In
Book III of Ulysses, James Joyce
focuses more on the interior of urban space as opposed to the exterior realm
comprising of crowded city streets and a portico of shops and restaurants. As
Joyce graphically portrays his characters’ interaction with what little space
they call their own, the reader notices characters relying on personal
collections in an attempt to abate the dominating feelings of alienation common
to the city streets. Each item serves as a tangible apparatus for the collector
to reconnect with an event or moment in time that was significant and unlike
the perpetual monotony of their contemporary existence. Collections empower us
to craft an environment that affects us in a manner of our choosing and thus
temporarily breaks the city’s control.
In
addition to the forms of alienation mentioned throughout this project, Joyce
introduces one last example before he allows his characters to return home:
communication. As the world became more connected, cities became much more
cosmopolitan as opposed to the culturally homogenous version of their former
selves. Accordingly, one slowly became less able to communicate with his
neighbors when foreigners looking to take part in a budding economy moved to
the city and brought both their languages and culture with them. While walking
to a cabmen’s shelter, Bloom and Dedalus overhear Italian men arguing. Bloom
remarks, “A beautiful language. I mean for singing purposes. Why do you not
write your poetry into the language? Bella
Peotria! it is so melodious and full”[1].
Dedalus, who speaks several languages including Italian, informs Bloom the men
were simply arguing over money. Bloom then ponders the possibility of “there
being more languages to start with than were absolutely necessary”[2].
Thus, the loss of a universal language degrades one’s ability to communicate
and breeds a form of alienation. Instead of enjoying moving through the city
with the confidence of being able to communicate with strangers, one finds
himself in a modern Tower of Babel.
At
the cabmen’s shelter, Dedalus and Bloom meet a grizzled mariner. It is worth
noting that the sailor has something in common with both men: traveling.
However, his travels occur on a global scale and thus expose him to experiences
much more diverse and uncommon when compared to the daily interactions of Bloom
and Dedalus. In addition, and once again similar to both men, the sailor’s
travels afflict him with a sense of boredom and melancholy. “I’m tired of all
them rocks in the sea,” the mariner grumbles, “and boats and ships. Salt and
junk all the time”[3]. As he
recounts his travels, the mariner produces items from his pocket serving as confirmation
to the validity of his exotic stories. While most people enjoy the space of and
entire domicile, the mariner’s collection is limited to what he can fit in his
pockets. Being on a busy ship, his pockets are really the only space he can
call his own and maintain absolute control over their contents and the
subsequent generated effect. During his tale, the mariner produces a postcard
form Peru portraying natives who, according to the mariner, “eats corpses and
the livers of horses”[4]. To validate
a tale of watching a man kill another man in Trieste, the mariner displays a
stiletto knife. He also shows the gathered crowd another part of his
collection: his tattoos. Similar to controlling what goes in his pockets, the
sailor controls what is etched into his flesh. His crude, blue anchor is his
way of connecting with the tradition of his trade. While exhausted from his
travels, the mariner uses his collection to connect with the reason why he
first sailed out to sea: to behold
the exotic parts of the world he would otherwise never see.
After
hearing the mariner’s tale, the two men return to Bloom’s house for a cup of
coffee. Despite Bloom’s offer of a place to spend the night, Dedalus leaves
Bloom standing by himself mentally exploring every inch of his living room. His
gaze turns to a broken clock stopped at the hour 4:46, an embalmed owl, and
dwarfed tree. These three dissimilar objects all have one commonality: they are
wedding gifts. Bloom then looks in a mirror and sees an “image of a solitary
(ipsorelative) mutable (aliorelative) man”[5].
These “aliorelative” feelings caused Bloom to realize that “from maturity to
senility he would increasingly
resemble his paternal procreator”[6].
Of note, Bloom’s father committed suicide by overdosing on laudanum during
Bloom’s adolescence. Before gazing on this collection of wedding gifts, Bloom
rummages through a draw and finds what Joyce vaguely describes as a suicide
note from his father. Oddly, the suicide note elicits no emotional response
from Bloom while these three objects strangely assure him that he is slowly
turning into a physical manifestation of his father. Clearly, a broke clock,
stuffed owl, and bonsai tree are not common items in most living rooms. Bloom
has them displayed for a reason.
In
the final chapter of the book, titled “Penelope”, Molly unleashes a lurid, relentless
stream of consciousness upon the reader. As Jeri Johnson identifies, there are
only eight sentences in the entire chapter with the first one being 2500 words
in length. Unbeknownst to Bloom, Molly had sex with another man before he
arrived home. When he crawls into bed, Bloom kisses Molly’s buttocks and goes
to sleep. This physical act reminds Molly how much she is disgusted by her
husband. As she lies next to him, Molly recalls her previous sexual exploits
and how each of her lovers where in some way superior to her husband. However,
she ultimately comes to the same conclusion at the end of each memory: all men
are flawed. While contemplating men as a whole, Molly reflects, “There is
always something wrong with them disease or they have to go under an operation
of if its not that its drink and he beats her”[7].
Her thoughts continue to form the same repetitive thought cycle: 1) My husband
is awful 2) I have had sex with someone much more attractive or successful 3)
However, he was also flawed 4) There is no such thing as a perfect man. Her mental
process of recalling scores of very particular details suggests that memories
themselves can serve as collections. Molly’s recollections of wild times in
Gibraltar or gallant young army officers abate the gloomy fact that she will
never be truly happy with any man.
Collections
are a way to create an environment that generates a desired effect. In a world
in which we appear to have very control over our daily lives, collections
empower us with a degree of absolute control. Collections to place what we
want, where we want, and can keep it there for as long as we want. This
absolute control helps us deal with the prevailing sense of alienation.
However, Benjamin cautioned us that the more “outside” objects we bring into
our home, the more our space begins to resemble the city. Luckily, we all are
the ones for defining this threshold.
Cory, here you are touching on several important topics: collection, memory, self-expression through artful consumption, even the question of whether inscription (tatooing--but by extension writing, too) is more important for its content (what it depicts) or as a record of a moment or event (a mark). You could explore any of these in Joyce -- or beyond. You could look at many different critics depending on where your interests lie. For instance, Reginia Gagnier is a good resource to learn more about how in the modern period people begin to define themselves through the things that they purchase. Bill Brown is one place to go for discussions of "thing theory" -- how in modern literature "things" signify in all sorts of ways other than as tools or displays of wealth. And obviously Benjamin and "collecting" -- an excellent connection to think about. You might want to read Henry James's "The Aspern Papers" if you want to read a really intense tale of collection & obsession.
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