The reader is Ulysses; the novel is the journey; and the
journey itself is one of exploration.
--- Marilyn French, The Book as World
When a person first reaches up to pull James Joyce’s Ulysses from the shelf and takes the legendary feat of reading the novel upon himself, he unknowingly consents to a great voyage. Plunged into the episodes’ immense oceans, the brave reader is sent on an epic quest across vast bodies, and despite all his expertise, Ulysses’ unruly waters present a challenge unlike anything he has known before: “The difficulty about Ulysses… is that, whereas most novels tell you what the authors expects you to feel, this one not only refuses to tell you the end of the story, it also refuses to tell you what the author thinks would have been a good end to the story.” Afloat on the pages, thick layers of meaning engulf the reader with blustery force as pitiless waves swell and crash upon the hapless traveler and, for a time, all hope of home is lost. Fortunately, the reader is not forsaken to the depths, and Ulysses provides a unique form of guidance when all known methods of navigation fail: “[Ulysses is] a book that changes its mind as it progresses and forces a corresponding change of mind in the reader” (Lawrence qtd. in Dettmar). Besides the narrative of June 16th 1904, Ulysses is a network of heuristic devices that “force” a series of experiential lessons onto the reader that affect a change both within and outside of the text. The coercive might of the devices emerges gradually during the journey as they provide salvation amid the novel’s indecipherability, naturally molding the fraught reader’s relationship with the novel piecemeal as they present and endorse an alternative course for progress. A true adventure, the experience of Ulysses does not end conventionally with the final period, and the heuristics’ tutelage entails the foreign lands of references and criticism, the frantic hunt of arduous rereadings, and the infernal torture of sleepless nights. No relaxing cruise through the Mediterranean, reading the novel is an expedition twisted with wayward turns, and despite the linear form of the following paragraphs, the phenomenon depicted develops mercurially, each device imparting wisdom at a unique pace. The journey is slow and often frustrating, but if the reader is persistent and courageous, Ulysses’ heuristics may advise him past the lurking Odyssean frights and finally deliver him to terra firma.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First lifting the cover and joining the universe of June 16th, the reader enters Joyce’s world with typical anticipations. The Homeric title, the reader’s port of departure, immediately prepares an expectation of the time-tested structure of classic narrative, and with it, an atavistic perspective that relies on the reader’s history as a consumer of narrative for guidance. These expectations read a silent promise on the novel’s front that beneath Ulysses’ notorious fluidity there is ancient logic at its heart that will stabilize and cohere the whole. This search for known correspondences is an essential trial in Ulysses’ tutelage, and no artifact better embodies this challenge than Carlos Linati’s famous schema. An ostensible atlas for the novel, the schema’s table provides an encyclopedic list of familiar structures to chart, track, and assemble through the episodes: the full spectrum of visible light to be discovered and arranged into a rainbow, scattered organs to piece together the human body, a veritable history of scientific and aesthetic arts to be relearned and relived. Along with the responsibility of educing Ulysses’ celebrated parallels, these charges affirm the reader’s confidence that he is prepared to ride the seas; and as the reader embarks through the Telemachiad, the calm waters of Stephen Dedalus’ familiar face bolsters this confidence. Even with the introduction of the new and strange Bloom, there is smooth sailing while Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus are quickly identified, and the pieces of old puzzles begin to take shape.
It is at the arrival of Aeolus and the alien “headlines” that brazenly demarcate the episode’s sections that the seas first turn, and the novel’s true colors, or the lack thereof, are plainly shown. Aeolus’ headlines open innocuously, written in a journalistic manner that suits the atmosphere of the Freeman’s offices: the first headline, “IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS,” is easily reconciled as it loyally heads a short caption of the bustle in the Dublin streets. However, over the course of the episode, the headlines steadily drift from their duty and assert autonomous voices. The final headline:
DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING
FOR FRISKY FRUMPS. ANNE WIMBLES, FLO
WANGLES- YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?
occupies more space than the short section that follows; furthermore, the headline summarizes and reflects on Stephen’s short story, and in doing so, suggests a consciousness independent of the ensuing content. A small hint of the bewilderment to follow, the stark display of multiple voices poses a curious problem for the reader, who is left trying to understand how to resolve deviating voices into a singular path; and as the traveler pushes forward, the problem only deepens. Just as Aeolus bluntly introduces polyphony, the following episodes are inundated with countless more voices that weave vociferously through each other as they move about their own way. Traveling from the familiar methods of the Telemachiad to the musical tones of Sirens, through the theatrics of Circe and ending in the thoughtless prose of Penelope, all sense of constancy is confiscated as the tenets of truth are perpetually warped:
“Through the masking of a polyphonic text, through the orchestration of a heterogeneous, historically produced set of styles, [Joyce] undermines the principle of univocal meaning on which history is customarily founded… it never values one style over another or says that one developed necessarily out of another but, instead, superimposes one style onto another, creating the effect of a play of surfaces whose boundaries are undecideable.” (McGee qtd. in Dettmar)
As the “boundaries” of the various voices become indiscernible, all notions of authority and continuity that might satiate the reader’s expectations evaporate. Reaching the final period, the reader is liable to feel lost among the polyphonic spree as he returns to the Blooms’ bedroom with more questions than he left: Will Molly attain Penelope’s fidelity? Has Bloom realized heroism? Will Stephen embrace Bloom’s paternity? Unable to resolve basic narrative points, hope of gaining a singular vision of the novel is bleak, and this fact incessantly confirmed by the text. Marilyn French illustrates the sensation caused by this lack of closure: “it is often hard to determine what happened, much less how [Joyce] wants us to view it. He thus thrusts us in the very position we count on literature to save us from: ignorance, not knowing.” The schematic eye demands an exhaustive search and the book is combed and prodded with every known analysis in hopes of decipherment, but every wind traced only arouses more doubt and erodes more certainty.
His every map and compass exposed for counterfeits, the reader has nowhere to turn, no vision of home, and no way to know; and through suffering this experience of repetitive failure, the reader’s expectations are systematically dashed as he is left to drift aimlessly. Fatigued and forlorn, the reader raises his eyes and peers straight to the horizon across the endless waters, becoming suddenly aware that there is no bottom beneath it all, and that he is suspended only on a vacuous body of ambivalence. It is here, floating upon uncertainty and disappointment, that the reader faces the novel’s principle heuristic: “Every sentence rouses an expectation that is not fulfilled; finally, out of sheer resignation, you come to expect nothing.” The lawless homogeneity of the surrounding void drives acquiescence to the thrashing waves, and at the critical moment depicted by Jung, the insidious incertitude goads the surrender of expectation as the reader is forcefully submitted to the nothingness. However, with this change in the reader, there is a concert change in the novel, and if the reader submits yet resolves to strive onward, the text expands organically in the absence of preconceptions and permits the reader to explore the reaches of his ignorance.
Exhumed from beneath the schematic eye’s impressions of order, Ulysses’ lines no longer lay silently as dry ink, but are endowed with a spark of life. Most profoundly changed by this animation are the vast sections of interior monologue, which speak to the reader with remarkably clear voices once they are freed. In Proteus, alongside Stephen’s meditations on the interrelated natures of perception and art, the text enunciates a short lesson: “Shut your eyes and see… Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time.” When the reader ceases to assimilate and is compelled to digest, the section resounds as an instruction to “shut his eyes” and transgress the very act that defines him. With his eyes closed and their fetish for incorporation stanched, the reader opens a receptive ear and the section attains a vocal clarity, not in spite of, but through its many voices. Exceeding narrative observation, the interior monologue directs the reader’s senses, addressing him with a command and ringing loudly with the polyphonic interjection “howsomever” to lower the abstract barriers that discriminate reader from character and join Stephen on Sandymount Strand. Not merely beside him, the reader is beckoned to assume Stephen’s perspective, to peer through his vision and become the “you” who is “walking through it.”
Allowed this freedom, the characters’ textual consciousnesses naturally gain depth, forming psychic molds that allow a private understanding of their perspectives. The word “perspective” derives from the Latin roots per, meaning “through”, and specere, “to look,” and as the reader’s familiarity with Ulysses’ perspectives develop, the interior monologue yields the opportunity to literally “look through” the eyes of Dublin and share an incredible intimacy. Charles Peake explains:
Joyce succeeds in representing the apparently random and unpredictable movements of the mind, shifted from one course to another by casual links, by the mood of the moment, or by passing sense impressions, and yet, at the same time, in creating sharp and coherent images of the complex natures of Stephen and Bloom. So convincing are the images that many readers are persuaded to recognize in what they are reading the processes of their own minds, and to regard the interior monologue as a kind of mental taperecording.
Endorsed by the “recognition” of distinctly familiar mental mechanics, the natural meanderings of Stephen’s and Bloom’s minds generate realism amid the absurd and, for the first time, the novel’s infectious erraticism begins to validate authenticity rather than compromise it. The reader’s process of realizing the void drives away most conceptions of solidity, but as time sinks expectation and breeds familiarity, the extensive transcriptions of Stephen and Bloom draw the reader to the fluency of their humanities, which emerge from the mists as the recognizable forms of men, complete with mucus-clogged nostrils, existential quandaries, and problems at home.
Standing “poles apart,” the opposing shapes of Stephen and Bloom are simultaneously distinguished individually through their personal perspectives and dialectically through their relative contrast. The trend of relating to the pair begins with the accessibility of their identities, due in part to the formative insights provided for each that offers ample information of the disparate origins of their respective perspectives. Stephen Dedalus, the Irish Catholic nationalist with an education befitting nobility, is irrevocably tethered to the ideologies of his family, state and church, and morally mandated to oblige dogmatic logic that “affirm[s] his significance,” [572] and constructs his identity. The “servant” of many masters, Joyce once wrote Frank Budgen: “[Stephen] has a shape that cannot be changed,” and indeed, even Stephen realizes the forces that control him: in Nestor, Stephen proclaims “History… is a nightmare from which I cannot awake,” characterizing his inescapable perspective formed by atavistic views, which is partially confirmed by the fiercely regretful dreams about his deceased mother at night and the mourning clothes that culturally define his interiority during the day. Ironically, even the historical brand of Stephen’s family name holds sway as his struggle recapitulates that of the mythic Dedalus; but whereas the Greek fought against the entrapment of a labyrinth he built from mortar and stone, Stephen claws at the rigid narrows of an impassable historically-constructed perspective. In comparison to Stephen’s bondage to antiquity, probing Leopold Bloom’s identity elicits a distinctly different understanding of his character. The son of immigrants, Bloom’s surname, his father’s translation of a Hungarian name, is entirely novel, and an analysis of his genealogy reveals an equally ill-defined history: “Bloom finally turns out to be one-quarter Irish, something less than three-quarters Hungarian-Jewish, with an unspecified quotient of Austrian.” An Irish-Austrian-Hungarian-Jewish man with a fabricated name, the “wandering jew” who has been baptized as a Protestant and a Catholic, Bloom’s indistinct identity disregards Stephen’s dogmatic constraints, and this freedom endows Bloom with a roving perspective that is not obliged to serve anything but the roam of his mind. Accordingly, Stephen and Bloom’s perspectives, bound to remote histories and without any concrete historical anchor, respectively, prove apposite sites for navigation as the reader struggles with his own historical challenges. Beyond Peake’s “recognition” of mental processes, the formation of the reader’s perspective arouses the recognition of the characters’ experiences in the novel with his own in reading it, and all three gain a critical new relevance within the void. Learning through relating, Stephen and Bloom form two “sharp and coherent” points in the nothingness, and, at last, afford the means to triangulate a position.
Most immediately applicable to the reader’s challenges of exploring the novel are the restrictive forces of history that characterize Stephen. While Stephen braves the confinement of his familial, religious, and cultural history, the reader knows a similar detention by his history as a consumer of narrative and the frustrations of consequent expectations. At the onset of his journey, Stephen is at once attractive to the reader’s schematic sensibilities as they share comparable projects of translation. In Proteus, Stephen declares his perspective’s aims: “ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot.” Stephen characteristically contemplates Aristotle and St. Thomas, depending on the aged and remote views of Catholic philosophy to validate his significance and guide his life’s purpose. Like the reader, Stephen explains that he is “here,” in the novel, to “read” physical materials as if they were lines of prose, and translate his creator’s will, even noting the inconsequential “seaspawn and seawrack” that are the exact type of minutiae that the schematic eye probes for correspondence. Subsequently, the reader is invited to relate his mission of reading Ulysses with Stephen’s devout metaphysical translations of the material world, and his urge to impose structure onto the raucous Ulysses’ with Stephen’s impulse to solve modern conundrums with age-old methods. The development of this strange relationship between Stephen and the reader draws the parallels of their plights to the forefront, and whilst the reader experiences the repetitive failures of the void, Stephen’s own impasse provides an ulterior view of the perils of such an approach.
Stephen’s struggle against conventional thinking is illustrated in Scylla and Charybdis where he enters the bellicose stacks of the National Library to present an inventive reading of Hamlet. Stephen expounds a depiction of the play as a dramatic retelling of Shakespeare’s experience of Anne Hathaway’s infidelity and his brothers’ betrayal, and by introducing evidence from Shakespeare’s personal life, he transgresses classical interpretive methods by violating the principal conception of narrative autonomy. Consequently, Stephen must describe the “mythical estate” of fatherhood to his critics, and in doing so, blatantly rebels against one of the foundational precepts of Catholicism. But this revolt is short-lived, and the following short interior monologue reveals its toll:
What the hell are you driving at?
I know. Shut up. Blast you. I have reasons.
Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea.
Are you condemned to do this?
Stephen’s historically-bound sensibilities cannot accept his utterance and thus instigates an internal confrontation between his innovative art and fixed perspective. Later, when asked if Stephen believes his own theories, he promptly replies “No,” and bares his transgression as a chimeric experiment, destined for defeat by the binds that forbid all substantial divergence and only generating the madness of self-conflict. The reader knows this conflict all to well as his own established ideologies conjure similar neuroses within the foreign reaches of the void, and while Stephen may not provide immediate means to conquer his conflict, he does present the reader with much-needed assurance that he is not alone in his restlessness.
However, as the heuristic devices impart their wisdom and the reader finds that he has begun to pull himself from frustration towards contentment, he is moved to realize differences between himself and Stephen that are accentuated by his continuing education. Bound to a history that he did not choose and cannot secede from, Stephen is defined by the despair of a hostage with Stockholm syndrome: “I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry and time one final livid flame. What’s left us then?” Although Stephen yearns to be free from the ideologies that shape him, he cannot conceive his significance in their absence, and ultimately, he is fated with an unchanging shape that forever leaves him the drunken raving vandal who is brutalized behind a row of brothels. At first, Stephen’s tale is analogous to the reader’s: his fate carries grave weight for him who knows this brutalization first hand from the void’s squalls, but as the novel changes the reader, Stephen’s story is less relatable and more admonitory, illuminating the fatality of a fixed perspective and the necessity of response and plasticity. As the reader realizes the transformation conducted by the novel, Stephen’s story becomes an account of the reader’s achievements, having displayed the capacity for change that Stephen lacks. Facing the historical challenges that assault Stephen, the reader has already answered “What’s left us then?,” thwarting desperation and rising from the novel’s omnipresent destruction of traditional logic with renewed basis for advancement. While Stephen can only plead, “I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is, help me to believe or help me to unbelieve,” and is wholly dependent on the afflicting beliefs even to transcend their impressions, the novel has compromised external authorities and taught the reader to rely upon himself and personal understanding. Through relating to Stephen, the reader first understands the need, and then realizes his ability to overcome Stephen’s captors, thus asserting and affirming his privilege to achieve the change that Stephen so desperately seeks.
An appreciation for Stephen as the “hydrophobe” who trashes about in the depths of the void naturally draws the reader to the “waterlover” Bloom, whose fluidity matches the chaotic currents. Unlike the utterly dependent and static Stephen, Bloom is an independent being with a nature directed by immediate impulse rather than ancient instruction: “I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I?... Can’t bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.” A perpetually clean slate, Bloom is not defined by the past but constantly reinvented, becoming something new at every moment. This malleability is depicted from the reader’s first encounter with his amorphous shape: “Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.” Indeed, Bloom eagerly consumes the interiors of many different animals and people throughout the novel as he readily assumes their various perspectives. This keen consumption is portrayed moments later when Bloom looks down and considers the consciousness of his cat:
Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.
-Milk for the pussens, he said.
-Mrkgnao! the cat cried.
They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to… Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.
Bloom’s consciousness shifts without reservation and freely assumes the physical and conceptual viewpoints of the individuals that he encounters without any dictated impetus beyond his natural fascination, shown here as he effortlessly adopts his cat’s perspective with “kind curiosity:” appreciating the advanced intelligence of the simple animal, briefly examining himself through its eyes, and even sharing a short conversation with her. Bloom’s contemplation of the words “parallax” and “metempsychosis” throughout the day bring to light the peregrinations of his perspective which observes from all angles and is naturally transformed by the varied stimuli of his day without compunction. The “everyman” who is erratically and fully transformed by whatever caprice affects him at that moment, Bloom’s transience pays no heed to history’s dictums and thus travels freely, providing an apt model for the reader who must learn the same.
As the changing reader recognizes this tour of perspective, having used countless perspectives to sculpt the void and being coerced into assuming various perspectives, Bloom’s transformations increasingly reflect the discoveries of the reader’s own mind: “Of course, Mr B. proceeded to stipulate, you must look at both sides of the question. It is hard to lay down any hard and fast rules as to right and wrong but room for improvement all round there certainly is… I resent violence and intolerance in any shape or form. It never reaches anything or stops anything.” Departing from the schematic sense of the novel by discarding expectation, the reader is forced to relent his rules for “right and wrong,” instead deferring to the novel’s guidance for improvement. And without the burden of strict construction, the reader is further attracted to Bloom’s perspective, which, without the exacting duty of rectitude, displays a lighthearted nature that enjoys passing impressions. Throughout the day, Bloom’s mind takes quiet pleasure in rumination, happily pondering the musicality of urination in chamber pots, if “fish ever get seasick,” and enjoying the sounds of spoken Italian despite learning that he overheard a pecuniary quarrel. While Stephen’s perspective might view these musings as masturbatory deviance, Bloom’s does not acknowledge any firm cerebral propriety, and instead basks in the bizarre unregulated fancies of his mind. Without the responsibility of conforming his thoughts to an established order, Bloom is capable of a macroscopic vision that surpasses the specious categorization of a patterned view. In Ithaca, Bloom raises his eyes to the night sky to contemplate the cosmic firmament, and arrives at this “logical conclusion:” “That is was not a heaventree, not a heavengrot, not a heavenbeast, not a heavenman. That it was a Utopia…” Defying dichotomous classification, Bloom looks up to the stars and spies not the definitude of local definition, but rather the heavens’ chaotic harmony of emancipated possibility. Not the severe stare the academic or the vacant gaze of the fool, Bloom’s unbiased perspective pursues no agenda and is free to take pleasure in the naked potential of the universe. By relating to Bloom, both through the movement required to appreciate his perspective and the wisdom learned therein, the reader is encouraged to share Bloom’s insouciant vision, thus guiding him to surpass the burdens of precision and marvel at the novel’s universe with similarly untroubled cheer.
However, while Bloom’s perspective is arguably heroic in its plasticity, its transience steals away Bloom’s capacity for confidence, and with it, his resolve to act. Reflecting on the radical violence of the Irish National Invincibles, Bloom explains:
Quite apart from that he disliked those careers of wrongdoing and crime on principle. Yet, though such criminal propensities had never been an inmate of his bosom in any shape or form, he certainly did feel and no denying it… a certain kind of admiration for a man who had actually brandished a knife, cold steel, with the courage of his political convictions.
Withholding any qualification for what type of “political convictions” incites his veneration, Bloom’s admiration stems from a criminal’s resolution to act decisively and impose his will on others. Bloom is conspicuously impotent for the ostensible hero of a novel, and much like the violence and intolerance that he detests, Bloom “never reaches anything,” and can only admire those who do. Bloom’s impotence is best illustrated in Nausicaa, when he scribbles “I AM A” in the sand with a stick. While Stephen preemptively finishes Bloom’s riddle in Proteus during his visit to the Strand: “As I am. As I am. All or not at all” with typical dichotomies, Bloom provides no answer, electing to wipe away the inquisition with his boot and abstain from definition. To the reader who has experienced Bloom transform himself into an index of consciousnesses including animals, murderers, and the proud mother of octuplets, this abstention makes perfect sense: Bloom’s character defies the exactitude of semiotic designations and is indefinable by conventional means. Bloom is an eternally blank page that permits infinite possibility but selects none, and just as he cannot complete his sentence in Nausicaa, he will never righteously defend his ideals, confidently speak his mind, or confront Molly’s cuckoldry: he is simply an omphalos, the empty vessel around which all things revolve but itself never moves.
Exhausted from his travels, metaphysical and otherwise, Bloom ends his journey by crawling into the exact bed in which he awoke, his checkbook perfectly balanced and the same unfaithful wife at his side. With its final word, Ithaca’s catechismal narration asks “Where?” Bloom has traveled during his long day, and the only response is an inkblot seemingly dropped on the page from above. Like the infinitude witnessed in the night, the spot iterates Bloom’s amorphism and the vast psychic lands he has passed through as a man of ink; but while the stain is a testament to his potentiality, it also admits Bloom’s two-dimensionality, which ultimately defines him and inherently prohibits action. Yet, if the reader looks up from the Blooms’ bed to examine the possibilities of perspective manifest in Bloom and epitomized by the blot, he is met by his own eyes peering down at the page. In this moment of clarity, the heuristic devices impart their final lesson, bringing the reader face to face with himself, and at long last revealing his location. However, Ulysses is far greater than a mirror, and its reflection shines with the power and potential of corporeal man. As tradition and expectation are crumbled into its oceans, Ulysses drives the reader to realize his own authority independent of external structures, calling on the fundamental experiences of humanity to interpret the text. In learning self-reliance, the novel asserts the reader’s potential to experience the change that Stephen cannot know through contorting his perspective and expectations, in turn, affirming in the reader the agency that eludes Bloom by enacting those changes in the consequent transformations of the text. These devices demonstrate that while Stephen’s unchanging shape cannot choose and Bloom is merely omniscient ether, it is the reader, up, out, and above the novel who is endowed with the grand privileges that elude the characters, who can truly fight affliction and explore the breadth of perspective without forgetting himself. And in the end, the expedition through Ulysses is not for exotic locales or opulent treasures, but rather an exploration of the incredible powers of man and the unearthing of the great riches within the kingdom of his body.
Works Cited
Dettmar, Kevin J. H. The Illicit Joyce of Postmodernism: Reading against the Grain. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1996.
French, Marilyn. The Book as World: James Joyce’s Ulysses. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1976.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. “On Truth and Lying in an Extra-moral Sense.” Literary Theory: An Anthology. Eds. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan. Malden: Blackwell Publishing Ltd., 1998.
Joyce, James. Ulysses: The Gabler Edition. Eds. Hans Walter Gabler, Claus Melchior, and Wolfhard Steppe. New York: Random House, Inc., 1986.
Jung, Carl Gustav. “‘Ulysses’: A Monologue.” The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature. Bollingen Series XX (Volume 15). Eds. Sir Herbert Read, Michael Fordham, Gerhard Adler, William McGuire.Trans. R.F.C. Hull. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966.
Knowles, Sebastian D.G. The Dublin Helix: The Life of Language in Joyce’s Ulysses. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2001.
New Oxford American Dictionary (2001). Electronic Dictionary.
Peake, Charles H. James Joyce, the citizen and the artist. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1977.
Raleigh, John Henry. The Chronicle of Leopold and Molly Bloom: Ulysses as Narrative. Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1977.
Sherry, Vincent. James Joyce: Ulysses. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994.
Thorton, Weldon. Allusions in Ulysses. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1961.
