NOTES ON PROTEUS
The examination of a single episode in ULYSSES is rewarding, not only for the information close study reveals about the construction of the novel as a whole, but for the distinct qualities each episode holds apart from the others. PROTEUS is the third episode of the eighteen that make up ULYSSES, and presents a long solo turn by Stephen Dedalus. Some of the challenges the chapter presents are resolved by the traditional method of reading a novel: “the sequential perusal from beginning to end.” Others disappear as soon as the cross-referential element of Joyce's Dublin (a collection of short stories and three volumes of fiction) is firmly established. The interior monologue is the primary technical innovation of ULYSSES, and the reader’s initiation to the device occurs abruptly at line 26 of the first episode. I suspect even the first readers of the book, however hazily, were aware of the shifts between Inner and Outer that the interior monologue creates. The Proteus episode is almost entirely within Stephen’s head, but the opening episodes offer enough information regarding this peculiar and “impossible” person to know where we are. Proteus completes the sequel function of the novel, bringing us up to date with the fortunes of Stephen, before launching him into the events of Bloomsday. It is unfair to say Proteus presents Stephen “showing off.” He is alone, enjoying the freedom of thought. Joyce imagined a reader, and created puzzles for that purpose: Stephen does not imagine someone looking over his shoulder, or overhearing his meditations. This is Stephen “woolgathering” — it is likely that he began the day with a wee hangover, we know he is tired, still haunted by his mother’s death, that he has recently been paid (and somewhat less than what his friends believe to be his salary), and that he is currently killing time, until an appointment in the city just past noon. It is quite possible that he is without his eyeglasses: they are conspicuously absent through the book, and according to A PORTRAIT, Stephen had been wearing spectacles since early childhood. This is a small detail, and it is not firmly established, but does offer a natural cause for his first speculations. Two more remarks on the shape of things to come. The episodes that feature Stephen in the first half of ULYSSES (#s [1, 2, 3], 8, and 9) present possible futures for the young man: as a hanger-on or “parasite” (to use Ben Jonson’s term), a teacher, a journalist, or a man of letters. Proteus presents Stephen’s artistic potential – well, either an artist or a knook. I also think that bearing in mind Dante’s COMEDY shapes the progress of the three episodes: TELEMACHUS and NESTOR represent Stephen's Hell and Purgatory: his time alone (PROTEUS) is Paradise. Stephen’s day goes poorly: this is his shining moment — about 11:32 AM on a Thursday in June, the last Thursday of spring. Kenneth Burke advised that when it came to Joyce commentary, ’tis best to go lightly. Stephen’s mind is active and far-ranging: puzzles on the page can be resolved by consulting any one of a number of reference books: a good dictionary and a desk encyclopædia such as the Columbia will prove useful, and Don Gifford’s Annotations to Ulysses identifies many of the partial literary quotations that litter Stephen’s thought. But, there is the forward momentum of the prose in progress: not everything will be immediately apprehended, and indeed some items, such as the phrase “ruddy wool,” will only crystallize when the whole of ULYSSES has been consumed. Who is Proteus?
Two plans operate beneath the surface of ULYSSES: the city plan of Dublin (which includes Dublin history as well as citizens and buildings) and the narrative of Homer’s Odyssey, which gives the book its classical bearings. Proteus encountered neither Odysseus nor his son Telemachus, but Menelaus, the red-head cuckold. Proteus was the Old Man of the Sea, and something of a quick change artist among the Greek pantheon. Menelaus has been promised that Proteus will answer his questions truthfully, but he (Menelaus) must hold the seagod tightly until he has run through a series of physical transformations, and returns to his proper original form. In the Proteus that lies before us, this is represented by the variety of Stephen’s thoughts – not only the quick changes or shifts or skips between topics, but the transformative power of imagination upon what he sees and what he remembers. THE FIRST WORDS Ineluctable modality of the visible. It is a tough start, and not readily cracked by the dictionary. That Stephen would be pondering theories of vision may have something to do with the absence of his eyeglasses; that he would be dwelling in the realms of Aristotle and medieval scholastic method is predictable if one has read his discussion of aesthetics in A Portrait. But far from showing off, Stephen is uncertain about some of Aristotle’s theory, and rallies himself by assuming the persona of a stage Irishman, bald he was and a millionaire. “Ineluctable” is harshly accurate: “not to be escaped from by struggling, as though in a net”. (The stage knook, Lucky, in Waiting for Godot, named the necessary dance performed before thinking, “The Net.”) James Joyce majored in Modern Languages at University College; it is safe to assume Stephen shares a similar interest. He will employ phrases in French, Italian, German (Nacheinander: one after another; Nebeneinander: side by side), Latin, and even Greek (a language previously established as one in which Stephen is not fluent, and one language Joyce did not read). Similarly, Stephen makes frequent literary allusions (the first, not surprisingly, to Dante), and significantly there are only five occasions when a quotation is set out in italics and separated from the text as verse. There are about a dozen invocations of Shakespeare in the episode, but it is not as important to identify each source (though ’twould be nice!) as to sense the colour these occasions give the prose. The easy informality through which such allusions are presented reveals how deeply in-formed Stephen is by literature. You need not know that “Los” is a reference to William Blake, but you’re correct in assuming that this is a kind of thought process commonplace with our Stevie, who is an example of what was once called a “lapsed catholic.” This condition has numerous manifestations, from self-pity to blasphemy; Stephen more pointedly sides with the heretics. I do not mean to imply that Stephen adheres to the Arian Controversy, a heated debate of the fourth century about the divinity of Christ, which had a “trickle down” effect for centuries afterwards, but I will suggest that it is a means by which Stephen can place himself outside the Church, a kind of auto-excommunication. Remember Stephen’s Jesuit education, the Jesuits long associated with ferocious argument, and keep in mind the fact that Stephen is not here trying to prove anything or persuade anyone; I think too many critics and readers deny the playfulness of Stephen’s thought. Stephen is quite capable of using accepted, respectable theologians to his own end – St Thomas Aquinas is the foundation of his aesthetic theories in A PORTRAIT, and in Proteus, Stephen will make fleeting reference to Occam, famous for his razor sharp logic. (Stephen calls him Dan Occam: “I don’t know why; his name was not Dan.”) Overall, we might trace a preponderance of rebels among his references, whether Johann Most or William Blake. Alone, Stephen keeps company with outsiders and outlaws. 
Strand Road, Sandymount
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MEASURE FOR MEASURE I don’t believe anyone has identified the source of the doggerel verse Stephen recalls: Won’t you come to Sandymount/Madeline the mare? It comes to his mind because he is walking along the Sandymount Strand, a couple of miles southeast of Lower Abbey Street, where he has an appointment at half twelve. By such roundabout methods Joyce passes on information. Note the quick work Stephen makes of literary criticism, in analyzing the metric. Here, a difficulty may be introduced by an editor’s error. In the Gabler edition of 1984, a technical term is printed “acatalectic” while Shakespeare and Company, Random House, and the Danis Rose edition of 2004 all print “a catalectic” – that is, an example of catalexis, as opposed to the negation of catalexis. Catalexis is the dropping of a beat or syllable, while an acatalectic line observes the proprieties. Suffice to say that we may speak of the droning acatalectics of hip-hop, or the simpering acatalectics of Hallmark, but the verse cited by Stephen shows us one catalectic. DUBLINERS Stephen witnesses two women descending the steps from Leahy’s Terrace, one of whom he fictionalizes with a name, a profession, and a history (widow of Patrick MacCabe, resident of Bride Street). These women will reappear as protagonists of Stephen’s “Parable of the Plums.”  Joyce, Paris 1902
FASHION PLATE
Outwardly, as an artist or bohemian, Stephen ought not to concern himself much with fashion, but he returns often to the fact that he is wearing secondhand trousers (“secondleg they should be”) and the cast off shoes of his housemate, Buck Mulligan. In observance of funereal etiquette, he is wearing black: this fact, in combination with his “Latin quarter hat” – a black furfelt fedora, with a low crown and a broad brim gives him the classic appearance of an anarchist. Repeatedly, Stephen refers to his Parisian chapeau as his “Hamlet hat.” Like Stephen, the Prince is dressed in mourning, but the only occasion in the play where he might be called upon to wear a hat is Act Five Scene One, where the Prince, having survived an attempt on his life, returns to Denmark in disguise, ostensibly to reclaim his throne. I have, over the years, consulted illustrated editions of Shakespeare in an effort to determine whether the “Hamlet hat” represents a particular performance or stage tradition, but have so far been unsuccessful. It is clear that Hamlet would have lived longer had he chosen to remain in exile. His reappearance on stage comes in the middle of the famous gravedigger’s scene. REAL IMAGINE
The passages that reveal Stephen’s artistry are memory pieces. Their success depends upon a forceful imagination that illuminates the material, sharp details that particularize each scene. The first begins with Stephen recalling his father’s mocking jibes against his in-laws, and then he recreates a visit to his uncle, Richie Goulding. It comes to life with amused affection, and subtly portrays the fears and falsehoods with which Richie surrounds himself. Cautious against falling prey to sentimentality, Stephen abruptly breaks off the imagined visit, and, as it were, chides himself. Outwardly, Stephen appears cool, calm, collected; but the reader has a privileged perspective. I think it is difficult to maintain the charge that Stephen is showing off when he undermines his own achievements with sarcasm. Here too, his abstracter thoughts are a device to escape the confines of his situation. He recalls the lies he told his fellow students at boarding school, his pathetic desire for women, his dreams for future fame (“copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria”). He shakes off this moment of cutting self-criticism by considering the ground beneath his feet. The visit to the Goulding household is broken by a vision of Jonathan Swift, supreme example of the unsentimental. Let me dwell on one phrase: “the stagnant bay of Marsh’s library.” Here’s a case of right words meaning more than at first appear. Marsh’s library is just behind St Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, and if “stagnant” at first seems an odd choice, the “Bay” and “Marsh” make sense. The library was founded in the XVIII century by a man named Narcissus Marsh, with the stipulation that no book be removed and no book be added: hence, stagnant. The next extended memory sequence concerns Stephen's stay in Paris; we will learn later that he has been back in Dublin for about a year, but how long he was in Paris is unclear. This sequence is about twice as long as the visit to the Gouldings, and it is something of the standard by which Stephen can measure that elusive thing “freedom.” He only glancingly refers to the chief purpose of his residence, studying sciences at the college, and though he plots a casual method to introduce the topic in conversation, the chief focus of his memory are the visits to the exiled Irish rebel, Kevin Egan, and conversations with Egan’s son, Patrice. I suspect that Stephen did not prove a capable student, and that the freedoms Paris offered were a bit overwhelming to the young Dubliner, but the time spent with the Egans is sympathetically and clearly rendered. I will dwell on one moment: Stephen’s rage at a punctilious bureaucrat at the Paris Post Office, whose precision prevented Stephen receiving a necessary money order. Stephen (perhaps hanging out with Kevin Egan had influenced him) imagines blasting the official with a shotgun, and then reassembling him, through the miracle of cinematography: running the film backwards. The Paris scenes bring us through the first half of the episode (it is now approximately 11:30 in the morning), and for the most part, Stephen now stays close to events around him: watching cautiously the dog of a couple also strolling along the strand. Remember that the episode is called Proteus, and that Proteus went through his transformations to escape the ineluctable clutches of Menelaus. Watch the dog. As Stephen nears the hour for his next appointment of the day, his mind leaps quickly from the Viking invasions of Ireland in the VIII century to the dream he had the night before that featured Haroun Al-Rashid. (He perfectly describes the experience of recounting a dream: “I am almosting it.”) Again, Stephen characterizes those he sees; in this case, the couple with the dog become temporary gypsies, and our hero runs through his lexicon of XVII century cant terms, or criminal slang, bringing him back to the same district of Dublin where he has imagined two elderly women to reside, the Liberties, just west of St Patrick’s Cathedral, not far from Fumbally Lane. Proteus opens with vision and closes with revision: Stephen does some work on a short lyric, after searching his pockets for a piece of paper: the practical side of writing that is rarely shown in fictionalized accounts of poets and writers. As readers, we may appreciate the detailed knowledge we gain of Stephen’s experiences, but for Stephen, this moment of scribbling is the climax of his morning. It is immaterial whether or not Stephen goes on to become a great poet: we have seen how much literature is a part of his “brainscape” and sense of self: if he fails, we know the conditions he is up against. If, as some readers have said, Stephen goes on to write a book something like ULYSSES, Proteus offers promise. Contrasting and combining dualities create the richness of the text: the inner world of Stephen and the outer world of a particular place and time; the linguistic and rhythmic variety; Homer and Dublin; Dublin and Paris; Memory and Observation; Fathers and Sons; Theologians and Heretics. All this can prove dizzying unless you are willing to relax into the ineluctable supremacy of Joyce. If readers are more or less aware of the technique of Interior Monologue prior to reading ULYSSES, many who have not read ULYSSES and may never read ULYSSES know the first fact of the novel: that it all takes place in the course of a single day, 16 June 1904. This day has come to be celebrated internationally as Bloomsday, and it is truly a popular and secular holiday, not set aside by governmental decree, observing neither military nor religious mysteries, Bloomsday celebrates reading. I think we can imagine the dramatic effect if a book or a movie is set on December 6th 1941, or September 10th, 2001, and the suggestion of mighty forces of History gearing up to unleash great winds of change. This is not Joyce’s concern, and herein lies the great humanity of ULYSSES. However, knowing the date should not blind us to the pleasures of discovering it within the text: in the middle of the novel, a typist sets it out plainly before us, but Leopold Bloom knows the date because the day before was his daughter’s birthday. Stephen calculates Summer Solstice. To be sure, for our heroes Stephen and Bloom (and for Molly Bloom as well) it is a day unlike any other, and as Walter Cronkite used to say: YOU ARE THERE. 16 vi 7 woodside |
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PROTEUS, Episode III, ULYSSES
The opening paragraph of PROTEUS has often proved a stumbling block to newcomers to ULYSSES, who have only recently accommodated the interior monologue, and who are now plunged deep into the “work in progress” of Stephen Dedalus’s active thinking. And what the hell is he talking about? The oral presentation of ULYSSES streamlines the text, and the passage or phrase that might spark research when met on the page sails by on the breeze of forward momentum. While there are obvious disadvantages to the “audio only” approach to ULYSSES, it is an ideal introduction to any episode, as it highlights the wholeness of the prose. Reading Joyce demands rereading Joyce, and the private and personal experience of the text requires, nay: demands pauses. Raising questions and pursuing meaning are important parts of the Joycean experience, but sometimes it is wise to wait to discover what is resolved within the text before striking off on independent research. (An analogy may be drawn with the movie patron who audibly worries about who and what seconds before [or after] it is made clear on screen.) The Aristotelian references of the first paragraph are meant to recall Stephen’s Aquinine tonic of the PORTRAIT, but in the context of this episode, they are but a small part of what is on display. |
Alone with his thoughts, this is the high point of Stephen’s day, and his sharp memories, shaped by imagination and his command of language, provide us with a series of vignettes, ranging from a visit to his uncle, Richie Goulding, to scenes from his days in Paris, presented with humour and affection. Stephen is as misunderstood by some readers of ULYSSES as he is maltreated by some of his fellows in Dublin. Stephen is not showing off: he is alone on Sandymount Strand, and if his woolgathering seems more directed than those examples from Mr or Mrs Bloom, it is [1] because there are fewer distractions, and [2] because of his pronounced artistic tendencies that sharpen his images. Within an hour, Stephen will begin drinking, and he will keep at it for the remainder of the day (close reading of ULYSSES allows us to tally up his boozing). It is only fair to admit that as a poet, Stephen is far from Yeats, but it is also fair to insist on his youth, and even to go so far as to declare that the artistic temperament may not always discover its proper outlet. Nevertheless, should Stephen never publish a word of his own writing, we are here in the company of an artistic mind, a disciplined mind roving free.
‡ This episode occurs simultaneously with the sixth episode of ULYSSES, “Hades” – just past 11 AM, Thursday 16 June 1904. I hope you will notice the establishing of the date towards the close of the piece, it is an example of a useful thing to look for while reading ULYSSES, time references that confirm the date. As I Please Bloomsday Show, 16 June 2007, WBAI 99.5 FM NYC. |
