In the novel's most unrelentingly cerebral chapter, Stephen
often steps back from his feverishly inventive thoughts to
mock or undermine them, or to seek relief from their
tyrannical grip on his brain. Some of these passages require
no explication, but the allusive riddling of others invites
comment. Collectively, all of them represent an implicit
commentary on the "theory" that Stephen is defending.
Read MoreBoth of Joyce's schemas associate Scylla and Charybdis with the "brain," and by the end of the chapter Stephen's noggin must be aching. In order to defend his view that Shakespeare's sexual life not only informs his works but represents an archetypal pattern for all literary creation, he calls up supporting evidence from two dozen of the Bard's plays, both of his long narrative poems, several turn-of-the-century biographies, and a smattering of Elizabethan and Jacobean cultural history. As his listeners throw challenges at him, he responds to each one. At one point John Eglinton dares him to "Prove that he was a jew"—a contention that he has not even made about Shakespeare and which his views in no way require—and he takes up the challenge, weaving a wildly analogical argument about financial avarice, incest, Jewish intermarriage, and cuckold-consciousness. A bit later, longing for the mental gymnastics to end, he thinks, in the idiom of Richard III, "My kingdom for a drink."
Early on, Stephen sounds despairing: "Folly. Persist." A bit later, he sounds more confident: "I think you're getting on very nicely. Just mix up a mixture of theolologicophilolological. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere." But the Latin verb mingo does not mean "mix." It means to make water, or urinate. All his logical cleverness, sustained by fancy theology and philology, is just pissing in the wind. The faux-Latinate scholarly gloss lends a highly sardonic tinge to "I think you're getting on very nicely." If his audience seems unconvinced, Stephen does too: "What the hell are you driving at?"
And why is he doing it? He has nothing to gain financially or, it would seem, in social esteem. But a strong sense of purpose does sustain him, pushing against the friction of his self-doubt: "I know. Shut up. Blast you. I have reasons. / Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea. / Are you condemned to do this?" (Stephen's love of Scholastic philosophy here prompts more Latinate self-mockery: "Furthermore. Thus far. Again. Afterwards.") He may not know exactly where he is going, but he knows that he must see it through to the end: "Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They mock to try you. Act. Be acted on. / . . . On."
At a crucial point, Stephen is quick to confess to a charge that his scholarship is bunkum:
— You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe your own theory?Seconds later, however, his internal monologue shows him clinging to some core faith in the arguments he is making: "I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is, help me to believe or help me to unbelieve? Who helps to believe? Egomen. Who to unbelieve? Other chap." He quotes from Mark 9:23-24, where a desperate father brings his sick child to Jesus for healing. Jesus says that "all things are possible to him that believeth" and the man cries out, "Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief." The allusion suggests that Stephen has some underlying faith in what he is doing, even if the point of it is not yet quite clear.
— No, Stephen said promptly.
Belief comes from himself—ego men, Greek for "I especially"—but Gifford suggests an allusion also to The Egoist, Dora Marsden's daring literary magazine that published parts of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man beginning in 1914, giving Joyce some reason to hope that he could succeed as a novelist. Unbelief comes from the "Other chap," the not-I against which every artistic sensibility must set itself and also, Gifford suggests, another publisher, George Roberts of Maunsel & Co., who, fearing prosecution, endlessly deferred his promise to publish Dubliners, starting in 1909 and ending only in 1912 with a firm rejection. If Gifford is right, then by layering these later sources of despair and encouragement atop the bardology, Joyce is suggesting that Stephen struggles to maintain faith in his "theory" because it is important to his own dream of becoming an artist.
There is something important at stake for Stephen, but it is not a desire to write pseudo-biographical literary criticism. He makes his arguments about Shakespeare to map an audacious aesthetic account of the dynamics of literary creation. The shamelessly tendentious particulars seem to be as burdensome to him as they are tiresome to his listeners. In one moment of charming candor he acknowledges his tendency to monomanical overgeneralization: "It is in infinite variety everywhere in the world he has created, in Much Ado about Nothing, twice in As you like It, in The Tempest, in Hamlet, in Measure for Measure, and in all the other plays which I have not read." Immediately after this, the narrative adds its own charming observation: "He laughed to free his mind from his mind's bondage."
This sentence needs no explanation, but it may at least be admired. Laughter does briefly free the mind from obsessive thoughts. So may the drinking that Stephen longs to return to after leaving the library. And so too may something as simple as strong sunlight, which can render a body sentient but blissfully blank. In another line that is no less brilliant for its uncomplicated take on a common human experience, Joyce writes that Stephen steps out of his dark nook in the library into "a shattering daylight of no thoughts."