Readers sometimes refer to Ulysses' eighteen unmarked chapters by numbers, but more often they use the handles that Joyce supplied in his two schemas: names of corresponding Homeric "episodes." Episode 1, "Telemachus," bears structural resemblances to certain early events in the Odyssey, and subsequent chapters continue this practice. Some scholars have been inclined to dismiss the correspondences as overblown and relatively unimportant, but in my view Joyce's text is engaged in a serious—though hardly straightforward—dialogue with Homer's. Ulysses evokes the Odyssey opportunistically, in ways that vary dramatically from chapter to chapter. The echoes are quirky, unsystematic, imaginative, and funny, but also deeply thought-provoking. Sometimes they are so exceedingly subtle that a century's worth of readings have failed to appreciate their extensiveness. In addition to offering brief introductions to the chapters, then, the headnotes on this website describe how they recast certain elements of Homer's story.
Although Joyce placed neither names nor numbers on his chapters, the first three are collectively preceded by a Roman numeral I, signifying that they constitute a distinct section of the novel. (A Roman II introduces chapters 4-15, while chapters 16-18 constitute the third and final section.) Like the first four books of Homer's poem, often called the Telemacheia or Telemachiad, the first three chapters of Ulysses belong to a young man (Telemachus is 20, Stephen 22) struggling to grow into adult confidence and agency.
Joyce's first novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, was a bildungsroman, and he continued the story of Stephen Dedalus into Ulysses. But the mature novel shows Stephen far removed from the hopeful sense of purpose that he felt at the end of A Portrait, where he intended to fly by the nets flung at the soul, escape to Paris, and forge the uncreated conscience of his race. In this book Stephen is back in Ireland, immersed again in the misery of his family, living with an Englishman in a tower built by the British empire, tormented by Catholic guilt, overshadowed by a superficially more brilliant and successful companion, hungering for love, drinking too much, and writing only a few impressionistic and derivative lines of verse.
Homer's poem offered a narrative analogue that could give structure to the amorphous mass of Stephen's suffering and striving. Joyce's Telemachiad, however, is anything but a simple rewriting of Homer's. It is instructive to consider what he did not include, or included only in glancing and ironic ways. Homer's Telemachus is holding down the fort for his father—or wishing that he could. The action is centered on Ithaca, whose palace has been overrun by insolent young men seeking to marry Odysseus' widow. Joyce does not really map this story onto Stephen's, though he echoes it in many ways.
Mulligan's not paying the rent for the tower, and his determination to drink away the fruits of Stephen's teaching labors, are almost certainly meant to evoke the suitors' riotous consumption of the palace's food and drink. Likewise, Mulligan's contemptuous and contemptible treatment of his aunt's servant (he steals a mirror from her, and jokes about seducing her) recalls the suitors' corruption of the palace's female servants. The old woman who comes to deliver the milk makes Stephen think that she may be a "messenger" or a goddess in disguise, recalling Athena's disguised embassy to Telemachus.
Least obviously but most importantly, the chapter is stuffed with suggestions of violence. Kinch the knife-blade, Mulligan's razor and surgical lancet, Haines' revolver, a breakfast knife that hews and lunges and impales, references to military barracks and expeditions and defenses, emotional "gaping wounds," thoughts of castration, bodies "cut up into tripes in the dissecting room," ghouls that chew on corpses: all these details recreate the atmosphere of the palace in Ithaca, where 108 young men assault Odyseuss' patrimony, threaten the life of his son, and invite the violent destruction that both king and prince rain down upon them at the end of the epic.
But Ithaca itself is irrelevant to the story told in Joyce's first chapter, and the textual details suggesting that Stephen might need to replicate Telemachus' efforts to protect his wealth, journey in search of his father, and violently defend his home from invaders prove to be red herrings. Stephen may have "paid the rent" on one occasion, but it is clear that he is living in Mulligan's home rather than the other way around, and that Mulligan is supporting him with clothes and money. Violent antipathy may lurk barely beneath the surface of the two men's relationship, but Joyce's novel is a deeply pacifist work, and when personal experience gave him material for Stephen to be threatened with bodily injury in the tower, he toned it down. The old milkwoman is no Athena; she does not come to advise Stephen, and he scorns "to beg her favour." The tower lies no less close to the water than sea-girt Ithaca, but the hydrophobic Stephen will not be launching a ship; it is Mulligan who plunges into the water at the chapter's end.
What does survive Joyce's transformations intact is Homer's psychological portrait of a hero in the making, in potentia. Mulligan presents himself as Stephen's friend, benefactor, and mentor, but Stephen sees him as a disrespectful, malicious, Antinous-like "Usurper" who would, as he says much later in Circe, "Break my spirit." (The Greek meaning of Antinous is "anti-mind.") Telemachus' need to assert adult male independence of his mother (he, not she, is the patriarchal heir and presumptive master of the household) takes the quite serious form of Stephen's need to overcome the religious guilt associated with his mother's dying. Telemachus' physical search for the father who can help him slaughter his enemies becomes Stephen's need to realize an idea of spiritual paternity that he sees as synonymous with authorship. The book will steer him toward an actual man, Leopold Bloom, who may somehow give Stephen an image of this spiritual ideal, but it will not join the two men in any practical sense comparable to what happens in the Odyssey.
Rather than narrating an existential threat to a kingdom, Joyce's chapter represents a crisis in the psychological development of an individual. Stephen has no Ithaca to restore, but he does need to find a home, both in the literal sense that when he walks away at the end of the chapter he is becoming homeless, and in the larger sense that he needs the familial love and stability that Bloom has found. He needs an artistic purpose, if he is not to reenact the futility of his father's life. He needs a personal strength equal to the forces of British colonial subjection, Catholic puritanical self-denial, Irish political violence, and Dublin's alcoholic fatalism. These desperate needs of a spectacularly gifted young man make Stephen a Telemachus.
Both of Joyce's schemas indicate that Telemachus takes place between the hours of 8 and 9 AM. The first of these times is confirmed, near the beginning of the chapter, by the 8:15 departure of the mailboat from Kingstown harbor, and the second at the chapter's end by the 8:45 sounding of bells from some Kingstown tower. The location is a decommissioned military tower on the rocky coast of Sandycove, seven miles southeast of Dublin.