Lestrygonians

Here we follow Mr. Bloom as he takes a walk [no way!] through Dublin and while I enjoy Leopold thoroughly, I'm beginning to worry about Stephen. How is his day going?
By now we are familiar with Bloom's somewhat raw physicality, but in Lestrygonians he seems a more sympathetic character. Aside from fixating on his wife and their lost son, the motives of his fantasy-affair are more clearly established. As in scene at the newspaper in the previous chapter, Bloom seems to be searching for some sort of validation when he notes the poet Russell's ladyfriend quietly listening to the author and remarks "She's taking it all in. Not saying a word." To aid gentleman in literary work." In this moment, Bloom appears as a man with simple wants; we know he takes comfort in the physical and begin to realize his basic urges for acknowledgment.
Bloom is a curiosity in that, though he is disconnected from his environment he seems to be truly invested in Dublin. Although he occupies the fringe, he is a part of the community and I often find myself forgetting that he is a Jew for his Irishness is apparent in certain ways. The audience is even afforded a flashback to a nationalist protest where he was almost beaten and/or arrested.
Finally we see Bloom cowering at the sight of Blaze Boylan, his wife's lover, and one cannot help but pity him. As it does earlier in the chapter as Bloom describes meat, the prose becomes fragmented and hurried reflecting Bloom's anxiety and fear at the sight of Boylan. Instead of the toilet victory or the calm of the bathtub, we are treated to a hasty and humiliating retreat.
In addition to an ever-expanding grasp of Mr. Bloom's inner/outer workings, I appreciate the constant potty-humor, particular his personification of the cruel pigeons.

Lotus Eaters

In The Lotus Eaters, Joyce further fixates on the barren and desolate, invoking the image of the Dead Sea in Leopold Bloom's mind. When not trying to recall some scientific law from school, Bloom makes his way through Dublin's streets on the way to Dignam's funeral. Throughout the chapter, Bloom's interactions with others are impersonal and fleeting as he seems to go through the motions. There is certainly a sense of detachment from others in Bloom's actions as he admires meats through a shop window or reads a letter from his “naughty” pen-pal. Rather than engage in any real or meaningful affair, Bloom exchanges letters with a woman whom he seems to consider less-than-intelligent. Though he is excited, he excuses her foolishness, rationalizing, “no roses without thorns,” surely the inspiration for Poison frontman, Bret Michaels' classic ballad.

Aside from Bloom's fantasy-affair, the Lotus Eaters possesses a sort of hazy, almost surreal quality as Joyce references the opiates of the “celestials” and imagines “a dull flood.. flowing together, winding through mud-flats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.” In many ways the chapter itself is “a dull flood,” of people, places, and sensations and Bloom almost seems to be swept through the scenes rather than making a path for himself.

Adding to the air of somewhat detached spectatorship Bloom observes the traditional Catholic funeral service as an alien. He is not as much mocking the affair as Bloom is admiring the mass as a sociologist might. Particularly strange to the insular Bloom is the Sacrament of Confession which he sees as a sort of self-punishment/ humiliation ritual.

While The Lotus Eaters is somewhat more murky and cerebral than Calypso, the reader is still fully aware of Bloom's physicality in the final scene. One easily imagine the steamy bathhouse and its scented oils as Bloom lies in the tub relishing in sensation and contemplating his “limp father of thousands.”

Calypso

As Calyspo opens, the reader is immediately aware of a shift from the scattered, metaphysical view of Stephen's Dublin to the visceral world of Leopold Bloom. Much of the chapter details Bloom's eating habits, particularly his fixation on various meats. Rather than portray him as a glutton, Joyce seems to characterize Bloom with a sort of desperation and his consumption seems to reveal an underlying insatiability. Missing from the chapter is a sense of momentum, rather the section, and Bloom by proxy, seems stationary, if not stagnant.

This sense of wanting for more and the inability to attain it is most evident as Bloom reflects on an advertisement for am agrarian Zionist settlement and the various produce that might be grown there. He dismisses the advertisement, though not without some reluctance, stating: “Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it.” On the next page he thinks of the same land, that of his Jewish ancenstry, as “a barren land...the grey sunken cunt of the world.” In these contrasting images, the reader is allowed a window into Bloom as a man who is not conflicted, in the manner Stephen is conflicted, but who's world is very much solidified and unchanging.

The nature of Bloom's static existence is further explored as he describes the concept of “Metempsychosis” to his wife. There is certainly an irony in the description of the transience of souls from a man so firmly rooted to the physical world and its indulgences. Although he grasps the concept, the reader is acutely aware of the fact that Leopold Bloom was never anything but himself. Also, reflecting on the theme of reincarnation, Joyce's personification of the cat seems especially clever (not to mention the themes of communication with both the cat and Mrs. Bloom).

Ultimately, Bloom, while a strong character, comes across as somewhat ineffectual as his most victorious moment in Calypso comes while he is sitting on the toilet.

Telemachus

This weekend marks the beginning of my first attempt at Ulysses in two years and I am surprisingly less confused this time around. Essentially, 'Telemachus' functions to establsih Stephen's character in contrast to those around him. Dedalus comes across as proud and stoic, compared to the jovial Buck Mulligan whose behavior, although joyful seems almost crass to the reader. Mulligan lacks the composure and reservation of Haines and Dedalus who, themselves, are very different. Haines attitude seems born of confidence and a sense of entitlement while Stephen is represented as an alien in his own home. The presentation of this dynamic between the roommates seems organic, allowing the reader to observe their mundane breakfast and take away more information than is explicitly stated. The interaction between Buck Mulligan and the old milk maid is especially significant; he is kind and conversational with her, but at the same time he seems somewhat obnoxious and perhaps even patronizing. Buck Mulligan is your obnoxious friend at the diner who insists on joking with the waitress every time she comes to the table; at this, Stephen seems uncomfortable, as if he indentifies with the old woman more than with Mulligan and Haines.
Though I feel that I am grasping much more this time around, I am still a bit confused about the narrative voice. At times the narrator seems to slip into the first person with 'I' statements and it seems to be the voice of Stephen, however he is is reffered to in the third person in dialogue and narration. I am also curious about the role of the 'Joking Jesus' poem and Haines' question to Stephen about being a believer. Judging by his response, Stephen feels conflicted over his Catholocism, but thus far Ulysses has yet to present a character who seems to be a legitimate believer.

lines written in congestion

Please excuse any rambling or typos, I seem to be in a bit of a cold-medicine haze at the moment. Anyway, I will now try to offer my comments on these past two readings, starting with "The Wild Swans at Coole."
The first poem in 'Wild Swans' to really catch my interest was "Lines Written in Dejection." Despite the somewhat melodramatic title, the piece overs a unique perspective on some of Yeats' most common and somewhat contradictory themes. In "Lines," Yeats invokes images one might expect from a member of the group that would come to own such impressive webspace and hung out with this dude:

In any case, Yeats describes a series of magical creatures and with the "dark leopards of the moon" and the"wild witches" there is an element of fear. Yet rather than fear or awe, Yeats inspires a sense of melancholy, longing for this magic which he sees as intrinsically linked with childhood. "I have nothing" he writes, "but the embittered sun." The sun seems to be the combination of knowledge and weariness that come with age, ending the nighttime of youth where magic and wonder are still possible.
However this does not seem to signal a specific change in thematic elements, as if to declare retirement from fantasy imagery. Rather it seems a convergence of Yeats' dwellings on his own mortality and his fixation on the occult and the magical. Yeats' is still able to create these otherworldly visions, but in "Lines Written in Dejection" manages to make this fantasy communicate his own conflicted headspace.
Representing a somewhat different approach is the collections title piece, "The Wild Swans at Coole." This first poem recalls a younger Yeats, ostensibly more influenced by the Romantic and Pre-Raphaelite movements. The author describes, in the first stanza, fifty nine swans "upon the brimming water among the stones" In addition to detailing the majesty of nature around him, the author remarks, "I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,/ And now my heart is sore."
What first came to my mind reading "The Wild Swans at Coole" was the Romantic notion of "the Man of Sensibility." In the poem Yeats' seems to identify with, or, at least aspire to this ideal.

Yeats' later work, "The Tower" finds the author exploring somewhat new territory without having lost his passion for the same themes of mortality and nostalgia. The collection's first poem and one of Yeats' most recognizable is "Sailing to Byzantium." Beginning the piece is the line that, thanks to Cormac McCarthy and the Coen brothers, might be most memorable to us at the moment. 'That is no country for old men,' Yeats begins, and already the reader is faced with the question: to what country is Yeats referring? Is this country Ireland or earth a state of mind? If I understand the concept correctly, I would say that "Sailing to Byzantium" is a strong example of Yeats utilization of 'negative capability.' He creates an ambiguity within the text, that its interpretation might be left to the reader.
In the first stanza, he describes a youthful environment, where "Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long." Yet of course, the reader must be reminded, "Whatever is begotten, born, and dies." As he continues in the second stanza, the author seems to create a differentiation between the body and the spirit. He sets the body up as a simple vessel, "a paltry thing/ a tattered coat upon a stick" and yet, he argues that by exalting and exercising the soul, man might transcend physical weakness.
This transcendence or perhaps even an immortality through legacy, seems to be represented as Byzantium. He pleads with its 'sages' to take away from him the pains of mortality, that his essence might no longer be "fastened to a dying animal." Perhaps I am missing some elements of the piece, but this desire to be separate from the doomed physicality of nature is intriguing to me.
Perhaps one of the most interesting aspect of Yeats that has become more clear to me of the last two weeks is his discomfort. As an individual and an author, it seems that Yeats was rarely, if ever, sure where he fit in, what he was trying to accomplish, or how to do it. By no means do I suggest that he lacked in skill or that the final results of Yeats' work aren't effective. However, his internal struggles between religion and fantasy, nationalism and individualism reveal a conflicted and unsure individual not above rethinking his ideas and constantly experimenting with style. In many ways, Yeats' does seem to have 'hammered his thoughts into unity,' creating a universe where arch angels mingle with centaurs in lush fields and dark bogs. In this manner, their often remains an uncertainty in the interpretation of these poems which in some ways makes them that much greater; for what a hammer lacks in precision, it makes up for in force.

When I first read Yeats' “The Rider from the North” I couldn't help but think of Harry's McClintock's “Big Rock Candy Mountain.” This sort of peasant paradise with visions of booze-floods and peaceful countryside seem is not an uncommon one, but upon further exploration “The Rider from the North” reveals itself as somewhat more complex. Reading the first refrain, I was led to believe that Yeats' fox declared “the world's bane” to be the “townland” that the rider approaches; communicating a romantic resistance to civilization and exalting the beauty of nature.

Though now it seems to me that the rider's journey is a movement through life where the 'townland' is not simply death, but a rich afterlife. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the poem is the somewhat contradictory elements of Yeat's protestant tendencies and his fascination with fantasy and the magical. When reading of “golden and silver wood” and women “dancing in a crowd,” one almost expects to read faeries peeking out from behind them. Yet in the poem's last full stanza, Yeats invokes the images of the angels Michael and Gabriel. This is all done in a manner that seems thoroughly Irish, giving Gabriel “a fish tail” which recalls a number of Irish water spirits and chimeras.

If my reading is not entirely off-base, Yeats' second verse is rather telling of the author. He writes about a resurrection after death that men are “lucky” not to truly understand, for fear that in truly understanding the nature of death, man will not be able to live life. They might even “let the spade lie” which would certainly betray the protestant work ethic and sense of responsibility. In addition to this, there is also a sense that to realize the beauty of 'heaven' or the 'townland' or perhaps even, God, would rob the physical world of all its beauty.

Like much of In the Seven Woods, “The Rider from the North” speaks to Yeats' struggle with his own mortality and the feelings of futility in his attempt to grasp it. The fox rebukes the moon, in it's attempt to delay the inevitable in the poem's refrain, acknowledging both the terror and the beauty in the short life of the individual.

Questions:
Other than death ("The Old Men Admiring Themselves in the Water") and the struggles of the artist ("Adam's Curse") what other themes are prevalent in Seven Woods?

The final lines of "The Arrow" seems to speak to Yeats' dissatisfaction with contemporary art. How (if at all) does the rest of this poem fit into this idea?

"happy wars and sad love songs"

Growing up, my father enjoyed telling me that my family was from a place of "happy wars and sad love songs," doing some quick research now shows me that my dad failed to cite Richard Brinsley Sheridan as the author of his clever observation. Nonetheless, this often-repeated quote seems to have stuck around in my memory over the years and I was certainly reminded of it when reviewing 'A Brief History of Ireland' and trying to develop a sense of the world that Yeats inhabited.
Trying to approach Irish history from the Prehistoric Era through the modern day can be, at times, overwhelming and a brief history can often feel like a long list of invasions, occupations, and injustices. Ireland reveals itself to be a sort of capital for struggle and human tenacity. Discussed in the text and evident in Yeats' early poems, is a strong sense of nationalism and collective identity. It is interesting to consider some of the pervasive 'Irish-ness' in Yeats' "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" or "Wandering Angus" as a result of the author's encounters with John O'Leary. I am also intruiged by what is referred to as Yeat's favorite Gaelic axiom, "strife is better than loneliness." Similar to my father's favorite Sheridan quotable, the phrase speaks to the Irish urge toward progress; the 'happy war' or the 'struggle' is always preferable to the oppressive limbo that is indefinite occupation.