Finn MacCool breaks rules and laws. And he is subversive. In FinnegansWake Tom Finnegan’s death and his immediate resurrection typify the best example of black humor. When Tom Finnegan comes to life during his funeral-watch, the mourners ask him to lie down again and play dead. Tom Finnegan obeys the mourners who order him: “Now be aisy [easy], good Mr Finnimore [Tom Finnegan], sir. And take your laysure [leisure] like a god on pension and don’t be walking abroad (Joyce, 1942, p.24). Tom Finnegan’s action has the comic, ugly and bizarre qualities of black humor and so does Glugg’s (Shem’s) actions who lies dead in his grave but suddenly rises and makes a mock repentance by which he mocks the Resurrection, and the Confession (Ibid, p.240). Glugg participates in the cosmic joke and his behavior is an instance of black humor. Another movement from the sublime to the farcical can be traced concerning the Thunder.
Joyce's critique of religion is openly scabrous and scatological. He is a true liberal and the Old Testament is his other target. Somewhere else in the novel, Shem, an evil character, actually an atheist, places his dung in an urn for making "synthetic ink" and chants a psalm and thus shows his rudeness to the Old Testament, subverting another sacred text, David's Psalms (p. 185). Additionally, Shem's brother, Shaun, in his guise as Jaun, stands as a figure of religious and political oppression as well as a patriarchal authoritarian, produces for his sister Issy a list of proper behavior, and so, shows his incredulity towards religion. His advice begins with a pastiche (revision and parody) on the Ten Commandments: "First thou shalt not smile. Twice thou shalt not love. Lust, thou shalt not commix adolatry" (Joyce, 1942, p. 433). This pastiched list on the Ten Commandments also reflects Joyce's subversive view of the Old Testament.
Yet even by the early 1970s there could still be disagreement on Joyce‘s status; unimpressed by the boom of Joyce criticism at American universities during the 1960s, one of the early proponents of a postmodernist break in the literary context, Leslie Fiedler, declared in ―Cross the Border—Close the Gap‖ (1968/69) that ―the age of Proust, Mann, and Joyce is over‖ (Fiedler, ―Border‖ 461). Both Fiedler and Hassan gave addresses at the Second International JamesJoyce Symposium in 1969. Fiedler—giving his address an air of his personal apostasy from Stephen‘s light, cerebral and aloof, to becoming a born-again Bloom, self-deprecating and earth-bound—repeated his view of modernism‘s death: ―that age so utterly lost in elitism and snobbism, the ves- tiges of class values totally alien to a democratic or mass society, […] it was doomed from the first to die the academic death‖ (Fiedler, ―Bloom‖ 21). Through Hassan‘s address, strikingly postmodern in style, subtly runs the no- tion of FinnegansWake as a ―start, end of old artifice […] and a prophecy‖ (Hassan, ―Joyce-Beckett‖ 10); these are the vaguely perceptible traces of the notion of Joyce‘s postmodernity that he was to express more explicitly a few years later.
Human nature is not unchanging universal according to Hegel (1949) it develops and changes. Stephen‟s nature could also be seen as changing with the passage of time. It is clear through this investigation that his nature kept on changing and now he is moving forward for another change. Stephen‟s daily routine was based on religious activities. “His day began with an heroic offering of its every moment of thought or actions for the intentions of the sovereign pontiff and with an early mass” (p. 200). He dedicated all his time to religion and forgot for some moments that what exactly he is. “Sunday was dedicated to the mystery of the Holy Trinity, Monday to Holy Ghost, Tuesday to the Guardian Angels, Wednesday to saint Joseph, Thursday to the Most Blessed Sacrament of the Alter, Friday to the Suffering Jesus, Saturday to the Blesses Virgin Marry” (p. 200). This was all religion but where was Stephen? What he dedicated purely for himself? After all it was his life and how could he avoid himself in it? He was actually lost behind the curtains of theological realm but was not aware of that fact because of his intense engagement in this work. He hoped that by chasing this path his “soul might grow strong” (p. 201). Therefore he thought of religion, practiced religion and committed his life for religion.
Infamous for its deliberate perplexities, FinnegansWake remains one the most unapproachable works in literature. Over seventeen years of rigorous composition whilst burdened with deteriorating eyesight, Joyce developed unprecedented techniques of word play, allusive ambiguities, and linguistic manipulations which provide the Wake’s reader with the daunting task of deciphering whatever meaning they can from its simplest words and phrases. At the root of its difficulties, FinnegansWake revels in its separation from conventional dramatics, disrupting the “symbol-using” portion of Burke’s definition of man while flaunting in the “symbol-making, symbol-misusing” description (Language as Symbolic Action 16). What this shows is that the pairing of Burke and Joyce is not random. In fact, both are equally praised and criticized for their limitless areas of study and approach. While Burke’s rhetoric “seems to encompass almost everything” (Bizzell and Herzberg 1297), the same can be said of FinnegansWake. Joyce once remarked of the Wake: “You are not Irish… and the meaning of some passages will perhaps escape you. But you are Catholic, so you will recognize this and that allusion. You don’t play cricket; this word may mean nothing to you. But you are a musician, so you feel at ease in this passage” (Bishop ix). While briefly stated, any reader will plausibly find something subjectively valuable in the Wake’s pages. Thus, it seems only natural to analyze Joyce with Burke’s tools, namely, with the latter’s dramatic pentad.
broadcast constantly into the ears of his then twelve year old son. John was still a towering and impressive figure for Joyce and, already primed by his father’s accounts of Parnell’s treatment at the hands of Healy and the anti-Parnellites, was prepared to think of his father in the same way. After all, John’s fortunes had seemed tied up with Parnell’s for the majority of Joyce’s life. John’s political ambitions and his winning character ensured that he was continually “mixing with the great” and was thus brought into contact with Parnell and other key figures in Irish nationalism in the 1880s. 60 His failed attempt to get selected as a nominee for Cork in the 1885 election, though it did not shake his faith in Parnell, would contribute later to his distrust and distaste for Tim Healy; it had been his brother Maurice Healy who had been selected ahead of John. 61 His excitement throughout the mid 1880s was entirely wrapped up in the march towards independence that Parnell represented for him and the majority of Ireland at this time. When Parnell later fell, taking Home Rule with him, it was as good as a direct attack on John himself. In these early years, Joyce would have heard recounted his father’s many misfortunes, always and ever the fault of someone else, the result of a conspiracy, or a betrayal. The disappearance of a satchel with the “municipal rates in it” was spun into a yarn in which John had been set upon by a “cad with a pipe” in the Phoenix Park. 62 His children were perhaps the only ones to believe his tale, which emphasized all the more that he was an eternally put upon man, who deserved to be a good deal more than a rates collector, and indeed would have been were it not for misfortune. This misfortune would morph permanently into persecution and betrayal in the period after Parnell’s fall. Faith in the reality of forces aligned against his father and against Parnell was a matter of youthful credulity (why would he disbelieve his father?) but it also represented a powerful psychological stake. So much was placed on betrayal and persecution as a way of explaining John Joyce’s failure to elevate himself beyond rates collector (indeed to explain his falling well below that position) that Joyce’s acceptance of betrayal as a force at work in his life was conflated psychologically with the status of his father. The dramatic
which holds that Homer, though full of esoteric wisdom, told relatively “vulgar” tales to conform to his audience’s similarly vulgar expectations. This premise cannot hold, Vico argues, because no “sublime” philosopher would ever have constructed a work with such morally flawed characters, especially noting the “sheer stupidity” of Agamemnon, and the drunkenness of Odysseus (302-303). This argument would not appear all that persuasive—might not a philosopher, however “sublime,” write a book about flawed characters? —but Vico’s description of Homer’s characterization speaks to Joyce’s earlier preoccupations. Recall that Joyce had lamented the literary “vigilant policing” that prevented the production of “epic savagery.” Likewise Vico notes that Homer’s characters are “certainly not characteristic of a mind chastened and civilized by any sort of philosophy. Nor could the truculent and savage style in which he describes so many… battles” have been produced by a refined intellect (303, emphasis added). It is a critical commonplace to read Joyce’s Homeric character and plot parallels, especially in Ulysses, as a series of “mocking mirrors,” whereby Bloom, for example, becomes an anti-
1. Joyce’s Early Work: From Gnosticism to Catechism
Gnosticism, Simony, Animalism
The very first paragraph of James Joyce’s published fiction encodes a reference to the early church, and to Christianity’s first heretic. The story ‘The Sisters’ which opens Dubliners is narrated by a nameless boy, who grapples from a distance, as if secondhand, with the death of Father Flynn, his former friend and spiritual mentor. Despite his relationship with the priest – who at one point directed the boy towards the vocation of the priesthood – the young narrator only hears about his death from his uncle, and when he visits the house of mourning with his aunt, the priest’s unsmiling face in repose, ‘truculent, grey, and massive’, defies both recognition and understanding. Led by Father Flynn’s sister Nannie, the boy tries to kneel and pray at the foot of the priest’s bed, ‘but I could not gather my thoughts because the old woman’s mutterings distracted me’ (The Essential JamesJoyce, 26). He notices instead ‘how clumsily her skirt was hooked at the back and how the heels of her cloth boots were trodden down all to one side’, an early instance of Joyce the writer foregoing religious rectitude for the ‘snares’ of the material world, shifting seamlessly between piety and the body and its appearances. The boy takes the little glass of sherry wine forcibly passed to him, but declines the invitation of cream crackers ‘because I thought I would make too much noise eating them’, and amid the chatter and conjecture of the women of the house, he stutters and hesitates and succumbs to silence (The Essential JamesJoyce, 26-28).
The dominant cultural materialist is always under pressure, striving to substantiate their claim to superior explanatory power in situations where diverse features are resistant. William’s argument that culture has always to be produced: ‘social orders and cultural orders must be seen as being actively made: actively and continuously, or they may quite quickly break down’ (William 1997, 201). (Howard, 1992) argues that the image of culture is the past resonates powerfully with ‘some of the dominant elements of postmodern culture’. From this point of view, cultural materialism re-enacts new historicism’s tendency to ‘see an image of the seeing self’ in its objects and representations. (Young, 1988) suggests that this structure of reflection is crucial to cultural materialism since it enables its proponents to argue the contemporary relevance of their historical findings. Communication is forbidden, and language has become the tool of the oppressor, as (Gussow, 1994) has proved that Joyce `s novel is about suppression of language and the loss of freedom of expression feel. Raymond Williams presents his own orientation to language thus:
The final scene of Ulysses commences after Bloom has joined Molly in their bed. In thinking about her husband, Molly begins to think about the early aspects of their relationship and how they became engaged. In one of the most touching and empowering moments in the entire text, Molly describes the area of Howth Head 92 in a way that can be seen as her vision of an Earthly Paradise or Garden of Eden. This can be seen in the abundance of flower imagery that fills the chapter as well as in the use of the seedcake as an empowering representation of the forbidden fruit. The flower is used primarily as a symbol of physical and spiritual fertility in this chapter, as it has previously had a phallic component to it (U. V. 570-572: “the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower”) in addition to the feminine attachment it receives in “Penelope.” The plethora of flower imagery that is placed within the chapter postulates this area as one of fertility, prosperity, and bliss. The use of flower symbolism in “Penelope” in order to help create a vision of the moral landscape is a further use of the way Joyce constructed “Circe,” which was to have the allegorical meaning of the landscape help define the physical.
After that, the roots of the above technique spread in Europe rapidly like speedy clouds in fictions. At the same time, the autobiographical thirteen sequences of Dorothy Richardson’s The Pilgrimage created a heavy storm in the realms of literature. While writing a review of The Pointed Roofs, one among the tour de force serials, in The Egoist in 1918, May Sinclair called her way of storytelling as the technique of ‘stream of consciousness’. Thus the innovative Promethean view of the above two English women of letters opened a new epoch in the history of world literature. Though Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams appeared after William James’ book, the technique of ‘streams of consciousness’ had already been found used by many classical authors directly or indirectly. For example, the ‘flashback’ technique practiced by filmmakers nowadays is a technique well handled in medias res by Homer in his twin epics namely The Iliad and Odyssey. Similar techniques were also found by his followers Virgil in his The Aeneid (when recounts the pathetic tale of Troy’s collapse), Dante in his The Divine Comedy, Ovid in his Metamorphosis (there are copious numbers of flashbacks and flashbacks- within-flashbacks) and Shakespeare in many of his plays (through soliloquy and interior monologue).
modernity is found in Cortázar’s most famous work, Rayuela (1963). The protagonist, Horacio Oliveira (who is explicitly characterized as a “Hodious Hodysseus”) is an Argentine intellectual who embarks on a search for transcendental meaning beyond what he feels are the constrictive and alienating structures of Western rationality. Joining Oliveira in his journey towards the “other side” of conventional reality and habit, I would like to theorize Cortázar’s critique of the myth of modernity. Contrary to what criticism attuned to postmodernist theories of the text has generally suggested, I will not propose that this critique simply exposes the internal conflict and eventual dissolution of the binarism between rationality and myth. Roberto González Echevarría, for instance, has claimed that Cortázar’s “mythology of writing,” his aesthetic grammar, revolves around “a hegemonic struggle” between myth and reason “for the center, which resolves itself in a mutual cancellation and in the superimposition of beginnings and ends” (The Voice of the Masters 102). 4 Without trying to discredit this sort of interpretation, I would argue that rather than merely engaging in a deconstruction of the dialectic of Enlightenment, Cortázar finds in the constitutive contradictions of this dialectic fertile ground to imagine an alternative counter-myth to the universalistic myth of modernity. This counter-myth is not an Archimedean “elsewhere” or “kibbutz of desire,” as Oliveira would like to think. Nor is it a definite point of arrival, an alternative Ithaca that simply reverses Odysseus’
Unfortunately, the reassembly of fragments seems to be just what Bloom desires, given the appearance of "Siopold!" at the climax of Lionel's song (Joyce, Ulysses).). The lines before seem to describe the transcendence of music; Bloom's description becomes completely ecstatic, carried by the “high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness...” (Joyce, Ulysses).). The power of music seems to be in lowering the boundaries between self and others, suggested by Bloom's long string of ambiguous personal pronouns, “she out to. Come. To me, to him, to her, you too, me, us” (Joyce, Ulysses).). Bloom's ecstatic moment here, rather than the sexual release offered throughout the female figures in the episode, is the joy of becoming part of an "us," of leaving behind his isolation and joining a community. But though music seems an excellent vehicle for this desire, it only serves to further portray his isolated status, as he must watch all of this music from the other room. He sits with Goulding and eats, "married in silence" (Ulysses).), denied any of the emotional release that the other men get from the songs. Thus, Bloom is set up in opposition to the social and emotional benefits of music, made clear by one of the examples of counterpoint on his way out:
interpretation of Hamlet to the scholars assembled in the National Library of Ireland in the “Scylla and Charybdis” episode. Stephen argues that Hamlet is modelled on Shakespeare’s own family circumstances, claiming that Shakespeare identifies with the cuckolded Hamlet père, with the result that Ann Hathaway is Queen Gertrude and Hamnet is Hamlet fils. Stephen interprets Shakespeare’s decision to cast himself in the role of the father in Hamlet as symbolic of his artistic maturation: “being no more a son, he was and felt himself the father of all his race” (9.868-9). In the course of his exposition, Stephen proposes that fatherhood (in the artistic sense) is “a mystical estate, an apostolic succession” (9.837-8) and this proposition is facilitated by the knowledge that “paternity may be a legal fiction” (9.844), an insight that frees the (male) artist to select the fathers in art who correspond to his particular ambitions. While attaining the status of Shakespeare as the ultimate father in art—the author of us all— is a laughably unfeasible ambition for young Stephen, who has yet to write anything of note, if any Irish Bard has created “a figure which the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare’ Hamlet” it is Joyce (9.43-4). The quality that makes Shakespeare “Himself his own father” (9.875), in the literary sense, is his ability to adapt the work of his fathers in art (Shakespeare, Homer) in a way that is so originally creative that he is a son no longer.
Although Frederick R. Karl only devotes a chapter of his Modern and Modernism to the stream of consciousness (which he calls “the epitome of modernism” ), his argument for a loosening of the restrictive definitions in order to “seek how the stream can be used as both technique and content, as both form and matter [. . .] as situation and scene” (232), offers a much more inclusive and intuitive way to approach texts of the interwar period. Karl’s concise definition of the stream of consciousness as “that area of expression which blurs boundaries between rational and irrational, logical and illogical” (232) echoes comments made by the first reviewers of the novels of Joyce and Woolf who recognized the trope when they saw it—with no need to consider levels of interior monologue or the difference between type and technique. While Karl does goes on to refine Humphrey’s labels, he acknowledges that “the stream is rarely consistent,” and that his revision “suggests that the stream, like nearly every other mode of communication, is capable of such variations that in several of its aspects it bleeds over into other forms of narration: first and third person, for example, or narrated memory or pastness. The stream is not easily identified” (234). It should be noted that Karl’s focus is limited to writers who represent, for him, “the full flower of modernism” like Proust, Joyce, Woolf, and Faulkner—not on popular manifestations of the stream of
Why Quine Is Not a Postmodernist SMU Law Review Volume 50 | Issue 5 Article 10 1997 W hy Quine Is Not a Postmodernist Brian Leiter Follow this and additional works at https //scholar smu edu/smulr Thi[.]
Actually, this lack of understanding is central to the novel because it can be interpreted on two levels that establish a causative context to the changes of Stephen’s identity: “Words belong to the shaping of character, to the articulation of morality and to the strengthening of courage (...). Not hearing things, not understanding someone (...) –this, too, constitutes part of our experience of language.” (Pierce, “Reading Joyce”, 177) On one level, this fact sensitises him to any kind of ‘weakness’ and encourages him to prioritise ‘being strong and having a solid character’ over other aspirations. It also engenders an unyielding sense of frustration that appears whenever he feels uncomfortable with his present state of mind or his surroundings and whenever he cannot rationalise some behaviour –like betrayal or unjust treatment- of other people. Hence, it’s likely that Joyce prefers to manifest this kind of frustration through Stephen’s rebellions and his obsession with the extremes, sex and religion. On another level, him feeling extremely perturbed by his first serious encounter with religion and politics foreshadows his firm indifferent attitude to these two concepts in the last chapter: As an adult, Stephen still perceives them as a whole bunch of harsh words and bitter exchanges that ruin the taste of the Christmas turkey.
To address inter-subject differences in automated sleep scor- ing and sleep disorder classification from polysomnography recordings, different classification models for different subject groups are used . Typically, clustering algorithms were used to associate the biomedical signals from a new subject to a subject group . Subject groups were built off-line from previously classified signals stored in a database. This approach required significant amount of processing and stor- age resources. The need for large data sets with accurate pre- labeled data also required considerable time investments and human intervention. Such a clustering and database approach is therefore not conceivable for an autonomous wearable system. An adaptation method for off-line actigraphy analysis of sleep and wake has been suggested . The density of movements of the subject was calculated to adjust two thresholds used for the sleep and wake discrimination. The movement density was calculated off-line over the whole duration of the recording. Further, the described experiments only analyzed the periods when the subjects were in bed. This method of gathering a priori knowledge for the algorithm adaptation is neither practical nor available for wearable real- time applications. Another possible adaptation strategy was the tuning of the classification threshold of an ANN . This simple method required only one parameter to be adjusted. The tuning was very limited, was performed off-line and did not allow for adaptation to possible changes in the wearer’s physiology. This tuning resulted in a statistically insignificant increase of the mean accuracy of only 1.43% for the given data and ANN topologies .
It was Cage’s emphasis on the materials of FinnegansWake – its linguistic and organic materials as a book – rather than the anti-pedagogical politics underlying his process which opened up these performances towards an encounter with the ghosts of its production and thus enacted a repetition of previous performances of reading and writing within the archive. Voice of Shem placed genetic material side by side (i.e. Irish songs with their Wakean metamorphoses) spurring an affective connection to a shared embodied memory of Irishness. In Writing Through and Roaratorio, the genetic material was language itself (mesostics) and the sonic texture of the globe (field recordings), and despite the subtitle, ‘An Irish Circus on FinnegansWake’, the interlacing of information and noise promoted a shared memory of global multiplicity, an initiation of the pluralistic, hyper-connected community to come. But Cage’s attention to the material components of FinnegansWake and his performance of writing through the book also touched upon another hidden community: he repeated the acts of reading and writing by those held in the margins of the book’s archive; a Wakean archive which spans from the book’s composition process to future ‘recomposition’ processes like catalogues, databases and other methods which ‘pay attention but stop short of explanation’. The performance of FinnegansWake in the hands of John Cage was on the one hand a flawed, utopian disintegration of language, but on the other, an aperture through which we might glimpse the dead labour which remains invisible in the margins of the Wake. About That Original Hen follows on from Cage’s decomposition of Joyce’s text but instead of opening the text to nebulous indeterminacy in honor of an emancipatory politics, it uses ‘decomposes’ FinnegansWake, both textually and materially, in order to pay attention to very specific acts of reading and writing in its margins, re-contexualized through a contemporary critique of power within institutional space.
First, a special thanks Jason Firestein, my high school English teacher, for pushing me to write my high school thesis on Joyce when I didn’t think I wanted to. While that project was nothing special, it inspired in me a love of Joyce and literature that has lasted throughout my college career. Without that initial push, I never would have reached this point. So much of this paper was motivated by memories of reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man for the first time, and a desire to write the paper I wish I could have written four years ago.