Ulysses

Among other things, a novel is simply a long story, and the first question about any story is: What happens?. In the case of Ulysses, the answer might be Everything. William Blake, one of literature's sublime myopics, saw the universe in a grain of sand. Joyce saw it in Dublin, Ireland, on June 16, 1904, a day distinguished by its utter normality. Two characters, Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom, go about their separate business, crossing paths with a gallery of indelible Dubliners. We watch them teach, eat, stroll the streets, argue, and (in Bloom's case) masturbate. And thanks to the book's stream-of-consciousness technique--which suggests no mere stream but an impossibly deep, swift-running river--we're privy to their thoughts, emotions, and memories. The result? Almost every variety of human experience is crammed into the accordian folds of a single day, which makes Ulysses not just an experimental work but the very last word in realism.

Both characters add their glorious intonations to the music of Joyce's prose. Dedalus's accent--that of a freelance aesthetician, who dabbles here and there in what we might call Early Yeats Lite--will be familiar to readers of Portrait of an Artist As a Young Man. But Bloom's wistful sensualism (and naive curiosity) is something else entirely. Seen through his eyes, a rundown corner of a Dublin graveyard is a figure for hope and hopelessness, mortality and dogged survival: "Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, old Ireland's hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does anybody really?" --James Marcus

Product Description
This revised volume follows the complete unabridged text as corrected in 1961. Contains the original foreword by the author and the historic court ruling to remove the federal ban. It also contains page references to the first American edition of 1934.

Download Description
The 1934 text, as corrected and reset in 1961. Ulysses is one of the most influential novels of the twentieth century. It was not easy to find a publisher in America willing to take it on, and when Jane Jeap and Margaret Anderson started printing extracts from the book their literary magazine The Little Review in 1918, they were arrested and charged with publishing obscenity. They were fined $100, and even The New York Times expressed satisfaction with their conviction. Ulysses was not published in book form until 1922, when another American woman, Sylvia Beach, published it in Paris for her Shakespeare & Company. Ulysses was not available legally in any English-speaking country until 1934, when Random House successfully defended Joyce against obscenity charges and published it in the Modern Library. This edition follows the complete and unabridged text as corrected and reset in 1961. Judge John Woolsey's decision lifting the ban against Ulysses is reprinted, along with a letter from Joyce to Bennett Cerf, the publisher of Random House, and the original foreword to the book by Morris L. Ernst, who defended Ulysses during the trial.

I first tried to read Ulysses aged about 14 (I was an annoying little boy that way) and didn't get very far. The first three chapters are set in and around the mind of Stephen Dedalus, one of the most ridiculously clever and over-educated characters ever conceived, as he takes breakfast with some friends, teaches in a school some miles south of Dublin and walks along a beach. Along the way, his mind ruminates on subjects as diverse as 16th century underworld slang, his dead mother, and something he calls "the ineluctable modality of the visible" which I'm still struggling with. But he's a curiously ambiguous character, this Stephen; he fancies himself as a poet and rebel but when, on the beach, he picks his nose, he has a quick look around to see that nobody's watching before he smears the snot on a rock. (Joyce likes to poke fun at pretension this way - although he doesn't suggest that Stephen's ideas or rebel stance are completely hollow, either.)

The 14-year-old me didn't get that far. I gave up. It wasn't until I was 19 or so that I got as far as chapter four and encountered a Mr. Bloom, pottering around the kitchen making breakfast, that I started to get a grip. Bloom is one of the most likeable characters in fiction. He's a quiet, rather shy, oddly intelligent advertising salesman married to a voluptuous siren of a wife, Molly. Either you're prepared to go the distance with Bloom, or else cast the book aside with a hollow oath, because he's about to spend the entire day walking around Dublin. Nothing will happen except that a man will be buried, a baby will get born, and Bloom will help Stephen when the latter gets into a drunken fracas with some British soldiers. (Ireland was still part of the Union in 1904, and Dublin was a garrison town. Many non-Irish readers concentrate on Joyce's innovation or wit or technical whatever, but Joyce is extremely historically aware, and Ulysses, like all his other books, is riddled with the traces of English domination. These add to the book, rather than diminish it.)

Readers who like those clanky, tinpot contraptions known as "plots" may get a tad frustrated. Leaving aside Joyce's gifts for parody (a _tad_ too indulged, in my opinion), the, if you like, human interest in Ulysses is in the details of the to-ing and fro-ing between the characters. A quite banal conversation turns out to have all sorts of fascinating undercurrents; Bloom, who is Jewish and therefore even more of an outsider than Stephen, is extremely good at detecting the hints and shifts in the tones of the people he meets. He keeps running into two things that cause him particular discomfort: anti-Semitic remarks, and reminders that his wife is about to sleep with another man.

Ulysses is about language, but that makes it sound like it's some godawful lumbering doorstop written by an English professor. (John Barth, come on down!) It doesn't feel abstract at all; it's full of sights (the band of old sweat inside Bloom's hat), smells (restaurants, horse urine, flowers) and especially sounds (cats, printing presses, trams). I can't think of any other book which transports you so completely to a different place and time. (It might've helped that I grew up in Dublin and knew most of the places that Joyce is writing about.) Borges described Joyce's prose style, at least in the earlier half of the book, as "strong and delicate" and that's a good description.

As the day wears on, the book starts to rumble at the foundations and it lurches with increasing unpredictability from style to style. Joyce is making a point about language; that things are altered by the manner in which we describe them. This can get a bit wearisome after a while, but when it works well - as in the chapter where the doings of a young girl on a beach are narrated in the style of a girl's magazine story - it can be very funny and rather touching. The book closes with a mighty tour de force as Molly Bloom sits up and thinks about her life and her curious husband.

Okay, that's the beginner's guide. My personal opinion? It's the best Irish book, a constant wonder, irritation and delight to read, and a stunning effort of imagination and intelligence by the most significant and most lavishly talented Irish writer. 20th and 21st century Irish culture is unthinkable without it. I'm grateful that it's there. What else is to be said?


"Just You Try It On"   August 15, 2004
Bill Slocum (Norwalk, CT USA)
136 out of 159 found this review helpful

At the end of one of "Ulysses" most unpleasantly challenging chapters, "Oxen Of The Sun," Joyce throws out an offhand comment which might read as a sort of gauntlet to anyone who fancies him or herself as a capable reader: "Just you try it on."

People have been "trying on" "Ulysses" ever since, and if my experience is any indication, the result is an infuriating and intoxicating read, not always both at once however. Sometimes it's great, and sometimes it's terribly self-conscious and clever, serving no purpose except allowing self-aggrandizing deconstructionists and post-modernists a chance to strut their stuff and feel like they have something over the rest of us.

I want to be clear in saying I regard "Ulysses" as a supreme example of craft and literary brilliance, but I don't think it is the great English-language novel, only maybe the most important. J.D. Wombacher said it very well in one of the earlier reviews: "My own view is that Ulysses is an example of a writer not doing his job." If a writer's job is to create a novel in such a way as to let the reader in, this is not only a valid sentiment, but a boldly honest one.

You start out thinking this isn't going to be as bad as every says. We watch an awkward young man named Stephen deal with his supersmug semi-friend and an annoying British interloper high atop the city of Dublin, in Martello Tower. Stephen is aware of the fact his "pal" Buck is really a bit of a user, and patronizing as hell, and in subtle, clever, and often funny ways, Joyce lets the reader see how. Then we watch poor Stephen alternately try to instruct a bunch of Anglo-Irish brats and deal with a supercilious headmaster, who fancies himself an expert on everything from livestock to why the sun will never set on the British empire.

Then Stephen goes to the beach, and what follows in the third chapter, "Proteus," is something that would make any good editor cry out for a rewrite. Joyce noted that his writing skills by the time he got to "Ulysses" were of such an advanced degree that he could do anything he wanted to with the English language, but there's ample evidence in the finished work that such absolute power can corrupt absolutely.

At least Joyce seems to realize this, too, somewhat. He shifts the focus to another social outcast, a Jewish advertising salesman named Leo Bloom who busies himself with the stream of life around the fair city of Dublin so as to avoid going home, where he knows his fat wife is about to carry on an affair with a callow bounder.

The results are some of the most affecting chapters ever written, each one slightly askew from the next, but forming a kind of whole that takes into account the whole history of literature, while advancing that history into unexplored territory with stream-of-consciousness narratives and multiple perspectives. Chapters like "Wandering Rocks," "Sirens," and especially "Cyclops" work on so many levels they make the head spin, and Joyce the humorist (he claimed one of his principal goals in writing "Ulysses" was to make the reader laugh) rivals Twain in his humanistic humorousness. Witness this sardonic exchange in "Cyclops," my favorite chapter.

"Dead?" says Alf. "He is no more dead than you are!"

"Maybe so," says Joe. "They took the liberty of burying him this morning anyhow."

But do we really need the mindgames of "Oxen Of The Sun," or the play-form phantasmagoria of "Circe," which lead us into blind alleys and throw enough red herrings to kill us with mercury poisoning? People say you need to read the Greek legend this all is based on, and I didn't, but I don't think I'm alone in finding this tangent strained. When Stephen finally ditches his false friend, he does so off-stage as it were, and it is never explained what transpired. Critics have their ideas why the connection between Stephen and Bloom, once made, is so vital, but it eluded me, even with all the supplemental reading I did.

The end result is a writer writing essentially for himself, and for those who will play his games. That leaves out the rest of us.

I'm glad I read this book, and hope God grants me the time to read it again someday. But don't believe the hype. Read "Ulysses," but don't sweat what you don't get. Many of those who say they do "get" it are kidding themselves. Better to be honestly perplexed, and humbled by the experience. Humility has its virtues, and Joyce might have benefited from it more in writing this, creating a real masterpiece for the masses rather than an ivory tower to which only he held the key.





There is a reason this always tops everyone's list   July 6, 2001
Rod Chase (Boston, MA)
96 out of 100 found this review helpful

There is not a book out there that is more frustrating than James Joyce's Ulysses...unless, of course, it is Joyce's Finnegan's Wake. The problem lies in the fact that this novel is such an amazing piece of art that the reader can feel like Joyce forgot all about him. It is almost impossible to read by oneself with it's seemingly garbled maze of words and phrases and madness. However, this is what makes it such a joy to read. Imagine that an author decided to do away with any and all rules concerning fiction and to write a book that was it's own entity, showing you what it wanted to show you, telling you what it wanted to tell you and acting like its own character. This is what Joyce has accomplished with Ulysses. I was fortunate enough to read this book in a class, four months of nothing but Ulysses, and I have to warn would be readers that I don't think I would have made it through without expert guidance. I would advise anyone wishing to tackle this literary giant to gather some book loving friends, and a guidebook or two for Ulysses, and to take it very slowly. Read a chapter a week and then meet up with you group to discuss and puzzle out what you have just read. I am willing to bet that your weekly conversations will be a greater work of art than any book out there, and I think that Joyce would have liked that, would have enjoyed sparking debates and conversation, its probably the main reason why anyone creates anything; for it to be enjoyed and shared. The story line is simple, you have two main characters, Stephen Dedalus, the brilliant but alienated loner. You have Leopold Bloom, a simple man who is as alienated as Stephen, but not for his mind, for his cultural background and meek manner. The entire book takes place over the course of one day in Dublin, and after the first three chapters the entire book simply follows Bloom around during a day when he knows that his wife is having a romantic meeting with her lover. It is hard to sum up such a giant book in a few sentences like this, but basically Bloom is trying to set his life back on track, trying to reconcile himself with his wife's betrayal, and trying to reach out to Stephen who he feels could use a loving family. Of course, you could read this book and not find any of what I am saying in there, but the beauty of Ulysses is that I would love to hear what it is that you found in this novel as much as I would love sharing what I found.


Stick to the original.   June 13, 2000
Dutertre (Portland, OR)
44 out of 50 found this review helpful

A couple things: First off, everyone's heard of Ulysses, and everyone has their own notions of what they expect from a book, what they expect from Ulysses in particular, and how they feel about experimental literature in general (though by today's standards Ulysses appears vastly less experimental than, say, Finnegan's Wake). So basically, if you don't think you'll like Ulysses, you probably won't. And no, it's not a casual read. If you're willing to do some homework, though, which in my case included some Homer, Shakespeare, Freud, and Irish history (though I could go on), it just might be worth your time (lots of time) to slog through all 900+ pages of the thing. But that's just my two cents.

The real reason I'm writing this review is to steer people away from the 'reader's edition' of Ulysses--that's the reason for the two stars. This is not the novel as Joyce intended--it is an adaptation by Danis Rose, and reflects what he (Rose) thought was 'accurate.' Though the changes he makes are minor--and, in all fairness, may correct oversights made by Joyce--I am offended by the idea that an editor has the ability to take an important and influential work and make changes as he sees fit. The fact that this edition was ever put to print debases the role of the artist (any artist), and reflects the increasing trend toward commercialization and dumbing-down of art in favor of turning a profit.

So--is Ulysses the greatest artistic achievement in any medium, ever? I don't know, and whether I think so is irrelevant anyway. But if you want to find out for yourself, please, PLEASE, at least read Joyce's words, not Rose's.


Just Read It... Don't Try to Understand...   September 4, 2001
miked99 (New York, NY)
44 out of 50 found this review helpful

If you approach Joyce's Ulysses looking to be told a story worthy of the Modern Library's #1 book of the 20th Century, then you will most likely be disappointed. But if you throw aside your expectations of what makes a book great and just read the words as you would the people, places, sights and sounds that trigger your thoughts during the course of a normal day, then you will be amazed.

In Ulysses, James Joyce uses his superhuman vocabulary and literary knowledge to relate a day in the life of a couple Irishmen (Stephen Dedalus and his friend, Leopold Bloom) and the people with whom they interact. Joyce's words are abnormally sophisticated, yet one never gets the feeling he is simply showing off. While his writing style is often referred to as stream-of-consciousness, it is clear that every word is appropriately placed and deeply thought out. As Ulysses meanders along through its day, the objects that enter the periphery of the protagonists triggers emotions and thoughts that lead to: poems, songs, theological and political discussions, laughing, shouting, incoherent noises, etc. The novel ranges from sublime to aggravating, but that is only because it is so true to its form. How many times in a normal day, if we were to stop and ruminate upon what we were just thinking, would we then think, "What was that?" But then it's quickly on to the next interaction destined to spark different emotions, thoughts, ideas, etc...

It is impossible to sum this book up. It follows no plot or pattern other than that it is simply 1 day. A few people... 1 day.

Reading this book reminded me at times of the Simpsons episode where Homer is seen watching an episode of David Lynch's Twin Peaks. "Brilliant!" Homer remarks, but then quietly to himself, "I have no idea what is going on here." While I often found myself in Homer's predicament while reading Ulysses, I was always able to appreciate Joyce's writing, even if the individual words were all I understood. For that reason, I plan on reading this book again several years from now to see what life has taught me that might expand my understanding of Joyce's beautiful day.