliners ravenous and desperate; ‘born of hunger and fear rather than of personal moral failings (‘A Table for One’ 87): ‘Hungry man is an angry man’ Bloom thinks. He soon determines that he had to ‘[g]et out’ of there as he couldn’t ‘eat a morsel’ (U 8: 677, 673) amongst these mindless eaters: ‘I hate dirty eaters’ he declares (8: 696). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 110 | P a g e In ‘Lestrygonians’ there are many depictions of eyes, often indicating the numbing effects of alcohol. Mr. Breen has ‘oyster eyes’ (U 8: 322), Pat Kinsella has ‘parboiled eyes’ (8: 606), the men at Burton’s have ‘bulging eyes’ (8: 656) and one has ‘sad boozer’s eyes’ (8: 661). But these eyes might be more suggestive. Lloyd notes that what was most traumatic for the witnesses of the Famine was ‘the spectacle of the skeleton’ and the ‘stare’; these starved bodies, or ‘lean worms’ that ‘rise out of earth- holes’ revealed ‘the very minimum of humanity itself’ thus making the living dead cause the subject to question his or her subjecthood (Lloyd 164; Somerville in Lloyd 165-6). Though the spectres were often silent they were often described as penetrating the innermost pores of the observers of the Famine. Englishman Alexander Somerville, who travelled Ireland in 1847, wrote of the ghostly figures he encountered: One ‘phantom farmer’ said nothing ‘but looked – oh! such looks, and thin jaws!’ (in Lloyd 166). Similarly another observer recalls that Famine victims left an impression ‘then and there’ that ‘never has nor ever can be effaced’; ‘the vacant sepulchral stare, which, when once fastened on you, leaves its impress for ever’ (in Lloyd 168; original emphasis). Bloom leaves home with the potato in his pocket in the ‘Calypso’ episode, indeed making a point of checking for it before he leaves the house for breakfast supplies: ‘Potato I have’ (4: 73). While this symbol of the memory of violence and oppression can stifle the articulation and criticism of Irish colonisation, as evidenced in the ‘Circe’ episode, it does not stem the tide of inter- and intra-generational memory embodied at Burton’s. Bloom is overwhelmed by hungry phantoms at the bar, but his subsequent thoughts about the future – ‘years to come’ – make the link between Burton’s and the communal food relief of the Famine period, a point made by Lowe-Evans (18). Bloom contemplates the communal kitchen of the future: All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devour contents in the street . . . My plate’s empty. After you with your incorporated drinkingcup. Like Sir Philip Crampton’s fountain. Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief. Next chap rubs on a new batch with his. Father O’Flynn would make hares of them all. Have rows all the same. All for number one. Children fighting for the scrapings of the pot. Want a souppot as big as the Phoenix park . . . Hate people all round you . . . Soup, joint and sweet. Never Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 111 | P a g e know whose thoughts you’re chewing. Then who’d wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse. (U 8: 704-19) The 1847 amendment to the 1838 Poor Law Act recognised the right of certain categories of people to receive relief, usually in the form of cooked food, outside the workhouse instead of limiting relief to inmates of workhouses (McLean The Event and its Terrors 64). It should be reiterated that the workhouse system was not only concerned with helping the most vulnerable, but as George Nicholls states, it was intent on improving ‘the character, habits and social conditions of the people’ (in McLean 58). This intention was reflected in the amended law also, as outdoor relief was made available only to the elderly, sick, disabled, destitute widows with two or more dependent (‘legitimate’) children. Able bodied people, it was reasoned, would learn to rely on relief. Thus if an able bodied person wanted to be admitted into a workhouse but there were no places available, they would be given relief for a six month period only. To further combat idleness, begging was punishable by 30 days’ imprisonment (64). Importantly those who still occupied more than a quarter acre could not be considered destitute. As Stuart McLean observes this ‘Quarter Acre’ policy’s stated aim was ‘to facilitate the consolidation of holdings by encouraging impoverished tenants to give up their land in order to qualify for relief’ (64). Using the Victorian philanthropic discourse of the ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ poor (74), the British Government saw those worthy of assistance as those who relinquished their right to land and contributed to the continued restructuring of the Irish political economy and the concomitant rationalisation of agriculture. The ‘worthy’ thus helped to fracture any bonds of traditional community which might threaten the Coloniser’s monopoly on violence. For the deserving destitute, the ‘relief’ that was offered was often soup, though ‘soup’ is perhaps rather too generous a name for what was distributed to the starving in Dublin: Perhaps nothing during the famine years more appropriately symbolized England’s ‘helping hand’ to Ireland than Soyer’s Dublin soup kitchen, for it was there on April 5, 1847, with the beating of drums and the sounding of horns, with the Union Jack proudly flying from the kitchen’s smoking chimney and a splendidly attired gentry nodding its approval, that the British government fed Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 112 | P a g e the Irish a soup incapable of keeping a newborn cat alive. (Gallagher in Lowe- Evans 18) Irish food historian Regina Sexton comments that still today ‘the mere mention of soup in an Irish context is often enough to evoke memories of the Great Famine’ (A Little History of Irish Food 9). The ‘Soup Kitchen Act’ (1847) was implemented by the British Government to ostensibly feed the ever increasing numbers of desperate Irish. Alexis Soyer, a French chef from the Reform Club in London, was invited by the Lord Lieutenant to set up a soup kitchen in Dublin, a wooden and canvas structure placed at the main entrance to Phoenix Park (Lowe-Evans 19; Sexton 9). While Soyer no doubt improved some cooking methods thus retaining nutritional value of some ingredients, such as advising soup kitchen cooks to leave the skins on certain vegetables and not boiling meat for twenty-four hours (Soyer The Poor Man’s Regenerator 16, 18), he confuses what might be a nourishing broth for people otherwise well fed and the sustenance needed for the malnourished. He provides the following recipe for two gallons of soup as a base for adopting the larger quantities needed for soup kitchens. Soyer’s Dublin soup kitchen for example, had a three hundred gallon steam boiler (Gallagher in Lowe-Evans 19). For two gallons, a cook needed two ounces of dripping, quarter pound of meat, a quarter pound of onions, a quarter pound of turnips, two ounces of leeks, three ounces of celery, three quarter of a pound of ‘common flour’, half pound of pearly barley, three ounces of salt, and a quarter ounce of brown sugar (Soyer Regenerator 20). Soyer declared that the soup ‘has been tasted by numerous noblemen, members of parliament, and several ladies who have lately visited my kitchen department, and who have considered it very good and nourishing’ (21), though this testimony is problematic. By my estimates, following Soyer’s suggestion of one quart per person (just over one litre – 1.1365l), the distribution of the meat would be approximately 28 grams per person (113 grams for the whole pot of 2 gallons or 4.55 litres), which equates to around 50 calories per person from the meat portion. With substantial calories certainly attributable to dripping and cereals under normal circumstances, the ‘watered down’ nature of the soup makes the nutrition negligible and barely worth the exertion of getting to the soup kitchen. The relief recipients would have received far more calories from the quarter pound of bread (or savoury biscuit), approximately 300 calories, that Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 113 | P a g e the kitchen distributed after the soup was eaten (Soyer Regenerator 43). As Thomas Gallagher (Paddy’s Lament) emphasises, when the English medical journal The Lancet made a chemical analysis of the soup it stated: ‘This soup quackery (for it is no less) seems to be taken by the rich as a salve for their consciences’ (in Lowe-Evans 19). With unsatisfied stomachs leaving soup kitchens, poignantly Joyce has Bloom reflect on ‘Children fighting for the scrapings of the pot’ and the dissolution of any sense of community: ‘Hate people all round you’ (U 8: 714, 716). As Alexander M. Sullivan bitterly states in New Ireland (1878): I doubt if the world ever saw so huge a demoralization, so great a degradation, visited upon a once high-spirited and sensitive people. All over the country large iron boilers were set up in which what was called ‘soup’ was concocted . . . I once thought – ay, and often bitterly said, in public and in private – that never, never would our people recover the shameful humiliation of that brutal public soup-boiler scheme. (in Ulin 32) It isn’t just the paucity of food supplied through the soup kitchen that is pondered by Bloom, as he also considers how food relief distribution dehumanised the Irish. He (re)imagines the hungry ‘trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be filled’, ‘Devour[ing] contents in the street’, and using communal drinking cups (U 8: 704-5, 711; emphasis added). Bloom considers Dubliners via animalistic metaphors, but what is most important here, as indicated by Sullivan, is that this depravity and dehumanisation was triggered and perpetuated by the English relief machine. In his description of his soup kitchen Soyer explains with Victorian exactitude how the soup is to be dispensed and how the kitchen can efficiently feed thousands. He explains how in a kitchen there would be rows of tables, ‘eighteen inches wide’, along which one hundred holes are cut where ‘quart iron white enamelled basin[s], with a metal spoon attached thereto by a neat chain’ are secured (Soyer Regenerator 41-2). Outside the tent structure the deserving hungry would form a ‘zigzag passage capable of containing one hundred persons in a small space in the open air’, and at the entrance ‘is a check-clerk, and an indicator, or machine which numbers every person that passes’ (43). Soyer continues by explaining the ‘six minute’ feeding cycle: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 114 | P a g e When the soup . . . is ready, notice is given by ringing the bell, and the one hundred persons are admitted, and take their places at the table – the basins being previously filled, grace is said – the bell is again rung for them to begin, and a sufficient time is allowed them to eat their quart of food. During the time they are emptying their basins, the outside passage is again filling; as soon as they are done, and are going out at the other side, the basin and spoon is cleaned, and again filled; the bell rings, and a fresh number admitted; this continuing every successive six minutes, feeding one thousand persons per hour. (Soyer Regenerator 44) Further contributing to the dehumanisation of the Famine victims, Morash notes that ‘Fashionable Dublin flocked to view Soyer’s soup kitchen in Phoenix Park’ (Morash The Hungry Voice 282), causing Ireland’s nationalist newspaper The Freeman’s Journal to remark on April 6, 1847 that ‘Dublin society pays 5 shillings each to see paupers feed on Soyer’s soup. Five shillings each to watch the burning blush of shame chasing pallidness from poverty’s wan cheek! When the animals in the Zoological Gardens can be inspected at feeding time for sixpence!’ (in Morash 282). The assertion of Colonial violence, that essence of Empire (Joyce ‘Force’ CW 24), justifies the extra money the elite are willing to pay. If we consider that from the time of Erasmus’s treatise of 1530, De civilitate morum puerilium, where table manners were assigned crucial importance, there is something contradictory in this Victorian flaunting of feeding efficiency. As Paul Connerton notes, the impact of the treatise was ‘immediate, wide and lasting’ with the work being rapidly translated into English, with 130 editions, thirteen of these being in the late eighteenth century (How Societies Remember 82). Since Erasmus, ‘outer bodily propriety’ such as ‘carriage, gesture, posture, facial expression and dress’ were seen as the expression of the inner person, with decorum and restraint being essential attributes for civility (civilité). Connerton summarises some key aspects in Erasmus’s proprieties of the body: Some people, says Erasmus, devour food rather than eat it. They behave as if they were thieves wolfing down their booty or as if they were about to be carried off to prison. They put their hands into the dishes when they are scarcely seated Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 115 | P a g e and push so much into their mouths at once that their cheeks bulge like bellows. They eat and drink without even pausing, not because they are hungry or thirsty, but because they can control their movements in no other way. They scratch their heads or play with a knife or are unable to refrain from coughing and snorting and spitting. All such signs or rustic embarrassment and coarseness must be avoided. You should not be the first to take food from a dish. You should not search the whole dish with your hand or turn the dish around so that a better piece comes to you, but should take the first piece that presents itself. It is impolite to lick greasy fingers or dip bread you have already bitten into the sauce. It is indecorous to offer someone else some meat you are eating and it shows a want of elegance to remove chewed food from the mouth and put it back on the plate. And it is good if conversation interrupts the meal from time to time. (Connerton 82-3) We can discern here multiple infringements made by the men at Burton’s who ‘wolf’, eat without pause, ‘spit’, and remove gristle from their mouths. One can argue that these indecorous movements were turned into intra- and inter-generational habits learned from the Famine generation. If we suppose the starving peasants in Dublin avoided starvation by presenting themselves at soup kitchens, a consequence of this is that they were trained to eat their bowlful in 6 minutes; no time to talk, just enough to ‘wolf’. In Joyce’s representation of Famine ‘relief’ eating, we see that ‘[i]n habitual memory the past, as it were, sedimented in the body’ (Connerton 72); their uncivilised eating, though ostensibly something to be corrected, instead was embedded making the Irish the perpetual savage to be controlled. Thus, whilst we can read the ‘savage’ eating as the internalised intra- and inter-generational trauma of desperation and fear, and a lost sense of community (Rich 87), we can also interpret it as the result of the dehumanising colonial relief administration. The relief scheme, in effect, dehumanised the recipients and reinforced the perceptions of the Irish as ‘pigs’. Brantlinger notes, in relation to Spencer’s early accounts, that the ‘wretchednesse’ of the Irish crawling from the forests starving actually says more about the ‘violence of imperialism at its genocidal worst’ (96). We might argue the same here in relation, not only to the Famine and ‘agricultural reform’, but also to Famine relief. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 116 | P a g e The discussion of the Irish as subhuman has a long history, and Bloom’s ‘See the animals feed’ has a deeper political significance. Cheng notes that prior to the operationalising of Darwinian evolutionary discourse to make sense of the Irish, the Irish were identified as barbarians (19-21). In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the English, frustrated in their attempts to subdue the Irish, compared the Irish to the Indians of the New World: they were ‘lawless’, ‘nomads’, ‘treacherous’, ‘cruel’, ‘cannibals’, and ‘savage’ (Brantlinger 94). Edmund Spenser’s A View of the Present State of Ireland (1633) is a case in point: Marrie those bee the most barbarous and loathly conditions of any people (I thinke) under heaven; for . . . they doe use all the beastly behaviour that may be; they oppresse all men, they spoile aswell the subject, as the enemy; they steale, they are cruell and bloodie . . . licentious, swearers, and blasphemers, common ravishers of woemen, and murtherers of children. (in Brantlinger 95) Spenser’s scathing comments also lead to his recommendation of extermination with the sword and enforced starvation (Brantlinger 95). Describing what he perceived as a strong case for more cost effective starvation, Spencer writes of the 1579-83 Desmond rebellion (or ‘Warres of Mounster’), where the famine forced the rebels to ‘consume themselves, and devoure one another’: The proofe whereof, I saw sufficiently exampled in these late warres of Mounster . . . for not withstanding that the same was a most rich and plentifull countrey, full of corne and cattle . . . yet ere one yeare and a halfe they were brought to such wretchednesse, as that any stony heart would have rued the same. Out of every corner of the woods and glynnes they came creeping forth upon their hands, for their legges could not beare them; they looked like anatomies of death, they spake like ghosts crying out of their graves; they did eate the dead carrions. (in Brantlinger 95-6) Coinciding with an increase in Irish political activism in the 1860s—1880s the barbarous ‘peasant Paddy’ was transformed in Victorian caricature into apes and gorillas, with epithets such as ‘Caliban, Frankenstein, Yahoo and gorilla’ (Curtis Apes and Angels 2, 22, 31), warranting Madden’s comment in Stephen Hero about the ‘old stale libels – the drunken Irishman, the baboon-faced Irishman that we see in Punch’ Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 117 | P a g e (SH 65; Cheng 33). As Cheng, Brantlinger and Nally point out, it was the dominant Victorian Anglo-Saxon belief that the English and Irish were separate ‘races’, and the failure of the Irish race to ‘progress’ was due to racial inferiority (Brantlinger 100; Cheng 20; Nally 82). Couched in Darwinian discourse, this perception of the Irish was bolstered by race theorist John Beddoe’s The Races of Britain (1885), who developed a formula around quantities of melanin in skin, eyes and hair that ‘proved’ the Irish were ‘more Negroid than the English’, and anthropological and ethnological ‘data’ that claimed that the characteristics of the heads of Irish people — absent chins, receding or sloping foreheads, large projecting mouths with thick lips — suggesting the Irish were ‘the missing link’ (in Cheng 31-2, 37; Curtis 29, 94). Nally suggests though that supposed melanin quantities were not sufficient indicators to provide enough of a gap between the Irish and the Anglo-Saxons, so English racism also draws on ‘domestic barbarism’ — the domestic disorder and poor public hygiene — of the Irish as the signifier of race (85). As Curtis and Cheng maintain though, the ‘pejorative singular’ – ‘The Irishman’ – was endowed with the very traits that were ‘most feared and despised in respectable English society’: ‘subservient, disorderly, uncivilised, unenterprising, cowardly, indecorous’, for example (Curtis 5; Cheng 20-1). Though the Catholic Emancipation Bill was ratified in 1829 Nally argues convincingly that ‘racial and cultural prejudices were reinforced and amplified by pre-existing suspicions about loyalty, morality, and industry of Roman Catholics’ (82-4). Catholicism was seen as superstitious, irrational, feminine and bestial, and as such ‘antiprogressive’ (Brantlinger 101). In Ulysses Joyce problematises the English labels of barbarians and animals for the Irish by exhibiting a struggle against the internalisation of this dehumanisation. Bloom’s ability to maintain his ‘speaking’ part requires effort lest he too becomes one of the walking dead at Burton’s. While Bloom judges other men at Burton’s for their animal- like eating habits, for example, he notices that one man spits half-masticated gristle back onto his plate, another picks his teeth, another licks his plate, and another talks with his mouth full (U 8: 658-93), he also reveals his own proximity to animality. ‘Scavenging’ for something to eat at the viceregal high tea he ends up pouring mayonnaise on his plums instead of custard (8: 352-5). He also admits to the unsavoury weakness for raw pastry (8: 874-5). While Bloom loses his appetite at Burton’s, and temporarily forgets Boylan, he orders a Gorgonzola sandwich (8: 764). In Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 118 | P a g e contradistinction and as an anecdote to the animalistic eating at Burton’s, here Bloom ‘cut[s] his sandwich into slender strips’ and studs each strip with a yellow blob of mustard (8: 777-782). Significantly, he eats the sandwich ‘with relish’ (8: 818). When the reader first meets Bloom in the ‘Calypso’ episode we are immediately told he ‘ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls’ (4: 1-2). However, as noted in the previous chapter, just as Bloom seemingly appears to ‘relish’ his bondage, so too he seems to exhibit a continued ‘relish’ for offal — the ‘leftovers of others’ (Roos 186) — and the new peasant staple, bread. Bread was for the English the ‘ultimate hallmark of improvement’ (Lloyd 171), benefitting as it did the transference of potato yielding small holdings to large scale grain growing farms. Upon a visit to the ‘new rationalised landscape’ of Gweedore, for example, one Commissioner praised how ‘this former desert and bleak wilderness – this example of barbarism and starvation’, had been transformed into ‘fertile corn fields, the seat of industry and content, and into a humanized abode’ (in Nally 208). As Lloyd explains: In Ireland, [the] moral economy was also an alternative economy that was deeply embedded in the opposition of the potato as means of subsistence to corn as commodity. The potato is the antithesis of corn in almost every respect. Unlike corn the potato is not conducive to storage or long distance transportation . . . The Bulk and slowness of the potato . . . defies that other critical capitalist virtue, speed of movement across space. Dependent on a food that lacks marketability, that cannot effectively be circulated as a commodity, the Irish fail[ed] to enter into Empire-wide market commodities. (Irish Culture and Colonial Modernity 37) In the ‘Circe’ episode Bloom reflects that he has ‘been a perfect pig’ (U 15: 3397). Just as Spenser’s judgments of Irish wretchedness reveal imperial violence, Joyce’s symbol of offal and other ‘left overs’, such as the pig’s crubeen and sheep’s trotter he buys in ‘Circe’, reveal a submissiveness to colonisation through the conditioned acceptance of scraps from the ‘rump’ of (Bello) England (15: 2839; emphasis added). Joyce tellingly has dogs ‘take to him’, and as Bloom reflects that his purchase of sheep and pig’s feet is ‘Absurd’, ‘Eat it and get all pigsticky’, he ventures to feed them to the dogs (15: 557- 65). While he regrets the ‘waste of money’, ‘O let it slide. Two and six’, it is the bullmastiff – an English breed – that ‘mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts himself with Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 119 | P a g e growling greed, crunching bones’ (15: 658-74; original emphasis). The scene is nonetheless complex. Bloom exhibits the seemingly insatiable appetite for the lowly, a rejection of his conditioning, but also the eventual reacceptance of the coloniser’s assigned label of subhuman. It is significant that earlier in the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode Bloom considers the ‘[p]enny dinner’, where the Dubliner poor still eat with the ‘[k]nife and fork chained to the table’ (U 8: 237-8). As Gifford reveals though, there was a further imposition and demoralisation as the recipients had to eat standing up (163). Even though this organisation that operated from the Christian Union building, offering free breakfast on Sundays, and the ‘penny and half-penny dinners’ available during the winter months (Gifford 163), the symbol of distrust, oppression and coerced submission (the chain) is still evident. While fifty years after the famine the spoon has been replaced with knives and forks, suggestive of more substantial eating, it is even more telling that an implement for attack and defence – the knife – is chained. In the ‘Proteus’ episode Stephen makes a connection between himself and the ancestors of the Irish. Just as Joyce thinks of Irishness as a blend of identities (‘Saints and Sages’ CW 159-61), Stephen makes an association with Danish Viking invaders, a more ‘unchained’ version of the Irish: Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Dane Vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breast when Malachi wore the collar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers’ knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters. Their blood is in me, their lust my waves. (U 3: 300-7) Although these Scandinavian ancestors also experienced famine they were not impotent. Stephen’s thoughts of ‘his people’ when juxtaposed with Bloom’s thought about the Famine emphasise the impact of England’s colonisation and the manacling of the Irish. The ancestors that occupy Stephen’s thoughts did not line up in zigzag formation to eat their portion of flavoured water with a spoon on a chain, but with their tomahawks and knives they ran to scale and hack their prey. As Kevin Whelan observes, throughout Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 120 | P a g e Dubliners and Portrait Joyce employs a particular lexicon to describe Dublin (and colonised Ireland more broadly): ‘spectral, shrivelled, stale, vague, mean, dull, dark, melancholy, sombre, sour, sullen, gaunt, bleak, bitter, denuded, pallid, grey, servile, consumptive, narrow, tawdry, gloomy, listless’ (Whelan ‘Memories of “The Dead”’ 65). The description of these early Irish in Ulysses with their weapons and tools ‘aglitter’ highlights the extent of the decline of the Irish. Even more telling, Stephen’s ancestors aren’t thought of in animalistic terms; it is the whales that ‘spout’ and ‘hobble’. As Wurtz maintains, ‘Joyce’s Gothic’ generally doesn’t rely on the established tropes of the haunted house, a dark and stormy night or a preternatural fiend. The key gothic feature of Ulysses is its conjuring of ‘the sense of claustrophobia’ through the ‘incessant return of the past’ that threatens to dominate daily life and smother the characters (103). It would be an oversight not to acknowledge that in 1847 there were reports of attacks against soup kitchens, with the starving demanding employment, not porridge and soup. There were also demands for receiving a ration of meal so that people could cook for themselves instead of receiving soup. Relief committees were usually reluctant to distribute meal, notes McLean, as they claimed that people had inadequate cooking facilities, had poor domestic hygiene that might aggravate the spread of diarrhoea and dysentery, and may even exchange the meal for alcohol, tea or tobacco (McLean 85). McLean remarks that if relief recipients were successful in having their demands met, modest though they were, the victory was often short lived. In County Clare when the Poor Law Commission reneged on their agreed substitution of meal for soup, and had troops sent in anticipation of riots, what followed ‘was not rioting but a series of peaceful protest marches, all of which failed to convince the commissioners to reconsider their decision’ (McLean 85). While the 1826 Parliamentary Committee feared that the fecund Irish population would ‘fill up every vacuum created in England or Scotland and reduce the laboring classes to a uniform state of degradation and misery’ (in McLean 65; also see Lloyd ‘Indigent Sublime’ 161), the Famine allayed England’s fears as not only had the Irish fertility rate declined but ‘the very instinct for sex had been diminished drastically’ (Lowe-Evans 19). Lowe-Evans suggest that this ‘biological impotence’ mirrored the ‘apparent powerlessness to stop the English landlords from driving them off the land and shipping out crops which could have saved their lives’ (19). As argued in the previous chapter, Joyce’s reflections on Queen Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 121 | P a g e Victoria’s visits to Ireland also reflect the modest protest and silence of the Irish (CW 163-5). Gallagher notes that during the Famine ‘the forebearance of the Irish peasantry, and the calm submission with which they bore the deadliest ills that can fall on man can scarcely be paralleled in the annals of any people’ (in Lowe-Evans 19). ‘Strandentwining Cable of all Flesh’: Corpsechewers In addition to Joyce’s sense of ‘claustrophobia’, the more obvious gothic trope is the post-mortem ‘corpsechewing’. James Fairhall uses Stacy Alaimo’s concept of ‘trans- corporeality’, where the human is always intermeshed with the environment, to explore this image (Fairhall ‘Nature, Existential Shame, and Transcendence’ 92). Despite the human drive to transcend nature, we ‘are continually pulled back into our physical selves by natural laws whose impingement we feel to be, at times, alien and shame- provoking’ (Fairhall 66). Stephen’s thoughts and apparition of his mother as ‘Ghoul! Chewer of corpses! (U 1: 278) and ‘corpsechewer’ (15: 4214) are thus more complicated, for in addition to personal guilt surrounding her death, where upon seeing her he chokes with ‘fright, remorse and horror’ (15: 4185-6), Stephen also has ‘existential shame’; ‘the painful emotion a person naturally feels on encountering any kind of shortcoming or limitation’ (Jordan in Fairhall 67). As Stephen walks along Sandymount in the ‘Proteus’ episode he considers how the ‘cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh’ (U 3: 37). Fairhall suggests that this ‘intergenerational umbilical cord’ (70) taints Stephen and his progenitors as they are ‘made not begotten’ by the navel-less ‘Belly without blemish’ and the ‘Womb of sin’ (U 3: 42-5). The cord is more than a representation of the myth of origin, however, as it connects the Irish to Famine and the intra-generational memory of putrefying bodies. This cord of Famine and decay that binds the Irish was introduced in Stephen Hero as Stephen’s mother asks Stephen if he knows anything about the body, in particular the ‘hole we all have in the stomach’ as his sister Isobel had some ‘matter coming away’ (SH 163). Though we don’t know what this ‘matter’ is, T. P. O’Connor [1889] records one writer’s medical observations of the Famine, where among numerous horrendous symptoms there was ‘a loathsome, putrid smell emanating from Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 122 | P a g e their persons, as if decomposition of the vital organs had anticipated death’ (in Ulin 40). At the beginning of Ulysses we also learn that as May Dedalus dies ‘[a] bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting’ (U 1: 108-10). The image for Stephen is beyond a sorrowful familial remembrance as he links this bile to Dublin and sees the bay and skyline as a ‘dull green mass of liquid’ (1: 107-8). In the ‘Circe’ episode May Dedalus’s face is ‘worn and noseless, green with gravemould’ and ‘a green rill of bile trickling from the side of her mouth’ (15: 4159, 4189-90; original emphasis), reinforcing Joyce’s allusion to the physical effects of the Great Famine (Ulin 40). As Morash and Ulin observe, the colour green is evoked in the majority of Famine descriptions of the dying as during the Famine dead bodies were often discovered ‘with grass in their mouths and in their stomachs and bowels’ (O’Connor in Ulin 40). Morash follows the literary genealogy of this ‘memory’ of the Famine from Edmund Spencer [1580] who recorded the effects of the Munster Famine, noting that ‘yf they founde a plot of water cresses or shamrocks, there they flocked as to a feast’ (‘Making Memories’ 50). Though Spenser’s reflections are through the imperial lens that uses a bank of images to affirm the animality of the Irish, these were subsequently appropriated by the Irish to advance their status as victims (Morash 50). In the United Irishman newspaper [1848], Morash quotes a Famine report where ‘[a] poor man . . . lay down on the road-side, where shortly after he was found dead, his face turned to the earth, and a portion of the grass and turf on which he lay masticated in his mouth’ (in Morash 50). The desperate image of ‘green mouths’ is also recorded in poems such as ‘The Boreen Side’ [1848]: ‘A stripling, the last of his race, lies dead / In a nook by the Boreen side . . . Where he ate the green cresses and died’ (in Morash 49-50). Canon Sheehan’s 1905 novel Glenanaar refers to the ‘lines of green around the mouth, the dry juice of grass and nettles’, as one of the ‘appalling pictures’ of the Famine that ‘springs up to memory’ (in Morash 48-9). Morash doesn’t refer to Joyce’s place in this genealogy, but Joyce does continue this use of Famine images. Furthermore, Joyce’s repetition of the image of green mouths from this ‘fund’ gives the Famine lexicon ‘added credence’ (Morash 51). Not only does Joyce encourage the reader to follow his addition to Famine vocabulary but he also draws on and perpetuates established signs. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 123 | P a g e The confluence of the image of a green mouth with the Gothic trope of the encounter with the vampiric corpsechewer compounds Joyce’s strategy to highlight the Irish ‘incessant return of the past and its dominance over daily life’, and the effect that ‘living modern life in the colonial metropolis [has] on the individual psyches of the characters’ (Wurtz 103). In his genealogical study of ‘corpsechewers’ as ‘vampires’ William Orem points out that many of the earliest ‘vampires’ didn’t focus on blood sucking but on the phenomenon of manducation, or ‘postmortem chewing’ (‘Corspe-chewers’ 62). In early accounts such as Philipp Rohr’s Dissertatio Historico-Philosophica De Masticatione Mortuorum [1679] — which incidentally Orem notes was at the Zurich Zentralbibliothek where Joyce was researching when writing ‘Telemachus’ (64) — vampires chewed their shrouds in their coffins, and gnawed their own bodies as well as nearby corpses. They ‘devoured the grave clothes’ and swallowed and crunched ‘the cerements and the linen napkins which wrap their jaws’ (Rohr in Orem 63). Orem importantly indicates Paul Barber’s work (Vampires, Burial, and Death) which points out that a corpse that chews on its shroud or limbs was thought to bring death to the living relatives, and so apotropaics (‘methods of turning evil away’) were used (Barber 46-7). In Prussia, for example, a coin would be placed in the mouth of the corpse, or the mouth would be filled with dirt so the corpse would not chew (47). Read in this light, Joyce’s chewing also reflects eminent sociologist Robert Hertz’s theory of the ‘unquiet and spiteful souls’ that ‘roam the earth for ever’ (Death and the Right Hand 85). For Hertz the organic event of death is accompanied by ‘a complex mass of beliefs, emotions and activities which give it its distinctive character’ (27). This was violated during the Famine, however, as the ubiquity of death meant burials, if they did occur, were ‘indifferent’ and were enacted in casual haste (McLean 95). As Brendan O Cathaoir (Famine Diary), Roger McHugh (‘The Famine in Irish Oral Tradition’), McLean, and Ulin have all noted, there was tremendous anxiety over burial ritual during the Famine. The dying Famine victims would be seen ‘dragging themselves toward the local graveyards’ and friends and relatives of the dead ‘would resort to every means to lay the dead with their ancestors’ (McHugh 245; in Ulin 42). Despite this anxiety McLean notes survivors’ accounts that suggest churchyard burials were the exception rather than the norm (97). During the Famine the western landscape ‘was quite literally body-strewn’, as corpses were buried where they were found or lay unburied by hedges where rats would attend to the flesh (98; Gibson Strong Spirit 60). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 124 | P a g e The mass grave, McLean maintains, is the most widely disseminated image of the Famine where ‘bodies were piled anonymously and indiscriminately’ into pits. At Skibbereen, for example, ‘the dead were placed in “strata”, a little clay being thrown over each “stratum”, before the next was laid on . . . [I]n some cases the “stratum” would consist of ten to twelve bodies . . . [but] regularities were not always observed and . . . the dead were thrown sometimes into pits in a careless manner, and . . . the pits were covered when they could hold no more’ (McLean 101). The ‘theatre of death’, McLean suggests, overran the entirety of social space so the corpse that was traditionally dealt with in culturally prescribed ways disrupted the survivors’ normal propulsion of the dead body and their concomitant ritual reassertion of themselves as ‘living’ (McLean 95; also see Kristeva Powers of Horror 2-4). Instead, the Famine ‘hardened the hearts of people’ (in McLean 94) as death became ‘everyday’ rather than ‘extraordinary’ (Kerry Examiner [1847] in McLean 94). In addition to May Dedalus representing Irish Famine victims as restless, ‘chewing’ on their grave clothes and haunting the living, we might suppose that she also indicates the great secret of the Famine: Cannibalism. Thomas Jackson Rice explores metaphorical cannibalism in Joyce, where Joyce’s aesthetic is read as a ‘denatured relation to English progressively liberat[ing] him to disassemble and reassemble language to increase the artistic “serviceability” of words’ (Cannibal Joyce xvii), but cannibalism in Joyce can also be considered more literally. Joyce’s ‘corpsechewing’ takes into account the silence that encrypts famine cannibalism. This cannibalism is not from a psychogenic perspective (explained in terms of psychosexual needs), or hermeneutical (where cannibal practice is part of a larger life, death, reproduction cycle), but is materialist where ‘people adapt to hunger or protein deficiency by eating one another’ (Sanday Divine Hunger 3). Whilst there are different cultural practices of cannibalism, and ‘[i]n different contexts it may be seen as an inhuman, ghoulish nightmare or as a sacred, moral duty’, it is nonetheless ‘always . . . encompassed by the order of ritual and the tenor of ambivalence’ (8). Cormac Ó Gráda concurs that ‘the silences surrounding cannibalism are almost deafening enough to arouse suspicion’ (Curtis in Ó Gráda ‘Eating People is Wrong’ 23, and Eating People Is Wrong, and Other Essays 5, 11-37). In ‘Circe’ the emaciated body of Stephen’s mother ‘rises stark through the floor’, and as she ‘fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and opens her toothless mouth’, she utters ‘a silent word’, and a ‘choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly’ (U 15: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 125 | P a g e 4157-62). The ‘voiceless’ May Dedalus not only reflects the Irish silence surrounding their own subjugation, as has been investigated previously, but this ‘corpsechewer’ also reflects the taboo against cannibalism. As Ó Gráda notes, when and if it occurred, it would have been furtive, all traces hidden by the perpetrators’, necessitating also a taboo ‘inhibited others from recalling it’ (Ó Gráda ‘Eating People’ 30). In his paper from the Irish Famine Commemorative Lecture Series, Joseph Lee states that ‘[t]here was also of course a great deal of psychic decomposition, even right down to some cases of cannibalism, even, or especially, cannibalism in one’s own family. It was, as far as we can tell, of the deranged, of those who were themselves victims, driven mad by hunger’ (in Ó Gráda 23-4). May Dedalus’s ‘subtle smile of death’s madness’ further points to the possible link to cannibalism, but Joyce’s depiction of madness is sympathetic. May Dedalus in this light is ‘trans-corporal’, challenging the human desire to transcend nature. Through the inter-generational ‘strandentwining cable of all flesh’ Stephen fills in the silence of her ‘voicelessness’ with the deeming of his mother a ‘corpsechewer’, thus verbalising the existential shame of the Irish. Conclusion While Irish historiography exonerates the English of charges of genocide, there is little disagreement that the government could have done more to relieve starvation if its efforts were not focussed on long-term agricultural reform and the economic rationalisation of the clachan system. The link between the Great Famine, geography and fractured communities, via the long experience of land appropriation, eviction and displacement, considered alongside Famine ‘memory’ and allusions to Famine images, is seemingly not explored in Joycean scholarship. The nightmare of the ‘intertwined history of the city and country’ (Fairhall 75) refers to a complex intra- and inter- generational trauma of the Famine that considers the effects spatially as well as temporally. Joyce’s trope of famished ghosts is complicated when considered alongside recent developments in Irish historiography. The destruction of rural communities and the mass mobilisation of the rural Irish to cities meant Dublin witnessed a desperate people. Relief, pointedly, was also linked to a relinquishing of claims to land ownership, thus making what might have been a self-preserving, temporary stay in a city a permanent relocation. The ‘modern’ urban environment Joyce represents one to two generations later is not characterised by the intimacy and cooperation identified Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 126 | P a g e with the traditional clachan system. Instead Joyce presents throughout his work the atmosphere of distrust and economic insecurity, at least in part promulgated by the project of English economic rationalisation. Chapter One considered the Famine as a violent act, and argued that the pathologies of colonial oppression prevent social, economic and political progress. With the mobilisation of rural Irish, the imperial power affected a neutralisation of community and hindered the development of political association and the ability for a ‘prior covenant’. Furthermore, Bloom’s allusions to Victorian soup kitchen relief schemes, a point noted by Lowe-Evans and Ulin, are all the more poignant when they are considered alongside historical evidence that explores the paltriness of the relief, and the enforced dehumanisation as the starving were ushered through the ‘system’, timed, and observed like zoo animals. The Irish have long been portrayed as animals, pigs, subhuman, and the tag would be confirmed as reports of the Irish ‘scavenging’ were circulated during the Famine. Perceptions of Irish animality were part of the English arsenal to continue their subjugation and justified the neglect of ‘proper bonds of obligation’. Joyce’s ‘famished ghosts’ represent not only the intra- and inter-generational trauma of the ‘event’, but the idea that those Dubliners caught in the past, but who don’t understand the past and how it impacts them, are prevented from progressing their narratives beyond immediate satiation. The men at Burton’s are men ‘out of time’ who have both internalised projected animality but also reflect the embodied, dehumanising efficiencies of Victorian ‘relief’. Bloom, though struggling to carve out a space in time, manages to distinguish himself and indicates the danger of being caught in the nets of the intra-generational memory. Joyce’s use of gothic tropes is interesting, and although scholars have considered his use of the vampiric figure, May Dedalus, as corpsechewer, also intimates the possible historical shame surrounding famine cannibalism, an area of Irish historiography Ó Gráda has recently investigated. Joyce’s gothic is postcolonial as it stands in contrast to the Anglo-Irish gothic which expresses fear of the ‘native population’ as they endeavoured to create their own Anglo-Irish cultural identity (Wurtz 104). Joyce’s gothic also diverges from James Clarence Mangan’s gothic poems about the Famine (for example, ‘The Nameless One’ and ‘Siberia’; see also see Morash The Hungry Voice). For Joyce, Mangan’s gothic was too focused on the discourse of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 127 | P a g e internalised sin, where even in his ‘fiery moments’, he still isn’t ‘free from it’ (Joyce ‘James Clarence Mangan’ CW 81). For the men in Burton’s there is no alternative definition of human life yet, but it seems Joyce is presenting these spectres to Dublin itself; parading the apparition as the precursor to the reawakening. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 128 | P a g e Chapter 3 – Parnell, Failed Hospitality and Decline of the Domestic Realm ‘[T]he angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat . . . Justice it means but it’s everybody eating everybody else’ (Ulysses 7:212-14) In A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Stephen describes Ireland as ‘the old sow that eats her farrow’ (179), alluding to Irish complicity in their own oppression. As indicated in previous chapters Joyce’s narrative of the state of the Irish follows a complex interweaving of both structural impediments and failed agency. For example, while the Irish have been victims some, like the Citizen, have also benefitted financially at the expense of other Irish. The colonial experience of the Irish is thus to some extent predicated on class. If England has metaphorically ‘eaten’ Ireland, then the Irish have also devoured their own. In addition to the Great Irish Famine and the concurrent, violent ‘reforming’ of the Irish agricultural system, another key event of Irish history prevalent in Joyce’s work is the ‘betrayal’ and death of Charles Stewart Parnell (1846- 91). Joyce’s essays ‘Home Rule Comes of Age’ (1907) and ‘The Shade of Parnell’ (1912) reveal his admiration for Parnell. They also represent Parnell’s political downfall and highlight the tensions in Ireland between desires for independence and the pressures of Catholic morality. As Andrew Gibson argues, we might read Ulysses as an emancipatory project that can be encapsulated with Stephen Dedalus’s two key phrases: ‘History . . . is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake’, and ‘In here it is that I must kill the priest and the king’ (Ulysses 2: 377; 15: 4436-7; see Gibson Joyce’s Revenge). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 129 | P a g e A primary focus of this chapter is the Dedalus family, and though the textual evidence moves to Ulysses, the household’s decline begins in Portrait, and more specifically, I suggest, at the Christmas Dinner scene. It is symbolic that the decline is most visible after the politically charged conversation at this celebration, and telling that the conflict involves both ‘host’ and ‘guest’. Margaret Visser’s The Rituals of Dinner observes that traditionally hospitality means the willingness of hosts and strangers (or guests) to be ‘constrained by intricate sets of obligations’ for the sake of ‘peace, order, and the benefit of the whole community’ (91). This is especially important in cultures — and I would add very relevant for a post-Famine colonial Ireland — where ‘people were apt to find themselves in the role of travellers or strangers’ (Flammang The Taste of Civilization 104). Janet Flammang affirms that hospitality is in the individual’s and the group’s best interest, especially in a hostile environment such as one with an uncertain food supply (104), but in Portrait the common threat of suppressive colonial domination and its concomitant insecurities is secondary to internal, religious conflict. The Christmas dinner suggests a nightmare of both the priest and king ‘devouring’ Parnell, the man Parnellites like Casey and Simon Dedalus believed was ‘born to lead us’ (Portrait 33). A number of scholars have considered both Joyce’s devotion to a particular Parnellite mythology (for example Fairhall A Question of History, especially ‘Literary Politics’; Gibson Joyce’s Revenge, ‘Introduction’). Others such as Seamus Deane (‘Dead Ends: Joyce’s Finest Moments’ in Semicolonial Joyce), explore the ‘ghostly version’ of the world of Parnell in turn of the century Dublin, and Allan H. Simmons (‘Topography and Transformation’ in Joyce, Imperialism and Colonialism) observes the historical dimension of Joyce’s Dublin where locations and architecture root the Irish to the past and prevent contestation and subversion of the colonial present. It is Hans Walter Gabler’s 1975 article, however, from which this chapter owes its trajectory as it connects the political altercation over Parnell in the Christmas dinner scene with Joyce’s biography and the impact of Parnell’s demise on the Dedalus family (‘The Christmas Dinner Scene, Parnell’s Death, and the Genesis of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’). The demise and death of Parnell not only had implications for Ireland’s nationalist aspirations but through the Christmas dinner Joyce exhibits how the ensuing post- Parnellite paralysis impacts Dublin families and the domestic realm. As the scene Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 130 | P a g e closes Casey, with his head in his hands, will emit a ‘sob of pain’ crying ‘Poor Parnell! . . . My dead king!’, and Dedalus senior will have eyes full of tears (34). While Catholics like Dante proclaim ‘God and morality and religion come first’ (33), Casey and Simon Dedalus are left hollow. Simon Dedalus, now a broken man without hope, is increasingly less able to provide for his family. In post-Parnell Ulysses, a number of men attempt to find ‘home’ and connect with each other through the homosocial consumption of alcohol in the public sphere. Scholars skim over Joyce’s drinking. For example: alcohol was a ‘blessed relief from his responsibilities’ (Pindar 51); Joyce was ‘sensitive to alcohol’ (Epstein 17); and Joyce’s drinking bouts ‘bear witness . . . to the sheer ardour of his sense of purpose’ (Gibson James Joyce 51; see Briggs ‘Joyce’s Drinking’ 639). This downplays Joyce’s alcoholism but it also fails to consider the effects of excessive alcohol consumption that are presented throughout his work. The proto-feminist Joyce explores the downside of homosocial drinking culture because it leads to another type of devouring: paternal neglect. Joyce’s snapshot technique in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode enables parallax to complicate gendered, cultural and socio-economic preconceptions, and the complex consideration of the downwardly mobile post-Parnell Dedalus family is a prime example. Reader responses of sympathy and condemnation shift throughout the episode as new juxtapositions are made, and previous scenes, episodes, and Joyce’s previous work (Portrait) are recalled. Joyce’s ruminations on the deterioration of Dublin families elicit sentiment, that emotional investment in characters which is, apparently, antithetical to High Modernism’s pursuits of ‘hard’, ‘new’, ‘masculine’ art forms. Clive Hart, alone in the critical world dominated by the New Criticism, argued five decades ago that the ‘fear of sentimentality’ had been ‘inhibiting and limiting’ for Joyce scholarship (Hart ‘James Joyce’s Sentimentality’ 28; Scholes Paradoxy of Modernism 123, 126). This chapter progresses both James Longenbach’s argument that High Modernists like T. S. Eliot included Modernist devices, such as ironic sides, to enable emotion into the work (‘Randall Jarrell’s Legacy’ 259), and Anthony Cuda’s assertion that Modernists were not interested in eliminating emotion via their experimental forms but were fulfilling the ‘urgent desire . . . to meaningfully encounter powerlessness’ and be ‘moved’ (The Passions of Modernism 5). Joyce’s characters are not devoid of emotion; nor completely subsumed by their subjugation. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 131 | P a g e This chapter contends that Joyce’s dissident voices are heard as they challenge dominate structures and can manage to create a brief space where ‘the self may dissociate from the ascendant social order’ (Sinfield Faultlines 41; Schwarze 4). In this ‘space’ the Irish might gain the necessary perspective to critique the pervasiveness of religious suppression and the oppressive terms of their ‘social contract’ with the English. Joyce’s sentiment isn’t for its own sake but exists to challenge the reproduction of amnesiac societal values and offer a flickering possibility of an alternate Irish society. The ‘betrayal’ of Charles Stewart Parnell typifies the seeming inevitability of Irish duplicity, where anyone dedicated to political freedom for Ireland is compromised (Smyth ‘Trust not Appearances’ 254-71). Joyce’s parallactic form also, treacherously, examines how Ireland’s capacity for political agency is impacted by a failing domestic sphere, neglected and impaired by patriarchy. These considerations are qualified and complex, and Joyce also highlights the complicity and ignorance of the Irish middle class, represented by Mulligan, and their disconnection from the reality of working class poverty. The Uncrowned King Joyce fiction and non-fiction reflect a collective memory of Parnellite martyrology, passed down from his father (Fairhall Question of History 123), which depicts the fall of Charles Stewart Parnell, the ‘uncrowned king’ of Ireland (‘Shade of Parnell’ CW 228). Joyce notes that Parnell’s influence on the Irish people defies critical analysis. He had a ‘speech defect’ and his speeches ‘lacked eloquence, poetry, and humour’, he was ignorant of the history of Ireland, and was of a Protestant aristocratic lineage. His manner was cold and formal, and ‘as a crowning disgrace, he spoke with a distinct English accent’ (225). Parnell was a landlord of nearly 4000 acres in Wicklow (McCartney ‘Parnell, Davitt and the Irish Land Question’ 75), which was relatively untouched by the bad harvests of the 1870s, and revisionist historians like F. S. L. Lyons highlight the personal political ambitions behind the ‘saviour’ mythology (Lyons Charles Stewart Parnell 138; McCartney 73). Donal McCartney contends, however, that while Parnell’s initial interests were political with a focus, for example, on election contests and parliamentary obstructions, from 1877 he became openly interested in social questions (‘Parnell, Davitt and the Land Question’ 74). During his County Mayo visit in 1877 Parnell was ‘struck by the wretchedness of the people, the squalor of their Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 132 | P a g e houses, the smallness and barrenness of the farms’ (McCartney 74). It is this strong focus on the ‘land question’ and the plight of Irish peasants that cultivated the unbreakable reverence ‘Parnellites’ had for their king. When Parnell addressed the American Congress on 2 February 1880, he quoted Professor Blackie who argued that confiscated Irish land was now in the hands of ‘cliques of greedy and grasping oligarchs, who had done nothing for the country . . . but suck its blood in the name of land rent and squander its wealth under the name of fashion and pleasure in London’ (in McCartney 74; Parnell ‘The Land Question’). In his ‘Shade of Parnell’ essay, thirty two years after Parnell uttered these words, Joyce returns to these vampiric metaphors to emphasise the parasitic landlord / tenant relationships, and to pointedly highlight Ireland’s sacrifice of its own saviour. Joyce’s shame for his country is evident: he laments the ‘broken heart’ of the leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party and the leading figure in the Home Rule Movement (CW 228). ‘The ghost of the “uncrowned king” will weigh on the hearts of those who remember him’ Joyce states, for while Parnell ‘begged them’ not to betray him to the ‘English wolves howling’, it was not the colonial oppressor who ultimately devoured him; it was the Irish who ‘tore him to pieces themselves’ (228). He had led the Irish, ‘like another Moses’ from ‘the house of shame to the verge of the promised Land’ (225), but for his efforts he was ‘like a hunted deer’ and in the end his party turned on him and the ‘clergy entered the ranks to finish him off’ (227). Joyce would go on to repeat this Old Testament evocation linking the Irish to the Israelites in the ‘Aeolus’ and ‘Circe’ episodes of Ulysses. Joyce asserts in his ‘Home Rule Comes of Age’ essay that the most powerful weapons England used against Ireland were Gladstone’s Liberalism and ‘Vaticanism’ (Joyce ‘Home Rule’ CW 195). Conservativism, though ‘tyrannical’ is at least for Joyce ‘a frankly and openly inimical doctrine’: ‘its position is logical; it does not want a rival island to arise near Great Britain, or Irish factories to create competition for those in England, or tobacco and wine again to be exported from Ireland, or the great ports along the Irish coast to become enemy naval bases under a native government or a foreign protectorate’ (195). The Liberals he implies, are hypocritical, raising false hopes and disarming Irish separatists (Fairhall Question of History 125). Prior to the Gladstone losing power in the 1886 elections, Joyce maintains that Gladstone’s delays on Home Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 133 | P a g e Rule, despite the ostensive approval of the 1886 Act, were spent completing the ‘moral assassination’ of Parnell (CW 193). The price Gladstone demanded for the success of the second Home Rule Bill would be the resignation of the leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party. Parnell was now labelled an adulterer, after his long-term affair with Mrs O’Shea was affirmed when he failed to contest Mr. O’Shea’s citing of him as co-respondent in his divorce law suit. Citing the Liberals’ need for the English Dissenters’ support for the Home Rule Bill, in November 1890 Gladstone demanded the resignation of Parnell as party leader to pacify the demands of dissenter Puritanism to expunge the ‘unmasked sexual sinner’ (Fairhall 134). In December 1890, in a Committee Room at the House of Commons, 75 of the 83 Irish Party members withdrew their support for Parnell (Joyce CW 227). Cheng notes though that not all high profile sexual transgressions are met with the same response, and seemingly there was a distinction between the well-known philandering of Prince (later King) Edward and the eight year affair Parnell had with O’Shea; a woman he ultimately married (Cheng 125; also see Simmons 31). The hypocrisy of moral judgment and Parnell’s betrayal by his Party and nation are both addressed in the Dubliners short story, ‘Ivy Day at the Committee Room’. On Ivy Day (October 6, the anniversary of Parnell’s death), the committee room is full of canvassers for candidates for a local Dublin election. Most of the men don’t believe in their candidates, but nonetheless are waiting in the room for their wages. Both Fairhall (‘Colgan-Connolly’ 299) and Cheng focus on the personal, economic motivation of the men’s political lobbying. As Cheng states, ‘[i]n this story and in the wake of Parnell’s death, the nationalist zeal once focused under his leadership has been replaced in Irish citizens by a prostituted, shoneen politics that would sell its services to anyone willing to pay for them, regardless of political affiliation or ideology’ (124). In Margot Norris’s reading of the story though, she observes that ‘Ivy Day’ seeks to ‘do justice not only to the signifier of Parnell but also to the class of ordinary Dublin men whose lives are the micropolitical landscape that Parnell’s macropolitical policies and strategies sought to address’ (Norris Suspicious Readings 176). Norris observes that some of these men are in financial difficulty — Mr O’Connor’s boots ‘let in the wet’ (Dubliners 100), and Mr Henchy expects to find bailiffs in the hall when he gets home (105) — representing Joyce’s acknowledgment of contemporary social problems and the fact that their conditions don’t allow the luxury of supporting a candidate who represents their Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 134 | P a g e interests (Norris 179). Before his betrayal and defeat Parnell was able to ‘unite the disparate segments of colonial Ireland in collective stance against English domination in the cause of Home Rule’ (Cheng 123). Like a prophet he led a ‘turbulent and unstable people from the house of shame to the verge of the Promised Land’ (Joyce CW 227). The void left by Parnell is palpable. It shifted Irish priorities from the inspirational project of national determinism to a situation more immediate with an anxious concern for economic security. Despite the recognition of the material conditions of Dubliners and the identification of why Dubliners prostitute their politics, Joyce’s considerations are multifaceted as he doesn’t completely absolve the ‘Ivy Day’ canvassers of their trespasses. The micropolitical concerns noted in ‘Ivy Day’ highlight the passivity demonstrated by the Dubliners. For example, the political candidate Henchy is working for has vested interests that fly in the face of his own financial anxieties, but this canvasser still fronts up to be paid (Norris 179-80). Joyce is ruthless in his reiteration of Parnell’s betrayal through the character of Hynes who represents a candidate he believes in and is thus placed above Irish shoneen politics, and who remains a loyal Parnellite. Hynes highlights the Dubliners’ shame for their sham canvassing through his recitation of a poem about Parnell. Though mawkish, the rendition draws applause then ‘all the auditors drank from their bottles in silence’ (Dubliners 115-6; emphasis added). As Cheng maintains it is the ‘silence of complicit guilt’ as the poem implicitly suggests that ‘all of them but Hynes have compromised and prostituted their ideals’ and all share in ‘the betrayal of Parnell and the Nationalist principles for which he stood’ (Cheng 126). Hynes admonishes Dubliners who forget their own suppression, and reminds those present that while there is talk of ‘kowtowing to a foreign king’ and plans for ‘an address and welcome’ for King Edward in Dublin, Parnell would never support such an ameliorative stance (Dubliners 103; Cheng 124). As Cheng observes, so internalised is Mr Henchy’s oppression that he imagines that the King has Ireland’s best interests at heart, and despite the pomp he perceives the King as a no-nonsense ‘ordinary’ man. He does not see the connection between his excuses for King Edward and the moral reasoning behind Parnell’s discharge from leadership: Parnell is dead . . . Now, here’s the way I look at it . . . He’s a man of the world and he means well by us. He’s a jolly fine decent fellow, if you ask me, and no Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 135 | P a g e damn nonsense about him . . . Let bygones be bygones . . . I admire the man personally. He’s just an ordinary knockabout like you and me. He’s fond of his glass of grog and he’s a bit of a rake, perhaps, and he’s a good sportsman. Damn it, can’t we Irish play fair? (Dubliners 112) The Joyce of Christmas Dinner In the Portrait Christmas dinner scene Joyce encapsulates the theme of post-Parnell paralysis and the Irish self-devouring that is explored in much of Joyce’s work. It is significant that Joyce uses the season of Christmas to explore the complexity of Irish politics, and as a marker for the subsequent decline of the Dedalus family. According to an 1893 article in The Journal of American Folklore, Christmas was a ‘glorious’ day for the Irish where ‘[r]adiant joy beamed from the faces of all’, where ‘everyday felt extremely happy’, and nothing could ‘harm’ you (‘Folk-Lore from Ireland’ 259). The anthropologist Ellen Powell Thompson notes that the Irish woman she interviewed had lived for twenty years in Connaught before moving to Washington, but these customs and superstitions that she recalled were ‘universal’ (259). Indeed, these childhood and early adult recollections seem perfectly in keeping with Victorian Christmas ideals. For Dickens, Christmas stories ‘retain[ed] through memory the child’s imaginative capacity, and through that imagination, the adult’s understanding of compassion’ (Glancy ‘Dickens and Christmas’ 59). While in one sketch in a ‘Christmas Number’ of Household Words Dickens would acknowledge that one can be ‘[e]ncirled by social thoughts’ at Christmas time, it was hoped that in spite of this ‘the benignant figure of . . . childhood [would] stand unchanged’ (59). Thus, as Ruth Glancy argues, Dickens’s literary Christmases were times for memories to ‘flood back and bring about a spiritual regeneration’ as people won moral victories over ‘the hardening and destructive effects of age and experience’ (54). As David Parker notes of A Christmas Carol, the three ghosts give Scrooge ‘a transcendent understanding’. He has learned ‘the possibility of learning and the capacity for change’, so he can improve his life and also the lives of those around him (Christmas and Charles Dickens 206, 214). In contrast to the Dickensian regenerative powers of Christmas, one could argue that Joyce reflects more the melancholy of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ‘The Christmas Banquet’ (1844) where the Christmas feast is held, not in the hope that the ‘ten most miserable Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 136 | P a g e persons’ that attend might derive solace from the spirit of the occasion (Cody ‘Invited Guests at Hawthorne’s “Christmas Banquet”’ 17-8), but ‘to provide that the stern or fierce expression of human discontent should not be drowned, even for that one holy and joyful day, amid the acclamations of festal gratitude which all Christendom sends up’ (Hawthorne ‘Christmas Banquet’ Tales 308). In Hawthorne’s misanthropic tale the wine thus seems ‘to come imbued with gloomy inspirations’, its influence not to cheer but ‘either to sink the revellers into a deeper melancholy, or elevate their spirits to an enthusiasm for wretchedness’ (313). The Hawthorne scholar James Wohlpart proposes that ‘Christmas Banquet’ is critical of the Transcendentalist aesthetic, where the figures who live in the unsubstantiated dream world are separated from humanity (‘Allegories of Art’ 450-1). This much is indicated in the frame narrative as the narrator Roderick Elliston introduces Hawthorne’s criticism of this philosophy; its ‘deficiency in . . . spiritual organisation’ (Hawthorne 307; see Wohlpart 451-2). The purpose of the old man in Roderick’s tale is to ‘perpetuate [the old man’s] own remonstrance against the earthly course of Providence, and his sad and sour dissent from those systems of religion or philosophy which either find sunshine in the world or draw it down from heaven’ (308). One can discern in Portrait’s Christmas dinner scene Joyce’s desire to examine the heart of humanity via the uncomfortable, disrupting, conflictual realities of the paralysed post-Parnell Ireland. Joyce thus challenges Ireland’s idealistic ‘crowning’ of Parnell, which he sees as worthless if the Irish are still bound by Catholic doctrines of ‘sin’ (Dante), left impotent after Parnell’s demise (Simon Dedalus), or defy humanity in a bid to fly by the structural nets of Irish society (Stephen). In the first chapter of Portrait, Christmas Day falls not three months after the death of Parnell, and as Hans Walter Gabler argues, Chapter One is ‘as much about Parnell and Ireland as about Stephen and Clongowes’ (Gabler ‘Christmas Dinner Scene’ 33). Gabler reminds us that ‘the action proper of the novel opens on the day Stephen alters his Christmas holiday countdown from 77 to 76 (33; Portrait 12). Thus the novel opens on a day between Parnell’s death (October 6, 1891) and his burial (October 11). The 77th day (October 8) before Christmas is termed by Gabler the first ‘post-Parnellite’ day in Irish history, given the news of his death did not reach Ireland until October 7. As Gabler suggests, post-Parnellite behaviour ensues at this point at Clongowes with Wells shouldering Stephen into a ditch of ‘cold and slimy’ water causing Stephen’s illness (35; Portrait 12). Extending the sequential dates of the novel, Stephen is taken to the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 137 | P a g e infirmary on October 10 where he has a fever dream about his death where the perpetrator Wells ‘would be sorry then for what he had done’ (Portrait 20). As Gabler maintains, the evening of Stephen’s subsequent ‘recuperative sleep’ (October 10 -11) synchronises Stephen’s time with Parnell’s (34). Linking Parnell’s burial on 11 October, 1891 and Stephen’s recovery, Gabler suggests that such synchronicity means ‘Parnell dies so that Stephen may live’ (34). What I suggest, however, is the Christmas dinner highlights the emptiness of the myth of heroic sacrifice. Parnell’s supporters are not inspired to continue or benefit from his work, but instead Joyce denotes how the ensuing paralysis ultimately leads to the financial ruin of Dublin families. From Portrait’s ostensive festive rituals and hospitality to the ultimate breakdown in hope and dialogue, the Christmas dinner scene further demonstrates the type of post- Parnellite behaviour emblematic of the betrayal, disorder and incivility experienced by Stephen at Clongowes. As Stephen dreams of Parnell’s body arriving at the harbour the people present ‘wail’ and ‘moan’ with sorrow – ‘Parnell! Parnell! He is dead!’ (Portrait 23). Dante is ‘proud’ of Parnell’s sacrifice evidenced by her wearing a ‘maroon velvet dress with a green velvet mantle from her shoulders’ (23). Instead of grieving like the people she silently passes, Stephen sees her distanced from grief and instead attaching meaning to death. Such an imagined action is consistent with Stephen’s knowledge of Dante’s nationalist loyalty (5, 13), prior to ‘politics’ and her ripping off of the green velvet from the brush, telling Stephen ‘Parnell is a bad man’ (14). While Gabler argues that there is no reference to the green and maroon colours so consistent with the Parnell (green) and Davitt (maroon) motif leading up to the Christmas scene (‘Christmas Dinner’ 35-6), I argue that the continuation of the motif is present. Before Dante rearticulates her moral standing of her ‘politics’ Joyce continues the motif highlighting the betrayal of Parnell and nationalist hope with the red of a Davitt, anti-Parnell ‘fire’ and the Parnellite green of the ‘ivytwined branches of the Chandelier’ (Portrait 23). Tellingly it is under the ‘green’ ivy branches with which the ‘Christmas table was spread’ that the conflict proper surrounding Parnell and the Church ensues. Though the conflict ignites at the table, we should not neglect that the pre-dinner ‘placing’ of characters around the room pre-figures the ‘argumentative positions’ that the participants will adopt later (Toolan ‘Analysing Conversation in Fiction’ 394). The red fire symbolises anti-Parnellites, like Davitt and all Parnell’s close former associates Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 138 | P a g e who betrayed him, but also the Clergy who would bend to Gladstone’s demands and would argue against Parnell’s sexual immorality and neglect the more pressing concern of Irish independence. This puts Parnellite Mr Casey and the anti-Parnellite Dante on opposite sides of the hearth. Stephen is ‘seated on a chair between them’ with his feet resting on a soft foot stool (‘toasted boss’) indicating his innocence and uncertainty. While Toolan notes that Simon Dedalus has his back to the fire (394), it is also significant that he lifts his coat tails to the flames, exhibiting not only a back turning rejection but a rump-flaunting irreverence (Portrait 23). In addition to flouting the anti- Parnellites he later spurns the Catholic Church by devouring another rump; the ‘pope’s nose’ of the turkey (28). Toolan’s fascinating study, informed by linguistics and conversational analysis, highlights the conventionality of much of the early Christmas dinner, such as the rituals of polite conversation (394). Indeed, beyond conversation there is a Victorian conventionality and middle-class aspirational element to the scene as they wait for the ‘door to open and the servants to come in, holding the big dishes covered with their heavy metal covers’ (Portrait 23). There is also a mark of tradition as Stephen graduates from dining in the nursery with his other siblings ‘till the pudding came’. He is now ‘oldish’ and as his mother brought him downstairs dressed for mass with his ‘deep low collar and Eton jacket’ his father cried (26). As dinner arrives and Mr and Mrs Dedalus arrange table placings, with Mr Dedalus at the head of the table (25), the upholding of tradition, henceforth, becomes increasingly tenuous. The patriarch nearly disrupts the order of things by prematurely lifting the lid of the turkey dish, with ritual only being maintained when Stephen is called on to say grace (25). Mr Dedalus further transgresses when he begins to eat ‘hungrily’, forgetting his role as host at the head of the table, and neglecting to dispense sauce with Mrs Riordan’s turkey (26). Dante’s curt replies to pretences of conventional speech also contravene the rules of being a good guest (24, 26). Order and ritual, symbolised by the turkey, the table placings and the reciting of grace, is further ruptured by the young Stephen’s stream of consciousness as his mind moves from thoughts of the abundant table, to violence, and to Parnell. While Stephen looks at the trussed ‘plump turkey’ he recalls that his father had paid a substantial sum, a guinea, for it. He had bought the bird from the expensive ‘Dunn’s of D’Olier Street’, where the poulterer ‘prodded the breastbone to show how good it was’ (25). Stephen’s thoughts shift from the reassurance of plenty to violence through the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 139 | P a g e association of the plump bird gracing the table, to the name given to the leather strap used to discipline boys at his school: ‘Why did Mr Barrett in Clongowes call his pandybat a turkey? It was not like a turkey’ (25; Gabler ‘Christmas Dinner’ 28 -9). This fleeting connection is then supplanted by a description of the bountiful table, but his childlike observations and anticipation also inextricably intertwines the ‘red’ and ‘green’ discontent that underscores the special occasion: the warm heavy smell of turkey and ham and celery rose from the plates and dishes and the great fire was banked high and red in the grate and the green ivy and red holly made you feel so happy and when dinner was ended the big plumpudding would be carried in, studded with peeled almonds and sprigs of holly, with bluish fire running around it and a little green flag flying from the top. (25; emphasis added) As Toolan mentions, Mr Dedalus’s position as head of the household and head of the table ‘gives him ample opportunity to establish his roles as not only master of ceremonies but in addition as master of the talk’ (394). Dante Riordan challenges this patriarchal prerogative, and despite her lowly status of ‘dependent female relative, the maiden aunt’ she exhibits ‘a noticeable refusal to suffer the men’s opinions in silence’ (394, 396-7). While Dante Riordan and Mrs Dedalus’s ‘non-eating’ at the Christmas dinner might be compared to Molly Bloom’s love of food in the final chapter, here I focus on how this central Irish political debate interrupts eating; a disruption that has an impact on the traditional patriarchal role of ‘provider’ through Portrait and into Ulysses. Purely in conversational terms, Dante does exhibit what Toolan sees as Stephen’s first experience of someone rejecting orthodoxy: ‘I will not serve’, Dante seems to say as she rejects various attempts to steer what has turned into a political conversation back to conventional banalities. Toolan’s analysis of one such point in the dinner exhibits such resistance, though I would add that Simon Dedalus’s subversive actions (eating the pope’s nose as metaphor for his rejection of the Catholic Church’s stand on Parnell) and his capacity to do so given his gendered status, should be noted: – There’s a tasty bit here we call the pope’s nose. If any lady or gentleman . . . He held a piece of fowl up on the prong of the carving fork. Nobody spoke. He put it on his own plate, saying: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 140 | P a g e - Well, you can’t say but you were asked. I think I had better eat it myself because I’m not well in my health lately. He winked at Stephen and, replacing the dishcover, began to eat again. There was a silence while he ate. Then he said: - Well now, the day kept up fine after all. There were plenty of strangers down too. Nobody spoke. He said again: - I think there were more strangers down than last Christmas. He looked round at the others whose faces were bent towards their plates and, receiving no reply, waited for a moment and said bitterly: - Well, my Christmas dinner has been spoiled anyhow. - There could be neither luck nor grace, Dante said, in a house where there is no respect for the pastors of the church. Mr Dedalus threw his knife and fork noisily on his plate. - Respect! he said . . . (Portrait 28; also see Toolan 402-3) Brad Kessler observes that in literature the table, from The Odyssey to Beowulf and the Canterbury Tales, has long been a framing device for storytelling (‘One Reader’s Digest’ 152-3). In contrast to the Odyssey, however, where banqueters sit transfixed for five chapters as Odysseus regales with his sea adventurers, the people gathered around the Christmas table in Portrait cannot clearly articulate themselves beyond inciting gibes and anger. The raw and inflammatory topic of Parnell’s betrayal is too divisive for Simon Dedalus’s pedestrian attempts at diverting conversation away from religion and politics. Thus, his failure to fill conversational gaps after his attempted conversation openings cannot succeed as Dante and Mr Casey are unwilling to see the topic dropped (Toolan 403). Soon after Simon’s smoothing attempts Dante will respond to Mrs Dedalus’s whispered plea with ‘I will not say nothing’, and Mr Casey will ‘[push] his plate rudely into the middle of the table’ (Portrait 29). As Casey desists eating, Dedalus is then able to continue his meal (30). Content with Casey pursuing the Parnellite cause, though subversive at first, he gives support for Casey’s violent ‘story’ of spitting at an anti-Parnellite by taking a bone from his plate and ‘tearing’ at it (31). Dante, though a staunch nationalist — ‘[hitting] a gentleman on the head with her umbrella because he had taken off his hat when the band played God save the Queen’ (Portrait 32) — is fiercely anti-Parnellite: ‘God and morality and religion come first’ Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 141 | P a g e (33). Parnell was a ‘public sinner’ (27), a ‘traitor, an adulterer’ and as such the ‘priests were right to abandon him’ (33). Dante shouts ‘We won! We crushed him to death! Fiend!’ (34). The debate of the Parnellites (Dedalus and Casey) versus the ‘moral’ middleclass Catholics leaves a silence around two key factors. First, as Fairhall describes in detail, the ‘morality’ of Parnell was secondary for the clergy as their focus was on ensuring Gladstone maintained the support from the ‘dissenter’, nonconformist backbone of his English constituency, thus safeguarding Home Rule (134). Second, by extension, the judgment of Parnell’s immorality was not led by the clergy or Gladstone but by the ‘dissenters’ of Gladstone’s constituency. The ‘we’ Dante uses in her departing attack on Casey and Dedalus, alludes to an imagined, purely ‘moral’ conflict and a naivety about moral political argument. The web of politics and religion is made ironic by Casey and Dedalus arguing for the separation of religion and politics, given the Catholic clergy’s long involvement in Irish Nationalist politics as ‘patriots’, and from 1881 being ‘embedded in and integral to the Parnellite movement’ (Fairhall Question of History 131; see 130-41). The grief of the men at the end of the Christmas dinner was thus not due to the house of God being made into a polling booth (Portrait 26), but that the clergy had intervened in politics on the wrong side (Fairhall 139). Joyce’s ‘Saints and Sages’ notes that Ireland has been ‘the most faithful daughter of the Catholic Church’ (CW 169), with its ‘compliance . . . so complete . . . it would hardly murmur if the pope turned the island over to a Spanish noble “who found himself momentarily unemployed”’ (170). The Christmas scene in Portrait also alludes to the ways in which self-surveillance of Irish Catholics maintains their own subjugation. Parnell’s demise was led by moral judgments, the kind of judgments irreconcilable to the building of an independent modern state. Ulin refers to Francini Bruno’s recollections of a Joyce parable from his Trieste lectures, where he notes that the ‘sowing [of] hunger’ from the Great Famine leaves the Irish contemplating a ‘potato in their hands’, but that it also indicates how the Irish ‘eat symbolically’ via the ‘gluttonous consumption of religious and superstitious symbols’ (23): Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 142 | P a g e The metropolitan government, after centuries of strangling [Ireland], has laid it waste. It’s now an untilled field. The government sowed hunger, syphilis, superstition, and alcoholism there . . . I think [our peasants] are the one people who, when they are hungry, eat symbolically. Do you know what it means to eat symbolically? I’ll clear it up for you in no time: the peasant family, a big roomful of them, sit round a rustic table as if it were an altar. In the middle of the table, suspended on a string from the ceiling, is a herring which could feed the lot of them. The headman arms himself with a potato. Then with it he makes the sign of the cross . . . high up on the back of the fish instead of just rubbing it as any hypocrite would do. This is the signal, and after him, hieratically, each member of the family performs the same trick so that at the end the members, that is to say the diners, find themselves left contemplating a potato in their hands, and the herring, if it doesn’t get eaten by the cat, or rot, is destined to be mummified for posterity, this dish is called the indicated herring. The peasants are gluttons for it, and stuff their bellies full. (Francini Bruno Joyce Intimo Spogliato in Piazza [1922] in Ulin ‘Famished Ghosts’ 22-3) In addition to the devouring of religion, we might consider the food more materialistically too. Herrings, smoked and eaten by the poor, represent how the clergy (eaters of ‘fish’) and the upper classes (eaters of ‘flesh’) are invested in perpetuating ritual and oppression. The herrings, or Irish poor, are symbolically anointed but physically and politically rot or petrify. The parable also points to the intra-generational trauma of Famine co-existing with the ‘mummifying’ performance of religious ritual. The signs of imperial oppression (the potato) and the performance of religion (the ‘altar’ and sign of the cross made on the herring) highlight the lack of real material sustenance and the implicit acceptance of a corrupted Irish social contract. Joyce’s political essays show him to be critical of both Gladstone’s Liberalism and the clergy for their role in Parnell’s political demise and ultimate death. While Fairhall mounts an extensive case for Joyce’s narrow engagement of Parnellite mythology in Portrait (Question of History 130-41), the conflict being reduced to God versus Ireland where the ‘priestridden Godforsaken race’ ‘killed’ Parnell (Portrait 31, 32), Joyce’s understanding of events in his essays encourages us to see Portrait’s Christmas dinner scene as more than a representation of historical ‘events’. What Joyce does is highlight Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 143 | P a g e how the simplification of events — for example, Dante Riordon’s ‘The priests were right to abandon him’ (33) and Casey’s ‘No God for Ireland!’(34) — causes a schism that paralyses Parnellites and implicates the domestic realm in disastrous ways. The Coffin of ‘Home’: the Homosocial Circle and Anti-Treating The decline of the Dedalus family is in part due to Simon Dedalus’s neglect, I suggest, but the poverty of the family is also reflective of the general socio-economic status of Dublin’s working class. Writing about Joyce’s family in the 1880s and 1890s, Vincent Sherry notes that due to the lack of industry in Dublin city there was a great divide between the affluence of the suburbs and the destitution of the city centre. The surplus, casual ‘generalised labourers’ filled the ‘crumbling splendour of the Georgian townhouses’ of the inner city (Sherry Joyce: Ulysses 7). Furthermore, one half of the nearly 5,400 tenement dwellings at the turn of the century were ‘sliding into unfitness’, and one quarter had ‘moved beyond the possibility of reclamation’ (7). The standard of housing had not altered by the time Dubliners was being published. Irish historian Ruth McManus states that by 1913, 87,000 (or 29% of the city’s population) lived in slums with one third being ‘unfit for human habitation’ and the other two-thirds being either ‘structurally sound but not in good repair’ or so much decayed they soon would be unfit for habitation (McManus Dublin, 1910-1940 in Rich 76-7; also see O’Brien Dear Dirty Dublin: A City in Distress, 1899-1916). In addition to general deterioration, one third of tenements consisted of one room, and often with little in the way of furniture, blankets or cooking utensils (O’Brien 137; Rich 77). Rich suggests that Bloom’s musings in the ‘Hades’ episode that ‘the Irishman’s house is his coffin’ (U 6: 821-2) reflects that for many poor Dubliners the concept of ‘home’ was felt more as a painful absence than a comforting presence (Rich 78). Central to what Rich sees as a critique of colonial, urban modernisation, Joyce’s characters, like many poor inner city Dubliners, are unable to participate in the ‘British ideals of domestic life . . . symbolized . . . by hearth, home, and [the] family meal’ (72). For Rich, Joyce’s working class Dubliners (and the precarious middle-class) try to recreate a sense of the familial with strangers in public eating establishments (Martens and Warde in Rich 72), which thus serve as refuges for those ‘unhomed’ (Rich 72). ‘Unhomeliness’ identifies the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 144 | P a g e ‘estranging sense of the relocation of the home and the world in an unhallowed place’ (Bhabha ‘The World and the Home’ in Rich 72). Bloom notes Bob Doran is on ‘his annual bend’ (U 8: 595), and passes judgment on the men at Barney Kiernan’s: ‘Ought to go home and laugh at themselves. Always want to be swilling in company. Afraid to be alone like a child of two’ (13: 1217-19). Joyce’s ‘unhomed’ men and the trope of solitary public eating also expresses the impact of colonialism and economic exploitation through the deprived and unhomed subject (Rich 72-3). Paul Delany’s ‘Homosocial Consumption in Dubliners’ (1995) is interesting for its implicit identification of Joyce’s ‘unhomed’ Dublin men. Delany notes that Joyce’s work, particularly Ulysses, has been an interest to Cultural Studies for the ways in which consumer goods ‘express cultural categories and principles, cultivate ideals, create and sustain life-styles, construct notions of the self, and create (and survive) social change’ (McCracken in Delany 381). Delany, however, argues that the consumption of alcohol for immediate enjoyment within a male collective — ‘Homosocial consumption’ — is distinct from the ‘individual status-seeking’ of modern consumption (382). In contrast to the centrality of the domestic, ‘feminine’ space of modern consumption where goods are fantasized about and displayed, homosocial consumption takes place in public houses and, Delany argues, is akin to Marcel Mauss’s ‘gift economy’ (382). ‘Rounds’ or ‘treating’ converts the buying of a round of drinks within a select group into an ‘exchange of gifts’: The person buying a round gains status by playing the role of a generous host; the others enjoy the honor of receiving a favour from the buyer–as well as the more practical dividend of getting a ‘free’ drink. Each drinker in turn can then savor the prestige of being a gift-giver and master of the revels. Rounds also balance out periods of relative wealth or poverty: when he is ‘skint’ a member of the group may buy fewer rounds, to be compensated by extra rounds when he has money in hand. Any drinker who has money in his pocket is expected to share it, but he has an equivalent claim on anyone else’s windfall. Everyone is thus provided with ‘drinking insurance’, guaranteeing that few evenings will be completely dry. (Delany 382-3) Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 145 | P a g e The giving and receiving is not limited to money and drink though as the ‘economy of drinking corresponds closely with an economy for talk’ (385), for if a round recipient cannot be the ‘buyer’ he must be able to ‘pay’ with his entertainment, flattery or good company (383). Though Lenehan in ‘Two Gallants’ is described as a ‘leech’ for example, ‘his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his friends from forming any general policy against him’; he was a ‘sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks and riddles’ (Joyce Dubliners 39). Simon Dedalus, though skint, uses his ‘[g]lorious tone’ in Ulysses to earn his place in the ‘economy of drinking’. Though he could have made ‘oceans of money’, he ‘[w]ore out his wife’, and now has ‘overstrung nerves’, which he eases with drinking (U 11: 765-9). The anthropologist Mary Douglas suggests that drinking also needs to be considered for the structure that the ritual gives to social life, and its semblance of ‘an ideal world’ rather than the ‘painful chaos’ of the real world (Douglas in Delany 388). Beyond the ritual of drinking though there are societal pressures, behaviours and consequences to consider, and here Douglas’s ‘ideal world’ explanation falls short for Joyce’s depressed turn of the century Dublin. In a letter to brother Stanislaus, for example, Joyce can neither assign blame nor responsibility for the type of abuse we are led to believe Farrington administers to his wife and son in ‘Counterparts’. ‘I am no friend of tyranny’, he states, ‘but if many husbands are brutal the atmosphere in which they live . . . is brutal and few wives and homes can satisfy the desire for happiness’ (Selected Letters 130; Delany 387). These debates were taken up at the same time by the colonial Australian writer, Henry Lawson. For Lawson the judgment on the ‘weakness for drink’ is divided. Alcohol is represented as a threat not only to the husband’s life, but to the life of the wife and children also (Lee ‘Looking for Mr. Backbone: the Politics of Gender in the Work of Henry Lawson’ 97). However, as Christopher Lee suggests, Lawson also points to the intense pressures on the rural family man to ‘provide’ in an unstable work environment. Here ‘a man is unable to guarantee provision for a family’, and the pressure to be a provider causes both ‘personal and mental degeneration’ (98). The harsh economic realities prohibit ‘respectable’ masculinity, as advanced in early feminist journals, where values of ‘home, hearth, wife, and child’ were associated with ‘moral, mental, and physical hygiene’ (Lee 96). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 146 | P a g e Delany alludes to more complex political concerns at work in Joyce as he draws on Mark Osteen (‘Narrative Gifts: “Cyclops” and the Economy of Excess’) who discusses the self-destructiveness of the male Dubliners’ drinking and gambling. To flout ‘English economic ethics’, Osteen suggests, ‘they spend and drink themselves deeper into poverty and paralysis, rebelling against oppression by making themselves unprosperous’, reimagining themselves as powerful as they ‘lose and destroy goods [and themselves]’ and the refusal to spend ‘productively’ (Osteen in Delany 387-8). Using McDonald’s terminology we might describe this homosocial culture as withdrawing from what England would identify as industrious and ‘useful masculine citizenry’ (‘Nothing To Be Done’ 72; emphasis added). One could suggest Osteen reflects Georges Bataille’s challenge to the political economy, as there is a sense of an alternative to the extraction of surplus value and overproduction for its own sake: to instead dissipate the surplus through ‘sacrifice’, without the expectations of the recuperation of any ‘loss’ (Bataille The Accursed Share 10, 21, 69). Bataille writes in the context of late 1940s Cold War, where he argues that ‘raising the global standard of living’ is the only real way to prevent a third world war, rather than increasing ‘military manufactures’ (Bataille 187), but Osteen’s argument indicates a correlation as England’s ‘anti-sacrificial’ expansionist model of capitalism stands in opposition to the Irish unconventional challenge to the political economy. Although Katherine Mullin (‘James Joyce, Drink, and the Round System’) draws on neither Delany nor Osteen, these two articles prove to be a valuable introduction to Mullin’s Cultural Materialist / New Historicist approach. Mullin’s complex analysis looks at the Anti-Treating League (ATL) — that organisation the ‘Cyclops’ narrator suspects Bloom of being part of — and how Joyce participates in the various political and economic reactions surrounding this response to the ‘rounds’ practice. In contrast to the teetotalism of the Irish Catholic temperance movement from the 1840s to the turn of the century, the ATL was described as a more realistic and ‘temperate brand of temperance’ (Mullin 312-3). Treating was seen as discouraging moderation, as Mullin explains: ‘A man entering a pub for one or two drinks was, if drawn into a round, bound by honour to continue drinking until he could reciprocate—and might then be tempted to remain until other members of the group had stood drinks in turn’ (312). The League didn’t aim to combat drinking itself but drunkenness, and treating was identified as a main cause of drinking to excess (313). Members of the League were not Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 147 | P a g e forbidden to accept drink when visiting private homes, neither were they prevented to extend hospitality in their own homes, but they did pledge ‘Not to take a treat from another, or give one himself, in any place where drink is sold, whether public house, bar, hotel, shebeen, &c’ (St. Patrick’s Anti-Treating League in Mullin 313). In addition to the religious aspect of the League guidelines ‘to observe the law of God faithfully on all occasions’ on the ‘sin of intemperance’ (St. Patrick’s ATL in Mullin 313), there were numerous economic and nationalistic motivations. In 1902 the Gaelic League’s co-founder Eoin MacNeill asserted that treating was in fact ‘established in Ireland by the English settlers’ and a key step to creating an ‘Irish-Ireland’ would be to cease the ‘foreign custom’ (in Mullin 313). Timothy McMahon notes that the Gaelic League estimated that the annual expenditure on drink in Ireland was £15 million, with one third of this being a ‘self-imposed yearly tribute to the English exchequer’ (McMahon in Mullin 314). Furthermore, as Frank Shovlin points out, Irish Protestant families such as the Guinness, Jameson and Persse families made their fortunes by manufacturing drink (‘Endless Stories about the Distillery’ 154) prompting the temperance priest Father Michael Kelly to declare that ‘With fell design England suppressed our commerce, our factories, our mines, our industries, and left us only the distillery’ (in Shovlin 155; F. L. S. Lyons Culture and Anarchy in Ireland, 1890-1939 80). In the ‘Lotus Eaters’ episode the financial success of the Guinness partners would occupy Bloom: Lord Iveagh [Edward Cecil Guinness, 1847-1927] once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter . . . A million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter. What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same. (U 5: 304-12; Gifford 91) In 1904 Horace Plunkett (Ireland in the New Century) would argue against treating in economic terms, also stating that drinking depressed the ‘industrial capacity of the people’ and as such ‘national regeneration’ was linked with temperance (in Mullin ‘James Joyce, Drink’ 314). By 1907 new Sinn Féin recruits were required to be teetotallers if under 25, and if over 25 were required to pledge to ‘never be seen drunk’ Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 148 | P a g e (Mullin 313) reflecting their confluence of self-discipline and nationalism. In the ‘Cyclops’ episode Bloom’s ‘talking about the Gaelic league and the anti-treating league and drink, the curse of Ireland’ (U 12: 683-4) is significant. As the narrator of the episode recalls the mantra of the temperance meeting, ‘Ireland sober is Ireland free’ (12: 692), he would allude to Joyce’s portrayal of Bloom as ‘Ireland’s coming man’ (Mullin 327). That is, reflecting Joyce’s composition of the episode in June 1919, the 1904 Bloom signifies the Sinn Féin landslide defeat of the Irish Parliamentary Party in the 1918 general election (Mullin 326). Mullin also meticulously shows, particularly in the ‘Cyclops’ episode, how Joyce engages in the broader political debate about anti-treating that centres on the British Government’s war-time anti-treating law. In September 1915, under the powers of the Defence of the Realm Act, it was illegal to participate in treating ‘except at meals’ (Mullin ‘James Joyce, Drink’ 323). The ‘moderation’ then, that was a part of the ‘abstemious advanced nationalism of Sinn Féin’, seemingly fell in line with the British Government’s nationalist efforts. Responding to this the Irish Parliamentary Party was against such laws and were passionate defenders of Irish distillers and brewers (323). As argued by Fairhall, ‘Ivy Day’ in Dubliners suggests this ‘unhealthy alliance between the Nationalists and the drink trade’ as the Nationalist candidate’s promise of stout occupies the canvassers in the second half of the story (Question of History 100). It is interesting to consider though that the Sinn Féin temperance requirements led English intelligence to complain that the recruits were too ‘sober’ to facilitate the gathering of information, with the political organisation also reluctant to hold meetings at pubs, instead preferring ‘temperance halls and reading rooms’ (Laffan in Mullin 326). Nonetheless the Parliamentary Party’s economically framed rejection of anti-treating saw the laws as another ‘imperial encroachment comparable even to the Famine or conscription’ (Mullin 324). Considered in isolation one may read Portrait as evidence of the relationship between the repressive politics of colonialism and the material realities of inner Dublin life. Pure structural arguments neglect instances where Joyce points not to the victimisation of the Irish, but to the complicity of Dubliners, not only for their personal financial situation, but for the material and societal decline of the working class families in general. It is through a brief look at relevant biographical details that Joyce’s dual structural / agency Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 149 | P a g e view gains purchase. Taking inspiration from his own childhood remembrances Joyce’s portrayal of the decline of the Dedalus family ‘became linked, in a family mythology, with political betrayal’ (Gabler ‘Christmas Dinner’ 32; Fairhall Question of History 41; Ellmann James Joyce 33-4). As Fairhall reveals, the young James Joyce realised that his father’s spending habits and drinking were linked with the family’s downward spiral (41), and in less than a decade led him (like Stephen) and his family from ‘modest privilege through well-mannered poverty into near squalor’ (Sherry Joyce: Ulysses 7). John Joyce was dismissed from his well-paid job as a rate collector for Dublin City and County, and in turn conflated the ‘turn of the political wheel of fortune’ with a ‘turning- point in his own life’ (Fairhall 41-2). Fairhall maintains James Joyce felt betrayed throughout his own life: ‘betrayed by friends, colleagues, his wife Nora, and Ireland herself’ (42), and indeed Joyce’s letters and fiction indicate these victimisations. However, Joyce presents another betrayal; the betrayal of the father (in the character of Simon Dedalus) and his neglect of the Victorian role of ‘provider’. Natalie McKnight notes the powerful presence of fathers, where ‘even in absence, their shifting roles over time, and their symbolic link to paternal institutions such as church and state make father figures the locus of quests to better understand our cultures, histories, and ourselves’ (McKnight ed. ‘Introduction’ Fathers in Victorian Fiction 1). Following Victorian expectations of the father as breadwinner, with the domestic realm in the charge of the wife and mother, the scarcity of material resources Stephen notes in Portrait reflects the ineffectiveness of Simon as a ‘provider’. As Joyce’s brother Stanislaus recalls, their father ‘was quite unburdened by any sense of responsibility’ for his large family (My Brother’s Keeper 50; Friedman ‘Stephen Dedalus’s Non Serviam’ 65). In Joyce’s oft cited August 1904 letter to Nora, he would write that his ‘home’ was ‘simply a middle-class affair ruined by spendthrift habits which I have inherited’ (Selected Letters 25-7). Gabriel Conroy in ‘The Dead’ may depict John Joyce’s ‘oratorical style’ and ease in the limelight, but Simon Dedalus would represent the self- serving side of Joyce’s father; ‘a caricature of conviviality whose excesses of oral performance (of song, drink, and foulness of mouth) utterly displace familial, economic, political, and religious obligations’ (Friedman 65; Jackson and Costello in F riedman 65). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 150 | P a g e While in the opening pages of Portrait the young Stephen is aware that his family isn’t as affluent as other boys’ families — Stephen suffers weak tea and damp bread while other boys have hampers and cocoa sent from home (Portrait 6-11) — he fondly recalls his ‘Nice Mother’ and the generosity of his father, and he longs for home with his mother by the fire and the kettle on the hob (7-22). We learn though that the morning after the Christmas dinner ‘discussion’ Stephen tries to write a poem about Parnell on the back of ‘one of his father’s second moiety notices’ (61). Stephen knows his father is ‘in trouble’ and the changes to the Dedalus house, ‘were so many slight shocks to his boyish conception of the world’ (56). Joyce would emphasise this by repeating the word ‘heart’ in its various states of suffering, thereby linking the broken heart of Parnell with material decline. The lack of ‘any vision of the future’ would sicken Stephen’s heart, and he would seek ‘kindly lights’ in other people’s windows to pour a ‘tender influence into his restless heart’ (56). The sudden move from the ‘comfort and revery’ of Blackrock to the ‘bare cheerless house’ in the ‘gloomy foggy city’ also made Stephen’s ‘heart heavy’ (57). Juxtaposed to Joyce’s journey of the broken heart of Parnell early in the novel to the suffering ‘heart’ of Stephen, Joyce’s reiteration of ‘squalor’ links the political events with the material demise of the Dedaluses. For the young Stephen ‘[t]he change of fortune . . . was reshaping the world about him into a vision of squalor and insincerity’ (58), and his ‘sensitive nature’ was suffering with his ‘undivined and squalid way of life’ (68), the ‘squalor of his mind and home’ (69), and the ‘squalor of his life’ and ‘riot of his mind’ (79). Simon Dedalus’s attempts to ignore financial realities are mimicked by Stephen. Just as Stephen’s father fails to exercise economy when he buys an expensive turkey despite having a demand notice, and stays at the most expensive hotel in Cork (Portrait 77), so too does Stephen prove frivolous in his spending of his examination award winnings: ‘For a swift season of merrymaking the money of his prizes ran through Stephen’s fingers. Great parcels of groceries and delicacies and dried fruit arrived from the city’ (85). Through his purchase of gifts and food and his effort to redecorate his room, like his father he ‘had tried to build a breakwater of order and elegance against the sordid tide of life’ (86). With Stephen’s winnings long spent, Part IV of Portrait sees the increased tribe of the Dedalus family still gathered around the table, but as they prepare for ‘still another removal’ their tea time is fittingly humble and reflects a more desperate hunger: ‘Tea was nearly over and only the last of the second watered tea Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 151 | P a g e remained in the bottoms of the small glassjars and jampots which did service for teacups. Discarded crusts and lumps of sugared bread, turned brown by the tea which had been poured over them, lay scattered on the table. Little wells of tea lay here and there on the board and a knife with a broken ivory handle was stuck through the pith of a ravaged turnover’ (142). Stephen’s siblings show ‘no sign of rancour’ for the comparative advantages he was presented as the eldest son, but as his siblings sing he hears in their voices ‘the recurring note of weariness and pain’, for they ‘seemed weary of life even before entering upon it’ (143). Compared to the turkey dinner in Part I of the novel, in Part V, with a box of pawn tickets at his elbow, Stephen would ‘set to chewing the crusts of fried bread that were scattered near him’ and stare at a jar from which yellow dripping had been scooped out leaving a liquid like the ‘dark turfcoloured water of the bath in Clongowes’ (151), linking the first post-Parnell day with his current circumstances. If we look carefully at Cranly’s questions to Stephen about his father and mother, the cause and effect of drinking in the Dedalus household, although implicit, is present. Trevor Williams (Reading Joyce Politically) argues that Stephen’s answers to Cranly’s question ‘What is he?’ is important for the ‘rapid shift from the relatively positive traits possessed by the individual to the patent decline initiated when Simon Dedalus engages fully as a social and economic being with the life of Ireland’ (98; original emphasis). What I emphasise, however, is that Simon’s drinking is at the literal centre of Stephen’s glib list of his father’s ‘attributes’, and thus carries broader significance. Stephen replies his father was/is ‘A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a storyteller, somebody’s secretary, something in a distillery, a taxgatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past’ (Portrait 213). Stephen’s description of his father as ‘praiser of his own past’ is, Williams suggests, ‘tragically symptomatic’ of the paralysis of Joyce’s Dubliners who don’t see revolution as an option and instead turn to the past, ‘diverting their energies into a “bankrupt” rhetoric’ (98). Discussing the broader significance of drinking in Joyce’s work benefits from acknowledging that Joyce himself was a heavy drinker (Briggs ‘Joyce’s Drinking’). His brother Stanislaus addresses the topic in My Brother’s Keeper: James Joyce’s Early Years (1958) and The Complete Dublin Diary of Stanislaus Joyce (1962), but as Austin Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 152 | P a g e Briggs demonstrates, there has been great reluctance by Joycean scholars to accept this fraternal testimony (638). Brigg’s examination of a number of Joyce biographies well illustrates this point. Richard Ellmann, for example, prefaces his revised edition of his biography of Joyce by stating that Joyce’s ‘regard for alcohol’ is something to rebuke him for, but as Briggs observes, there is nothing in the biography to suggest any such rebuke (Ellmann James Joyce 7; Briggs 640). Ellmann, Briggs argues, ‘softens the facts’ and turns Joyce’s ‘collapses’ from drunkenness into the writer being ‘magnificently unconscious’ (Ellmann 268) or ‘old conviviality’ (531; Briggs 640-1). Just as Delany would see Joyce’s compulsive drinking as ‘inseparable from his creativity’ (388), Ellmann suggests drinking is a similar ‘happy’ byproduct of Joyce’s endeavour to be ‘overcome’ (Ellmann 82): ‘His soul, fed on pride, and declining attachments, longed to give way, to swoon, to be mutilated, and he brought this happy consummation about with the help of porter’ (Ellmann 132). Indeed Briggs’s close analysis of a selection of key Joyce biographies (by Ellmann, Morris Beja, Gordon Bowker), and Brenda Maddox’s biography of Nora Joyce, reveals a rejection of the suggestion that Joyce was an alcoholic, principally based on Joyce’s apparent refraining from drink during the daytime (Briggs 647). Maddox claims that ‘he was not an alcoholic’ as he ‘rarely drank spirits’ and his ‘celebrated inebriation came from a regular consumption of several bottles of white wine between, roughly, eight in the evening and two in the morning’ (185-6; Briggs 645). Furthermore, Joyce’s reputation was also protected by biographers who marginalised the women in Joyce’s life who were affected by his drinking. Bowker characterises Nora Joyce’s efforts to control her husband’s drinking as ‘puritanical’ (Bowker 435), and Beja would deride benefactor Harriet Shaw Weaver’s misgivings and concerns about Joyce’s drinking as prudish (Beja 80; Briggs 645-6). This defence against the label of ‘alcoholic’ seems counter to Joyce’s self-evaluations, having described himself to Jung as ‘inclined to extravagance and alcoholism’ (Ellmann James Joyce 63; Briggs 642) and speaking of himself to Weaver as a man ‘known to all as a wholesale squanderer’ (Selected Letters 381; Briggs 653). Mullin concludes her article on the politics of anti-treating with reference to ‘Joyce’s prodigious appetite for drink’, and his notorious willingness ‘to live on the largesse of others’ (Mullin 327). Nevertheless, with the references to ‘leeches’ in Joyce’s work Mullin maintains there is ‘a self-critical impulse to analyse the implications of his own behaviour’ (327). Briggs Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 153 | P a g e poses questions about how Joyce’s drinking affected his wife and family (639, 641, 644, 646, 648-51), and ends his article by reflecting on some questions to be addressed in future work: he asks ‘whether his physical health might have been less frail, his days less depressed, his partnership with Nora happier, his children less troubled, his friendships more enduring, his finances less distressed, and—possibly—his oeuvre larger had he not consumed alcohol so compulsively and excessively’ (657). I propose, however, that just as Mullin sees Joyce in ‘scrounging’ characters (327) so too can we address Briggs’s ponderings, not in relation to Joyce personally, but within Joyce’s work more broadly. Can we not glean in Joyce’s work the implicit judgment that Dublin drinking men like Mr. Kernan in ‘Grace’, or dead Paddy Dignam in Ulysses would be healthier (or alive) by drinking less? Might not the Dedalus and Dignam children be less troubled and the family less financially distressed without the father drinking? Paddy Dignam in Ulysses is the most poignant reminder of the dangers of drinking culture. As the men gather for Dignam’s funeral in the ‘Hades’ episode, Bloom, who is on the margins of the homosocial circle (Delany 391), provides a more sobering explanation for the man’s death. Whilst Simon Dedalus and Mr Power would reflect on the ‘sudden’ death, with Martin Cunningham suggesting it was a ‘breakdown . . . heart’, as he tapped his chest sadly (U 6: 303-11), Bloom would think of Dignam’s ‘[b]lazing face: redhot’ caused by ‘[t]oo much John Barleycorn’, and his ‘red nose’: ‘Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent colouring it’ (6: 307-9). When Ned Lambert speaks more frankly, asking ‘How did he lose it? . . . Liquor what?’, Simon would sigh that this was ‘[m]any a good man’s fault’ (6: 572-3). I suggest that Joyce implicitly shows that this understanding and forgiveness of alcoholism is also perpetuated in the name of religion. Hope Howell Hodgkins, in her analysis of ‘Grace’, notes how Mr. Kernan’s ‘reform’ isn’t concerned with ‘the drunkard’s seamy descent into degradation, and his rejection by, or abuse of, family and friends’, but is instead reform by ‘social persuasion and communal support’, ‘acceptance’ not ‘rejection’ and ‘talk’ not ‘deeds’ (‘Joyce’s “Grace” and the Modern Protestant Gentleman’ 431). In the image of Jesus as an ‘indulgent boss’ (433), the drunkard’s ‘accounts’ can be ‘set right’ (Dubliners 151). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 154 | P a g e It is Bloom and Martin Cunningham, who we learn in ‘Grace’ has an alcoholic wife who continually hocks the family furniture (Dubliners 135), who set out investigating Dignam’s insurance for the family. While skint Simon Dedalus is moved at Dignam’s funeral — ‘I am the resurrection and the life. That touches a man’s inmost heart’ (U 6: 670) — and spends two pennies of the two shilling he got from Jack Power on ‘a shave for the funeral’ (10: 698-9), he will not be immediately ‘moved’ by his daughter and will resent giving her any money. The practical Bloom, on the other hand, questions this prioritising of the dead: ‘More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the living’ (6: 930-1). While Nosey Flynn would ridicule Bloom’s moderation and reluctance to participate in rounds — ‘Slips off when the fun gets too hot . . . If you ask him to have a drink first thing he does he outs with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe’ (8: 978-81) — he is also known for his generosity. Nosey Flynn will concede that ‘[h]e’s been known to put his hand down to help a fellow’ (8: 983-4), Davy Byrne will judge him to be a ‘safe man’, never once ‘over the line’ (8: 976-7, 982), and in ‘Wandering Rocks’ John Wyse Nolan and Martin Cunningham will talk about Bloom not only putting his name down for five shillings for the Dignam family, but coughing up the actual money ‘[w]ithout a second word’ (10: 973-7). This new expression of masculine heroism concerned with the domestic realm is, I argue in the final chapter, in keeping with Joyce’s art as he continues the development of this epic tale of Ulysses from Homer’s more domestic Odysseus. While Delany acknowledges that the homosocial circle and the domestic sphere are ‘rival’, he does suggest that they are ‘interlocking systems’ and share the ‘collective pathology’ of the city (Delany 387). As with Mullin and Brigg, however, Delany offers no sustained focus on the impact of homosocial consumption (and male drinking generally) on the domestic space. The implicit argument is that the pathologies co- exist, instead of exploring how one ‘system’ has an element of agency and acts upon the other ‘system’. If indeed the ‘systems’ of the homosocial and domestic realms are intertwined as Delany argues, throughout Joyce’s work the integration is often represented as a cannibalising of one system by the other. This is at odds with Delany’s estimation of Joyce’s valorisation of male drinking where it becomes a ‘legitimate refuge for the beleaguered Dublin male, who faces both the economic and moral exactions of his wife, and the further wounds to his masculinity inflicted by colonial subordination’ (388). Delany only implicitly indicates the drain treating has on the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 155 | P a g e domestic realm as he notes that while women ‘are conceded power over domestic consumption’ their husbands’ ‘homosocial obligations have first call on family resources’ (386). I would also add that reflective of the higher status of the ‘breadwinner’ any substantial domestic food resources, such as beef and mutton, were generally for the male head of the household (McManus Dublin, 1910-1940: Shaping the City and Suburbs 31-2; Rich 77). This hierarchy for the consumption of food also extended to male guests within the domestic space. In ‘The Sisters’, for example, the boy eats the ‘stirabout’ (‘a porridge or gruel, often made with oatmeal’) his aunt has ladled out for his supper, while the uncle offers his guest Old Cotter to ‘take a pick of that leg of mutton’ (Dubliners 3-4). Joyce and Sentimentality: ‘Wandering Rocks’ Joyce makes room for emotion in his work, and it is only through this ostensive counter to the ‘hard’, detached, and decidedly unsentimental Modernism where he finds space to explore the complexity of post-Parnell Ireland. In his 1967 essay ‘James Joyce’s Sentimentality’, Clive Hart refers to a number of manifestations of sentimentality: ‘the attribution by the author of more emotion than is warranted by his subject (excessive “feeling”)’; ‘the valuing of emotion for its own sake’ or a ‘dissociation of subject from emotion’; ‘a distortion of reality in order to make possible an emotional response which would not otherwise appear to be relevant’; and a ‘desire to maintain an illusory state of affairs because this is felt to be more pleasing than reality’ (Hart 26-7). As Hart argued nearly fifty years ago, New Criticism’s almost pathological ‘fear of sentimentality’ has thus been ‘inhibiting and limiting’ for Joyce scholarship (27-8). Taking Hart’s lead, Robert Scholes argues that the durability of some of the key works of Modernism, such as Joyce’s Ulysses, is due to the familiarity of certain literary conventions. Long narrative, Scholes argues, requires an emotional investment in the characters (Scholes Parodoxy of Modernism 124). Wyndham Lewis, an exemplary advocate of hard, new, masculine Modernism, in fact ‘has remained largely unreadable, despite serious critical effort on his behalf, mainly because his fiction is totally lacking in sentiment’ (Scholes 124). Attending to Joyce’s use of literary conventions, such as sentiment, reveals Joyce’s representation of both ‘systems’, to use Delany’s terminology. For Hart, Joyce’s fusing of ‘less emotional materials’ with sentimentality often produces ‘a very stimulating mixture’ (28). More common than writing in the extreme of sentimental Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 156 | P a g e exultation or the repudiation of the sentimental is Joyce’s ‘mixed response in which sentimentality is present, but is counterbalanced by other responses’ (30; emphasis added). Joyce uses a ‘thickness of texture’ in his ‘grubby wasteland’ (30) but he partakes in a ‘double-dealing’, for example with his inclusion of irony and ‘starker material’, to balance the emotion (30-1). As the ‘Oxen of the Sun’ episode pointedly demonstrates, Joyce ‘conceived of Ulysses in the Anglo-Irish literary tradition’ and evokes, particularly, the heroic ‘men of feeling’ emblematic of the sentimental figures of Laurence Sterne, Oliver Goldsmith, and Charles Dickens (Dickson ‘Defining the Sentimentalist in Ulysses’ 20). Responding to the Enlightenment belief in the innate goodness of humanity, the mid-eighteenth century ‘cult of sensibility’ was concerned with ‘the faculty of feeling, the capacity for extremely refined emotion and a quickness to display compassion for feeling’ (Todd Sensibility: an Introduction 7; Dickson 20). ‘Men of feeling’ exhibited their association with the humanist philosophers via ‘their willingness to recognise human misery in the urban landscape, to suffer with the afflicted, and render them aid’ (Dickson 20). By the last decades of the eighteenth century sensibility began to be ridiculed for its immoderation, and the term, as Dickson verifies, became entangled with the ‘feminine’ (20). Nonetheless Victorian writers, notably Dickens and Tennyson, continued to use sentimentality ‘as a rearguard Enlightenment reaction to the inhumanities of industrialism, capitalism, and imperialism’ (Fred Kaplan in Dickson 21). Turn of the century modernists, however, recoiled from luxuriating in emotive expression (21) believing that the exhaustive examination of the emotional state exhibited ‘an apparent naiveté about the relation of expression to meaning’ (Anita Sokolsky in Dickson 20). For modernists it was the challenge and failure to represent emotion that brought the thrill (20). Instead of what Aldous Huxley and T. S. Eliot saw as the inauthenticity of excessive emotion (Huxley Vulgarity in Literature 57; Eliot ‘Tradition and Individual Talent’ Selected Prose 43; Dickson 22), modernists like Wyndham Lewis wanted to thwart everything sentimental and ‘feminine’ while more moderate approaches such as Eliot’s propounded that all emotion in art needed an objective correlative’ (Scholes 138 - 9; Mullin ‘Modernism and Feminisms’ 137-142; Eliot ‘Hamlet’ Selected Prose 49). But this framing of Modernism, as outlined in the literature review, has been far too arbitrary. Hart’s exploration of Joyce’s double-dealing and counterbalancing are cases in point, for as Scholes suggests, the question for the greatest modernists was not ‘how Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 157 | P a g e to avoid’ sentiment but ‘how to include it, protect it, and enhance it’ (Scholes 135 -6). The key issue was the reader’s relation to sentiment and the authenticity of the feeling. ‘Wandering Rocks’ is a key episode for scholars of food and famine in Joyce (for example Mara 106; Ulin 32; Fairhall 75), but the approach to the episode I advance here is sparked by Hart’s earlier assessments of Joyce. Though Hart primarily draws on Finnegans Wake in his 1960s essay, as Scholes reveals, ‘Wandering Rocks’ is amenable to his contemplation of sentimentality. Via the seemingly disjointed snapshots of wandering Dubliners Joyce uses juxtaposition to insert and protect emotion from the wasteland, but this juxtaposition also proffers the benefit of ‘parallax’. This view has been taken up by Dickson as he notes that what constitutes sentimentality in Ulysses depends on ‘a matter of external vicarious perspective[s]’ (28). A consideration of the material struggles of the Dedalus family in ‘Wandering Rocks’ highlights this argument. Questions about whether one sympathises with the Dedalus children or with Stephen, or how to react to Simon Dedalus and Buck Mulligan in this episode largely depend on whether the relevant snapshots are read in isolation or in juxtaposition, or as a group which rouses a complex mix of responses. One of the most sentimental scenes in Ulysses occurs as Stephen notices his sister Dilly at a bookstall: – What have you there? Stephen asked. – I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing nervously. Is it any good? My eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? . . . He took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal’s French primer. – What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French? She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips. Show no surprise. Quite natural. – Here, Stephen said. It’s all right. Mind Maggy doesn’t pawn it on you. I suppose all my books are gone. – Some, Dilly said. We had to. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 158 | P a g e She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, my heart, my soul. Salt green death. We. Agenbite of inwit. Inwit’s agenbite. Misery! Misery! (U 10: 862-80) Just as Bloom notices Dilly Dedalus at the beginning of ‘Lestrygonians’, ‘underfed’ with her dress in ‘flitters’ (U 8: 4), Stephen notices Dilly’s ‘shabby dress’ in ‘Wandering Rocks’ (10: 855). In fact he notices a good deal about Dilly: her resemblance to him in appearance and temperament (‘We’ he thinks); her vulnerability and embarrassment, which he gently tries to ease; and above all the poverty which is ‘drowning’ her (10: 865-75). As Portrait revealed, Stephen too had experienced the impoverished state in which Dilly is trapped. He too had been ‘illclad’ and ‘illfed’ (Portrait 206), but although he is now in a position to help his sister (and whole family) he rejects the role of breadwinner, fearing that if he saves his siblings he will drown with them. Though having experienced the Dedalus post-Parnell poverty, Stephen begins June 16, 1904 with a breakfast of fried egg, bread, tea, honey and fresh milk (U 1: 329-408). Although he abstains from eating throughout the day his breakfast intake is substantial compared to the impoverished state of his family. As Fairhall notes, Stephen seems unable to block out the ‘drowning’ family for his own preservation, and in the ‘Eumaeus’ episode he ‘recalls with implicit shame’ his last family visit (75): Stephen’s mind’s eye being too busily engaged in repicturing his family hearth the last time he saw it with his sister Dilly sitting by the ingle, her hair dangling down, waiting for some weak Trinidad shell cocoa that was in the sootcoated kettle to be done so that she and he could drink it with the oatmealwater for milk after the Friday herrings they had eaten at two a penny with an egg apiece for Maggy, Boody and Katey, the cat meanwhile under the mangle devouring a mess of eggshells and charred fish heads and bones on a square of brown paper, in accordance with the third precept of the church to fast and abstain on the days commanded. (U 16: 269-77) Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 159 | P a g e His remembering of what seems to be an act of generosity on his part (perhaps buying the herrings) seemingly does little for our sympathy for Stephen in ‘Wandering Rocks’. Stephen’s exclamation of ‘Misery! Misery!’ is for Scholes Joyce’s double-dealing, mocking Stephen’s exaggerated emotion and thus preserving the text against the charge of sentimentalism but nonetheless allowing the emotion in (132). The artist’s apparent excess of emotion also highlights the depth of Stephen’s resentment for his father. Alan Warren Friedman has argued that Stephen’s ‘flight’ in Portrait isn’t positive — that is, towards an aesthetic goal – but is a ‘negative’ flight ‘from his father and all that he embodies — familially, culturally, politically, historically, and performatively’ (‘Stephen Dedalus’s Non Serviam’ 68; emphasis original). If Joyce represents Simon as a ‘caricature of conviviality’ partaking in ‘excesses of oral performance’ (Friedman 65), I contend that Stephen’s excessive emotional performance and paucity of action appears to caricature Stephen’s depth of feeling. While Stephen is compelled to deny familial aid in ‘Wandering Rocks’, in ‘Eumaeus’ when someone’s hunger is not the result of his father’s neglect, he will exhibit easy generosity even though the recipient is less deserving. Although Stephen fails to assist his sister, in his drunken state he will let ‘his feelings [get] the better of him’, and ‘loan’ Corley a half-crown (U 16: 173, 195-6). Though Corley’s breath was ‘redolent of rotten cornjuice’ (16: 129-30) and Stephen knows his ‘brandnew rigmarole . . . was hardly deserving of much credence’ (16: 174-5), he wanted to see the ‘starving’ Corley ‘get sufficient to eat’ (16: 184). While Dickson proposes that a Goldsmith or Sterne protagonist would share his wages with his starving sister (24), Stephen’s shift from avoidance of sentimental actions to impromptu generosity, arguably, borders perversion. Corley, one of the down-and-out ‘Two Gallants’ in Dubliners is a predator, scavenging the city for money and preying on the gullible slavey girl. Rich emphasises how Joyce uses food imagery to exhibit Corley and Lenehan’s rapaciousness and parasitism (78). Corley, for example, boasts of the ‘fine tart’ he has seduced, and tells Lenehan how he has given up courting girls by taking them out and buying them ‘chocolate and sweets’; ‘damn the thing I ever got out of it’ he declares to his associate (Dubliners 40-2). Whilst Stephen imagines the great choice between drowning and the aesthetic necessity to transcend conventional bonds that hinder artistic freedom, Joyce also seems to admonish what Kevin Whelan calls the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 160 | P a g e ‘dangerous and potentially deforming . . . freefall without the parachute cords of community and identity’ (‘The Memories of “The Dead”’ 67). Stephen’s disputation of the use of term ‘tragedy’ to describe the death of a young girl in a hansom accident — ‘It is remote from terror and pity according to the terms of my definitions’ (Portrait 180) — seems in keeping with his ‘hard’ response to Dilly in Ulysses. McDonald suggests that Stephen’s ‘bloodless aesthetic theorizing’ in Portrait detaches him from ‘everyday reality and suffering’ (19). More broadly, and again drawing on McDonald’s analysis of Portrait, we might glean that Stephen’s response to Dilly is a barometer for societal attitudes to ‘suffering, loss and death’ (19). Such ‘hard’ responses though are part of the ‘Famine symptom’ (Lowe-Evans 35-46) where a ‘generalized callousness’ typified the post-Famine culture as self-preservation entailed loosening kinship and community ties (Gibson Strong Spirit 56-7; Ó Gráda Black '47 and Beyond 46). Extrapolating Freidman’s argument that Stephen’s ‘flight’ is negative, away from his father and the institutions and structures he embodies, I would add that Stephen continues pathologies of colonisation through his perverted performance of ‘community’. By determining not to help his sister Stephen ensures the decline of the already compromised domestic realm, and by helping Corley he perpetuates his duplicitous behaviour. Either way, it seems, Stephen’s performance supports the attack on the ‘feminine’ (women and the domestic realm more broadly) which his ‘flight’ might suggest he tried to break free from. In so doing Joyce establishes contrast with Bloom who is interested in performing community beyond the confines of violence and patriarchy; something explored in Chapter Five. Joyce’s parallactic form refuses simple portioning of blame and Simon is thus a complex amalgam, representing the economic depression and hopelessness of post- Parnell Ireland, but also the failings of patriarchy. Before Stephen and his sister meet in the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode there are other glimpses of the Dedalus household that reveal this multiplicity. As Dilly pursues her father for money she exhibits a learned toughness and the ability to see through her father’s insults and diversions. For all Simon’s abuse — he calls his children ‘An insolent pack of little bitches’ and threatens to get rid of them (U 10: 682-4) — Simon exhibits more ‘feeling’ than some scholarship tends to give him credit for (for example Scholes 130, and Lynch ‘Mixing Memory and Desire’ 73). Following James Longenbach’s contention that modernists include Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 161 | P a g e sentiment under the diversion of irony (in Scholes 134), Scholes’ analysis of the conversation between Dilly and her father suggests Simon’s heartlessness and lack of sympathy is evidence for irony working to allow sentiment into the scene (130; also see Lynch 73). I hold though that this narrow focus on Simon neglects a more nuanced reading of the Dedalus patriarch and the ebb and flow of Simon’s own emotion. Crucially, after Simon shows Dilly his money, he submits to her request to ‘look for some money somewhere’ with a thoughtful nod saying ‘gravely’ that he had ‘looked all along the gutter in O’Connell street’ and that he will now ‘try this one’ (U 10: 700-4). Despite the desperate act of searching for money on the ground, this display of ‘feeling’ is met with a ‘grin’ from his daughter who is pleased with the father’s effort. Although Simon is a true man of the homosocial circle, proffering his talent of singing for drinks at Ormond bar in the ‘Sirens’ episode — ‘I have no money but if you will lend me your attention I shall endeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down’ (11: 658-9) — he hands her a shilling for the family, and two pennies to get a glass of milk or a bun for herself (10: 706-7). He will also tell her he will ‘be home shortly’ (10: 707). In contrast to the masculine drinking culture and the ownership men have of the public realm, Joyce presents a drinking father acknowledging, however begrudgingly, his role of provider and his responsibilities in the domestic realm. Simon is a complex amalgam, however, with various judgments available depending on what is suppressed or emphasised. For example, there is no doubt that Joyce waxes ironic as Simon bemoans what he perceives as the nuns teaching his daughters bad manners: ‘Was it the little nuns taught you to be so saucy?’ (U 10: 677). This equating of his daughter’s abilities to rouse guilt with the Catholic nuns is of course ironic given it is the nuns who have kept the family from starving by giving them soup, as one of the opening snapshots in ‘Wandering Rocks’ reveals: Katey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes. –What’s in the pot? She asked. –Shirts, Maggy said. Boody cried angrily: –Crikey, is there nothing for us to eat? Katey lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked: –And what’s in this? Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 162 | P a g e . . . – Peasoup, Maggy said. – Where did you get it? Katey asked. – Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said. . . . Boody sat down at the table and said hungrily: – Give us it here. Maggy poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katey sitting opposite Boody, said quietly, as her fingertips lifted to her mouth random crumbs: – A good job we have that much. Where’s Dilly? – Gone to meet father, Maggie said. Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added: – ‘Our father who art not in heaven’. Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey’s bowl, exclaimed: – Boody! For shame! (10: 270-93) Despite the father’s insults linking ‘sauciness’ to the nuns, perhaps reflecting their ability to draw upon shame to extract money for donations, this donated meal is evocative of Famine relief and implies the desperation of the family. Simon Dedalus’s attack on the nuns is in keeping with Joyce’s patriarchal Dublin which, despite its own failings, looks to the feminine and domestic realms in its apportionment of blame. This relinquishing of male responsibility and the intent to blame women is also evident in historical sources like the The Irish Homestead, publisher of Joyce’s first short stories. For example, in 1907 the editor George Russell notes how well French households eat compared to Irish families. While the French menu includes macaroni, mutton, pork, olive oil, eggs, milk, cheese, coffee, chicory, sugar, wine, cider and beer, Russell bemoans: ‘We do not believe any family in Ireland with the same income would live so well, or have anything like so varied a diet . . . Our diet could be just as varied if Irish women were interested in feeding their families. Our national dish of Irish stew has come into existence simply as the result of the survival of the laziest methods’ (Russell 185). The point Joyce subversively makes though is that Dubliner men are in a post- Parnell paralysis and any money they do earn (or find) isn’t able to be utilised by Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 163 | P a g e women for familial sustenance as it is instead ‘invested’ in male consumption at the pub. In addition to the family, Joyce holds up for inspection another patriarchal institution — the Catholic Church — and examines its part in the impoverishment of the Irish. While Joyce presents the nuns as caring, he doesn’t endow priests with the same generosity. Bloom is especially observant of the apparent hypocrisy of the clergy and just prior to seeing the illclad and illfed Dilly Dedalus, who he supposes lives on ‘Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes’ (U 8: 41-3), he thinks of the plight of the Dedalus family as perpetuated by Catholicism: ‘Fifteen children he had. Birth every year almost. That’s in their theology or the priest won’t give the poor woman the confession . . . Increase and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat you out of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living on the fat of the land. Their butteries and larders’ (8: 31-5). However, if Bloom is scathing of the priesthood, he implicitly criticises Catholics themselves who don’t question authority. In the ‘Lotus Eaters’ episode Bloom watches the priest give communion, and thinks that Latin is a good idea, ‘Stupefies them first’, but he also notices that they don’t ‘chew’ the host; they ‘only swallow it down’ (5: 350-2). He gives seagulls more respect as they aren’t fooled by his ‘fake’ bread, the crumpled bits of paper, and only swoop down when he throws them real fragments of Banbury cake (8: 57-78). If Simon’s hesitant paternal provision and Stephen’s disinclination to help his sister is thus more complex when considered in juxtaposition to the snapshot of the Dedalus girls at home, Joyce’s carefully placed snapshot of Mulligan and Haines in ‘Wandering Rocks’ works to remind us of Ireland’s colonial, exploited existence. As Dickson notes of Joyce’s ‘self-consciously heteroglossic’ approach: ‘Sentimentality always emanates from a vicarious–and hence invariably distorting–perspective, so that what appears excessive from one point of view might seem mete from another . . . What can seem “wet” and abject from one perspective can be viewed as generous or laudatory from another’ (28). Jonathan Greenberg argues that from the ‘Telemachus’ episode the Falstaffian figure of Mulligan, in particular, is established as a ‘satiric spirit’ of Ulysses, exhibiting the aloof and witty traits of the dandy alongside the combativeness and cruelty (Modernism, Satire, and the Novel 33-4). He performs a ‘social role’ (34), highlighting the paralysis of Dubliners but also revealing an ignorance about the social Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 164 | P a g e issues of the poor. Scholes suggests that Joyce ‘teaches us to despise’ Mulligan and Haines, especially through their gourmandising (132). Looking the dandy in his panama and primrose waistcoat (U 10: 1043, 1065) Mulligan joins Haines in ordering a mélange, but also asks the waitress to ‘bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well’ (10: 1054-6). As Mulligan and Haines discuss (and mock) Stephen their ‘cheerful cups’ and food arrive (10: 1083-7). Haines sinks ‘two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream’, while Mulligan ‘slit[s] a steaming scone in two and plaster[s] butter over its smoking pith’ biting off a piece ‘hungrily’ (10: 1086-8). In contrast to Stephen and Dilly’s ‘oatmealwater’ substitute for real milk (16: 273) only the Englishman Haines can afford the luxury of discernment, demanding Ireland’s finest: ‘He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup. “This is real Irish cream I take it”, he said with forbearance. “I don’t want to be imposed on”’ (10: 1093-5). Mulligan’s pronouncements connecting nutrition with health might be true enough, but he reveals his ignorance of the complex socio-economic conditions, the constraints of patriarchy and the malaise of post-Parnell Dublin. In ‘Telemachus’ he remarks of the fresh, just delivered milk that ‘[i]f we could live on good food like that . . . we would n’t have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives’ spits’ (U 1: 411-4). But, even Mulligan’s voice is ‘wellfed’ (1: 107). He is the picture of middle- class health and prosperity, especially when we consider his thrice-mentioned ‘white’ and ‘glittering’ teeth in the first episode (1: 25, 132, 378; Fairhall 69), compared with Stephen who in ‘Proteus’ suffers from a ‘Hunger toothache’ and at twenty two reflects that his teeth are ‘very bad’ (U 3: 186, 494; Ulin 35). Mara maintains that Mulligan’s good health also commingles fertility and masculinity in ‘Oxen of the Sun’, as he jokes that his ability to offer ‘his dutiful yeoman services for the fecundation of any female’ would demand a particular diet: ‘For his nutriment he shewed how he would feed himself exclusively upon a diet of savoury tubercles and fish and coneys . . . broiled and stewed with a blade of mace and a pod or two of capsicum chillies’ (U 14: 692-6). As Bloom observes in ‘Eumaeus’, Mulligan ‘knows which side his bread is buttered’, and thinks that ‘in all probability he never realised what it is to be without regular meals’ (16: 264-5, 282-3). As Scholes affirms, if the reader is disappointed with Stephen in ‘Wandering Rocks’, the disconnected Mulligan works to improve our opinion of him (133). If we happen to miss the point, in the ‘Circe’ episode Joyce includes Buck Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 165 | P a g e Mulligan in a ‘particoloured jester’s dress of puce and yellow and clown’s cap’ holding a ‘smoking buttered split scone in his hand’ (U 15: 4176-8), with ‘tears of molten butter fall[ing] from his eyes on to the scone’ (15: 4179-80). Conclusion Joyce’s representation of the betrayal and demise of Parnell and the ensuing paralysis of the post-Parnell era reveals a complex relationship between colonial violence, religious repression, compromised nationalist politics, and a disintegrating domestic sphere. The Christmas dinner scene in Portrait examines the devouring of Parnell and the perpetuation of the cycle of betrayal. As Joyce indicated, anyone who tries to bring the Irish together and improve the terms of the defective ‘social contract’ (for example by addressing the key issues of land, economic security, and political representation) are met with subterfuge. Joyce shows empathy for Parnellites sharing their first post- Parnell Christmas, but continuing on from themes in ‘Ivy Day’ we can also perceive his criticism of the political apathy of the Irish and the dangers of perpetuating the cycle of imperial violence by suppressing and neglecting their own domestic spheres. While Joyce’s parallax prevents assertions that he passes judgments on Parnellites like Simon, he does interrogate homosocial consumption as he presents bonds of drinking culture in material terms and as syphoning money away from an already poor and decaying domestic realm. In the ‘Wandering Rocks’ episode children are presented as victims of both hapless fathers and a religion which is detached from material realities in its perpetuation of poverty. This episode is a prime example of Joyce’s multi-dimensional perspectives revealing his ebb and flow of sentimentality and irony. Following Cuda’s argument, I concur that Joyce’s operationalising of sentiment provides the space to experience powerlessness, but Joyce also interrogates this powerlessness and what could be done differently to restore agency. Stephen’s famous declaration in the ‘Nestor’ episode, that ‘History . . . is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake’ (U 2: 377) has been explored in previous chapters in relation to the production of history, the memory of the violence of the Famine, a haunting of the loss of community, and the mourning of an alternate future. This chapter has expanded the implications of such a claim not only to highlight the aesthete’s desire to live artistically, away from the confines of nature, family, church and the history of colonialism, but also to consider the flight Parnellites also took in post-Parnell Ireland. Joyce is sympathetic towards Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 166 | P a g e Dubliners like Simon as they flounder in a post-Parnell era, but he also points to the collateral damage of the cycle of betrayal, and how even the loyal Parnellites sabotage their own domestic realm and negate the possibility for Irish ‘community’. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 167 | P a g e Chapter 4 – You Are What You Eat And of course Bloom had to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower’s heart violent exercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up a straw from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: Look at, Bloom. Do you see that straw? That’s a straw. Declare to my aunt he’d talk about it for an hour so he would and talk steady. (Ulysses 12: 891-6) James Joyce remained interested in medicine and the body throughout his life, and both Joyce and his father John made unsuccessful attempts at a medical career. His father studied in Cork between 1867 and 1869, but as Stanislaus Joyce comments, ‘one should say he was enrolled in the school of medicine for three years, since he studied as little as possible, and instead made a big name in sport and dramatics, and by his wild life while a student’ (in J. B. Lyons Joyce and Medicine 19; emphasis added). Joyce entered the Dublin Catholic University Medical School in 1902 but left after only one month (Lyons 215-8). After moving to Paris he enrolled in Medicine at the Sorbonne, but as Vike Martina Plock notes, once again ‘scientific ineptitude and financial problems forced Joyce to give up his half-hearted attempt’ (Plock Joyce, Medicine and Modernity 5). Ulysses’ episodes were famously organised around a human body’s organ’s, bones, nerves, and blood circulation, according to the schema Joyce passed on to the Italian critic Carlo Linati in 1920. While he later dismissed the interpretative device, the novel nonetheless ‘continues to accentuate [Joyce’s] ongoing interest in exploring the analogies between the human body, the city as a social organism, and the corpus of his developing narrative’ (Plock 6-7). Scholars such as Plock place Joyce’s writing in the context of turn of the century medical debates and the socio-economic context of health and disease. Indeed, in recent decades medicine educators have turned to Joyce’s fiction, and other canonical writers, to help students understand the human response to illness; something that an ‘empirical’ education doesn’t make room for. This has its own irony though, as Joyce is ambivalent about the medical profession in Ulysses and this is reflected in Bloom’s midway stance: a regard for empirical medicine Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 168 | P a g e on the one hand, and, if not an Apollonian focus on the spirit, at least a scepticism of the profession and an implicit belief in a more holistic approach to health. While medicine is looking to literature for its humanity, literature scholars are examining more clinical medical scholarship on Joyce, health, and illness and discovering, more fully, what Joyce is saying about the world of turn of the century Dublin. What is revealed is a malnourished and diseased population, a result of colonial repression, poverty and poor housing. Joyce’s consideration of the body, specifically eating and digestion, says something about both his view of art and his nuanced considerations of the complex state of Ireland. His examination of food and eating, of what we call today ‘nose to tail’ food, reveals his interest in the total digestion tract, but ‘innards’ also represent frugality, and echo his own stomach concerns and hunger pains. Ulysses also participates in various discussions about social and cultural improvement, and the maxim ‘you are what you eat’ is explored aesthetically, scientifically, and via the more narrow nationalistic extrapolations of this scientific discourse. While Bloom may have some common ground with Irish Homestead editor George Russell and his criticism of the new Irish food staples of bread, tea and sugar, the ruminations in Ulysses about the consumption of these foods requires more thoughtful, political consideration. Joyce reflects the turn of the century phenomenon of increased consumer ‘choice’ and the implicit rejection by Dubliners of ‘peasant’ food. Nevertheless, Joyce explores the concomitant consideration of quasi-scientific and imperial discourses which turn to food for further evidence of Irish ‘otherness’. While Bloom’s interest in scientific and nutritional knowledges might initially signal a possible new framework outside the current terms of Ireland’s oppressive social contract, Joyce pointedly reveals how new knowledges are appropriated and how the discourse is used to reassert Ireland’s colonial status. The Church doesn’t go without comment either, as Joyce ruminates on how both the Catholic Church and England have used food to pacify the Irish. Joyce, Disease and Medicine Robert Kaplan of the graduate School of Medicine at the University of Wollongong reports that doctors ‘are looking to philosophy, anthropology, sociology and other disciplines to answer the question: “What is it like to be human?”’ (Kaplan ‘Doctors, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 169 | P a g e Disease and James Joyce’ 669). It is the discipline of literature, he argues, that best demonstrates this insight into the human understanding of illness, and the role of illness in the life of a person (669; see also Greenhalgh and Hurwitz ‘Narrative Based Medicine’; and Charon ‘Literature and Medicine’ and ‘Reading, Writing Doctoring’). Thus, Kaplan and other likeminded medical academics and clinicians assert that the works of Conan Doyle, Chekhov, Maugham, Tolstoy, Kafka, Thomas Mann, Joyce and Plath fill the gap left by the ‘narrow, technology based, organic focus[ed]’ medical model (Kaplan 669). Medical journals such as The American Journal of Medical Sciences, Literature and Medicine, Annals of Internal Medicine (for example, Waisbren et al.; and Charon), Lancet (McLellan), the British Medical Journal (Greenhalgh and Hurwitz), Perspectives in Biology and Medicine (Shanahan and Quigley), The Australian Family Physician, Australas Psychiatry (Kaplan) and the Scandinavian Journal of Primary Health Care (Heath) exhibit an increasing consideration of Joyce’s work for its perspective on medical and social history. One General Practitioner, Dr Iona Heath, notes the relevance of Joyce, particularly Ulysses, to the work of general practitioners (65). In addition to the relatively recent examination of Joyce’s work for its contextualisation of disease and its illumination of the human side of ill health, medical journals and literary scholars are also interested in Joyce’s personal list of ailments. The creative process of Ulysses was repeatedly interrupted by Joyce’s medical complaints. As Plock and J. B. Lyons (James Joyce and Medicine) note, gastric pains, rheumatism, ocular troubles and nervous collapses exasperated Joyce’s attempts to finish the novel. Roy Gottfried reminds us that Joyce proofread Ulysses ‘with blurred and impaired vision, armed with a magnifying glass’ (in Plock 1). Fergus Shanahan and Eamonn Quigley note that ‘literature often uniquely provides an appreciation of the societal and historic context of disease’ as the novelist can ‘cast light where others have failed and can provide a vivid account that may be lacking in an assemblage of historical facts’ (‘Medicine in the Age of Ulysses’ 277). Joycean scholars are also using these more clinical studies as a springboard for a more rigorous examination of Joyce’s oeuvre. While the impetus for studies published in medical journals may be ‘clinical’, recent articles in literary criticism, such as Michael Timins’s article in the James Joyce Quarterly (‘“The Sisters”: Their Disease’), acknowledge the contribution made in medical scholarship, but are also compelled to take the clinical and textual evidence further by researching the socio-historical significance of the disease in Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 170 | P a g e Joyce’s time. Burton A. Waisbren and Florence L. Walzl’s 1974 article on the use of syphilis in ‘The Sisters’, for example, sparked interest in literary criticism. As Timins points out, subsequent footnotes and forwards to standard editions of Dubliners from 1990 onwards consider not only the theme of societal paralysis but also consider the paralysis caused by syphilis and what this illness says about religion, gender and colonisation. At the turn of the century when Joyce was writing Dubliners syphilis was ‘ubiquitous’: ‘in Berlin, about one out of eight and in Paris one out of six individuals had the disease, and in parts of Russia, about one out of five were infected’ (Timins 445). While the Royal Commission on Venereal Diseases estimated one out of ten were infected in England and Ireland, as Joseph V. O’Brien points out, the prevalence of the disease in Dublin was double that of London, and as Dublin’s population was half London’s this means that one in five Dubliners were infected (in Timins 445). No wonder Joyce described the ‘syphilitic contagion in Europe’, with Dublin as the ‘centre of paralysis’ (Timins 445; Joyce Selected Letters 83), and the Citizen refers to colonial oppression in terms of the ‘syphilisation’ of Ireland (12: 1197). The prevalence of syphilis is reflective of the poor public health of Dublin in general at the turn of the century (Timins 445). While the overall deathrate in post-Famine Ireland declined by 8% between 1870 and 1900, death from infectious disease ‘could rise to alarming rates at particular times and in particular locations’. For example, while deaths from measles decreased very marginally in Ireland as a whole between 1864 and 1903, in Dublin in 1903 there were 186 deaths per 100,000, more than double the highest rates in the rest of the UK (Clarkson and Crawford Feast and Famine 239, 244- 5). F. S. L. Lyons notes that Dublin’s infant mortality was the highest in the UK, tuberculosis was rife and malnutrition was endemic (Ireland Since the Famine 275). Tuberculosis was responsible for half the deaths between the ages of 15 and 35 and in 1904 it accounted for 16% of all deaths (Shanahan and Quigley ‘Medicine in the Age of Ulysses’ 282), but it is estimated that between one third to one half of all post-mortem examinations revealed traces of the disease (Bock ‘James Joyce and Germ Theory’ 24). Martin Bock notes that at the turn of the century Dublin’s infant mortality and childhood death rate were worse than in Calcutta (23), and Joseph O’Brien affirms that the annual death rate in Dublin 1887 was 33.6 per 1,000, ‘only slightly less than Calcutta’s’ and ‘the largest of any major city in Europe’ (in Timins 445). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 171 | P a g e If Joyce’s work says something about public health and illness in turn of the century Dublin, it also says something about medical practitioners. This more overt critique, however, doesn’t formulate until Ulysses. Joyce’s early work was less concerned with inept professionals and more interested in offering the perspective of the layperson, and implicitly bringing societal ills that impact good health to the foreground. In Stephen Hero for example, Valerie Bénéjam suggests that the dialogue between Stephen and his mother about the ‘hole in Isabel’s stomach’ (SH 163) reveals the layperson’s ‘ignorance of bodily processes and anatomical details’ (Bénéjam 441). Whatever more Stephen (or Joyce) may know about the body and medicine, Joyce ‘[r]efuses to present any medical assistance or final diagnosis’ and instead ‘embraces the patient’s (and her anxious family’s) viewpoint’ (441). Ulysses, in contrast, draws on much medical discourse. Joyce’s knowledge was ‘bookish’ and only that ‘of a medical student’s pal’ (Gogarty in Bénéjam 441), or what his brother called ‘pseudo-medical phraseology’ (The Complete Dublin Diary of Stanislaus Joyce 51), but it is his choice of discourse that makes his point about the profession. Unlike Flaubert or Maupassant, whom Joyce greatly admired, and who were intent on revealing the ineptitude of physicians (Donaldson- Evans 110-122; Bénéjam 439-53), Joyce is more concerned with highlighting the dehumanisation and insensitivity of practitioners. Though Shanahan and Quigley maintain that the impact of doctors in Joyce’s time was modest — ‘a prescription of paternalism, potions, purges, and placebos’ (‘In Search of Lost Opportunities’ 157) — it is apparent that Mulligan, his fellow medical students and other practitioners in Ulysses know more about the body than, for example, Charles Bovary. What concerns Joyce though is their ‘arrogance of expertise’, their alienating jargon, their pomposity, and their affectations (Shanahan and Quigley ‘Medicine in the Age of Ulysses’ 278; Bénéjam 442). The justification of this critique seems to be established early in Ulysses as medical student Mulligan attempts to defend his insensitivity on the matter of the death of Stephen’s mother: ‘And what is death . . . your mother’s or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It’s a beastly thing and nothing else’ (U 7: 204-7). While Flaubert’s competent surgeon Larivière is introduced to penetrate the lies of the incompetent and self-serving quasi-professionals (Bénéjam 442), Joyce uses Bloom not so much to debunk, but to provide empathy in his midway position between the doctor Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 172 | P a g e and the patient, refusing to see humans as objects (Bénéjam 444-5). In ‘Lestrygonians’ Bloom thinks that most doctors are humane, and feels patients are ungrateful as they keep doctors waiting for their fee, whilst they are on call ‘at all hours’ (U 8: 397-400). In ‘Oxen of the Sun’, however, the medical students’ crassness on the subject of women, and the contrasting reverence for Mr Purefoy as ‘the remarkablest progenitor’ (see 14: 803-9, 1411), is countered by Bloom’s concern for Mrs Purefoy’s long and hard labour (14: 111-3). He is repeatedly noted to contemplate with ‘wonder’ ‘women’s woes’ (14: 119, 186), and pities the ‘terrorcausing shrieking of shrill women in their labour’ (14: 265). Whilst Molly is bamboozled by medical jargon — ‘where do these old fellows get all the words’ (18: 1170) — Bloom ‘knows a lot of mixedup things especially about the body and the inside’ (18: 179-80); loving ‘the art of the physic as might a layman’ (14: 255-6). As a ‘layman’ Bloom is not desensitised, and as he lives outside the confines of ‘religion’ he does not defer to the spiritual as a fellow ‘lay’ Dubliner may. Bénéjam points out that despite Bloom’s rather vague medical knowledge, his explanation in the ‘Ithaca’ episode of Stephen’s earlier collapse reveals an awareness that is lacking in Stephen’s version of events, which is ‘primitive and irrational’ and has biblical undertones (Bénéjam 446; 17: 36-42). Bloom’s explanation of ‘gastric inanition and certain chemical compounds of varying degrees of adulteration and alcoholic strength, accelerated by mental exertion and the velocity of rapid circular motion in a relaxing atmosphere’, is contrasted with Stephen’s account of ‘the reapparition of a matutinal cloud (perceived by both from two different points of observation, Sandycove and Dublin) at first no bigger than a woman’s hand’ (U 17: 37- 42). While we may wonder, as does Cranly in Portrait, how Stephen’s mind can be supersaturated with the religion in which he says he does not believe (Portrait 212), Bloom’s distance from ‘religion’ enables what Mike Digou calls Bloom’s ‘Chironian medicine’ (‘Joyce’s Ulysses’). Digou argues that the ‘Oxen of the Sun’ episode is replete with Asclepian medicine symbolism. The image of the serpents ‘there to entwine themselves on long sticks’ (U 14: 157-8), though attributed to hops vines and the manufacture of beer by Gifford (412), also indicates for Digou the symbol of Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine. Asclepius medicine combined the Apollonian focus on the healing of the patient’s spirit with Chironian medicine, which ‘used empirical methods to heal the body, but ignored . . . the spirit’ (Digou 209). The Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 173 | P a g e synthesis of Bloom and Stephen in Ulysses creates for Digou ‘the potential for something greater than either alone’ (209-10). Digou’s characterisation of Bloom as Chironian is justified by his concern for the ‘physical, practical, and not spiritual’ (209). But as I contend in the next chapter, while Bloom isn’t ‘religious’ he is ‘spiritual’; spiritual if we consider his various ponderings on the cycle of love, life, death and nature, and his curiosity about people’s beliefs. He is also empathetic thus exhibiting a connection and awareness of people beyond what would be considered ‘empirical’. Thus, while Digou sees Asclepius in the synthesis of Bloom and Stephen, I contend that there is evidence of an Apollonian and Chironian union within Bloom. Thus, Bloom’s apparent inheritance of empirical medical methodology (Bénéjam 446), such as in his assessment of Stephen’s state in the ‘Ithaca’ episode, shouldn’t be considered in isolation. As already stated, he is critical of the detachment of the medical profession, but he also questions the commercialisation of medicine and is critical of those who don’t question the profession. In ‘Oxen of the Sun’ he would wonder how carousing medical students can become respected doctors: ‘that the mere acquisition of academic title should suffice to transform in a pinch of time these votaries of levity into exemplary practitioners of an art which most men anywise eminent have esteemed noblest’ (U 14: 899-92). On the matter of the teaching hospital, Mater Misericordiae, Bloom will ponder: ‘Big place. Ward for incurables there. Very Encouraging’ (6: 375-6). In ‘Hades’ Bloom questions the over prescription of drugs, and as he orders Molly’s lotion in ‘Lotus Eaters’ he will reflect on the potency of the contents of the chemist store, but thinks that those early chemists must have had ‘a bit of pluck’. Above all though Bloom credits ‘clever’ nature for providing remedies ‘where you least expect it’ (5: 479-84). Though Richie Goulding ‘[t]hinks he’ll cure [his back complaint] with pills’, for Bloom the pills are ‘breadcrumbs’ sold at about ‘six hundred percent profit’ (6: 60-2), so the only thing the ‘cure’ accomplishes is increasing the wealth of the chemists. Not long after this he will think of his father’s suicide and the ‘redlabelled bottle on the table’ (6: 359-63). We might also perceive here what Andrew Gibson argues in relation to the hyperbolic overflow of knowledge in the ‘Ithaca’ episode; that Joyce gives science back to the English establishment by ‘interrogating it and displacing its emphasis’ (‘An Aberration of the Light of Reason’ 165). Joyce uses Bloom to portray medicine’s permeation of daily life, and Joyce shows Bloom to be superior for his ability to deplete the power of the master narrative Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 174 | P a g e (Gibson 165). Bloom’s questioning of pills as a ‘cure’, by implication, questions the medical establishment who increasingly ‘prescribe’ (Shanahan and Quigley ‘In Search of Lost Opportunities’ 157). An examination of a number of 1904 issues of a popular Dublin periodical, The Lady of the House (1890-1923), seems to suggest that Ulysses comments on the prevalence of ‘remedies’ endorsed by the medical profession at the turn of the century. Amongst numerous remedies advertised in the journal, Dr Ritter’s ‘Tasteless Capsules’, are ‘[d]evised by a qualified medical man!’ and claim to be a ‘remedy for obesity’ (15 January, 1904, 16). Another noteworthy example is Dr Tibbles’ Vi-Cocoa which was regularly advertised. For example in the 1904 January and June issues the product is endorsed by the Medical Magazine, which claims it is ‘Favoured by the Homes and Hospitals of Great Britain’, and uses testimonials from nurses for its relief of dyspepsia and ‘physical and mental loss’ (9; 9). As Plock points out, in the post-Famine era the preoccupation with ‘getting enough’ had been replaced by ‘eating correctly’ (33) and the medical profession were called upon to make such judgments. This endorsement, however, co-opts ‘expert’ scientific discourse as a marketing tool to capitalise on the social standing of these professionals and thus optimise profit; a strategy used today (Scrinis ‘Ideology of Nutrition’ 39, 44-5; Churchill and Churchill ‘Buying Health’ 91- 3). Joyce’s Poor Stomach and the Matter of Innards In their article in Clinical Medicine Shanahan and Quigley hold that while descriptions of the gut and gastrointestinal ailments are avoided by many writers, Joyce embraced the whole digestive process ‘from deglutination to defecation’ (‘James Joyce and Gastroenterology’ 633). Indeed, Bloom’s preoccupation with digestion is carried throughout the novel. So important is this process that as Mrs Breen tells him of her husband’s nightmare, Bloom thinks it must have been ‘Indiges[tion]’ (U 8:252), and then soon after contemplates Fletcherism — ‘Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews per minute’ (8: 360) — a scientific way of eating advocated at the turn of the century by health-food faddist Horace Fletcher, also known as ‘the great masticator’ (Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’ 31). Food and digestion seems to be Bloom’s ‘operating principle’ (Bénéjam ‘Innards and Titbits’ 25) as he is introduced in the fourth Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 175 | P a g e episode by way of his culinary preferences, ‘the inner organs of beasts and fowls’, and that he liked ‘the tang of faintly scented urine’ of his grilled mutton kidneys (U 4: 1-5). He will also remark that looking at the statue of Venus of Praxiteles aids digestion (8: 922). As Greek statues have perfect forms ‘some ideal digestion must be taking place within them’, hence Bloom’s interest in looking for the statue’s anus (Bénéjam ‘Innards and Titbits’ 32). Shanahan and Quigley suggest that ‘Joyce was a prescient gastroenterologist, anticipating nanotechnology in diagnostics and perhaps capsule endoscopy’ (‘Gastroenterology’ 633). After eating his cheese sandwich and having a glass of burgundy at Davey Burns’s Bloom would imagine that with the ‘Röntgen rays searchlight you could . . . watch it all the way down’ (U 8: 1029, 1046-7; Shanahan and Quigley 633). In ‘Aeolus’ he will fantasise about helping others with digestion problems: ‘Country bumpkin’s queries. Dear Mr Editor, what is a good cure for flatulence? I’d like that part. Learn a lot teaching others’ (U 7: 95-7). In ‘Sirens’ he will deduce that his own gas is from cider (11: 1180), and in the ‘Ithaca’ episode we learn that Bloom owns a prospectus for the ‘Wonderworker’: ‘the world’s greatest remedy for rectal complaints’, ‘assist[ing] nature in the most formidable way, insuring instant relief in discharge of gases . . . making a new man of you and life worth living’ (17: 1820, 1827-9). While Clive Hart saw Joyce’s fascination with anality as ‘an obsession’, he saw in Finnegans Wake a beauty which is distilled by verbal alchemy from obscene scrawls’ (Hart Structure and Motif in ‘Finnegans Wake’ 202-3; Tucker Stephen and Bloom at Life’s Feast 3). As Lindsey Tucker suggests, perhaps this verbal alchemy is the ‘key to Joyce’s use of such images’ thus elevating the seemingly obscene and scatological (3). Following a more positive, Jungian interpretation of Bloom’s ‘fondness for excrementa’, Tucker advances that unlike a Freudian reading which links only the repression of the anal stage with creativity, Jungian readings emphasise art as the continuation of the anal stage that ‘has been preserved and integrated with the individual’s development as a whole’ (Neumann in Tucker 5). Joyce’s narratological technique of offering different viewpoints is here embodied with Bloom’s ‘inversion of habitual perspectives’ (Bénéjam ‘Innards and Titbits’ 32). Bénéjam observes that Bloom’s desire to consider things and people (and statues) from different angles can be likened to the famous anecdote in art history: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 176 | P a g e French painters Camille Corot and Gustave Courbet would often go on painting expeditions together. Corot, faithful to the inheritance of Romantic landscape painters, spent hours choosing the place to set up his painting material, considering the prospect and composition of the landscape — in a way, finding the painting in nature before he would reproduce it on canvas. Once he had set up his easel, Courbet the realist would turn his back on him, and started painting whatever was to be seen on the other side. (32) This radical approach to the project of representation in painting is a good analogue to Bloom looking at the statue of Venus from behind. It also speaks of Joyce’s modernist aesthetic, for more than considering new perspectives, he is also concerned with ‘rendering life in its very process and transformation’ (Bénéjam ‘Innards and Titbits’ 32). Life isn’t what will occur in the future — when the Irish don’t remember the Famine, or when Ireland has a new ‘uncrowned king’, or after Ireland is independent and the socio-economic status of the working class improves — as life, and art, occur at the faultlines too. It is ironic that despite Joyce’s interest in the digestive process, his own chronic peptic ulcer disorder was misdiagnosed, when this was ‘one of the most common gastrointestinal ailments of his day’ (Shanahan and Quigley ‘Gastroenterology’ 633; also see Shanahan and Quigley ‘Medicine in the Age of “Ulysses”’ 281; and Baron ‘Byron’s appetites, James Joyce’s Gut’ 1701). Today Joyce’s alcohol consumption, his smoking, and his taking of analgesia for rheumatic and ocular pain would point to the reason for Joyce’s severe episodic abdominal pains (Shanahan and Quigley ‘Gastroenterology’ 633). Jeremy Hugh Baron reminds us, however, that Joyce’s stomach pains were also the result of poverty. From the age of twenty-one he had severe bouts of ‘epigastric hunger pain’ (1700). These began when he was a penniless student in Paris, and where the physical pain of hunger, and perhaps the beginnings of the peptic ulcer, were commingled with the anxiety of poverty and waiting for financial relief, usually from his brother Stanislaus (Lyons James Joyce and Medicine 211-20). He writes to his brother in September 1906 that the stress of the landlady perceiving Nora was paying rent with a counterfeit ‘gold piece’ made him ‘so sick’ that he ‘couldn’t eat [his] dinner’ (Selected Letters 107). Writing to his brother in February 1907 from Rome, he declares that his financial situation — their father’s request for Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 177 | P a g e money; the hiatus of his tuition income; his clothing expenses, for example — necessitates that he ‘break off this letter’ as ‘[a]ll this trouble and bustle always finds its way into the bosom of my stomach’ (Selected Letters 149; Letters of James Joyce II 213). As noted in the previous chapter Joyce may have known hunger in the ‘downwardly mobile household of his father’ (Whelan 61), but his periods of poverty and lack of food would also leave a physical mark. One may contend that it is this reason that Joyce disregarded friends’ suggestions that he probably had an ulcer, and trusted a more romantic version of his ailment: ‘“nerves” from his worries over so many years’ (Baron 1701). Plock (‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’), L. B. Lyons (James Joyce and Medicine) and John Garvin (James Joyce’s Disunited Kingdom and the Irish Dimension) all note how Joyce’s financial situation after moving to Paris made the regular supply of food an acute concern. In February 1903 he informs his mother that ‘spells of fasting are common with [him] now’, and as he gets so hungry, when he does get money he can ‘eat a fortune (1s/-) before you can say knife’. He hopes the ‘new system of living won’t injure [his] digestion’ (Letters of James Joyce II 29). On 8 March, 1903 he writes to his mother of the infrequency of his meals: my next meal . . . will be 11 a.m. tomorrow (Monday): my last meal was 7 p.m. last (Saturday) night. So far I have another fast of 40 hours — No, not a fast for I have eaten a pennyworth of dry bread. My second last meal was 20 hours before my last . . . — Two meals in sixty hours is not bad, I think. As my lenten regulations have made me somewhat weak I shall go up to my room and sit there till it is time to go to bed. (Selected Letters 16) A little under two weeks later he will write to his mother again that [a]s for the food I get—I do not always get food only when I can. Sometimes I take one meal in the day and buy potatoes cooked and dry bread in the street . . . I can assure you, I have a most villainous hunger. Today I came laughing and singing to myself down the Boulevard Saint-Michel without a care in the world because I felt I was going to have a dinner—my first (properly speaking) for three days. (Selected Letters 18) Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 178 | P a g e He writes to his father in February 1903 that he had brought some cooking utensils, a stove and some supplies, and that he was now trying to do his own cooking to reduce his expenses. While he lists the numerous foods he has eaten or wants to cook, Joyce expresses concern about the effect the irregularity of meals would have on his health: ‘I am sorry to say that after my dinner on Tuesday I became very ill and at night I had a fit of vomiting. I felt very bad the whole of the following day but I am better today except for attacks of neuralgia – induced, I imagine, by my constant periods of fasting’ (Selected Letters 15; L. B. Lyons 211). Some years later Joyce used eating habits as a litmus test for his family’s health. In a letter from Rome (1906) he writes: Yesterday being the anniversary of the day of my espousal and the day of the gladness of my heart, we went out into the country and ate and drank the greater part of many larders. Here is the full and exact list of what we ate yesterday. 10.30 a.m. Ham, bread and butter, coffee 1.30 p.m. Soup, roast lamb and potatoes, bread and wine 4.- p.m. Beef-stew, bread and wine 6.- p.m. Roast veal, bread, gorgonzola cheese and wine 8.30 p.m. Roast veal, bread and grapes and vermouth 9.30 p.m. Veal cutlets, bread, salad, grapes and wine ‘There is literally no end to our appetites’, he continues, ‘I don’t believe I ever was in better health except for the sedentary life I lead’ (Letters of James Joyce II 172). Such joy though is soon countered by the fear of an imminent period of frugality. After he notes that he stands outside grocer’s shops ‘fascinated’, he reveals to his brother that his salary ‘will not be sufficient to feed him in the winter’ (172-3). Nora and Joyce’s cycle of feasting and fasting is revealed in a number of letters, as noted by Plock (‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’ 3, 40). On 16 August 1906 Joyce will reveal that ‘the real reason the money goes so quickly is that we eat enormously’. Nora’s usual dinner, he states, is ‘two slices of roastbeef, 2 polpetti, a tomato stuffed with rice, part of a salad and a half-litre of wine’, although he importantly includes that she is ‘getting much healthier looking’ (Selected Letters 95). He would on other occasions confirm their ‘villainous’ appetites noting that he and Nora had eaten ‘an entire roast chicken and a Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 179 | P a g e plateful of ham, bread and wine – and went to bed hungry’ (Letters of James Joyce II 151), and he had eaten ‘soup, spaghetti al sugo, half a beefsteak, bread and cheese, grapes and a half litre of wine’ (Letters of James Joyce II 167-8). The listing of food items indicates that food is a central concern; and while the lean times are dreaded, the periods of feasting are recalled again in Joyce’s letters as an extension of the occasion. Jaye Berman Montresor suggests that this ordering of food items in the form of lists, exemplified in both Joyce’s letters and in his fiction, is a practice rooted in the origins of writing itself such as food store inventories of ancient Egypt and Sumeria (‘Joyce’s Jewish Stew’ 194). To propose Joyce’s cataloguing of food in letters though is a type of prelude to his tracing the development of English literature in ‘Oxen of the Sun’ may be a case of not seeing the wood for the trees. On the contrary, Montresor alludes to Joyce’s self-professed ‘more ordinary quality of his mind’ (195). In a letter to Frank Budgen (2 May 1934) Joyce would write ‘I have a grocer’s assistant’s mind’ (James Joyce Letters III 304; Montresor 195). Joyce’s listing process in his personal correspondence may be an easy means of ‘filling in’, as Garvin notes, but his itemisation of food also finds its way into his fiction (77). Garvin contends that although the delectable descriptions of food at the Morkan sisters’ Christmas party are ‘lovingly dressed’ in ‘adjectival adornments’, what Joyce produced in effect was an ‘itemised menu’ (77). Hugh Kenner would also argue that Joyce’s lists offer comfort; ‘a double pleasure of knowing what should be present, and knowing that all of it is present’ (Kenner The Stoic Comedians 55; Montresor 3). We are introduced to Bloom in the ‘Calypso’ episode with a list of food preferences: ‘Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes . . . [and] mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine’ (U 4: 1-5). Montresor proposes that food lists, such as the list here, demonstrate a delicate balance of ‘confinement’ and ‘freedom’. By ‘confinement’ Montresor refers to a ‘finite all-inclusiveness’ resulting from Joyce’s ordering of words. For example the juxtaposition of ‘soup’ and ‘nutty’ is a nod to the expression ‘from soup to nuts’, the ‘alpha and omega points of a complete dinner’ (3). From this perspective the dinner menu in ‘The Dead’ could also come under this reassuring finite inclusivity. The menu consists of: a ‘fat brown goose’ with stuffing, ‘a great ham’, ‘a Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 180 | P a g e round of spiced beef’, raspberry and orange jelly, blancmange, red jam, ‘purple raisins and peeled almonds’, Smyrna figs, custard with grated nutmeg, chocolates and sweets, a vase of celery, oranges and American apples, and a ‘huge pudding’ (Dubliners 170-4). Here we can see the alpha and omega of this traditional Victorian dinner, replete with the roast bird, the joint of meat and the beef. The menu has a Victorian reassurance about it and you can find these menu items in Mrs Beeton’s seminal (1836-65) Household Management (see for example ‘Spiced Beef’ 292, ‘Roast Goose’ 454, Baked Ham 358; Orange and Raspberry Jellies 694 and 751, ‘Blancmange’ 673-4). Joyce’s lists can be read in alternative ways though. Gilbert Sorrentino advances ‘an absolute fictional infinity’ of Joyce’s lists as ‘anything can be added to it, the original can be tampered with, varied, corrupted, repeated in new contexts, etc’ (‘Fictional Infinities’ 146, 149; Montresor 3). Joyce’s list in effect reflect the ‘reorganisational’ tenets of James’s and Dewey’s Pragmatism as traditional foods are purposefully arranged providing space for new connections and meanings, contributing to the dissociation from the ‘ascendant social order’ (Schwarze 4). Whilst I question Roos’s allocation of the ‘fat brown goose’, the ‘great ham’, and the ‘spiced beef’ as ‘traditional Irish dishes’ that are at either end of the table (‘James Joyce’s “The Dead” and Bret Harte’s Gabriel Conroy: The Nature of the Feast’ 117, 126), her analysis of the political representations of the laden Christmas table is compelling, as the ‘fictional infinity’ tampers with the ostensive normality of the consumables. I suggest that the whole table is a displacement of Irishness. Aside from Gabriel’s celery and sprigs of parsley underneath the ‘great ham’, everything green, or other symbols of Irish identity, have no place on the table (Dubliners 170-1; Roos 117). The traditional Irish stout, Roos observes, is ‘relegated behind the pudding . . . on the piano’, and the potatoes are offered by Lily guest to guest (117). Traditional Irish foods and symbols are not only displaced by English fare, but the table abounds with evidence of continued religious division and imperialism. There are ‘two little ministers of jelly’ heading the ‘parallel lines of side dishes’; though small compared to the ‘great’ meat dishes, they represent the two rival, divisive religions (Roos 118). Present on the table are great imperial powers: port (Portugal), sherry (Spain), and in addition to the ‘great’ meat, England’s colonial possessions are in attendance — nutmeg, raisins and Smyrna figs (Dubliners 171; Roos 117). As Roos suggests, the Morkan sisters’ feast is only possible for a ‘bourgeois family with access to privileges gained through British Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 181 | P a g e imperialism’, and as such confirms the sisters as ‘complicit in their own colonization’, which perpetuates ‘the deprivation of Ireland’s future’ (117), and reflects a complex view of the intermeshing of perceived agency and structure. Of particular interest in the list that introduces Bloom are the various ways in which offal can be ‘read’. Culturally offal is a complex food. L. A. Clarkson and E. M. Margaret Crawford explain that in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries offal was consumed in Bishops’ households, and though expensive (the reverse of price differences today between the meat carcass and ‘innards’) it was disdained by ‘polite society’ and if purchased for an aristocratic household ‘was often given to servants or dogs’ (Feast and Famine 37). Irish food historian Regina Sexton affirms it wasn’t until relatively recently that the prime cuts of beef were available to average Irish households and society was generally affluent enough to buy fresh meat on a daily basis (A Little History of Irish Food 26-7). ‘Prime beef’ was a luxury and reserved for Sundays and special celebrations. At Christmas, for example, beef would sit alongside the goose as the ‘traditional fare of the season’. In comparison, normal week-days meant ‘cheap beef cuts, offal pieces and salted beef on the table’ (Sexton 27). Bonnie Roos implicitly indicates that Bloom’s settling for his scraps of offal, which he has learned to ‘relish’, may be read psychosexually (‘Feast, Famine, and the Humble Potato’ 186); for instance, that Bloom is ‘starving’ for physical contact with his wife but accepts Boylan’s ‘leftovers’. A more sociological reading might perceive that Bloom has imagined his agency of food choices despite socio-economic impediments of colonialism and class. Bloom’s love of offal and cheap cuts such as trotters, however, also reveals economy in a more positive light; self-control that gives Bloom more freedom than his spendthrift or drinking friends. While Dubliners like Dignam and Simon Dedalus forego pursuing food for themselves and their families, and can only seem to chase the next drink, the more job secure Bloom ensures he can have a glass of wine and food through some careful economising. Mrs Beeton, who Joyce cites by name in Finnegans Wake — ‘for dour dorty domplings obayre Mattom Beetom’ (Finnegans Wake 333) — was a great home economist. Beeton’s tome of Household Management spans over 1000 pages (Wordsworth ed.), but her cornerstone of ‘frugality’ is indicated from the beginning with the section entitled ‘Frugality and Economy are Home Virtues’ situated at page two. Of special interest is Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 182 | P a g e her inclusion of Dr Johnson who warns ‘[the] extravagant will quickly become poor, and poverty will enforce dependence and invite corruption’ (2). Whether the income is small or great, Beeton propounds, ‘[w]e must always remember that it is a great merit in housekeeping to manage a little well’, but must also avoid the dangers of the degeneration of frugality into ‘parsimony and meanness’ (2). In Bloom’s budget for 16 June 1904 we see much evidence of attempted economy with the purchase of the kidney for breakfast, his liver lunch, and the cheap pig’s foot and sheep’s trotter. Though there are ‘gratifications’ listed, Bloom’s generosity is affirmed with the inclusion of his five shilling donation to the Dignam family (U 17: 1455-77). Rather than a man denied and satisfied with ‘scraps’, the ‘Ithaca’ episode also reveals comparative plenty and comfort. On the kitchen dresser amongst the salt, pepper, black olives, and Jersey pear is a ‘packet of Epps’s soluble cocoa’, ‘five ounces . . . of choice tea’, ‘the best crystallised lump sugar’, onions, Irish cream, two cloves and a ‘small dish containing a slice of fresh ribsteak’ (17: 303-17). Thoughtless though Bloom may prove to be, as for example, his purchase of buns for the gulls despite having observed the hunger of Dilly Dedalus, the tally of his expenses for the day seems to vindicate him. We see that despite his economising, he is not ‘mean’ and manages ‘a little well’, so the dresser remains stocked with drinks for guests, and even a steak for a future meal. Joyce complicates offal. The oft quoted list that introduces Bloom alludes to the acceptance of ‘poorer’ tastes, thus affirming lower status, but it also points to economising. In so doing it is suggestive of a possible judgment against the Dublin poor, drunk but starving men, but also an indictment against imperialism that sees ‘all the juicy ones’ leave Ireland. Away from the more direct references to the Famine and inter-generational memory, the prevalence of food lists and Bloom’s interest in health provides another perspective from which to consider Ireland’s complex relationship to food. ‘You Are What You Eat’ As indicated, in post-Famine Ireland food was an increasingly ‘medicalised’ topic. Medicine, having emerged as a political force in the Victorian period, through growing specialisation of doctors and the increase in their social position, had emerged as an assertive progress narrative ‘energetically intervening in discussions about social and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 183 | P a g e cultural improvement’ (Plock Joyce, Medicine, and Modernism 6-7). The tense socio- economic climate of the post-Famine era ‘meant that all areas of Irish life — even the private world of consuming — could often be highly politicised’ (Miller ‘Beyond the Potato’ 1). For scientists the Famine was physio-sociological proof of the failing of mono-agriculture and new ideas about what to eat were imposed (1). From the 1840s and 1850s detailed studies of food and its health effects emerged in Europe, the UK and America. As nutritional science developed as an academic discipline, empirical research produced a new awareness of food which, Plock argues, was ‘central to nineteenth-century concepts of social and cultural modernism’ (‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’ 32). Plock suggests that Joyce’s engagement with debates in the international scientific community contributed directly to his modernist aesthetics as the specifically ‘Irish’ and realistic references to diet and nutrition also include a more ‘playful and figurative’ interpretation of international scientific discourse (Plock 32; also see Bénéjam ‘Innards and Titbits’ 33). Joyce refers to the ‘great masticator’ Horace Fletcher a second time as Bloom ponders how humans stoke their bodies like an engine: ‘we [stuff] food in one hole and out behind’ (U 8: 929-30). The analogy is drawn from distinguished German biochemist Justus von Liebig (1803-73) who debunked Romantic non-mechanistic Naturphilosophic with his publication of Animal Chemistry in 1842. Rather than heat and energy being the result of ‘inherent life force’, Liebig revealed that it was a result of chemical reactions (Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast’ 35), whereby the organism uses material from its environment ‘to promote its own vital activities’ (Clarkson and Crawford 175). The analysis of food according to its chemical components developed from Liebig’s work so that by the turn of the century the American study by W. O. Atwater and A. P. Bryant had developed food composition tables, and J. Lumsden’s research, ‘An Investigation into the Income and Expenditure of Seventeen Brewery Families’ (1905), included the protein, fat, carbohydrates and energy values of food (Clarkson and Crawford 175). Though Bloom suppresses his dietary knowledge in the ‘Ithaca’ episode, for example his concern for ‘the respective percentage of protein and calories energy in bacon, salt ling and butter’ (U 17: 248-52), we nonetheless see his play with developing nutritional discourses. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 184 | P a g e Scientists in the 1850s such as Theodor Schwann, Rudolf Virchow and Edwin Lankester demonstrated that cell activity relied on the same mechanistic processes as the human organism itself. Lankester, for example, claimed that the human body is renewed every forty days through the cyclical process of cell renewal (Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast’ 36). Stephen’s request to A. E. to ‘Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got pound’, is a clever appropriation of cell biology to defer payment of his debt (U 9: 205-6; Plock 37). Liebig advanced that the renewal of tissue was only achieved by using the right kind of food: ‘tissue food’ (or protein) (Plock 36). Bloom reflects this knowledge. When he thinks of Stephen Dedalus’s uncle, Richie Goulding, eating a kidney pie he thus thinks it ‘[a]ppropriate’ (U 11: 617). Bloom knows that Goulding suffers Bright’s disease, ‘a disease of the kidneys that could be caused by the excessive consumption of alcohol’ (Gifford 301), and thus recommends Lankester’s theory or regenerating diseased tissue via the ingestion of ‘like’ tissue. As has been proposed, kidneys also indicate self-denial, poverty, and frugality, however, Joyce adds cell biology to his perspectives on ‘kidneys’, signifying the result of a poor diet and drinking, and indirectly, the more physical consequences of subjugation. Plock carefully observes that scientific discourse and dietetics manuals were also laced with more folklorist extrapolations that linked diet to national character and individual personality. The German philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach (1804-72) undermined the political and religious presuppositions of the nation-state by espousing an anti- metaphysical and materialistic philosophy that made the food humans eat inseparable from who they are (Feuerbach ‘The Question of Immortality’ in Geller 166). Feuerbach’s philosophy was based on a complete unity of mind/body and his anthropological and more psychological writings were framed around his break with Traditional, Idealist, Platonic philosophy (Levitt ‘Introduction’ 3). Feuerbach was influenced by Spinoza, although his ‘completely dreadful materialist’ philosophy also incorporated mid-nineteenth century cutting edge physiology, especially the work of Buchner, Vogt and Moleschott, who also implicitly supported Feuerbach’s ‘philosophy of science, nature and human nature’ (Levitt 4; Feuerbach ‘Man Is What He Eats’ 7). Aristocratic stomachs are no different to bourgeois stomachs, Feuerbach argued; ‘Being is one with eating, to be means to eat’: ‘You are what you eat’. If leaders want a better people then ‘give them better food instead of declaiming against sin’, he argues, as a Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 185 | P a g e humane diet is the ‘foundation of human development and disposition’ (Feuerbach ‘The Natural Sciences and Revolution’ in Geller The Other Jewish Question 166). In ‘Circe’ Bloom will advocate social regeneration, which includes among other things ‘Gastronomy’ (U 15: 1702-10). Like other leaders though, he will demonstrate his hypocrisy by partaking in the food of the people by eating a turnip, but will reveal who he really is by uncloaking ‘obesity’ (15: 1610, 1622). Plock observes that Feuerbach’s philosophy also reflects the contemporary currents of nutritional science which suggested that food was responsible for personality development. Not only was food a contributing factor for cell renewal but the human body absorbed qualities associated with the specific food ingested (‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’ 37). Feuerbach points out that Homer, Greek geographers and historians ‘designated peoples only according to their favourite or conspicuous foods’, and so they identified the ‘eaters of fish’, ‘eaters of turtles’, ‘eaters of roots’, and so forth (Feuerbach ‘Man Is What He Eats’ 8). Bénéjam notes that Pierre Jean George Cabanis (1802) was the first to link physiology and psychology: Cabanis ‘defined thought as the physiological result of perceptions, derived from the brain of which it is the organic secretion, just as the stomach and intestine receive and digest food’ (‘Joyce After Flaubert’ 447). If the English perceive the Irish as pigs, due to their living conditions and how they eat (which was reinforced by English agricultural ‘reform’ and evictions, and the dehumanisation of Famine ‘relief’), then Bloom’s thoughts in the ‘Lestrygonians’ and ‘Circe’ episodes — ‘Eat pig like pig’ (U 8: 86), and ‘O I have been a perfect pig’ (15: 3397) — affirms the Irish people’s inferior status physiologically via the ‘secretion’ of the organic matter itself. I would add here that the supposed hierarchy of domesticated beasts also reflects the understanding or presumptions of what animals eat. As Feuerbach notes, the Greeks equated the Arcadians with savagery and primitiveness as the pigs they consumed ate ‘acorns’, rather than the more cultured, and civilised ‘grain’ (‘Man Is What He Eats’ 9). If Bloom sees himself as emanating from the meat he eats, he tends to see other people in terms of food also: ‘know me come eat with me’ he thinks (U 8: 879-80). The porkbutcher is described in terms of the sausages he snips off for a customer: ‘blotchy fingers, sausagepink’ (4: 146, 152-3). When he looks at Mrs Breen he thinks: ‘Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I’m hungry too. Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 186 | P a g e dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior’ (8: 270-3). A squad of constables is described in terms of animals, with their ‘[f]ood heated faces, sweating helmets’ they are let ‘out to graze’ after their good feed of ‘fat soup’, while another squad is ‘bound for the troughs’. ‘Best moment of attack one in pudding time’, Bloom muses; ‘A punch in his dinner’ (8: 406-13). Bloom further draws on the association of food and personal traits as he makes a distinction between the policemen and the vegetarian ‘Esthetes’. He considers the ethics and health benefits of vegetarianism although this diet doesn’t agree with his body: ‘Only weggebobbles and fruit . . . They say it’s healthier. Windandwatery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night . . . Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you on the tap all night’ (U 8: 534-41). Though he detests the frumpy dressing of the ‘homespun’ Lizzie Twigg — ‘stockings are loose over her ankles’ — he ‘wouldn’t be surprised if it was that kind of food you see produces the like waves of the brain poetical’ (8: 542-5). Amidst Bloom’s considerations of the nutritional benefits of vegetarianism, and his own physiological reaction to the diet, he is concerned with its philosophy; or at least that of the Theosophy. ‘Don’t eat the beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity’ (8: 535-6) he thinks. According to Annie Besant, president of the Theosophical Society from 1908, animals have ‘desire bodies’ that were ‘astral’, and as such they were capable of a fleeting existence after death. The butchery of animals and the killing of animals for sport sends these desire bodies into the astral world where they are ‘full of horror, terror, and shrinking from men’. From this world, however, they can ‘rain down influences that are extraordinary and destructive’ adding to a society’s ‘general feeling of hostility’ (The Ancient Wisdom 1897; Gifford 173). Free of such destruction and anxiety the vegetarian poets are ‘[d]reamy, cloudy, [and] symbolistic’, in contrast to the policemen who are ‘sweating Irish stew into their shirts’ and who you ‘couldn’t squeeze a line of poetry’ from (U 8: 542-6). In ‘Sirens’, Bloom will think of the less than ethereal music of ‘the chap that wallops the big drum: . . . sitting at home after pig cheek and cabbage’ (11: 1228-30). Though Bloom will call himself a ‘perfect pig’ in the ‘Circe’ episode, in the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode he distances himself from the animals at Burton’s and from the ‘grazing’ police by producing poetry: ‘The dreamy cloudy gull / Waves o’er the waters dull’ (8: 549-50). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 187 | P a g e Marguerite Regan argues that Bloom engages in the multiple discourses circulating in Joyce’s time surrounding vegetarianism. Though brief, Bloom’s commonly referred to ‘vegetarian moment’ in ‘Lestrygonians’ provides what Ariela Freedman sees as ‘Joyce’s most extensive contemplation of meat and men, of consumption and character’ (‘Don’t Eat the Beefsteak’ 448). Bloom’s initial reservations are based on digestion, a position that joins ‘a long conversation on the benefits and drawbacks of vegetarianism’, such as the sometimes vegetarian Byron whose Don Juan states that for labourers meat is ‘better for digestion’ (in Freedman 450). However, ‘Lestrygonians’ is far more nuanced than this in its figuring of vegetarianism. Freedman pointedly makes the distinction between Joyce’s treatment of the Theosophical Society via his caricature of A. E. (Russell) and Lizzie Twigg, ‘the listening woman at his side’ (see U 8: 527-34), and his more considered and sympathetic treatment of Vegetarianism’s project of human rights, animal rights, and the central principle of non-violence (Freedman 452). This connection between meat and power / oppression is made by Joyce in his 1903 review of H. Fielding-Hall’s The Soul of a People (Regan 466). Fielding-Hall thinks that the peaceful Burmese people can have no political future as ‘[o]ur civilization, bequeathed to us by fierce adventurers, eaters of meat and hunters, is so full of hurry and combat, so busy about many things which perhaps are of no importance, that it cannot but see something feeble in a civilisation which smiles as it refuses to make the battlefield the test of excellence’ (‘A Suave Philosophy’ CW 94). These Burmese people thwart the connection between success and conquering, anger and rudeness are condemned, and even their animals ‘are glad to be under masters who treat them as living beings worthy of pity and toleration’ (94). Put in the context of English culture and the quasi-science of the time, ‘Roast Beef of Old England’ means ‘colonial muscle’ (Beard in Regan 471), and Victorian nutritional manuals comment on such a correlation. As Jacob Moleschott poses in 1856: ‘Who does not know the superiority of an English labourer, who is strengthened by his roast beef, over an Italian lazarone, whose predominant vegetable diet explains in great measure his inclination to idleness?’ (The Chemistry of Food and Diet; Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast’ 35). J. Milner Fothergill (1887) reiterates this nationalist view when he proclaims that ‘[t]he conquering Anglo- Saxon, – the master and too often the exterminator of aborigines whose lands he coverts – is a meat-eating man par excellence’ (in Plock 35). English doctor George Beard would state in his Sexual Neurasthenia (1898) that vegetables were inferior to meat, that Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 188 | P a g e vegetable-eaters such as ‘the rice-eating Hindoo and Chinese and the potato-eating Irish’, were intellectually inferior to any race of beef-eaters (in Regan 471). It should be noted that at the time of the Famine the English media applied this quasi-science to the ‘idle’ Irish. The Times (26 March, 1847) indicates that the Irish are incapable of helping themselves. ‘Deep, indeed, has the canker eaten’, the newspaper states, ‘[n]ot into the core of a precarious and suspected root – but into the very hearts of the people, corrupting them with a fatal lethargy, and debasing them with a fatuous dependence!’ It is no wonder, they reason, that ‘the plow rusts, the spade lies idle, and the fields fallow’ (in Davis 18, 260). To exemplify his beefy argument, Beard argues that one of the reasons for the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo was that ‘for the first time he was brought face to face with the nation of beef-eaters, who stood still until they were killed’ (in Regan 471). Ironically, as explored in Chapters One and Two, the imperial squeeze on Ireland’s agriculture added to the paunch of Old England. Bloom’s pacifism (when arguing with the Citizen) and his moral relativism (his equanimity about Molly’s affair with Boylan), reveal his alignment with Vegetarian philosophy. In the ‘Ithaca’ episode Bloom will put Molly and Boylan’s affair into perspective, and amongst his extensive list of things worse than adultery, he will think it ‘not so calamitous as a cataclysmic annihilation of the planet . . . less reprehensible than theft, highway robbery, cruelty to children and animals’ (U 17: 2178-90). This portion of the text is a nice example of Joyce’s implicit consideration of Victorian and Edwardian feminism which protested against the exploitation of those with no political voice; the ‘brutality of the strong against the weak, whether on the part of men against women, or human beings towards animals’ (Schuch ‘Shafts of Thought’ in Regan 466). One might suggest that Bloom exhibits that middle-class sentimentality, where middle- class activism becomes a part of the ‘civilising process’ (Moira Ferguson in Regan 468), but Bloom is not the ‘run-of-the-mill, middle-class animal welfarist’. Bloom is an eater of meat, but as Regan has explored in some detail, Bloom has compassion for household pets, working animals, circus animals and seabirds, and of particular relevance here, he reflects classic seventeenth and eighteenth century radical vegetarian discourse that focuses on the unethical violence of meat production and the pain meat- eating causes animals (Reagan 467-8; also see Morton ‘The Pulses of the Body’ 81; and Stuart The Bloodless Revolution). Bloom will think of the ‘Pluck and draw fowl’, and the cows at the cattle market as ‘[w]retched brutes . . . waiting for the poleaxe to split Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 189 | P a g e their skulls open’. He thinks of the ‘[p]oor trembling calves’, the ‘[s]taggering bob’ and then the grim remains of the slaughter: ‘Butchers′ buckets wobbly lights’, the ‘brisket off the hook’, the ‘Rawhead and bloody bones’, the ‘Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches’, and the ‘sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust’ (U 8: 722-28). He will also comment on the rich who require the torturing of animals to make the meat more delicious, so the geese are ‘stuffed silly’ and lobsters are ‘b oiled alive’ (8: 886). While Bloom eats meat earlier in the day, and will eat meat later that day in the ‘Sirens’ episode, he has a ‘vegetarian moment’ in ‘Lestrygonians’, disgusted at the thoughtless and violent eating of the ghost-like men at Burton’s. As Freedman explains, ‘Bloom’s reservations about eating meat have to do with the ways in which it implicates the consumer in an economy of violence: his squeamishness is crucially connected to his pacifism’ (452). I argue, however, that Bloom also inserts another paradigm into his consideration of vegetarianism; that lowly sense of ‘taste’. After his escape from Burton’s he will ponder the ‘fine flavour’ of earth’s produce — garlic, onions, mushrooms and truffles (U 8: 720-2) — and ‘Mity’ cheese, Italian olives, and salad ‘cool as a cucumber’ (8: 755-59). Though interested in the body, Bloom moves beyond Descartes’ explanation of the operation of the body in mechanistic terms — that bodies of humans and ‘beasts’ are mere ‘machines’ that ‘breathe, digest, perceive’ — and the Cartesian dualism of ‘matter’ and life / ‘soul’ and spirit, which relegated animals to ‘unthinking and unfeeling machines that move like clockwork’ and thus justified them being relegated as ‘food’ (The Philosophical Works of Descartes 114-8; Shugg ‘The Cartesian Beast-Machine’ 279; Stuart The Bloodless Revolution 132). Though Descartes thought animals no more than lumps of dirt, he paradoxically supported vegetarianism, not on ethical grounds, but through his own dietary experiments which attested to the suitability of the vegetarian diet for the mechanism of the human body (Discourse on the Method; Stuart 135). Bloom has reconciled his carnivorousness and his ethics concerning animal welfare, but pays due respect to the source of meat by cutting ‘liverslices’ as he and Goulding eat their dinner ‘fit for princes’ (U 11: 519, 523). Care is also taken with a dairy product as he makes a special ritual of his humble cheese sandwich by cutting it into strips (8: 777, 818-20). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 190 | P a g e Bloom’s self-assignment of ‘pig’ is perhaps more ambiguous than simply accepting the subjugator’s justifying discourse. He is scornful of the animal-like eating in ‘Lestrygonians’, and implicitly distinguishes himself from the unpoetic ‘trough’ feeding police and aligns himself with the aesthetes with his couplet. One may consider too that for Joyce not all pigs are the same: Bloom is after all a ‘perfect pig’ (U 15: 3397; emphasis added). In contrast to early Greek and prevailing English perceptions, Frederick J. Simoons observes that Celtic tales reveal that pork was regarded as ‘the best of all flesh foods’ and celebrated. Certain Celts also buried pork before planting their seeds to assure good crops (Simoons Eat Not This Flesh 39), and reflecting the central importance of the oak tree for the Celts, the visionary and magical power of pig herders is said to stem from the acorns and oak leaves chewed by the pigs (Póinséas Ní Chatháin in Simoons 40; emphasis added); acorns are thus transformed from the lowly to the ethereal. Rather than Bloom’s carnivorous moments affirming his dominance or representing the violence of humans, Bloom, as ‘pig’, also reveals Joyce’s use of parallax to interrogate various discourses that attempt to frame the Irish as animals, inferior, and destined to be conquered. Through the negotiations of meat eating and vegetarianism in the contexts of colonial violence, ethics and ‘taste’, Joyce seeks to reveal the politics behind the English metonymic substitution of ‘pigs’ for the national character of the Irish, and as Peter Stallybrass and Allon White suggest, highlight how the English might really have been seeking to expunge the worst parts of themselves by marginalising the Irish. Pigs, they observe, ‘seem to have borne the brunt of our rage, fear, affection and desire’ (Stallybrass and White The Politics and Poetics of Transgression 44, 47; Nugent 283, 288). White Bread and Sugary Tea By the turn of the century, Ireland was beginning to see the negative effect of the modernisation of eating habits (Clarkson and Crawford 245). Though sugar was first associated with the rich and nobility, and ‘remained out of the reach of the less privileged for centuries’, the technological developments in the manufacture and refining processes meant that between the mid-nineteenth century and World War I sugar had become an ‘essential ingredient’ in the Western diet (Mintz Sweetness and Power 8, 12, 17, 187-8). As Sidney Mintz states in his seminal Food Studies text, ‘[s]ugar . . . was a cornerstone of British West Indian slavery and the slave trade’, and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 191 | P a g e as such we can extrapolate that the plantation African slaves who produced the sugar were linked via ‘economic relationships’ to the working classes who were learning to eat it (175). So much so, that by the First World War sugar rationing was regarded ‘as among the most painful and immediate of the petty hardships caused by the war’, and was most acutely felt by the poor (Mintz 187). Joyce interrogates the new food staple of sugar through multiple lenses. Clarkson and Crawford note that the tenfold increase in sugar consumption between 1859 and 1904 caused an increase in poor dental health (245). Rather than blaming the deterioration of eating habits and ill-health on poor household management and housewives (as Irish Homestead editor Russell does), Joyce considers poor food ‘choices’ alongside the institutions of Church and State. From the mid-nineteenth century sugar, that commodity long associated with luxury, allowed the Irish to reimagine themselves. The taste for sugar, however, also contributed to their continued suppression as they worked to guarantee continued consumption of an imperial product. Russell makes a number of points about nutrition and health that are ameliorative to Bloom’s ponderings. A number of his Irish Homestead articles, however, reveal distinct economic priorities (Selections from the Contributions to the Irish Homestead). In ‘Food Values’ (1913) Russell compares the ‘miserable spectacle’ of the Irish and the sculptured bodies evidenced in Greek and Roman statues (Selections 375), and argues that newly discovered ‘vitamines’ are depleted from food as humans interfere with the natural diet of humanity. His declaration that ‘[p]erhaps the best thing science could do with regard to our food supply is to recognise that the less it interferes to aide in its preservation the better’, is at the heart of the global slow food movement today. In another article, ‘Dead Food and Half Dead Bodies’ (1913), Russell is critical of the lack of responsibility people take for maintaining their own health. The Irish will ‘fly to doctors when they are ill’, he jibes, but do not take ‘the slightest trouble to keep well’ (Selections 376). One of the central concerns for Russell in ‘Food Values’ is that the economy needs workers to have nutritious food to be productive, as ‘lethargy, laziness, and incapacity for hard work comes from an insufficient diet’. Reflecting his economic paradigm he states that ‘[n]othing is of more importance to the nation than the health of its units’ (Selections 375; emphasis added). He claims in ‘The Food in Ireland’ (1906) that ‘Weedy’ boys, live on white bread while the ‘anaemic girls have tea running through their veins instead of blood’ (Selections 71; also see 375). He is also concerned Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 192 | P a g e with what he sees as endemic madness caused by tea consumption (71). Ian Miller points out that the concern over ‘tea mania’ reflects the pseudo-scientific currents of nutritional science that make the connection between sugar and madness (Miller 2-3). In Bloom’s nutritional ponderings, he observes in ‘Lestrygonians’ that ‘Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butterscotch’ are bad for children’s tummies, and he will reflect that a diet of ‘Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes . . . [u]ndermines the constitution’ (U 8: 1- 3, 42-3). Russell’s and Bloom’s comments are interesting in themselves, but a more nuanced analysis reveals a more complex story of sugar for the Irish. Russell wants to put up health posters along the roadside to ‘denounce parents as inhuman monsters’ who feed their children poor quality food, and demonise ‘white bread and canned foods’ because it encourages laziness in food preparation (Selections 378). Joyce ruminates on the complexity of the problem through parallax. While Bloom may exhibit knowledge of dietetics, the important aspect of ‘medical Bloom’ is his ‘up stream’ perspective on health and his implicit challenge of dominant authorities. In the editorial of the Scandinavian Journal of Primary Health Care, written nearly eight decades after the publication of Ulysses, Iona Heath comments that although we perceive the Enlightenment as the birth of modern medicine, with the great achievement being the ability to see beyond the individual and to make ‘objective generalisations’, there is a great danger in such generalisations (66). By grouping people together in disease categories medical practitioners are able to apply ‘downstream’ medical treatment. However, what Heath insists, and why the ‘ordinary’ in Ulysses is so important, is that ‘downstream’ treatment — treatment given on the basis of standardised diagnoses of patients and delivered by ‘experts’ — needs concurrent ‘upstream’ awareness of the everyday life of patients, that is, primary health care, where there is a close consideration of lifestyle ‘choices’ and socio-economic constraints that underpin the development of health issues. In this sense, as demonstrated in the previous chapter in relation to starvation and alcoholism, Bloom is like the more holistic general practitioner who also considers the ‘material poverty’ and degraded life and compromised health of Dublin’s poor (Heath 66). Although Bloom becomes a dental surgeon in ‘Circe’ (U 15: 721), echoing his earlier concerns for sweets that the children are eating, he will also act in a ‘dissimilar’ way, to use Schwarze’s terminology. The Applewoman will state that Bloom, as mayor, is what Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 193 | P a g e ‘Ireland wants’ (15: 1540), and Bloom sprouts familiar rhetoric about ‘a new era’, a ‘golden city’ and ‘the future’ (15: 1542-5). In a crowd pleasing exercise, however, he tellingly dispenses, amongst other things, sweets to the people (15: 1572). Following Sinfield’s model of ‘faultlines’ — where contradictions in dominant discourses open possibilities for dissidence in ideological structures (35-41; Schwarze 3-4) — Bloom’s observations about the sugary diets of Dubliners, and who provides the sugar, produces a complex commentary as he destabilises authority by exposing contradictions within authority itself (Schwarze 10). The opening of the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode indicates that both the Catholic Church and the imperial power are invested in the Irish consumption of sugar. As Bloom looks at the ‘[p]ineapple rock, lemon platt, [and] butter scotch’, the ‘sugarsticky girl’ shovels ‘scoopfuls of creams’ for the Christian Brother; probably ‘some school treat’. Bloom will think that it is ‘[b]ad for their tummies’, but will also notice that the ‘[l]ozenge and comfit’ are ‘manufacturer to His Majesty the King’, and imagines him, ‘[s]itting on his throne sucking red jujubes white’ (U 8: 1-4). This argument comes via Lowe-Evans’s and Susan Harris’s work which examines the pathologisation of fertility in Ireland. Drawing on Lowe-Evans, Harris states that the ‘rhetoric of disease and cure’ within the formalised medical profession, and the Church’s use of the confessional as an ‘artificial contraceptive’ to transform ‘sexual desire into discourse’, both continue the work of imperialism (Harris ‘Invasive Procedures’ 373-5, 378, 393; also Lowe-Evans 66). The ‘Oxen of the Sun’ episode, with the medical profession’s long and protracted debate about ‘conception, contraception, gestation, and delivery’, reflects England’s ‘pathologization and manipulating of Irish fertility through its actions on the Irish female body’ (374). Importantly the Catholic Church advances the colonial project through ‘a complementary system that works through different methods to reach the same goal’ (394). In the case of sugar, the Irish continue to be the topic of analysis, and their perceived ill-health, madness or apathy are the rationale for the continued control of the colonial subject. Sugar, like alcohol, can be another solution to the problem of Ireland and may dull appetites and hunger for the Church whose ‘upstream’ remedy is ‘fast and abstain’ (U 16: 277). Woven through Ulysses though are contradictions that upset this authoritative stance. While there are hungry families in the streets of Dublin in ‘Hades’, Father Coffey will be described as having a ‘toad’s belly’ (6: 591). In Nausicca the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 194 | P a g e priests will eat butter on their bread as well as have chops and catsup (13: 1292 -4), while earlier the Christian brothers were buying sweets for students (8: 2). In ‘Wandering Rocks’ two urchins will be ‘sucking long liquorice laces’ (10: 244). In the ‘Lotus Eaters’ episode Bloom’s stream of consciousness will, tellingly, liken the Eucharist to sweets. Just like the lotus fruit, ‘sweet, sticky fruit’, seemed to signify a death experience for Odysseus because it induced forgetfulness, so too the ‘lollipop’ communion host causes a loss of self-consciousness (Tucker 52, 7). Bloom sees the benefit of ‘confraternity’ — ‘Not so lonely’ — though the faithful are like children lining up for ‘Hokypoky penny a lump’. The Eucharist ‘Lollipop’ ‘makes them feel happy’ as it ‘[l]ulls all pain’ (U 5: 359-68). In addition to the colonial government’s and the Church’s interest in Irish bodies, there had long been an anxious Anglo-Irish middle class who had concerns over what the Irish ate, even before the Famine. Early nineteenth century ‘reformers’ and writers of improvement fiction, such as Mary Leadbeater and Abigail Roberts, were concerned with the threat that would result from the Irish diverging from their ‘traditional’ diet of potatoes. For these writers, Ireland had an aristocracy and a rural poor with no strong middle-class attuned to the values of frugality and restraint (O’Connell ‘“At Our Potatoes”: Recipes for Normality in Post-Union Ireland’ 53). ‘Taste’ for more ‘provocative’ flavours was seen as a threat to ‘social harmony’, and after the French Revolution the spread of culinary knowledge and ‘tastes’ that were previously the domain of the elite, became associated with republicanism and nationalism (49-50, 55). As Helen O’Connell points out, a well-nourished body was perceived as able to ‘withstand emotional experiences triggered by external factors’ and also able to control emotions within (57). A diet of potatoes, stirabout, oats and stew fortified the body against Irish nationalism: ‘Such wholesome and simple food thus preserves traditional structures of feeling as well as social order’ (57). Leadbeater advanced that a diet of ‘clean good victuals’ such as ‘potatoes and butter-milk’ as it was free of worrying stimuli (in O’Connell 57). To the consternation of the reformers though, the poor rural Irish rejected the values of the English productive middle-class and instead emulated the ‘worst habits of the elite aristocracy or Ascendancy society, namely idleness and excessive consumption’ (53). As Mintz asserts though, this focus on ‘choice’ and framing the consumption of sugar in terms of ‘emulation’ and ‘imitation’ seems to place the history of drinking sweetened tea, for example, in a vacuum. He reminds us that tea Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 195 | P a g e was ‘hot, stimulating, and calorie-rich’ and had the power to make a ‘cold meal seem like a hot one’ (182). At a time when people worked hard and under difficult working conditions these are significant considerations. Thus ‘new schedules of work, new sorts of labor, and new conditions of daily life’ seemed to make the altered lives of the working class more ‘natural’ (181-2). Mintz contends that sugar, ‘by provisioning, sating . . . [and] drugging’ workers, had the effect of reducing the cost of creating and reproducing the workforce as ‘laboring classes [became] sugar eaters’, ready to work hard in order to consume (180). In the previous chapter it was proposed that we can view Irish consumption as a rejection of middle-class values and Ireland’s reluctance to further participate in the continual growth of imperial wealth. Here, however, Joyce demonstrates how sugar numbs the Irish poor and enables an imaginary state of affluence, and thus deadens any urge to disrupt the social and institutional structures that maintain the status quo. Conclusion This chapter’s epitaph, taken from ‘Cyclops’, notes the barfly narrator’s rather humorous observations about Bloom’s capacity for talk. Throughout Ulysses though, Bloom’s talk isn’t uncompromisingly opinionated but instead attempts to chew over alternate perspectives. Bloom’s interior dialogue, his more fleeting thoughts, the third person narrator’s insights, the use of juxtaposition and ‘dissimilar discourses’, all exhibit Joyce’s use of parallax to negotiate and interrogate various hegemonic positions. In so doing he reveals some cracks that allow the Irish to glean the poor terms of their social contract. This scrutiny of food in the context of the turn of the century medical profession, and the health and malnutrition of the Irish, casts light on other related institutional constructs and socio-economic concerns. Joyce’s kidneys — from the wholesome breakfast of ‘Calypso’, the alcoholic kidney of ‘Sirens’, and the frugal home-economics in ‘Ithaca’ — problematise Roos’ suggestion that Bloom internalises his marginalised status by being satisfied with offal. Joyce’s personal interest in medicine is given full scope alongside Bloom’s fascination with the body, but this is tempered with scepticism towards a profession that is ‘in partnership with the doctrines of British imperialism’ (Harris 378). The various rhetorical devices and discourses that the English use to marginalise the Irish, such as animality and nationalistic appropriations of new scientific knowledges, are both recited but then deconstructed as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 196 | P a g e perceived ‘choices’ are problematised. The ‘faultlines’ of Ulysses, moreover, point to the double bind of the Irish as the British Government and the Catholic Church simultaneously undertake the project of pacification. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 197 | P a g e Chapter 5 – The New Epic Feast ‘Who will deliver us from the Greeks and Romans?’ asked many a Romantic author, to which Joyce answered, ‘I will.’ (Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer, Homer’s Joyce’ 243) The size and title of Joyce’s self-conscious epic insists that we see The Odyssey as an intertext for Ulysses (Zajko ‘Homer and Ulysses’ 314). Though T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound saw the modernist use of myth as offering ‘order’ and a ‘scaffold’, W. B. Stanford reminds us that Joyce was interested in ‘the whole literary tradition of Ulysses’s exploits’ and the three thousand year long life of the Ulysses myth and its varying transformations (‘Ulyssean Qualities in Joyce’s Leopold Bloom’ 125-6). Joyce’s pacifist, turn of the century experiences, thoughts and feelings merge into this traditional myth, but his imagination makes ‘a sudden mythopoeic leap beyond the slow tide of normal literary development’, so that in his hands a new type of ancient hero springs to life (Stanford 125-6). The experience of the First World War and the sham of ‘heroics’ meant Joyce couldn’t start with the heroic Achilles; he needed to pick up from The Odyssey where the epic had started with the ‘home bound’ hero and a story that gave due attention to the domestic realm. As Wolfgang Iser points out, for Joyce the archetype is the vehicle and not the subject (The Implied Reader 201); instead the subject is the contrast between Joyce’s Bloom, Molly and Ireland’s decaying heroes, and Homer’s Odysseus, Penelope and the ancient Greece of gods and heroic men. Bloom is not a godfearing hero like Odysseus, but he has that ‘Greek’, Odyssean characteristic of cleverness — ‘cleverness in the widest sense’ (Stanford 133) — within his own brand of Spinozistic ethics. Joyce uses food and eating to highlight how his epic diverges from its Odyssean predecessors and by implication rejects exertions of power, revenge and violence. While Odysseus will slaughter the suitors as they feast in the hall, avenging their Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 198 | P a g e attempted seduction of Penelope and their consumption of his food and wine, Bloom will eat and work through his feelings. Joyce will leave us scraps of food to follow his ‘differential repetition’ of events (Miller Fiction and Repetition 9), showing us an alternative to patriarchal control, violence and death. Joyce’s use of food will not stop at this lesson though, for the pinnacle memory Bloom and Molly share — that exchange of ‘seedcake’ — will also show us the way to an invocation of nature and the way to love. Chapters Two and Three indicate that the danger of living in the past is stagnation and emotional paralysis; here I consider the danger of forgetting individual, life affirming memories. The Pragmatists see the weaving of the past with the present in art. Joyce also presents a future; one where pinnacle, individual memories are unharnessed from both history, which smothers the reality of women (Spoo ‘Genders of History in “Nestor”’ 21), and the confines of the Catholic Church, which perceives sexuality, or ‘biological humanity’, as abhorrent (Brown James Joyce and Sexuality 15). Bloom’s gift for parallax and Molly’s multiplicity means they can see how to live life. Bloom, furthermore, reimagines Irish ‘hauntings’ by thinking of how to love from the grave. Molly and Bloom represent a new Ireland that is capable of understanding the core necessity of ‘community’ beyond the habit of repressive and violent patriarchy institutionalised by colonial government, church, and replicated in the domestic sphere by the Irish themselves. The way to agency is through life affirming acts and memories, not through the burden of remembering betrayal. The Continuation of the Epic It was established early in this thesis that Joyce’s rejection of the cultural nationalism of Yeats and the Irish Literary Revival did not mean he was disengaged from the political concerns of the ‘narrative of the nation’ (Nolan James Joyce and Nationalism 23-4). For the revivalists, Irish art imbued with ‘ancient idealism’ (Yeats et al. in Nolan 25) depended upon a ‘reconstructed version of native or folk culture which is both ideological and artistic’ (Nolan 25), and this aimed to correct previous misconstructions of Irish national character and create new images of the Irish race that eliminated stereotypes from future Irish art. For Joyce though, efforts placed on searching for an imagined Irish past were ill placed. As he insists in his 1907 essay ‘Ireland, Island of Saints and Sages’, ‘Ancient Ireland is dead just as ancient Egypt is dead’ (CW 173). Joyce suggests instead that what Ireland needs to remember is not a mythologised, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 199 | P a g e ancient past but the recent past. Modernist novelists and poets such as T. S. Eliot, D. H. Lawrence and W. B. Yeats, were incorporating ancient myth in their works as a way of ‘controlling, of ordering, of giving a shape and a significance to the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary life’; indeed this is what T. S. Eliot said of Joyce’s Ulysses (Eliot Selected Prose 177; Kiberd Ulysses and Us 280;). Yeats, who believed ‘Ancient Salt [was] the best packaging’ (in Ellmann ‘Joyce and Homer’ 567), delved back into a mythical past to inspire and ‘will’ an embodied, heroic, revolutionary potential (Said 301). While Joyce too was inspired by ancient genres, he did not ‘pack’ his story in the ancient salt but continued the development of an ancient genre – the epic – and the concomitant development of heroic action into more recognisable human concerns (Ellmann 570) with a Bloomian incarnation of the Odyssean domestic realm. Mikhail Bakhtin observes the ancient epic genre is concerned with the ‘absolute past’, a national heroic past concerned with ‘beginnings’ and ‘peak times’, ‘a world of fathers and of founders of families’, and a world of ‘firsts’ and ‘bests’. It was ‘never a poem about the present’ (The Dialogic Imagination 13). But, while Bakhtin suggests that the epic is the ‘absolute past’, lacking ‘temporal progressions that might connect it with the present’ (15), he does not acknowledge the progression of the epic genre itself. The novel form, Emer Nolan and Bakhtin suggest, parodies other genres and ‘the epic was that genre the novel parodied in its nation forming role’ (in Nolan 27; Bakhtin 5). As Nolan notes though ‘[o]nly the novel could be for the contemporary world what the epic had been for antiquity, offering a depiction of a social totality from which citizens might gain a sense of the larger significance of their own lives’ (27). For Vico, Homer was a figure of ricorso: ‘that stage in a historical cycle when the whole cycle was known and leaped beyond’ (‘Discovery of the True Homer’ The New Science of Giambattista Vico xlii-xliii; Ellmann ‘Joyce and Homer’ 568). Just as The Iliad and The Odyssey represented two stages of national development, Ellmann suggests that Joyce aspired to give his work such stature (568). I suggest though that Joyce’s epic does not represent ricorso – a stage of national development – but rather a possible alternate civilisation to the intolerant, violent era in which he lived. This perhaps explains the ambivalence of Joyce regarding the Homeric titles to the Ulysses episodes as people may under or over emphasise or misread the connection to the ancient form. As Ellmann notes, ‘To those who read the book as an ordinary work of fiction, he Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 200 | P a g e wished to make clear its elaborate structure; to those who addressed themselves to the structure, he pointed to the novelistic element’ (569). Given Joyce’s investment in the ‘political’ in Ulysses, his use of The Odyssey — the epic form and some of its conventions — does more than provide humorous moments where the classical conventions highlight the ‘inappropriateness of heroic language and style’ (see Murfin and Ray ‘Mock Heroic’ 306). These judgments though, of what is ‘epic’ and ‘heroic’ and what must be a satirizing of these, neglects the evolutionary nature of form and archetypes. Bernard Knox’s introduction to Robert Fagles’ translation of The Odyssey (1996) reminds us that Longinus thought The Odyssey was a product of ‘a mind in decline’, ‘work of the setting sun’, whereby ‘the size remained [but] without the force’ (On the Sublime in Knox 23). Longinus had a preference for the heroism of The Iliad rather than the extremes of the ‘fabulous and incredible’, and the realism of ‘life in the farms and palace of Odysseus’ domain’, or what the ancient critic called ‘a comedy of manners’ (On the Sublime in Knox 23; Knox 23). For the ancient critic the ‘sublime’ is not found in what we might call the ‘everyday’ of the Odyssey, such as the fistfight between beggars or the prize of a ‘great goat’s paunch . . . filled with blood and fat’ (Homer [Butler] Odyssey 18: 117-9; Knox 23). Peter V. Jones notes in his introduction to D. C. H. Rieu’s revised translation of The Odyssey (1991) that the hero Odysseus is a distinctly different hero to The Iliad’s Achilles. Odysseus’s world doesn’t centre on the battlefield, but reconciles the more traditional ‘heroic’ with the humble, and makes the household (or oikos) the centre of the story (Jones xi). J. V. Luce notes in Homer in the Heroic Age (1975) that in The Odyssey ‘Homer shows what human character can be; what men and women have to bear, and how great it can be’ (181), and this ‘character’ can be great on the battlefield or ‘home’. Rather than Joyce’s hero, Leopold Bloom, being a mock-hero — a trivialized subject satirized by placing him in a Homeric framework — Joyce was actually fulfilling the natural destiny of any great epic: The Odyssey is multi-plotted and contains many elements for future narratives. As Declan Kiberd puts it: ‘If Odysseus was destined to travel across space and time, so also was The Odyssey’ (Ulysses and Us 278). In this sense it is not so much a story of a journey, but the journey of the story (Dougherty in Kiberd 278; emphasis added). Just as Homer was able to surpass The Iliad with The Odyssey by continuing a story while reducing the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 201 | P a g e prior text to a footnote, so too has Joyce acknowledged the great masterpiece of The Odyssey, but continued the Homeric energy of the story by taking a deeper x-ray of the narrative (Kiberd 278), and engaging it in a modern context. While Joyce may have been told as a school boy that Odysseus was no ‘hero’, he would continue to admire the intelligent and determined wanderer (O’Connor in Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer, Homer’s Joyce’ 241). What distinguishes Joyce is that he ‘imagined past heroes in our space, rather than us in theirs’ (Kiberd 282). Just as Odysseus is a different sort of hero from Achilles, so is Bloom a different sort of hero from Odysseus. Achilles, we could say is the ‘archetype’ hero. He is a ‘warrior-hero’, fierce and successful on the battlefield, with strong convictions of what is right (Knox 37). While not on a battlefield, Odysseus wages war against the ‘suitors’ in a vicious and calculated way (Jones xlix). The Odyssey includes ‘normalisation’ techniques whereby a homely image, such as a farmer ploughing his fields, will be evoked in the midst of battle (see Brann Homeric Moments 138-9; Kiberd 248). If we see Joyce’s goal as not to repeat the narrative of The Odyssey, but to take up certain threads, then Ulysses is more an ‘extended hymn to the dignity of everyday living’. As Homer heroicised the domestic, Joyce wished to ‘domesticate the heroic’ (Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer’ 248). Joyce’s thoughts about the ramifications of contemporary ideas of war ‘heroics’ figure in his focus on the domestic realm. However anachronistically, the ‘heroic’ battle that features as a constant ancillary to Ulysses is World War I where young men went to war ‘seeking extreme sensations’ after the ‘long peace’ (Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer’ 249). As Declan Kiberd states in his introduction to Ulysses (Penguin ed.), the liberal humanist Freud thought that the war made life ‘interesting again’ after the prolonged peace had made life ‘as shallow as an American flirtation’ (Kiberd ‘Introduction’ Ulysses 16; Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer’ 249). In a letter to his brother in 1905, Joyce comments on the pre-war cult of ‘heroics’: ‘Do you not think the search for heroics damn vulgar’ (Letters of James Joyce II 80-1, Selected Letters 53; Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer’ 249). Kiberd suggests that Joyce’s stance on the contrivance of heroics, that was ultimately unleashed in the war, is really ‘a critique of the imperial mastery over subject peoples’ (249; also see Zajko 312). We might also consider that Joyce’s political comment is that Ireland (and the Western world) did not need ‘warrior heroes’, but rather a new type of hero to save the ‘subjected’ from the self-devouring nature of narrow, divisive ‘nationalism’: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 202 | P a g e In those prewar years, cults had grown up around boy-scouting, mountain- climbing, Arctic expeditions — anything that allowed men to assert a jeopardized virility and to escape from taunts of emptiness and effeminacy at home. The link between all this and empire-building was obvious enough, and Joyce was keenly aware of the use to which the classical texts of Greece and Rome were put in the classrooms of Britain and Ireland. A cult of manly strength, cut loose from clear ethical moorings, had led to the jingoism finally unleashed in the First World War. (Kiberd ‘Joyce’s Homer’ 249) Kiberd points specifically to two World War I meditations in Ulysses. In the ‘Nestor’ episode, as Stephen teaches ancient history, he will think ‘I hear the ruin of the space, shattered glass and toppling masonry and time one livid final flame. What’s left of us then?’ (U 2: 9-10). In the ‘Penelope’ episode, Molly will lament the killing of ‘any finelooking young men’ (18: 396). We might, however, also consider the man in the mackintosh that ‘pops up’ in Ulysses. The mackintosh, that waterproof coat developed in 1822 by Charles Macintosh while he was researching uses for coal-gas by-products (Hart ‘Detecting the Man in the Macintosh’ 635), became innocuous by World War I. At the turn of the century, ‘almost any raincoat was referred to as a “macintosh”’ (Hart 635). Celia Marshik observes that in the first three decades of the twentieth century British literature encodes the mackintosh to develop characters and ‘advance arguments’ (‘The Modern(ist) Mackintosh’ 44). The mackintosh was affordable and durable and it was technologically innovative, offering protection from the elements; however, for the modernists it was unscrupulous. It caused a loss of individuality, and also represented ‘the paralysis of individuals by economic and social structures they could not transcend’. While it could protect people against the elements, the mackintosh also symbolised the vulnerability of humans against the ‘violence of technological warfare’ (44): ‘The garments could keep rain, wind and mud at bay, but they could not shield against bullets, bombs, poison gas, and other weapons’ (60). The first and best long-term customer of the ‘mac’ was the British army. It became a ‘de-individuating garment worn by members of an institution that functioned because of group behaviour, experience and history’. It also became associated with ‘the masses’ (Marshik ‘Modern(ist) Mackintosh’ 46). During the war the ‘trench’ coat, or mackintosh, was often worn by soldiers and volunteers in advertisements for products Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 203 | P a g e associated with the war, or indeed products far removed from the war (51). In an interesting example Marshik notes that in the 5 July, 1917 edition of the Daily Telegraph, a medicine for ‘nerves’ uses a soldier in a mackintosh in its advertisement. The advertisement claims that ‘Phosferine’ helped Private W. G. Amatt recover from shell shock. In the accompanying photograph of the Private, he is in the muddy trenches in his trench coat with his helmet on and gun slung over his shoulder (52). Marshik argues very convincingly that readers of this advertisement would see this mackintosh as ‘protective’ and exhibiting ‘grit’, but could not help also aligning the mackintosh ‘with shell shock, wounds, and the violence that created them’ (52). As readers of Ulysses were post-war readers, the man in the mackintosh that quietly appears in the ‘Hades’ episode at Paddy Dignam’s funeral reflects the preoccupations of other modernists such as Virginia Woolf, where the mackintosh becomes ‘a perambulating reminder of the war most people wanted to forget’ (Marshik 66). In ‘Hades’ the appearance of the ‘thirteenth’ attendant at the funeral will surprise Bloom: ‘Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn’t in the chapel, that I’ll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen’ (U 6: 826-7). This man is also unknown to Hynes, who is writing down the names of those in attendance, but he becomes identified as ‘Macintosh’ by Bloom and subsequently ‘M’Intosh’ by Hynes. Robert Spoo has argued that Ulysses, though ‘ostensibly out of battle, is a neutral zone crossed and recrossed’ by the phantom of war (in Marshik 62). This spectre continues through the wearing of garments, across space and time (Marshik 66; also see Froula Virginia Woolf and the Bloomsbury Avant-Garde 89). In the case of Joyce’s narrative, the haunting occurs from the violent ‘future’. Thus, as Marshik points out, in the ‘Circe’ episode Macintosh becomes strikingly linked with violence. In Bloom’s fantasy of building the Bloomusalem of the ‘new era’ — ‘a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the shape of a huge kidney, containing forty thousand rooms’ — the building is accompanied by the demolition of several buildings and monuments, the razing of houses, and the displacement of inhabitants. Dublin’s walls, ‘crowded with loyal sightseers’ collapses, but the victims of the collapse dedicate their death to Bloom: ‘Morituri te salutant’ (U 15: 1542-57). The Man in the Macintosh immediately ‘springs up through a trapdoor’, a sign of a grave or hell (Marshik 61), and accuses Bloom of being a ‘fireraiser’ and a fraud (U 15: 1558-62) at which point Bloom yells Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 204 | P a g e ‘Shoot him! Dog of a Christian! So much for M’Intosh!’ Signalling war, there is a ‘cannonshot’, Macintosh ‘disappears’, and Bloom ‘strikes down poppies’ (15: 1564-6; Marshik 62). We should also take pause to consider Duffy’s observations that between 1916 and 1921, ‘IRA terrorists, gunman, and bomb carriers’ were also often seen in trench coats in photographs (Subaltern Ulysses 66). Duffy sees this purposefully inconspicuous flâneur as a modernist, metropolitan figure ‘recast’ in a late-colonial context (Duffy 66). Indeed for Joyce’s covert allusions to Michael Collins (66), we can’t discount this additional, specifically Irish reading. Heroes and Other Waste Matter As a challenge to nationalistic heroics Joyce rejects conventional religious consolations of death, and rather than turn death into heroic sacrifice he focuses on the finality of death but also on death as part of a natural cycle of life. When Ulysses is read for food and ingestion, however, what is interesting about the allusions to war (World War I or Irish nationalist and English imperial conflict and violence) is how Joyce challenges nationalistic ‘heroics’. This is perhaps best illustrated through the numerous references to Robert Emmet (1778-1803), who led an attempt to seize Dublin Castle in 1803. The promised assistance from Napoleon and other Irish allies did not materialise and the attempt turned into a riot where the Lord Chief Justice was piked to death. Emmet was in hiding for a month, and finally, legend has it, returned to farewell his fiancé, Sara Curran. He was captured, hanged and beheaded (see Gifford Ulysses Annotated 124). As Gifford points out, what is intriguing about Emmet is that despite his failed seizure, the farce of the international assistance that never came, the capture and the ‘botched’ execution, this figure became a potent Irish-hero myth (Kee in Gifford 124). The perseverance of the Emmet myth lies in what Robert Kee calls the Irish need to ‘ennoble failure’: ‘For the tragic failure was to become part of Ireland’s identity, something almost indistinguishable from “the [Irish] cause” itself’ (in Gifford 124). Bloom irreverently draws attention to such myths as the bodies and memories of heroes are quickly devoured and decay. While Mr Kernan’s reflection at the funeral service — ‘I am the resurrection and the life’ — touches his ‘inmost heart’, Bloom will think there is no touching ‘the fellow in the six by two with his toes to the daisies’ (U 6: 670-3). Indeed, Bloom is pragmatic Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 205 | P a g e and rejects religious reimagining of dead bodies. The six by two is superfluous for Bloom who thinks too much money is spent on the dead, and perhaps the dead should be put down a shaft: ‘[L]ump them together to save time’ (6: 928-30). A heart for Bloom is a pump, and then ‘[o]ne fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are . . . Once you are dead you are dead’ (6: 673-7). Importantly Bloom’s reasoning is linked back to the uncrowned, dead king, Parnell, as the men walk around to ‘the chief’s’ grave. While Power notes that some say Parnell will come back again, Hynes replies that he ‘will never come again . . . He’s there, all that was mortal of him. Peace to his ashes’ (6: 923-7). This acknowledgement of the reality of heroics and the fate of heroes is also indicated in ‘Wandering Rocks’ when Mr Kernan notes where Emmet ‘was hanged, drawn and quartered’, and dogs were ‘licking the blood off the street’ (10: 764 - 5). He acknowledges the drinking prowess of that era of nationalists — ‘Great topers too. Fourbottle men’ — but he soon tries to shrug off the memory: ‘Bad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with’ (10: 767-8). Just as he thinks of Paddy Dignam’s death, ‘Went out in a puff’ (10: 771), so too the memory of Emmet quickly evaporates. Bloom will be reminded of Emmet as he sees a grave for Robert Emery, but this thought is preceded and followed by him following the trail of a rat ‘toddl[ing] along the side of the crypt’, making the rounds of the graveyard, ‘[p]icking the bones clean no matter who it was’, making ‘short work of a fellow’ (U 6:971-81). Corpses are ‘[o]rdinary meat for them’, after all a copse is just ‘meat gone bad’ (6: 981-2). The corpse-eating rat will preoccupy Bloom at the offices of the Freeman’s Journal, for as Hynes ‘thumps’ away at Dignam’s funeral notice, Bloom will muse upon Dignam’s remains as his body is working away, ‘fermenting’, and the old grey rat waits to tear at his corpse (7: 76-83). Bloom, with his ‘remarkably sharp nose for smelling a rat of any sort’ (16: 1865-6), will also think of the corpse devouring rat in ‘Sirens’ (11: 1036) and in ‘Circe’ the rat will be seen toddling after Paddy Dignam as he ‘worms down through a coalhole’ (15: 1255-6). Indeed, at the end of ‘Sirens’ episode Bloom will also intertwine ‘Robert Emmet’s last words’ so that his own digesting body and ‘fermenting’ food becomes a part of Emmet’s epitaph: When my country takes her place among. Prrprr. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 206 | P a g e Must be the bur. Fff! Oo. Rrpr. Nations of the earth. No-one behind. She’s passed. Then and not till then. Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I’m sure it’s the burgund. Yes. One, two. Let my epitaph be. Kraaaaaa. Written. I have. Pprrpffrrppffff. Done. (11: 1284-94; original emphasis) Bloom sees the ‘stream of life’ (U 8: 94-5) flowing in life and death. You can’t hold back time; ‘[l]ike holding water in your hand’ (8: 610-1). So whilst he is on the one hand nihilistic about human mortality — rat food in the waiting — his view of death has much life also. Henry Staten suggests that the confluence of food, eating and death goes beyond ‘cannibalism’ as it also represents the ‘circulation of living beings in general through one another’s digestive systems’ (‘The Decomposing Form of Joyce’s Ulysses’ 384). Bloom wants to be buried in his ‘native earth’, a ‘bit of clay from the holy land’ (U 6: 819), but I suggest that these are not conventional, religious wishes but are linked to his earlier thoughts about the fecundity of the warmer, southern Mediterranean and what his body could ‘produce’ there. Bloom would sooner see his body ‘planted’ (6: 932) in the Mediterranean, fertilising exotic fruits. In the ‘Lotus Eaters’ episode he recites the words of Jesus, as the son of God declares himself food for his disciples: ‘This is my body’ (Luke 22: 19; U 5: 566; Staten 384). Palestine was part of the Turkish Empire from 1516 until the end of the First World War, but during the closing decades of the nineteenth century the Turkish government was amenable to the Zionists who were ‘purchasing lands to establish Jewish colonies in Palestine’ (Gifford 74). In the ‘Calypso’ episode when Bloom reads about the opportunity to purchase tracts of land from the Turkish Government, it should be noted that he does this ‘gravely’. The land can be planted with eucalyptus trees, ‘[e]xcellent for shade, fuel and construction’, and ‘olives, oranges, almonds or citrons’ (U 4: 191-6). While land owners get pecuniary benefits — ‘Every year you get a sending of the crop’ and also your ‘name entered for life as owner in the book of the union’ — Bloom’s monetary practicality expressed at Dignam’s funeral, and his scientific perspective on death and decomposition, is linked with something much more resembling a romantic notion of undying love. His thinking of the land scheme ‘gravely’ (as his grave) is Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 207 | P a g e interestingly sandwiched between his purchase of the kidney at the pork butcher’s and his fantasy about a woman who buys ‘prime sausages’, and his intermingled thoughts of Molly, food, death and sex. Bloom thinks about ‘dead’ meat. He ‘stares’ at black and white sausages, and the ‘shiny links, packed with forcement, fed his gaze’. He breathes in ‘tranquilly’ the smell of the ‘cooked spicy pig’s blood’ (4: 140-4). He remembers his mornings while working in the cattle yards: ‘the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there’s a prime one’ (4: 159-62). The slapping of the beast shifts to the whack, whack, whack of a woman’s swinging skirt and his desirous thoughts of following the woman from the butcher to watch her ‘moving hams’ (4: 150-1, 163-5, 171-2). After his thoughts of the Turkish land scheme in Palestine, he sees cattle, possibly that ‘Roastbeef [bound] for old England’ he sees on the way to Dignam’s funeral (6: 393-4). The silver shimmer of the beasts in the sun soon triggers his dreams of the ‘quiet long days’ of ‘pruning’ and ‘ripening’ ‘[s]ilverpowdered olivetrees’ (4: 201-2). These thoughts of growing produce are intermixed with the arrival of expensive imports from Spain, Gibraltar, the Mediterranean and the Levant (U 4: 211). Molly doesn’t like olives from Andrews he thinks, she ‘spits them out’ (4: 203). So he thinks of the ‘[o]ranges in tissue paper packed in crates’ and Citrons. These ‘cool waxen fruit’ are nice to hold and smell of ‘heavy, sweet, wild perfume’ (4: 204-8). The silver heat of the morning is short lived though, as a ‘cloud began to cover the sun slowly’, snuffing Bloom’s dreams of farming and the thought of exotic fruit. Instead ‘grey’ and ‘far’ thoughts of ‘desolation’ are awakened, with ‘[g]rey horror sear[ing] his flesh’ and ‘cold oils slid[ing] along his veins, chilling his blood’ (4: 218-32). Unwelcome thoughts of the lifeless, ‘grey’, poisonous, foggy waters of the dead sea, and the ‘barren’, ‘bare’, ‘grey and old’ ‘dead land’ of the cities on the plain: ‘Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names’ (4: 219-23). He laments how the ‘oldest . . . first race’ have wandered the earth, from ‘captivity to captivity’, ‘multiplying, dying, being born everywhere’, and the thought encrusts him like a ‘salt cloak’ (4: 223-32). Just as thoughts of Molly find their way into his wanderings in Palestine, it is his home, his thoughts of breakfast and Molly’s ‘ample bedwarmed flesh’ — home, food, sex — that bring him back from the grey and ‘warm sunlight’ returns (4: 238-40). He rejects the paralysing crust of history and the captivity of religion, and takes his place in the present with Molly. When Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 208 | P a g e Bloom arrives upstairs with Molly’s breakfast the ‘grey’ becomes a ‘grey garter looped round a stocking’. This new ‘grey’ is accompanied by the orange of the exotic in the form of Molly’s ‘orangekeyed chamberpot’ (4: 322, 330), linking the Molly of Eccles Street to the Molly of the Mediterranean. ‘Let them sleep in their maggoty beds’ Bloom asserts, ‘They are not going to get me this innings’. He has a ‘warm bed’ to go to: ‘warm fullblooded life’ (6: 1003-5). As Molly asks Bloom about ‘metempsychosis’ Bloom’s ‘grave’ considerations about farming, or being ‘of’ a farm in Palestine, are alluded to again and his initial explanation of ‘the transmigration of souls’ is further elaborated with an example: ‘They [the ancient Greeks] used to believe you could be changed into an animal or tree’ (U 4: 331- 42, 374-5). Bloom might leave his explanation here but his thoughts about the cycle of life go beyond a ‘migration’ to a reconnection and recirculation back into life and love. Indeed, one of Bloom’s ways to fund his ‘ultimate ambition’ (17: 1497) — a very detailed account of his dream house, land, and comfortable life in the ranks of the landed gentry (17: 1497-1607) — is to invest in a German company with a land scheme in Palestine. The scheme reclaims Palestinian waste land ‘by the cultivation of orange plantations and melonfields and reafforestation’ via the utilisation of ‘waste paper, fells of sewer rodents, [and] human excrement possessing chemical properties’ (17: 1699- 1703). Due to the ‘immense quantity’ of effluent, calculated at 80lbs per annum (‘cancelling byproducts of water’) for each human ‘of average vitality and appetite’ (17:1704-6), Bloom sees a practicality to the scheme also. Whilst he may think of the universes (within universes) of the human body (17: 1063-5), he thinks too of the body as a part of the death, earth, sex, and life. In ‘Hades’, for example, death, sex and fecundity are intertwined as Bloom notes that the caretaker of the graveyard has eight children. It seems to be a place of desire in general — ‘Love among the tombstones’ might have a ‘[s]pice of pleasure’ — and Bloom reflects that ‘[i]n the midst of death we are in life’. It would be a good place to ‘pick up a young widow’ after all (6: 758-62). In contrast to the other men at Dignam’s funeral, who look for the grave of their hero, still mourning for what might have been, Bloom is inspired by graves and thoughts of death and decay become part of his ‘ultimate ambition’ for the future and link back to life. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 209 | P a g e ‘Greeker than the Greeks’: The Cleverness of Leopold Bloom To continue the journey of Odysseus Joyce diminishes traditional heroics but goes back to the essence of ‘Greekness’. In the first episode of Ulysses Mulligan remarks to Stephen that if they ‘could only work together [they] might do something for the island. Hellenise it’ (U 1: 157-8). Mulligan’s Hellenising, as Richard Begam blithely notes, is aesthetic, ‘a kind of Oxbridge on the Liffey’ or ‘Republic of Letters’ if not a republic of citizens (Begam ‘Joyce’s Trojan Horse’ 187). Joyce’s Hellenising project is not Mulligan’s Wildean aestheticism — an ‘all-too-English denial of . . . Irishness’ that smacks of the court jester winning the master’s praise (Begam 193-4; U 2: 44-5; Joyce ‘Oscar Wilde: The Poet of “Salomé”’ CW 201). Nor is Joyce interested in the revivalist Hellenisation that Haines ‘collects’, which Joyce sees as lapsing into colonial stereotypes: the dead spirit of the past that devours the living (U 1:365-6, 480; Begam 194, 197-8). The Hellenisation of Ireland that Mulligan and Haines desired or anticipated in 1904 was trumped though by Joyce’s 1922 novel and its modernist innovations (Began 187, 191). The revolutionary aesthetic of Ulysses would not play the jester nor romanticise dead culture. As Bergman claims, Joyce is ‘speaking the language of modernism, as represented by a universalizable, if not universalist, Greek culture, but speaking that language in a distinctly Irish register’ transforming the ‘Celtic twilight of the Nineties in to the Celtic daybreak of modernism’ (194). We can continue Begam’s tracing of ‘aesthetic’ Hellenism by considering Joyce’s careful reassertion of the characteristics of Odysseus, specifically his cleverness — ‘cleverness in the widest sense’ (Stanford ‘Ulyssean Qualities in Joyce’s Leopold Bloom’ 133) — and thus address Mulligan’s comment about Bloom’s Greekness: ‘Greeker than the Greeks’ (U 9: 614-5). W. B. Stanford’s remarks that the cleverness in The Iliad is limited to military and political matters, but in The Odyssey ‘one finds the beginnings of that intellectual curiosity which became a salient feature of the Ulysses tradition’ (133). Danté’s Inferno and Gower’s Confessio Amantis sieze on the ‘Greek’ quality with Gower’s polymath sharing a number of characteristics with Bloom: Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 210 | P a g e He was a worthi knyht and king And clerk knowende of everything; He was a gret rethorien, He was a gret magicien; Of Tullius the rethorique, Of king Zorastes the magique, Of Tholome thastronomie, Of Plato the Philosophie, Of Daniel the slepi dremes, Of Neptune ek the water stremes, Of Salomon and the proverbes, Of Macer al the strengthe of herbes, And the Phisique of Ypocras, And lich unti Pictagoras Of Surgerie he knew the cures. (Gower in Stanford 133) If readers of Joyce’s Ulysses miss Bloom’s intellectual curiosity and eagerness to learn, the ‘Ithaca’ episode presents Bloom’s personal library, including books on astronomy, geometry, theology, philosophy, history and travel (U 17: 1361-98; Stanford 133). Bloom will be ridiculed by the narrator in the ‘Cyclops’ episode for his propensity for ‘jawbreaking’ (U 12: 466) and ability to see things from different perspectives: ‘And Bloom with his but don’t you see? and but on the other hand’ (12: 515; original emphasis). He will be called ‘the distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft’ and ‘Mister Knowall’ (12: 468, 838). After Lenehan and M’Coy have a laugh at Bloom’s expense, Lenehan will thoughtfully acknowledge Bloom’s broad interests and knowledge: ‘He’s a cultured allroundman, Bloom is . . . He’s not one of your common or garden ... you know ... There’s a touch of the artist about old Bloom’ (10: 581-3). Joyce never meant Bloom to be average, states Richard Ellmann; he is complete, heroic, and equipped with a darting, nimble, undefeated mind (Ellmann Ulysses on the Liffey 30, 39; Raleigh ‘Bloom as a Modern Epic Hero’ 598). Stanford identifies a key alteration of the Odyssean tradition from Homer’s Odysseus — ‘pious, god fearing, and god beloved’ hero — to Bloom as polytropic, discarding all formal religious belief for his vague ‘scientific optimism’ (Stanford 131). Erwin Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 211 | P a g e Steinberg argues that Joyce ‘took care to have Bloom deny that he was Jewish’ (‘James Joyce and the Critics Notwithstanding, Leopold Bloom is not Jewish’ 33). For Steinberg, Bloom is neither a religious or secular Jew, as he doesn’t fit the rabbinical definition of Jewishness or actually practise the religion. Bloom can’t be a secular Jew either, according to Steinberg, as he does not meet three criteria: ‘an acceptance of or commitment to being Jewish’; ‘a commitment to the idea of the Jews as a people, if not a nation’; and ‘no embracing of a non-Jewish religion’ (32). Ó Gráda states that what matters most is that ‘Bloom was perceived as (or even mistaken for) Jewish by others’ (‘Lost in Little Jerusalem: Leopold Bloom and Irish Jewry’ 18), but we may well add that his challenge of all Jewish criteria makes him an ‘outsider’ of the Jewish community too. Bloom’s Jewish lineage is dubious having been born of a Gentile mother (Ellen Higgins). While his father was born a Jew he converted to marry Ellen, Bloom also marries ‘out’ of his religion by converting to Catholicism. He was not circumcised or bar mitzvahed, doesn’t attend synagogue, and flouts kosher dietary laws (see Steinberg 32, 38; McCarthy Ulysses: Portals of Discovery 70-1; Ó Gráda 18; Sultan Eliot, Joyce and Company 78). Indeed Bloom’s delight in consuming organs (whether this be, as noted in the previous chapter, for the sake of frugality or taste), rather than highlighting his Jewishness, seems to emphasise his Greekness. The Greeks of Homer’s world ate the inner organs of the sacrificial animal. In comparison the rabbis of the Hellenistic period introduced dietary laws to ‘curb animal appetites’ (Montresor ‘Joyce’s Jewish Stew’ 196). Here we might see Bloom, not as violating kosher law, but ignoring the more superficial religious laws that deprives his appetite, taste and/or economy. As Ira Nadel argues in Joyce and the Jews (1989) Joyce had a keen interest in the Jewish tradition. Despite his many religious digressions Bloom is of two races: Irish and Jewish. He is Irish — ‘[a] nation of people living in the same place’ — and Jewish — a people ‘living in different places’ (U 12: 1422-31). Rather than deny his Jewishness, which Steinberg suggests is evident when Bloom tells Stephen in ‘Eumaeus’ that he is not a Jew via maternal lineage (Steinberg 33; U 16: 1082-5), Bloom propounds his affiliation with the ‘hated and persecuted’ race. He states that the Jewish people are ‘Robbed’, ‘Plundered’, ‘Insulted’, ‘Persecuted’, and I think importantly he claims this is happening ‘now’, ‘This very moment’, ‘This very instant’, ‘At this very moment’ (U 12: 1467-71). In the impassioned exchange, primarily Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 212 | P a g e directed at the anti-Semitic Citizen, Bloom points out that Jews were being sold in Morocco ‘like slaves or cattle’ (12: 1471-2). Morocco in 1904, Gifford explains, had a Moslem majority who enforced Jews to undertake ‘compulsory service’ whereby ‘both men and women were compelled to do all servile tasks, even on the Sabbath and holy days, and these services could apparently be bought and sold in the Moslem community (364). Emphasis on present injustice (‘this very instant’) suggests that we also look at Dublin. In Dublin 1866 (the year of Leopold’s birth) there were only a few hundred Jews and the community was in decline with only nine births recorded for that year (Ó Gráda ‘Lost in Little Jerusalem’ 19). With immigration from small towns and villages of Lithuania, Dublin’s Jewish population was 2,000 by 1900 and nearly 3,000 by 1914 (Ó Gráda 19). Early in 1904 there was a ‘dramatic outbreak of anti-Semitism’ in Ireland with organised boycotts of Jewish businesses (Sultan ‘Ulysses and the Question of Anti- Semitism’ 26). Stanley Sultan quotes a Dublin Jew who wrote, ‘You cannot get one native to remember that a Jew may be an Irishman’ (26). In his famous 1882 essay promoting Zionism Leo Pinsker states that the un-nationed Jewish people no longer existed as a political entity. Instead the world saw these people as ‘uncanny’, ‘ghostlike apparitions . . . without land or other bonds of unity, no longer alive . . . yet walking among the living’ (Pinsker in Davison Anti-Semitism and British Gothic Literature 1). ‘This spectral form without precedence in history’, Pinsker claims, could not b ut ‘strangely affect the imagination of nations’, who through the generations imagine themselves ‘endangered’ (1). As considered in Chapter One, however, this spectral form did have a precedence in the post-Famine era. The mirror Joyce holds up to the Irish with Ulysses provides them with a reflection of their own inhumanity and racism. The Jews of turn of the century Ireland were hated and persecuted, but Ó Gráda’s research suggests that this does not mean that Dublin Jews formed a single community. The mainly middle-class ‘English’ Jewish community in Dublin didn’t make welcome the poor Eastern European co-religionists (‘Lost in Little Jerusalem’ 20-1). Ó Gráda asserts that Bloom marrying out of the Jewish religion was unimaginable at the time, a s was Bloom’s apparent acceptance into the Litvak community; Citron and Mastiansky are Bloom’s friends (23). Ó Gráda perceives a gap in Joyce’s otherwise meticulous research and suggests that as he wrote much of Ulysses in Trieste (1904-1919), his Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 213 | P a g e Jewish Bloom reflects the ‘different character of Trieste Jewry’: ‘more urbane, more middle-class, more integrated, more western than their Dublin brethren’ (24). In contrast to the orthodoxy of Irish Jews, in Trieste ‘one Jew in five had renounced his or her faith’ and there was a significant proportion of ‘mixed’ marriages (24). While Ó Gráda identifies poetic licence in Joyce’s transference of ‘Jewishness’ I suggest that Joyce may be commenting on the narrowness of religion and society in Ireland. Dublin 1904 cannot tolerate ‘mixed middlings’ (U 12: 1658-9), a label that indicates ‘what’ and ‘who’ a person is should be unambiguous (12: 1631-2). Labels for ‘others’ are necessary for bigots like those in the ‘Cyclops’ episode who see those who transgress boundaries as ‘wolves in sheep’s clothing’ (12: 1666), or someone ‘perverted’ (12: 1635). There is a voice of reason throughout the ‘Cyclops’ episode that occasionally remarks on the un-Christian behaviour of Irishmen in the pub — ‘Isn’t that what you are told. Love your neighbour’ (12: 1490); ‘why can’t a jew love his country like the next fellow?’ (12: 1628-9); and ‘Charity to your neighbour’ (12: 1665) — but in the end Bloom is attacked for speaking a most intolerable truth: ‘Christ was a jew like me’ (12: 1805), the parody climaxing as the citizen says: ‘By Jesus . . . I’ll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name’ (12: 1811). Bloom bridges nations, something worthy of suspicion in Dublin 1904. Despite marrying Molly, not practising his faith, disobeying dietary laws, being generous to those in need, he is nonetheless a loner; the penalty the Odyssean tradition demands in exchange for cleverness (Stanford 131, 134). Kiberd reminds us that Odysseus is isolated by his incredulity at the superstitious activities of the primitive peoples he encounters (‘Joyce’s Homer, Homer’s Joyce’ 245). Bloom, as I have illustrated in previous chapters, has passed judgments on the day-to- day actions that keep the Dubliners around him in a state of paralysis. Odysseus, however, ‘reduced to the barest common level of humanity’ (Clarke ‘Manhood and Heroism’ 87) will live up to his name — ‘causer of pain’ (Dimock in Raleigh 584). He will ostensibly emulate the heroics of Achilles as he slaughters the suitors and the maids who have disgraced the household: Eurycleia found Odysseus ‘among the corpses besplattered with blood and filth like a lion that had just been devouring an ox, and his breast and both his cheeks are all bloody . . . besmirched from head to foot with gore’ Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 214 | P a g e (Butler [Trans.], The Odyssey xxii: 400-6)2. But, as Michael Clarke suggests, Odysseus is not vainglorious. He warns of any exultation over the slaughter as the suitors’ downfall was their disrespect for the gods and any ‘man in the whole world, neither rich nor poor, who came near them’ (xxii: 410-14; Clarke ‘Manhood and Heroism’ 88). His heroics are but one part of his story of return. Odysseus’s manhood is confirmed but the great and new development for this Greek hero is his ‘thoroughly inglorious degradation’. His experience ‘of the instability of good fortune and of the gods′ remote and unpredictable power’ has given depth to his sense of humanity (Clarke 88). Just as Odysseus will seek to be amenable to the gods by not vaunting over the dead (The Odyssey xxii: 410-12), Bloom will acquiesce to his moral code. John Raleigh’s article is fascinating for its analysis of the way that a history of Western ethics is ‘woven’ into Bloom. He lists in some detail cardinal, intellectual, Stoic, Christian, chivalric, gentillesse, prudential and economic virtues (596). His principal concern though is ‘Bloom’s philosopher’ Spinoza, as it is Spinoza who ‘plays a greater role than any other philosopher’ (585). Spinoza was a ‘double heresiarch’, first in his scepticism and subsequent excommunication from his synagogue, and second because of a notorious anathema to the philosophical norms of western thought (586-7). A copy of his father’s Thoughts from Spinoza (U 11: 1058, 17: 1372) is listed amongst Bloom’s books in the ‘Ithaca’ episode. Raleigh notes that one of the paradoxes of Spinoza is the quotability of this mathematical metaphysician, who wrote in Latin and created a vast, interlocking philosophical system (588). This makes Spinoza accessible for Bloom who is educated in the ‘University of Life’ (15: 840, 17: 555-6). Four short propositions in part four of Ethics (‘Of Human Bondage’ or the ‘Strength of Emotions’) prove central to Bloom’s moral code, and each is exemplified in his responses to the Citizen: Cheerfulness can never be excessive but is always good; melancholy, on the contrary, is always evil. (Ethics 4, prop. 42) Hatred can never be good. (Ethics 4, prop. 45) 2 Unless specified otherwise, the textual references to Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad are from Samuel Butler’s translation: Homer. The Iliad of Homer and the Odyssey. Trans . Samuel Butler. Chicago: William Benton, 1952. Print. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 215 | P a g e He who lives according to the guidance of reason strives as much as possible to repay the hatred, anger, or contempt of the others toward himself with love or generosity. (Ethics 4, prop. 46) Minds, nevertheless, are not conquered by arms, but by love and generosity. (Ethics 4, appendix, prop. 11) Bloom also sees ‘no use’ in ‘[f]orce, hatred, [and] history’. ‘That’s not life for men and women’ he states, living with ‘insult and hatred’, as real life is the ‘opposite of hatred’ — ‘Love’ (U 12: 1481-5). As demonstrated in ‘Cyclops’, Bloom’s attempts to articulate his ethics are interpreted as naïve and confirm his outsider status. The Citizen doesn’t believe a Jew can love a gentile: ‘A new apostle for the gentiles . . . Universal love . . . Beggar my neighbour is his motto, Love moya! He’s a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet’ (12: 1489-92). The narrator has his fun at Bloom’s expense too: ‘Love loves to love love . . . [and] this person loves that person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody’ (12: 1493, 1499-1501). Though the appeal for love is disarmed by the Citizen and the narrator and cast as pure sentimentality, Bloom’s simple answer is explored further via Joyce’s parallactic form, in ways that Bloom himself is not able to articulate. Central to Joyce’s interrogations of violence and patriarchy are his allusions to that masculine epic The Odyssey, as he highlights a path for an alternative Ireland in his development of the myth. In so doing I venture that Joyce does what Le Doeuff perceives as the more subversive way to disrupt the patriarchal underpinning of society: he attacks the repressive structure under the guise of a ‘masculine’ and combative narrative. While the revivalists draw on epic, indeed seek to create an authentic Irish epic, their focus is on inspiring Irish nationalism to ‘sacrifice’ and violent heroics. For Joyce, the development of the epic is determined by time and place, and as he continues the Odyssean myth ‘home’ he points to the necessity to rethink the foundation of society — the domestic realm — if Ireland is to establish a united ‘prior covenant’ and thus the ability to select its own ‘ruler’. In Joyce’s continuation of the Odyssean myth the reactive, violent Odysseus will not return. Bloom slaughters no suitors, and there are no gods or heavens that have helped bring men and women to destruction. Wolfgang Iser’s seminal essay on Ulysses suggests that ‘the whole structure and stylistic texture of the novel’ is geared to such character transformations (The Implied Reader 228). The Odyssey is unacceptably Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 216 | P a g e violent for Joyce (Turner ‘How Does Leopold Bloom Become Ulysses?’ 42), as is the ‘heroics’ of war and the rousing call to nationalism. Unlike history, myth can be cured of its violence. The ‘physician’, as termed by John Turner, can come from Joyce’s ‘ailing’ Modernity, but in turn the rotten world of violence and paralysis in need of transformation is healed by myth (Turner 42). Though Odysseus quells the vainglorious violence of The Iliad, Book XXII of The Odyssey is undeniably a bloodbath. I propose that the bloody slaughter of the suitors is carefully reworked in Ulysses via purposeful ‘differential repetition’, a term used by J. Hillis Miller to identify when copying (with a difference) acts as a ‘subversive ghost’ to the original ‘always already present within it as a possibility which hollows it out’ (Fiction and Repetition 9). This point reflects Le Doeuff’s exploration of subversive feminism. The key point is that as Ulysses parallels The Odyssey, if something happens in the original but doesn’t happen in the successor ‘then that inaction is something’ (Turner 43; original emphasis). Joyce reconciles the epic to his own pacifism and Bloom’s Spinozistic ethics. ‘I am not a bloodyminded man’ Joyce would frequently refrain (Budgen ‘James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses’ 263). The bloodbath commences in ‘The Slaughter in the Hall’3 when Antinous is about to drain the wine from the golden, two handled goblet and is shot through the neck by Odysseus’s stabbing arrow, and ‘the cup dropped from his hand, while a thick stream of blood gushed from his nostrils’. The feasting table is knocked and bread and roasted meats are strewn across the floor (Odyssey xxii: 8-21). Ignoring promises of financial compensation from Eurymachas, the seething Odysseus sets about the annihilation of all suitors and the maids who ‘[lay] in secret with the suitors’ (Odyssey xxii: 44-67, 443-5). Eurymachas’s pleas fail and he rouses his fellow suitors, but as he hurled himself at the returned King with his honed bronze sword, Odysseus ‘instantly shot an arrow into his breast that caught the nipple and fixed itself in his liver’. At this he ‘dropped his sword and fell doubled up over the table. The cup and all its meats went over on to the ground’ (xxii: 79-86). With bow and arrow Odysseus ‘shoot[s] the suitors one by one, and they fell thick on one another’ (xxii: 116-8). Odysseus instructs ‘Eumaeus’ to torture the goatherd Melanthius for his role in helping the suitors secure arms and armour, but also for ‘driving in [his] goats for the suitors to feast on’ (xxii: 198-9). 3 The title of this chapter is taken from Book xxii in the Robert Fagles translation of The Odyssey (1996). As indicated all textual references to The Odyssey are from Samuel Butler (Trans.) unless specified. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 217 | P a g e Melanthius is treated like one of the beasts he herds: ‘Eumaeus’ and Laertes ‘bent his hands and feet well behind his back, and bound them tight with a painful bond as [Odysseus] had told them; then they fastened a noose about his body and strung him up from a high pillar till he was close up to the rafters’ (xxii: 191-6). With Athena’s assistance Odysseus, Telemachus and their men continue to cut down the suitors and their men. Athena creates more sport by terrifying the suitors, and they ‘fled like a herd of cattle’. Odysseus and his men were like vultures and attacked them on every side, and the suitors made ‘a horrible groaning as their brains were being battered in, and the ground seethed with their blood’ (xxii: 297-309). They lay ‘like fishes which fishermen have netted out of sea, and thrown upon the beach to lie gasping for water till the heat of the sun makes an end of them’ (xxii: 386-9). A dozen maids who slept with the suitors and were insolent to Penelope and Telemachus were sent to their grisly deaths too, hanged ‘one after the other’ (xxii: 462-72). Last but not least, the goatherd was hauled outside, his nose and ears were cut off, his genitals were torn off and given to the dogs, and then ‘in their fury they cut off his hands and his feet’ (xxii 2: 474-77). Of all those who were amongst the suitors only the herald and the Bard were spared. As the Bard claims, he makes all his ‘lays’ [paths of songs] himself, and heaven visits him with ‘every kind of inspiration’ (xxii: 347-9), enabling a new path for the Odyssean myth. Odysseus will not be satiated without this blood revenge, whilst Bloom will work through his jealousy and eventually be happy to sleep next to Molly. When Bloom sees Boylan at the Ormond in the ‘Sirens’ episode his initial thoughts aren’t of jealousy or revenge but Boylan’s tardiness, and how this would affect Molly. He is supposed to meet Molly at 4pm: ‘Has he forgotten?’ He thinks that Boylan must be playing a trick — ‘Not come’ to ‘whet the appetite’. This is something Bloom ‘couldn’t do’ (U 11: 354, 392-3). But Boylan is whetting his own appetite, flirting with the barmaids and having a drink. Bloom will name Molly’s many suitors later in the ‘Ithaca’ episode — twenty five in all (17: 2132-42) — however, these aren’t all lovers. Most of the men listed ‘ogled her, goosed her, kissed her (d’Arcy), inspired her revulsion etc’ (Turner 43-4). She has had two lovers, Mulvey and Boylan, and the rest are ‘Molly’s lovers in their dreams only’ (44). Nonetheless the list is there to ‘copy’ The Odyssey in order to transcend it: ‘For there to be differential repetition there must be copyism’ (44). It is Hugh E. (Blazes) Boylan who is established as akin to Antinous: the leader of Penelope’s suitors in The Odyssey. In contrast to Antinous being shot in the neck as he Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 218 | P a g e drains the wine from his goblet, Boylan’s thirst will be quenched; ‘Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off his chalice tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops’ (U 11: 419- 20). The ‘bronze’ of Eurymachas’s honed sword is a sunburnt ‘Miss Bronze’, the barmaid Boylan watches as she glides ‘by the bar mirrors’: ‘bronze with sunnier bronze’ (11: 115, 420-3). As Lenehan greets Boylan as ‘the conquering hero’ (11: 340) as he enters the Ormond, Bloom is ‘warily walking’. Importantly though he is not described as ‘conquered’ but an ‘unconquered hero’ (11: 341-2). The most glaring alteration of the Odyssean tradition is that Odysseus is ‘pious, god - fearing, and [mostly] god-beloved’, whereas Bloom, certainly affiliated with Judaism in his ‘outsider’ status and his yearning for home, discards formal religion (Stanford 131). He is ‘polytropic’, embraces a vague ‘scientific optimism’, and if he portrays any religion through actions he is Christian. As Stanford summarises, he is meek, compassionate, considerate, kind to people and animals, and is gentle and has self- control (131). Harry Girling recognises in Bloom a counterbalance to what Hannah Arendt would call ‘the banality of evil’ (‘The Jew in James Joyce’s Ulysses’ in Jewish Presences 110). Bloom stands for ‘the banality of love’. ‘He is just the kind of average man who makes everything he says or thinks irretrievably ordinary, boring, banal’, comments Girling, but his assertion of the ‘banality of goodness’ doesn’t make him conquered: he is ‘never unheroic’ (Girling 131). Surrounded by the imperialist politics and nationalism, the malevolence of industrialisation, uncaring bureaucracy and an apathetic citizenry, Bloom offers hope by ‘letting love be as humdrum, unexciting, and uninspiring as common courtesy’ (Girling 110). The point that Girling states so eloquently is that for Bloom, a character developed during WWI and the violent conflict for Irish independence, love is ‘[n]ot something to die for’ (and I think we can add here ‘to kill for’ also), but ‘something to survive for’ (110; emphasis added). As the suitors gather in Book XX of The Odyssey, the hero Odysseus, still disguised as a beggar, is included in the feast. Sheep, goats, pigs and a heifer were sacrificed, and the ‘inward meats’ were cooked and served, with Odysseus receiving a good portion (Odyssey xx: 249-61). As Boylan travels to Eccles Street Bloom will sit down to the Ormond’s ‘best value’ dinner and eat his liver and bacon while Richie Goulding eats his steak and kidney pie: ‘Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he ate with relish the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods’ roes while Richie Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 219 | P a g e Goulding, Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, steak then kidney, bite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate they ate’ (U 11: 519-22). So intent is Joyce to highlight Bloom’s eating of liver that it is mentioned two more times (11: 569, 608) as well as referring to the ‘Calypso’ episode (‘As said before’). In contrast to the gruesome killing of Eurymachas, with Odysseus’s arrow fixing itself in his liver, via differential repetition Bloom will focus on the banal act of eating a cheap pub dinner. In contrast to the ancient Greeks who offered the gods animal bones covered in fat or ‘inwards’ (which they would subsequently share), the godless but mindful Bloom will eat the innards himself and contemplate his own response to the suitor ‘feasting’ in his house. He will not leave his response to the gods, or act on behalf of the gods, but refigures food as life affirming rather than linked to violence, and takes responsibility for his own reaction to Molly’s affair. Joyce had to work through his own jealousy of other men pursuing Nora Barnacle, and John Turner makes some interesting connections. In 1909 Vincent Cosgrove (Lynch in Portrait and Ulysses) made claims he had gone out with Barnacle while Joyce was courting her in the summer of 1904. J. F. Byrne, then living at 7 Eccles Street, what was to become the Blooms’ address, acted as the calming voice of reason convincing Joyce that Cosgrove was intent on making Joyce jealous. Turner maintains that ‘[a]n important part of Bloom’s character is related to what Byrne did for Joyce in August 1909, as they walked around the streets of Dublin talking about the alleged affair (Turner ‘How Does Leopold Bloom Become Ulysses?’ 45). While Joyce needed Byrne to overcome his jealousy, Joyce would have Bloom overcome it himself (45). Bloom’s inaction is indeed something. Turner makes a very interesting point about the ‘Ithaca’ episode which I think is relevant here too. Ithaca’s ‘cold’ style ‘slows down’ the narrative ‘to the point where something as inconspicuous as the contemplative man’s course from jealousy to abnegation can be seen’ (Turner 43; also see McDonald ‘Nothing To Be Done’ 72). Reflecting the idea of Sinfield’s ‘faultlines’, McDonald also argues that the apparent ‘inaction’ in modernist texts, like Joyce’s, results in a ‘thickened texture’ where inconsistencies, ‘gaps, distensions and absences’ enable the possibility for new subjectivities (72). The ‘Sirens’ episode, with its lead up to the imminent meeting of Boylan and Molly, has this ‘slowing down’ too. Bloom contemplates going home to Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 220 | P a g e stop the affair a number of times (see U 7: 230-1; 8: 633; 11: 305). Budgen’s explanation for Bloom’s inaction focuses on essentialist readings of Bloom as a Jew, as an ‘Oriental’, and the fatalistic outlook of the oriental race: ‘What has to be will be. What is written will come to pass. You may prevent a thing today but what about tomorrow?’ (Bugden 148). As a non-practising Jew his ‘racial pessimism’ cannot be derived from traditional religious observations; ‘no black fasts, no lamentations for the fall of Jerusalem [and] none of the griefs and penances of Israel’. He has to use the only ‘instrument’ he has through which to suffer: Molly (148-9). As Budgen puts it ‘[t]he griefs and exultations of the cuckolded husband are a substitute for the griefs and exultations of Israel from which he is exiled’. The outsider and loner Bloom can gain ‘an underground substitute for noisy backslapping, [and] arm-gripping comradeship’ as he ‘shares’ his wife with other men (149). While I think there is evidence to suggest that Molly’s affair(s) titillates his fancy — for example with Bloom climaxing on Molly ‘the night Boylan gave [her] hand a great squeeze’ (18: 77), and Molly commenting that Bloom doesn’t have ‘the courage’ to have an affair with a married woman, ‘that’s why he wants me and Boylan’ to (18: 1253-4) — I don’t think this extends to Bloom desiring a ‘backslapping’, homosocial relationship with the Dubliners he observes and engages with. As argued in Chapter Three, Bloom is critical of the irresponsibility of many Dubliner men and has no wish to partake in the social practices of ‘rounds’ or treating. No, Bloom wants no backslap, but Budgen’s reading of why Bloom doesn’t act is reflective of established racial and gender politics and discourse of the 1930s when Budgen was writing his influential book. Joyce challenged these politics (see Chapters One and Three). Rather than taking up Budgen’s proposed masochism, we might more fruitfully return to Bloom’s philosophy of love and his philosopher Spinoza, who argued that one must accept the limitations of human life. Bloom’s responses to infidelity are not bound by religion or the broader, confining patriarchy of turn of the century Dublin. The slaughter of the suitors and their supporters in The Odyssey is about ‘law’ and ‘justice’ (Clarke ‘Manhood and Heroism’ 88), however, it should be highlighted that these are conventions for the protection of property (including wives and families) and the appeasement of the ever-watching gods. Bloom rejects gods and works through the urges to interrupt the liaison between Molly and Boylan. Bloom’s ‘slaughter’ is not outward looking but internal and his victory is psychological (Ellmann ‘Joyce and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 221 | P a g e Homer’ 568; Stanford 130). What guides Bloom is the Spinozistic acceptance of the limitations of human life and the resultant domestic tranquillity such acceptance brings (Raleigh 591; also see Stanford 136): But human power is very limited and is infinitely surpassed by the power of external causes . . . Nevertheless we shall bear with equanimity those things which happen to us contrary to what a consideration of our profit demands if we are conscious that we have performed our duty, that the power we have could not reach so far as to enable us to avoid those things, and that we are a part of the whole of Nature, whose order we follow. (Spinoza Ethics IV, Appendix, Statement 32) As Byre told Joyce, Bloom will judge for himself that Boylan is a ‘boaster’ and will work through his ‘antagonistic sentiments’ of ‘envy’ and ‘jealousy’ to his ‘subsequent reflections’ of ‘abnegation’ and ‘equanimity’ (U 17: 2146, 2154-5). He had already reconciled the inevitability of the affair in ‘Sirens’ as he thinks ‘Woman. As easy stop the sea. Yes: all is lost’ (11: 641). Scholars such as Myra Jehlen (‘Archimedes and the Paradox of Feminist Criticism’ 582), Jules Law (‘The Home of Discourse: Joyce and Modern Language Philosophy’ 50) and Bonnie Kim Scott (‘James Joyce: A Subversive Geography of Gender’ 159-60) explore the significance of the ‘geography of gender’ and how independence for women in narrative is achieved ‘as open access to the sea’ (Jehlen 582), as it is this ‘feminine territory that male characters are least able to hold to patriarchal values’ (Scott 159). As Budgen notes regarding the form of the ‘Penelope’ episode, Molly’s voice ‘snakes’ its way through the last episode of Ulysses, and ‘like a river winding through a plain’, it finds ‘its true course by the compelling logic of its own fluidity and weight’ (Budgen 296). Developing Geraldine Meaney’s argument, Joyce’s writing of the feminine works against ‘time’s arrow’ and its trajectory of ‘history’ and violence, and re-establishes ‘time’s cycle’ enabling the interrogation of ‘progress’, society and identity (Meaney 98-9). In Bloom’s subversion of ‘time’s arrow’ he will reason that sex is after all ‘as natural as any and every natural act of a nature expressed or understood executed in natured nature by natural creatures in accordance with his, her and their natured natures, of dissimilar similarity’ (U 17: 2178-80). Bloom sets out to put the affair into perspective: it is not, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 222 | P a g e for example as ‘calamitous as a cataclysmic annihilation of the planet’, as ‘reprehensible as theft’ or ‘cruelty to children and animals’, stealing, or betrayal of public trust, malingering, mayhem, corruption of minors, criminal libel, blackmail, contempt of court, arson, treason, felony, mutiny on the high seas, trespass, burglary, jailbreaking, practice of unnatural vice, desertion from armed forces in the field, perjury, poaching, usury, intelligence with the king’s enemies, impersonation, criminal assault, manslaughter, wilful and premeditated murder. (17:2180-90) We might see Bloom’s compilation of the day’s events, expenditures and receipts in the ‘Ithaca’ episode as also engaging in a ‘spiritual casting up of accounts’. His methodical reckoning of the ‘moral balance sheet’ show he had sustained no loss and had brought a positive gain to others (Raleigh 584-5; U 17: 1455-78). Given Bloom has not had penetrative intercourse with Molly for over ten years, since the death of their son Rudy, he sees the affair, the latest ‘suitor’ and ‘late occupant of the bed’ (17: 2143-4), as another practically scientific example of ‘adaptation to altered conditions of existence’ bringing back ‘equilibrium’ to Molly (the ‘bodily organism’) and her ‘attendant circumstances’ (17: 2193-3). With ‘bloodless thought’ Bloom works through the envy and jealousy and turns his rival(s) into ‘nonentities’, and this work is done as efficiently as the ‘bloody-minded’ Odysseus (Budgen 267). ‘Womanly Wise’: Gerty’s ‘Brekky’ and Molly’s Meat and Seeds Nancy Felson and Laura Slatkin see equilibrium as central to The Odyssey and the state of oikos: ‘How will the patriarchal domestic economy work, or not work, when the patriarch is gone, perhaps never to return?’ (‘Gender and the Homeric Epic’ 103 -4). As Joyce’s hero moves from the Homeric piercing of livers to a thoughtful dining on livers, signalling Bloom ‘working through’ envy and jealousy, he also cultivates a turn-of the- century heroine who works through gender politics. Budgen suggests that in the ‘Penelope’ episode Molly ‘runs through all the world that is hers . . . paint[ing] a portrait of herself not known to Leopold, and a portrait of a Poldy not known to him or his friends, and a picture of the world, the values of which would be disputed by every Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 223 | P a g e other person in the book’ (Budgen 268-9). There is no traditional Irish patriarchy at 7 Eccles Street, but Molly lives in a world that doesn’t tolerate the Blooms’ deviations from gendered expectations, nor acknowledge a woman’s independent sexual needs and desires. As with Bloom, Molly’s ‘working through’ her own conflicting thoughts bears interesting insight read through the complex interrelationships of food, and for Molly this is intrinsically linked to love, sex and power. We might suppose Molly stands in contrast to ‘Penelope’ in The Odyssey, and indeed all the feasting in Homeric political economy, for she participates in the masculine consumption of meat. This is a problematic comparison as meat eating occurs in the macho and virile public realm in The Iliad and The Odyssey. In the ‘Penelope’ episode of Ulysses there is evidence of public eating, though this is met with anxiety. In the Ancient Greek world of Homer both meat preparation and meat consumption is a male activity (Rundin ‘A Politics of Eating: Feasting in Early Greek Society’ 190). Mortal women will only watch festivities and feasts from their thresholds (Iliad 18: 496; Rundin 189). Even Helen, daughter of Zeus, and Arete, a Phaeacian (‘closer to the gods than normal humans’), though they sit down at feasts, do not eat or drink (Rundin 190). Molly certainly eats, and she is a strong woman with a ‘voice’, but she also displays characteristics of Homer’s non-eating women and Joyce’s other female characters who have a voice but do not eat: Dante Riordan and Gerty MacDowell. Dante speaks, and as Michael Toolan observes this gives Stephen his earliest example of non serviam (Toolan 397), but she stops eating in the process (see Chapter Three). Speaking necessitates defiant food denial or conversely an alternate form of suppression. Despite Gerty remembering her father as a drunk, she will recall fondly when they ‘stewed cockles’ and ate them with lettuce and Lazenby’s salad dressing for supper (U 13: 313-4). As she fantasises about creating a ‘home’ with Bloom — ‘for Gerty was womanly wise and knew that a mere man liked that feeling of hominess’ (13: 222-3) — she imagines making her acclaimed griddlecakes and queen Ann’s pudding (13: 224 -5). Though she takes pride in her cooking and is particular about recipe instructions — ‘dredge in the selfraising flour and always stir in the same direction, then cream the milk and sugar and whisk well the white of eggs’ (13: 226-8) — and though she likes the idea of ‘brekky’ for two, she doesn’t like the idea of eating where ‘there were any people that made her shy’ (13: 228-9). Gerty’s anxiety about eating here is a little Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 224 | P a g e ambiguous as she may well be ‘shy’ with a husband. She wants a marriage where they ‘would be just good friends like a big brother and sister without all that other in spite of the conventions of Society with a big ess’ (13: 665-6), and so a husband, not so happy to be just ‘friends’, could also put her off food. Her reluctance to eat could indicate ‘unvoiced rebellion’ about societal expectations (Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast on Science’ 39), though the textual evidence also exhibits societal and cultural power. An ‘acute observer of popular culture’, Joyce developed Gerty’s character as a reflection of popular women’s magazines and sentimental novels (Beetham A Magazine of Her Own 207; Leonard Advertising and Commodity Culture in Joyce 98-137; Henke ‘Gerty MacDowell: Joyce’s Sentimental Heroine’; Plock ‘Modernism’s Feast’ 39). Cheap printed magazines signalled that ‘women’s work’, of raising children, managing a household, cooking and cleaning, was increasingly being considered ‘skilled work’ (Beetham 208). Alternatively, women’s magazines also reflect the loss of face-to-face contact with other women, and a ‘loss of voice’ (208). In their own homes women become an imagined, homogenous community (209). Advertisements create ‘facts’ about women — ‘we are consumers’, ‘we are individuals’ — when individuals are really ‘trapped in the illusion of choice’ creating themselves according to how they have already been created (Williamson in Leonard 101). At times Molly exhibits her internalisation of this illusion. She recalls anticipating her role of housewife with Bloom as she remembers printing her married name ‘to see how it looked on a visiting card or practising for the butcher’ (U 18: 841-2). She may rehearse the role of purchasing household provisions but we learn that she does eat, and importantly eats meat. She has eaten a pork chop with a cup of tea, after Boylan left, but she suspects it might not have been quite good, thinking the ‘queerlooking man in the porkbutchers is a great rogue’ (18: 909-12). She seems to eat meat regularly though this comparative luxury, given the domestic economy of other Dubliner households, is not devoid of anxiety. She is tired of meat we learn; she no longer likes to eat it or does not think the quality good: ‘Im sick of that everlasting butchers meat from Buckleys loin chops and leg beef and rib steak and scag of mutton and calfs pluck the very name is enough’ (18: 944-6). While she is ambivalent about the meat at Buckley’s she did enjoy the poultry she remembers eating at the Glencree dinner. Though the food is delicious, social mores inhibit her ability to devour the plate of food: ‘I wished I could have picked up every morsel of that chicken out of my fingers it was so tasty and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 225 | P a g e browned and as tender as anything only for I didnt want to eat everything on my plate’ (18: 430-2). Behind the bedroom door though Molly is free to eat as much as she wants. Joyce’s differential repetition transforms the meat that falls to the ground during Odysseus’s battle, with the dead bodies of the suitors piled on top of it (The Odyssey xxii: 8-21, 79- 86), into the flakes of ‘recooked’ Plumtree potted meat still in Molly and Bloom’s bed (U 17: 304, 2124-5). Tired after their afternoon of sex, Molly and Boylan take the port and potted meat back to bed. Molly felt ‘tired and lovely’ and notes that she enjoyed the ‘fine salty taste’ of the potted meat — ‘a small jar’ — that Boylan had sent in the fruit hamper (18: 131-3; 10: 301). Plock remarks that potted meat was a luxury: ‘In 1910 an ordinary can of potted meat would cost the average worker three times the amount of his daily wages’ (38). Plock confirms, however, that canned food was also ‘liable to manipulation’ and dietary experts expressed their concern for potted meat that was not as it seemed. Boylan and Molly’s post coital bed picnic was potentially adulterated — and, I offer, perhaps the cause of Molly’s upset stomach rather than the pork chop — thus alluding to their adulterous tryst (Plock 38). Whether tampered with or not, Molly did like the taste. What is interesting is the various other references to meat and what this says about Molly’s objectification and her ruminations on this. Molly rejects meat (at least from one particular butcher) and likes meat (potted meat and the chicken at the Glencree dinner), but throughout Ulysses we also see Molly herself being fragmented, ready to be consumed. Theorising the common oppressions of women and animals, Carol J. Adams focuses on the parallel trajectories of animals killed for meat and violence against women (The Sexual Politics of Meat 47). Violence is not my concern here though aspects of the theory prove interesting and highlight Molly’s sexual agency and her concomitant thoughts about being fragmented (her much admired bosom, curves and feet) or treated like an animal. Bloom thinks of Molly’s ‘ample bedwarmed flesh’ (U 4: 238-9). He shows Stephen a photo of her in the ‘Eumaeus’ episode, and while her low cut evening dress reveals too much bosom for Stephen (Bloom also thinking the ‘getup’ wasn’t the most flattering), Bloom is proud of his wife’s ‘opulent curves’, ‘which come in for a lot of notice usually’ (16: 1427 -48). McCoy remembers with delight a bumpy car ride with the Blooms, with Molly and her ‘fine pair’ bumping up against him: ‘God bless her. Like that’ (10: 558-60). Molly will Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 226 | P a g e reveal in her soliloquy that she likes to ‘show [her] bubs’ (18: 901). Molly’s form is a topic of pub talk as Nosey Flynn gossips about Molly’s food consumption: ‘I met [Bloom] the day before yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan’s wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home to his better half. She’s well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast’ (8: 949-52). The narrator in ‘Cyclops’ will refer to Molly as the ‘fat heap’ Bloom married (12: 503), rather than the ‘buxom lassy’, as she is referred to in ‘Sirens’ (11: 502). For Bloom, Molly is distinguished from the Dublin ‘skeletons’. Molly could ‘knock spots off’ the Dubliner women who enable their alcoholic husbands (13: 968). Molly’s ‘Moorish’ blood, her ‘form’ and ‘figure’ (13: 968-9) are juxtaposed with Dubliner housewives ‘locked up at home’ like a ‘skeleton in the cupboard’ (13: 970-1). As the Dubliner housewife tolerates the skeleton in the closet — alcoholism — this undernourished woman becomes ‘nondescript’: ‘Always see a fellow’s weak point in his wife’ (13: 972-3), Bloom thinks. Bloom is unique, however, ‘a bit of an artist in his spare time, on the female form’ and had earlier in the day examined the Greek statues and imagined the lovely ‘hams’ under a woman’s skirt. The Greeker than Greek Bloom sees a woman’s form from multiple perspectives: aesthetically and socially. Molly can understand the desirability of her curves but is unsure about the attention to her feet. Boylan noticed the ‘shape’ of her foot ‘even before he was introduced’. She had been listening to Bloom and was ‘waggling’ her foot ‘laughing and trying to listen’, and Boylan’s eyes followed her feet as she walked back from the lavatory (U 18: 246- 57). Bloom also fetishizes Molly’s feet. Molly recalls Bloom wanting her to ‘walk in all the horses dung [she] could find’; ‘hes not natural like the rest of the world’ she thinks (18: 265-8). Freud would say this replacement of the human subject of sexual attraction with an isolated body part is a ‘mechanism of denial’. The anxious male fetishist ‘denies woman as the object of his desire and instead embraces something safer . . . [a] truncated body part’ (Bendiner Food in Painting 26-7; Freud Complete Work vol. xxi 149-58, vol. xx 276). Bloom’s purchase of a pig crubeen and a sheep trotter then seems to build on this fetishism. When Molly appears in ‘Circe’ her feet are bejewelled and ‘[h]er ankles are linked by a slender fetterchain’. She asks Bloom ‘Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?’ (15: 307-13). As discussed in Chapter Two, the English mastiff and retriever get the crubeen and trotter, symbolising imperial violence. Nonetheless Bloom’s capacity for parallax also make him reflect on his Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 227 | P a g e absurdity (15: 658). Denying his fetish he won’t bring ‘crubeens for her supper’ — watching her feet while she eats feet — but will let it slide (15: 311, 670). Bloom also rethinks his fragmenting of women and his fetishizing of feet in the ‘Nausicaa’ episode. Initially embarrassed that he had masturbated while watching the ‘lame’ Gerty, with the imperfect feet — ‘Glad I didn’t know it when she was on show’ — he also critiques the idea of ‘her exclusion and exceptionality’ by incorporating disability, femininity and sexuality (Bednarska ‘A Crippled Erotic: Gender and Disability in James Joyce’s “Nausicaa”’ 75). Far from unmarriageable, Bloom relegates Gerty’s limp to the ‘ordinary’ (like wearing glasses) and in the process ‘allow[s] the space for Gerty MacDowell to exist as a sexual subject’ (75). Molly may be bemused (with Boylan) and tolerant (with Bloom) and their fetish for her feet, but she objects to being slapped on the bottom: ‘one thing I didnt like his slapping me behind going away so familiarly in the hall though I laughed Im not a horse or an ass am I I suppose he was thinking of his fathers’ (U 18: 122-4). Molly dwells on the slap, and Boylan’s lack of manners and refinement (18: 1368-9), but becomes less indignant thinking his unwelcome spank is ‘because they were so plump and tempting in [her] short petticoat he couldnt resist’ (18: 1377-9). Even so, as Kiberd contends, Molly shares ‘the worldwide fear that she is loved not for herself so much as for her sexual parts’, and Bloom’s and Boylan’s bottom fetish (in addition to the foot fetish) seem ‘violations of her identity’ (200). She sees the sense in a man showing adoration by kissing a woman’s foot, but she draws the line at bottom kissing: ‘any man thatd kiss a womans bottom Id throw my hat at him after that hed kiss anything unnatural where we havent I atom of any kind of expression in us all of us the same 2 lumps of lard before ever Id do that to a man pfooh the dirty brutes the mere thought is enough’ (18: 1401-5). In ‘Circe’ she re-establishes herself as a complete sexual subject by slapping her turbaned camel and ‘scolding him in Moorish’ rather than being the objectified ‘disgruntled hindquarter’ (15: 314-7). As Bloom works through his feelings about Molly and Boylan, and his own passivity, Molly’s soliloquy also processes her marriage, eventually bringing her to an ambiguous but emphatic ‘Yes’. Molly ‘working through’ frustration to her own more loving state of equanimity towards the end and this journey is intertwined with food memories and food references. Though Molly and Bloom experience overt linear time — l’étendu — Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 228 | P a g e on 16 June 1904, we also experience the characters’ durée (Bergson Time and Free Will 91-127). That is, as well as providing the reader with the sense of the continuation of an ancient story, the novel engenders a sense of ‘universal time’ as the totality of experience, where the ‘past, present, and future’ of Molly and Bloom ‘exist on the one day’ (Gillies Henri Bergson and British Modernism 146). As indicated in the first chapter, the tension between l’étendu and durée was a central concern for modernists as they explored the possibilities of psychological time and implicitly contrasted it with more restrictive objective time (for example see Gillies 134-5; Caporaletti ‘The Thematization of Time’ 407-8; Kumar Bergson and the Stream of Consciousness Novel; Le Brun ‘T. S. Eliot and Henri Bergson’; Forster Aspects of the Novel). Mary Gillies, drawing on the work of Shiv Kumar, suggests that unlike Woolf, Joyce’s primary concern was less placing l’étendu and durée in opposition and more his ‘awareness of the free creative evolution of personality unimpeded by utilitarian interests’ and the ‘personality as a process of dynamic blending of physic states’ (Kumar 107-8; Gillies 134). Joyce wanted to represent life’s fluid inner world (Gillies 134) and its most forceful expression is in the final episode of Ulysses as Molly explores her life. The present is her whole life: ‘Here Molly’s life ranges over various moments in her life. Echoes of all her choices in life are heard in the resounding “Yes” with which the episode ends, making the one moment her entire lifetime’ (146). While in Chapter Three I share Kiberd’s more pessimistic reading of gender in Ulysses, I do deviate from his reading of Molly’s obsessive repetition of ‘Yes’ as ‘a desperate strategy to convince herself that she is actually talking to someone’ (Men and Feminism 198). For Kiberd the tragedy of the final episode is the lack of ‘social occasions’. As he points out, ‘Bloom never does manage to put his arms round his wife and forgive her in person, as he has already forgiven her in his mind — and she never tells him what she tells herself, that he is still the finest man in Dublin, and handsome as well’ (198). In Joyce’s exploration of a character’s ‘duration’ the absent (and perhaps expected) social occasions are purposefully and distinctly Bergsion. The social self — the outer self — is the ‘crust solidified on the surface’, useful for social interaction but not ‘vital’ (Bergson Creative Evolution 282; Gillies 135). Rather than tragic, hope emerges through ‘mémoire réele’ (Bergson Matter and Memory). Molly and Bloom’s past can ‘be called to new life’ as significant past events, or what E. M. Forster calls ‘notable pinnacles’ of the ‘life by values’ (Aspects of the Novel 42), have been preserved ‘in their Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 229 | P a g e original intensity’ and acquire ‘new and deeper significance’ (Caporaletti 407). But, this also has broader, political significance as Joyce’s emphasis on ‘real’ memories and the types of memories that affirm the foundations of society, sit in contrast with tampered narratives of history. Memories of betrayal won’t supply the Irish with the ‘original intensity’ of prior community, and neither will the efforts of creating or retaining an imagined ‘Irishness’ via myth of racial differentiation. A new Ireland can only emerge via new habits and memories outside the structures of ‘history’, patriarchy and violence. The resolution or hope is found in the ‘Penelope’ episode’s form as Molly’s final ‘Yes’ is contingent on the order of her thoughts and how subsequent thoughts are sparked, and the reflection upon the near past in relation to the more distant ‘notable pinnacles’ (Gillies 147). As Kiberd remarks, Molly and Bloom ‘are married in the depths of the soul’ as they share the same thoughts on the inevitability (given the circumstances) of Molly’s infidelity (Kiberd 198; see U 11: 641, 17:2178, 18: 1518-20). In addition to this shared explanation, another connection is revealed as they both recall that notable pinnacle of when Bloom proposed and they made love for the first time. It is this pinnacle in their lives which provides the type of ‘sweet traces’ Proust refers to; all the things which figure in memories that first appear inconsequential or as obstacles to ‘the event’ are eventually the moments that have ‘sunk so deep’ and leave ‘so sweet a trace’ (Proust Against Sainte-Beuve 140-1). It is their memory of exchanging ‘sweet traces’ of seedcake as they make love for the first time, that provides the hope in Ulysses; it is a shared event which continues to inform their present and future. Jacques Derrida suggests that whenever Molly or Bloom think ‘yes’, ‘the other is hooked up somewhere on the telephone’ (‘Ulysses Gramophone: Hear Say Yes in Joyce’ 35; M. Ellmann ‘“Penelope” Without the Body’ 107). Belying their monologues, the ‘yes’ is, as Maud Ellmann affirms, ‘an answer to another’ just as the kiss and the exchange of seed cake on Howth Head demands another kisser (107). In addition to this theme of ‘connection’, however, is Joyce’s rejection of marriage and its metaphysical notion of ‘mystical union’ (Brown Joyce and Sexuality 12). Joyce rejected ‘recognised virtues’ (Letters of James Joyce II 48), and wrote ‘How I hate God and death! [and] How I like Nora’ (Letters II 50), due to Godly love’s seeming inseparability from death and nothingness, rather than life (Boysen ‘The Necropolis of Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 230 | P a g e Love’ 160). In October 1904 Joyce and Nora Barnacle would begin living together in unmarried union, rejecting marital conventionality and the Church’s failure to recognize their ‘biological humanity’ (Brown 13, 15). That Molly and Bloom’s physical union is symbolised by the exchange of seedcake also places food, taste and touch (the body) — rather than abstinence, sight and sound (and the mind) — at the centre of life. Joyce’s lower senses renounce traditional philosophical dualisms and hierarchies, and also upsets the traditional literary framing of appetitive gusto as associated with moral feebleness (Kessler ‘One Reader’s Digest: Toward a Gastronomic Theory of Literature’ 160). Furthermore, Joyce shakes up the place of women and sexuality in historiography, challenging how women have been framed as the ‘mono-cause of history’s ills’ (see U 2: 389-95; Spoo ‘Genders of History in “Nestor”’ 21). Though the real experiences of women are notably absent from history, and the woman’s role is often ‘titular, mythic, [and] ahistorical’, history is personified as ‘woman’ and the ‘erotic ambush’, or female seduction, becomes the ‘first cause’ of the ‘many errors and many sins’ which men commit (Spoo 21-2; U 2: 389-90). In Joyce’s hands history’s, and society’s, smothering of women’s realities also reveals how this repression and silencing negates everyone — ‘male, female, citizen and artist’ — from living an authentic life (Spoo 21). In the context of colonial politics, where the Irish are the ‘feminine’ in the ‘Union’ of imperial ruler and subject, Spoo’s argument has other pressing implications. For the colonial rulers the Irish were the ‘first cause’, needing the ‘Godly love’ of death and suppression ‘for their own good’. By affirming the feminine in Ulysses, by realigning the appetitive, food and the body with love, Joyce disrupts the dualisms that continue to affirm the subjugation of the Irish. Bloom’s thoughts about love and Molly occur in the ‘Lestrygonians’ episode, after he has left the numb, gristle ‘chewing’ corpses at Burton’s pub and settles down with a glass of burgundy at the more gentile pub of Davey Byrne. The disturbing sight of ‘Famished Ghosts’ at Burton’s is replaced with the sun-ripened thoughts of Molly at Howth: Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun’s heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion’s Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 231 | P a g e head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you’ll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman’s breasts full in her blouse of nun’s veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me. Me. And me now. (U 8: 897-917) In the final episode Molly contemplates the events of the day, including her affair with Boylan. While she has been angry at Bloom throughout the episode, especially for what she perceives to be his implicit encouragement of the affair, in the end what is most important are her life affirming memories: the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things . . . and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 232 | P a g e and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. (18: 1571-1609) In order to reach the common involuntary memory of eating seedcake and making love, however, Molly ruminates on events where food isn’t indicative of community and love but reflects the state of turn of the century Ireland. As in the case of Bloom’s thoughts, and Joyce’s use of parallax, food is used to indicate social inequality, post-Famine and post-Parnell unethical behaviour, and also the gender politics of the domestic economy. The Glencree dinner makes Molly aware of ‘the way the world is divided’ (U 18: 437) and reveals the stinginess of Larry from ORourkes sending a ‘mangy parcel’ of a cottage cake and cheap claret for Christmas (18: 451-4). She suspects the servant stole her ‘potatoes and the oysters 2/6 per doz’ (18: 61-3), and initially perceives Boylan’s gift basket as a ‘putoff’ with ‘him sending the port and the peaches first and I was just beginning to yawn with nerves thinking he was trying to make a fool of me’ (18:340-2). Molly resents not having a servant: she made the last one leave due to her thieving, but also as a result of Bloom ‘ruining’ her through kind gestures, such as ‘proposing that she could eat at our table on Christmas Day if you please’ (18: 60-2). Nonetheless she is left with the ‘damn cooking’ as well as the other housework (18: 72). A number of Molly’s and Bloom’s meals reframe societal structure and their eating of soup and potato gives new meaning to the entrenched symbols of the Famine. Molly remembers Bloom’s embarrassing absconding with ‘boiling soup’, refusing to pay until he had finished (U 18: 358-62), and how Bloom was on the verge of proposing when she was ‘rolling potato cake’ with her ‘hands and arms full of pasty flour’ (18: 198 - 201). Before she meets Boylan, she and Bloom eat ‘plain bread and butter’ (18: 249). Though she complains about Bloom’s ‘paltry’ income from the Freeman’s Journal, Molly comments on Bloom’s desire for ‘eggs and tea and Findon haddy and hot buttered toast’ (18: 930-1). She subsequently imagines him ‘sitting up like the king of the country pumping up and down [on] his egg’, but this imagined inflated position is tolerated by Molly as she loves how he ‘[falls] up the stairs of a morning with the cups rattling on the tray’ (18: 931-4). She is treated like a queen. Turner points out that we are unsure if Bloom actually demanded breakfast from Molly, ‘to virilise himself and Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 233 | P a g e become a more successful realization of the dominant, patriarchal, authoritarian male’ (Jameson The Modernist Papers 174; Turner 49). She may have misconstrued Bloom’s tired ramblings — ‘egg in the night of the bed’ (U 17: 2329) — for ‘breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs (18: 2; Turner 53). Even so, Bloom’s daily (and clumsy) thoughtfulness acknowledged, she thinks she will ‘get a nice piece of cod’ and ‘some blancmange with black current jam like long ago’ (U 18: 939-43). Fish for the fisherman of men — the proclaimed ‘new apostle to the gentiles’ (12: 1489), the lover of love not hate and prejudice — is appropriate. Molly is proud of her husband. She well knows Bloom’s acquaintances ‘[make] fun of him behind his back . . . when he goes on with his idiotics’ but he is a better husband than those ‘goodfornothings’ like Dignam and Simon Dedalus: ‘he has sense enough not to squander every penny piece he earns . . . and looks after his wife and family’ (18: 1276-79). Molly’s reciprocation of Bloom’s thoughtfulness is interrupted by her lamenting Stephen not staying the night, as she would ‘have brought him in breakfast in bed with a bit of toast’ (U 18:1478-9). Her thoughts soon shift to Bloom and ‘[giving] him one more chance’ (18: 1498) and cooking for him. It is significant that at this point at the end of the episode Molly considers going over to the markets ‘to see all the vegetables and cabbages and tomatoes and carrots and all kinds of splendid fruits all coming in lovely and fresh’ (18: 1499-1501). Here is a way she can connect to Gibraltar where she made pisto madrileno (18: 720; emphasis added), a Spanish dish of red peppers and tomatoes (Gifford 619), so different to the turn of the century ‘scientific’ preparation of vegetables that subdued them ‘until they bore as little resemblance as possible to their natural state’ (see Shapiro Perfection Salad 91, 96; Schaffer ‘The Importance of Being Greedy’ 113). That Mrs Dwenn wrote to Molly asking for her recipe for the simple pepper and tomato dish (U 18: 718-20) reflects the approach to cooking at this time. Raw food was menacing and associated with savagery while elaborate cooking ‘disciplined food’ through its deliberate blanching out of the flavour with bland white sauces, excessive cooking and the use of gelatine (Shapiro 91-3, 96, 102; Schaffer 112- 3). As Talia Schaffer points out, food that ‘neither pleased the palate, nor satisfied the stomach, nor built up the body’ suited turn of the century women ‘who wished to demonstrate that she had neither appetite, nor hunger, nor other bodily needs’ (114). Upper and middle-class status demanded ‘restraint in eating’; good women, after all, ‘tighten their corsets and limit their appetites’ (Munich ‘Good and Plenty’ 47). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 234 | P a g e Paul O’Hanrahan contends that Molly’s plan to venture out early to the markets indicates ‘a more open, public and engaged lifestyle, casting off the recumbent mode to which she has been confined’. The markets represent a ‘rejuvenated city’ (O’Hanrahan ‘The Geography of the Body in “Penelope”’ 194). As explored in Chapter One, for the Citizen and for Bloom the markets symbolised colonial oppression with the best produce and stock being exported and inferior and cheap goods being imported. In the ‘Penelope’ episode the markets and shops provide the necessary link between Molly’s thoughts about her floral bedroom wallpaper (U 18: 1545-6) to that most memorable day on Howth Head where she ate seedcake and was a mountain flower. Instead of being confined by the wallpaper like the female figure in Charlotte Perkins Gilmore’s The Yellow Wallpaper, Joyce ‘shakes the bars’ of the cage that confines women (Spoo ‘Genders in History in “Nestor”’ 21). Molly thinks she ‘can get up early [and] go to the Lambes there beside Findlaters and get them to send us some flowers to put about the place’ in case Bloom brings Stephen back later that day (U 18: 1548-50). She thinks she will wear a white rose and contemplates buying ‘fairy cakes . . . 7 1/2d a lb or the ones with the cherries in them and the pinky sugar 11d a couple of lbs of those’ from the ‘rich big shop’ (18: 1553-6). When she thinks about ‘a nice plant in the middle of the table’ though (18: 1556), a shift occurs from decorating the interior of the house — ‘to have the whole place swimming in roses’ (18: 1557-8) — to the more sweeping deference to the beauty, variety and the abundance of nature: theres nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and the waves rushing then the beautiful country with the fields of oats and wheat and all kinds of things and all the fine cattle going about that would do your heart good to see rivers and lakes and flowers all sorts of shapes and smells and colours springing up even out of the ditches primroses and violets (18: 1558-63) Boylan’s straw hat is replaced with the hat Bloom wore to Howth Head when he proposed. The flowers for the house and the fruit Boylan sent are replaced with rhododendrons, and fanciful fairy cakes become earthy and lifegiving ‘seedcake’. In his recollection of that day at Howth Bloom also harbours details of the surrounding nature: the ‘wild ferns’, the purple bay ‘sleeping’, the variegated colours of the fields, the heather, and the goat walking on pebbles. Both Molly and Bloom begin their Howth memories with a salutation to the sun. As Bloom drinks his Burgundy he can taste the Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 235 | P a g e ‘sun’s heat’, ‘touching’ the memory of Molly on that day when he told her ‘the sun shines for you’. Molly’s memory of that passionate day is noticeably sullied with two less romantic thoughts: ‘I knew I could always get round him’ and ‘I thought well as well him as another’, but it would be a mistake to confuse what she ‘knew’ and ‘thought’ on that day with her thoughts many years later. As I suggest in Chapter Three, this can be read as yet another example of how Joyce inserts unemotional and detached rationalism so he can include sentimenta lity. In Molly’s remembrance of this ‘notable pinnacle’, where seed becomes the earth, Bloom clearly isn’t like other men. She saw all those years ago that he ‘understood or felt what a woman is’. He told her that she was ‘a flower of the mountain’. This comment is transformative as it makes Molly empathetic to all women — ‘yes so we are flowers all a womans body’ — whereas throughout the episode she had been defensive and competitive with other women (for example wives of suitors, possible suitors of Boylan or Bloom, possibly a flirtatious servant). As Maud Ellmann suggests, Molly’s quite narcissistic tendencies are explained by a sense of ‘alienation’ as she sees herself through the eyes of men (‘“Penelope” Without the Body’ 106). She thus generally thinks of women as competition rather than sharing with them innate commonalities. Annette Shandler Levitt argues that it is the ‘multiplicity’ of women, what Luce Irigaray calls the ‘ceaseless exchange with the other’, that manages to permeate Molly’s thoughts in the end (Levitt ‘The Pattern Out of the Wallpaper’ 510; Irigaray This Sex Which is Not One 31). The plenitude of Molly’s plans, memories, and the abundance of nature illustrates Irigaray’s principle of metonymy: the richness of the world she experiences is herself (Levitt 510). She is ‘several at the one time’ with no aspect ‘dominating the other’ (Irigaray ‘Our Lips Speak Together’ 72), and ‘without the possibility of identifying either’ (Irigaray This Sex 31). There is a fluid exchange where multiplicity is part of the woman, and woman is a part of the natural world. Thus, the more diverse Molly is, the more she exemplifies all women (Levitt 511). If Bloom is a ‘mixed middling’ (U 12: 1658-9), ‘with a touch of the artist’ (10: 581), Molly is also enriched by her diversity and contradiction. Molly is ‘a mixture of plum and apple’ (18: 1535); ‘Juicy and fleshy’ and ‘crisp’ and offering resistance (Levitt 509). Similarly she can’t decide on the purity of the white flower or the passion of the red (U 18:1553, 1603), but, as Irigaray stresses, women are ‘quite red’ and ‘still so white’: ‘You don’t lose your candor as you become ardent’, she states (Irigaray ‘Our Lips’ 70; Levitt 509). Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 236 | P a g e More than marking Molly and Bloom’s union through their memories of that day at Howth, the ‘Penelope’ episode reworks the relationship between betrayal, death and proposes a way to an alternate life for the Irish. Molly and Bloom have suffered loss with the death of their infant son, and Bloom still seems to fear the recurrence of the loss by not having sex with Molly. In this light Bloom thus struggles against the ‘Godly’ connection between love and death, but he finds a way, through abnegation, of not denying Molly’s ‘nature’. Bloom may not have fully discarded the salt cloak of history, but throughout his journey Joyce presents the means to thwart its repressive paralysis. Molly and Bloom are akin in their abundance and multiplicity, and Molly’s final Yes to her Bloom and her giving him another chance hinges on Molly’s identification with nature, particularly, as Levitt notes, ‘embodied by the lowly, earthy flowers’ (512): ‘I was a Flower of the mountain’, like ‘all’ women she declares, but she is also Bloom’s mountain flower as he is her bloom (U 18: 1602, 1577, 1606). Joyce wrote to Harriet Weaver that the ‘Penelope’ episode depicted ‘the earth which is prehuman and resumably posthuman’ (Selected Letters 289). Joyce suggests ‘a topography prior to . . . the imposition of the human subject’, ‘underneath the skin of gendered, individuated selves’ (M. Ellmann ‘Penelope’ 107-8). While there is, as Derrida suggests, a telephone connection in the Molly and Bloom’s ‘yes’, we also see that their shared ‘seed’ also connects them to the earth, and forever to each other in nature via metempsychosis. Bloom’s ‘grave’ thoughts are not just about a farm in Palestine but also a cyclical reconnection to Molly. His thoughts of being buried in his ‘native earth’ — a ‘bit of clay from the holy land’ (U 6: 819) — and subsequently fertilising the land and producing oranges, citrons, olives and melons, is a fitting match for Molly who feels all ‘plums and apples’ and is a flower of the mountain. Conclusion The stringing of the bow in The Odyssey is a sign of strength and identity; the king is revealed beneath his rags. For Turner this marvel corresponds to Bloom reaching abnegation (Turner 42). But, if the stringing of the bow is about identity then perhaps the differential repetition is the eating of seedcake, for it is this memory that reaffirms who Molly and Bloom are, who they love, and who they want to be. While Terry Eagleton contends that the ‘greatest of all Irish novels turns on an ironic unity-com- discrepancy between humdrum text and a heroic subtext’, and Ulysses remains Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 237 | P a g e suspended between ‘the mythic and the real’ (311), the novel presents a new kind of heroism as a counter to destructive nationalism. Joyce’s hero works through his feelings about love, women, sex, death, power and life, and although confined to the city and the home his journey encourages a different world view to the one striving for domination, power, and revenge. Molly’s multiplicity demonstrates her fluid thoughts about men, sex and love as she negotiates her own sexuality in early twentieth century Dublin and rethinks her experiences and her life with Bloom. Food is a central concern for Bloom and Molly, and Joyce uses food in his stylistic register to indicate his deviations from the Homeric world, and sham heroics generally, and to reject the salt cloak of a ‘womanless’ history and the confines of a ‘mystical’ marriage. Where history paralyses the Irish, and wipes women’s experiences and casts them as temptresses, Joyce interrogates the contrivance of women as the ‘first cause’. Joyce refigures the ‘Greek’ characteristic of ‘cleverness’ then, to enable a view of society wider than the heroes of the Homeric world. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 238 | P a g e CONCLUSIONS Bonnie Roos astutely observes that the Famine is the ‘Allimportant key’ to Ulysses. By attending to the resonance of the Famine, temporarily and spatially, but by also broadening the analysis of food, we can perceive Joyce’s complex examination of turn of the century Irish politics and society. At a base level food is a central human necessity and preoccupation. Self-preservation and food security are crucial catalysts for humans to willingly yield ‘originating’ freedoms to form associations and adopt rational bonds of mutual obligation. As contemporary philosophers have argued, food is a part of the ‘self’, but given the human need for food ‘the self’ is forever connected with, and dependent on, the outside world (Curtin ‘Intro’ xiv). Food is also multidimensional (concerned with biology and nutrition; the psychological and psychosocial; and the social, cultural, historical, political and environmental) and thus encourages analysis through multiple lenses. Joyce’s parallactic form enables multiple shifts of perspectives on food bringing uncomfortable histories and realities to the foreground, and in so doing revealing the contradictions of various ‘truths’. Joyce exhibits the unacceptable and oppressive terms of the British ‘Union’ with Ireland and interrogates the pretences of the social contract. This examination of food in Joyce doesn’t focus on food in terms of agency, as considered by cultural studies (for example, consumer behaviour and identity creation), but tends towards the concerns of the French theorists of the ‘everyday’ as they consider agency in the context of oppressive economic and political structures. I would add to this the dimensions of societal and cultural constriction. The structures of Joyce’s form is a consummate mechanism to probe the ordinary ‘object’ of food and, in ways amenable to James’s and Dewey’s Pragmatism, he undertakes an ideologically charged project of reorganising a number of ‘habits’ or ‘truths’. Joyce’s agitation of ‘habits’ and ‘objects’ — the problematising of a unified ‘collective memory’ of the Famine; Famine ‘relief’; the ideal of Christmas and the familial; (quasi)scientific ‘knowledges’; and notions of ‘community’, ‘Irishness’, ‘masculinity’, ‘heroics’, and ‘progress’ — reveals ideological ‘faultlines’ as inconsistencies are revealed and his reworked habits come into conflict with the old (Sinfield; Schwarze). It is in this murky liminal space of dissembling ideological narratives where thought happens. Joyce’s experimental techniques, such as Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 239 | P a g e stream of consciousness, thus need to be considered beyond the ‘internal’ and as a space for the interactions between the internal and external modes of thought (Uhlmann 2-3). In addition to Bloom’s and Molly’s more overt ‘thinking’, Joyce’s use of structure, intertextual cues, allusions, juxtaposition and characterisations highlights injustice, inequality, prejudice, impoverishment, apathy, neglect and hypocrisy, and creates the grounds for dissidence and subversion. Joyce interrogates the ‘abstract unity’ of history and memory and demonstrates James’s claim that such negation of the realities of diversity means intellectual (and thus societal, cultural and political) paralysis (James Pragmatism 91-2, 142). As Attridge suggests, the crux of Ulysses is that ‘truth’ needs to be constantly challenged by rewriting history. By being aware of the effects of the ‘textual activity’ of history, a society can imagine a future that is antithetical to the ‘dogmatic’, ‘metaphysical’, ‘foundational’, ‘positivist’, and ‘systematic’ reality that has become ‘truth’ (Attridge Joyce Effects 84; Feldman 2). As Feldman, Schoenbach, Schwarze, Uhlmann (amongst others) have argued, Modernism needs to be distinguished from the revolutionary discourse of the ‘avant-garde’ and considered as a ‘liminal space’ or a ‘machine for thinking’. Joyce’s Ulysses, considered alongside his earlier work, essays and letters, is such a ‘space’ where he interrogates hegemonic positions on colonialism, Irish politics, religion and gender. In doing so Joyce makes a specific statement about the role that literature can play in refiguring memory and addressing the resonance of ‘history’, and providing the lenses through which the Irish people may reconceive ‘Irishness’, community, self-determination and political action. In addition to interrogating ‘history’, ‘truth’ and ‘memory’, Joyce contravenes the dualisms of Western philosophy and challenges the gendered distinctions of ‘hard’, ‘masculine’ literature. Indeed food would not be so evident and significant in Joyce’s work if he had not flouted the dictates of Victorian ‘good taste’, the avant-garde’s subordination of the ‘feminine’, and the traditional hierarchy of the senses. Joyce follows Pragmatism’s eschewing of dualisms and monisms, and pre-empts contemporary Western philosophy’s challenge to the pre-eminence of the mind, the abstract and the atemporal (see Curtin; Flammang; and Heldke). Joyce’s parallactic form doesn’t equate easily to definitive answers to Ireland’s woes, but by challenging gendered dualisms — masculine/feminine, heroics/passivity, mind/body, culture/nature, Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 240 | P a g e reason/emotion, progress/cycle — he presents an alternate way for Ireland. Rather than participating and perpetuating the rhetoric of his male Modernist counterparts, Joyce presents the disastrous implications of trivialising the feminised foils of these binaries. As Flammang has recently warned, such neglect is pernicious not only for women, but for self-understanding, human culture, society, economics, and politics (142). Joyce’s form creates a new aesthetic texture but he also makes alternate connections between the past, present and futures and creates the possibility for revitalised narratives as he produces ‘new beings’ that have ‘meaning’ and negotiate the everyday problems of the real world in different ways (Uhlmann 118). While Joyce reveals the unpropitious association of the colonial power and subjects, and even how new discourses and knowledges are appropriated by a dominant power and used as evidence for continued ascendency, he also calls attention to Ireland’s fractured and dysfunctional community. The term ‘civil society’ has a long history (see for example Cohen and Arato Civil Society and Political Theory), but Joyce seems to ruminate on the principal ideas of more recent conceptualisations. For example the slogan coined by Czech dissident and writer Václav Havel, ‘Truth and Love has to Prevail over Lie[s] and Hatred’ has a distinctly Bloomian resonance. At the time of the demise of the Soviet Union, Havel called for moral politics and civil society, in opposition to both the coercive power of the totalitarian state and the unfettered market of the ‘free’ world (Klicperová-Baker ‘Czech Rhetoric of 1989 and Václav Havel’). Civil society comprises the social mechanisms embedded in associational life — ‘voluntary action, discussion and agreement’ — and is therefore a source of both ‘cultural life’ and ‘intellectual innovation’. An active civil society promotes ‘collective action for the common good’, acts as a ‘counterweight’ to the state and the market, and provides an essential pillar in the promotion of ‘good governance’ (Edwards Civil Society 11, 14-5). As Michael Edwards states, civil society in this sense means ‘“people power” writ large’, for it is when individuals think outside the primacy of their private world and ‘face each other in dialogue and discussion’ with a view to ‘reform’ that ‘publics’ are formed (Edwards 15, Rosen in Edwards 63). Parnell — the ‘saviour’ of the Irish — is dead, but the pacifist Joyce seems to ask the subjugated Irish of this post-Parnell era if there is any intellectual space between political apathy, the internalisation of an inferior status and the imagining of imperial Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 241 | P a g e ruler as ‘one of us’, and resorting to violence to change the terms of governance. Joyce no doubt highlights the intolerable social contract of the Irish and the double bind of being caught between English rule and the doctrine and political involvement of the Catholic Church. Joyce suggests, however, that the Irish are also complicit in their own subjugation. Whilst his ‘Saints and Sages’ essay is scathing of colonial oppression, even here he indicates the ‘smallness’ of the power which oppresses them and thus implies the inability or apathy of the Irish to organise and demand a better deal. The trifling expressions of defiance which the Irish employ during a ‘Famine’ royal visit are reflective of the Dubliners’ response to the Vice-Regal cavalcade in ‘Wandering Rocks’. It is the Englishman Haines’s thoughts on Stephen that will encapsulate Joyce’s thoughts about post-Parnell Ireland: ‘The moral idea seems to be lacking, the sense of destiny, of retribution’ (U 10: 1083-4). But, there is no unidirectional blame game for Joyce as he ruminates on the complexity of turn of the century Dublin; caught between English rule and the doctrine and political involvement of the Catholic Church, and also a nuanced exploration of the internal differentiation of Dubliners. Joyce’s nationalist politics are complex. Rather than continuing the Revivalist project of inspiring heroics and sacrifice, or engaging in an authorial polemic, Joyce subjects the narrow ‘truths’ of ‘progress’, ‘legitimacy’ and the paradigm of retrospective justification of violence to analysis. He draws attention to the failing of the cooperative aspects of Irish politics and society by presenting an assortment of dysfunctional associations: the colonial ruler and subject, the ‘Irish’ community, political affiliations, the homosocial circle, the family, and marriage. Bloom can’t clearly expand upon his politics — ‘love not hate’ — but his refusal to perpetuate the social performance of ‘masculinity’ by renouncing force (S. Brown 792), and his refusal to react to Molly’s infidelity in a socially prescribed manner, is an indication of a prescription for a renewed society. Joyce’s engagement with Irish nationalism, force and masculinity, alongside his intertextual cue of The Odyssey, all act as ‘operative viewpoints’ for exposing suppression, dysfunction and complicity (Le Doeuff ‘Operative Philosophy’ 48). While High Modernist contemporaries perceived Joyce’s aesthetic as avowedly ‘masculine’ and what the new art demanded, Joyce’s treachery was not only unveiling the ugly truths of Ireland, but highlighting the failings of literature cut off from society and the specifics of politics. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 242 | P a g e In addition to reworking this thesis into a monograph, this project has set up a course of future work. I have started to examine Stephen’s restraint from food as an expression of his defiance against the nets of patriarchy, colonial oppression and the church. The gourmandising of Haines, Stephen’s unwillingness to help his family, and the various references to the priests’ square meals in Ulysses seems to affirm such a reading. However, if we consider Stephen’s self-imposed hunger in Portrait the notion of Stephen’s hunger becomes more complicated. The other two projects I have been developing along the way are social and political analyses of food in both Dubliners and Finnegans Wake. In this thesis I briefly explore the political paralysis of the post- Parnell era in ‘Ivy Day’ and ‘The Dead’ is attended to for the significance of the food at the Morkan sisters’ Christmas party. However, I would like to interrogate Dubliners as a whole, considering the references to Famine relief style meals, fraught expressions of hospitality, and patriarchy (including the role of the Catholic Church) in relation to the impoverishment of the domestic realm. Anthony Burgess notes in his Foreward to Alison Armstrong’s cookbook, The Joyce of Cooking: Food and Drink from James Joyce’s Dublin, that Finnegans Wake provides as much gustatory relish as contention, and one ‘paragraph of the Wake before a meal will get the saliva working nicely’ (xii). I would like to analyse food in the Wake in relation to Shem’s ‘lowness’, ‘that creeped out first in foodstuffs’ (171-1), by considering the established notion of ‘taste’ and how food is intertwined with the ‘memories of the past and the hicnuncs of the present embelliching the musics of the futures’ (407). There is so much more about food still to explore in Joyce’s work. I look forward to continuing this investigation, engaging with the developments in both historiography and Joycean scholarship. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 243 | P a g e APPENDIX Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes. Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79. ‘Introduction’ Amongst the Anglo-Saxon students resorting to Ireland was Prince Aldfrid, afterwards King of the Northumbrian Saxons. His having been educated there about the year 684 is corroborated by the Venerable Bede in his “Life of St. Cuthbert.” The original poem, of which this is a translation, attributed to Aldfrid, is still extant in the Irish language. ‘Prince Aldfrid’s Itinerary through Ireland’, Translated from Irish by James Clarence Mangan. I FOUND in Innisfail the fair, In Ireland, while in exile there, Women of worth, both grave and gay men, Many clerics and many laymen. I travelled its fruitful provinces round, 5 And in every one of the five I found, Alike in church and in palace hall, Abundant apparel, and food for all. Gold and silver I found, and money, Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey; 10 I found God’s people rich in pity, Found many a feast and many a city. I also found in Armagh, the splendid, Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, Fasting, as Christ hath recommended, 15 And noble councillors untranscended. I found in each great church, moreo’er, Whether on island or on shore, Piety, learning, fond affection, Holy welcome and kind protection. 20 I found the good lay monks and brothers Ever beseeching help for others, And in their keeping the holy word Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord. I found in Munster, unfettered of any, 25 Kings, and queens, and poets a many,— Poets well skilled in music and measure, Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure. Gabrielle Rowen-Clarke 244 | P a g e I found in Connaught the just, redundance Of riches, milk in lavish abundance; 30 Hospitality, vigor, fame, In Cruachan’s land of heroic name. I found in the country of Connall the glorious, Bravest heroes, ever victorious; Fair-complexioned men and warlike, 35 Ireland’s lights, the high, the starlike! I found in Ulster, from hill to glen, Hardy warriors, resolute men; Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone, And strength transmitted from sire to son. 40 I found in the noble district of Boyle (MS. here illegible.) Brehon’s, Erenachs, weapons bright, And horsemen bold and sudden in fight. I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, 45 From Dublin to Slewmargy’s peak, Flourishing pastures, valor, health, Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth. I found, besides, from Ara to Glea, In the broad rich country of Ossorie, 50 Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, Great chess-players, men of truthful speech. 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