Wandering Rocks
Wandering Rocks
In Brief
Episode 10 initiates a major change in the novel's trajectory. Tied to the slenderest of Homeric reeds and paying scarcely more attention to Stephen and Bloom than to dozens of other people, it tries out a new kind of narrative presentation. Nothing very strange happens in terms of prose style, point of view, or objects of representation, but the text is broken up into nineteen discrete sections and most of them contain interpolations: sentences that have strayed from the sections where they belong into ones where they don't. The effects resemble cinematic jump cuts, and they create a sense of Dublin as an intricate whole constructed from countless interlocking parts. Other kinds of precise patterning––spatial, temporal, thematic, linguistic––add to the nonlinear complexity of this chapter.
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The first nine chapters of Ulysses were stunningly
avant-garde in 1922 and remain challenging today, but after
readers get used to the newness of what Joyce called the
"initial style" of his novel they can at least count on it
continuing. That rug is pulled out from under them in the last
nine chapters, which embark on a kaleidoscopic succession of
viewpoints and styles, changing the rules of narration each
time. Chapter 10, the first real departure from normalcy,
takes some cues from chapter 7, the first apparent one. Aeolus
violates the procedure of focusing intensely on either Stephen
(chapters 1-3 and 9) or Bloom (chapters 4-6 and 8). It begins
with an impersonal survey of Dublin's central business
district, and it makes the book's protagonists seem no more
important than anyone else. Language proliferates for its own
sake, obeying obscure rhetorical precepts, and the story is
broken up into sections announced by newspaper-like headlines.
But all of these innovations have an ephemeral quality, like fog that burns away on closer inspection. Stephen and Bloom both have productive goals in mind, unlike the other men seen idly whiling away time in the newspaper office. The artful linguistic effects of the prose amount to little more than insignificant puffs of sound which the chapter analogizes to unruly winds. And Joyce added the newspaper-like sections late in the process of composing the chapter, imposing what may seem like a radically new structure on a narrative whose sense would not really be different if the headlines were removed.
The changes in Wandering Rocks feel more substantial.
Instead of photographing just a block or two of Sackville
Street, the narrative pans out to look at much of Dublin,
assembling a collective portrait from vignettes snapped in
many different locations. Stephen and Bloom become just two of
many figures crawling over the surface of the city, and for
perhaps the first time in the novel making sense of the
physical locations of streets and buildings seems as pressing
a concern for readers as making sense of the psychological
conditions of people. The nineteen sections are truly
discontinuous stories, though they interlock in many ways––as
seems appropriate to a busy urban center humming on a weekday
afternoon. The language is less showily artificial than that
of Aeolus, but it is cunning, introducing ambiguities
and coincidental connections that complicate readers'
responses just as the interpolations do.
After the intense literariness and braininess of episode 9,
where writers in a library listen to an account of
Shakespeare's dramatic genius that offers keys to
understanding Ulysses itself, books play a marginal
role in Wandering Rocks. Both Stephen and Bloom peruse
them at bookstalls, Haines is happy to have found his copy of
Douglas Hyde's poems, and Dilly Dedalus is guiltily thrilled
to have purchased a French primer. But these are small
moments, devoid of much intellectual interest and outweighed
by a world of people going about their daily business: eating
food, procuring it, seeing others, being seen, helping others,
not helping them, working, pretending to work, looking for
ways to obtain money, dodging creditors, questioning life,
cursing it, consuming alcohol, playing chess, betting on
horses, running a business, and so on.
The relative indifference to literature extends to the
Homeric analogues that structure Ulysses. While those
intertextual conversations seem more substantial in some
chapters than in others, only this one dares to make something
of nothing. In book 12 of the Odyssey Circe tells
Odysseus that he can either risk the channel between Scylla
and Charybdis or attempt a passage that has only been survived
once:
The blessed gods call these the Wandering Rocks.
No birds can fly through safe, not even doves,
who bring ambrosia to Zeus. One dove
is always lost in that sheer gulf of stone
and Zeus must send another to restore
the number of the flock. No human ship
has ever passed there. When one tries to enter,
the waves and raging gusts of fire engulf
ship timbers and the bodies of the men.
Only the famous Argo sailed through there
returning from the visit with Aeetes. (Wilson)
These terrors are usually identified as the Symplegades, two
rocks in the Bosporus strait that were said to crash against
one another. (The name is compounded from words meaning "to
dash together.") Odysseus decides to risk Scylla and Charybdis
rather than follow Jason through this gauntlet, and the poem
never visits the Wandering Rocks.
But Joyce wanted to evoke the voyage that Homer merely
alludes to. In the schema that he gave to Valery
Larbaud late in 1921, and subsequently to several other men,
he noted that the River Liffey plays the part of the
"Bosporus," the Viceroy is the "European Bank" of that strait,
Father Conmee is the "Asiatic Bank," and the Symplegades are
"Groups of Citizens." And indeed the Liffey plays a central
role in the episode. After starting in the northern parts of
Dublin in sections 1-4, most of the remaining sections take
place on the quays or near them, jumping back and forth
between the north and south banks. (Define "near" as "within
three blocks" and twelve of the fifteen sections qualify.
Broaden the swath only a little and all of them do.)
The other schema, given to Carlo Linati in 1920, identifies
the Persons of the chapter as "Objects, Places, Forces,
Ulysses," the Sense as "The Hostile Environment," the Art as
"Mechanics," and the Technic as "Labyrinth moving between two
banks." In that prior schema Joyce also listed the Organ as
"Blood" (a stream in which things crash against each other).
Among several examples of Symbol he named "Christ and Caesar,"
suggesting that Conmee's long journey in section 1 and the
viceroy's long journey in section 19 are meant to evoke
structures of Church and State that bracket the human being's
journey through life.
§ These
symbolic suggestions are worth attending to, but before
readers can do much with them they must first make sense of
where the chapter is locating them, and when. In Proteus
Stephen mused that he was walking in "A very short space of
time through very short times of space." It is easy to
imagine this gnomic sentence triggering the composition of
Wandering Rocks. The chapter charts the paths traced by
numerous pedestrians (as well as a few people riding in
vehicles), and it also appears to track the passage of time
involved in those journeys, meticulously connecting the two in
an intricate spatiotemporal matrix.
In James Joyce and the Making of Ulysses, Frank
Budgen wrote that "Joyce wrote the Wandering Rocks
with a map of Dublin before him on which were traced in red
ink the paths of the Earl of Dudley and Father Conmee. He
calculated to a minute the time necessary for his characters
to cover a given distance of the city.... While working on Wandering
Rocks Joyce bought at Franz Karl Weber's on the
Bahnhofstrasse a game called 'Labyrinth', which he played
every evening for a time with his daughter Lucia. As a result
of winning or losing at the game he was enabled to catalogue
six main errors of judgment into which one might fall in
choosing a right, left or centre way out of the maze"
(122-23). Readers of the chapter must play a similar game in
most sections.
The critic who has done most to chart the dizzyingly complex
calculations involved is Clive Hart, notably in an essay on Wandering
Rocks published in 1974 in James Joyce's Ulysses:
Critical Essays, then in 1975 and 1976 with Leo Knuth in
A Topographical Guide to Ulysses, and finally in 2004
with Ian Gunn in James Joyce's Dublin: A Topographical
Guide to the Dublin of Ulysses, which also incorporates
insights offered by Harald Beck and Leo Knuth. My notes on the
chapter's nineteen sections draw on the work of Hart and his
collaborators and sometimes reproduce parts of their maps. I
frequently elaborate on his insights, infrequently take issue
with him, and occasionally note work that he has done for
which there is no place in my notes.
Most of the places represented in Wandering Rocks can
be certainly and precisely identified, and even the ones that
cannot (the Dedalus home, the Dedalus girls' school, Miss
Dunne's office, Lynam's bookmaking operation, Bloom's
bookshop) can be inferred with some confidence. I repeat what
Hart and others have discovered on these questions, but I
reproduce only a little of what he says about the walking
paths of characters before or after their appearances in this
chapter. Readers who want to know more about this should look
for a copy of James Joyce's Dublin.
On matters of time, too, I refer to Hart's work selectively.
In his 1974 essay and in his 2004 book he published an
ambitious chart of times which, taking a cue from Joyce
calculating "to a minute the time necessary for his characters
to cover a given distance," attempts to identify exactly when
most of the chapter's actions take place. The schemas identify
the hour as 3-4 PM, the chapter starts with Father Conmee
consulting his watch at 2:55, and a passage in Penelope
reveals that the Dedalus girls pass Molly's house at 3:15, but
these teasing details are the only ones that Joyce gives his
readers. (The teasing is quite real. He shows characters
consulting watches or clocks three more times but does not
document what they learn.) Hart's response was to identify all
the paths and walk them repeatedly at reasonable paces,
measuring the times, averaging the results, and correlating
actions in different sections. I admire his scrupulousness but
I do not understand all the principles by which he correlated
disparate actions, and I question how valuable his elaborate
chart may actually be for making sense of the chapter as one
reads.
My notes explore some other questions about time. As a
general principle, Joyce creates an impression of forward
temporal progression from section to section by showing
successive actions performed in them, whether in the main
blocks of text or in interpolations. (In sections 3-4, for
example, we see Katey and Boody on the sidewalk and then at
their home. Similar examples can be found in 1-3-16, 3-9, 5-7,
6-17-19, and 9-10.) The arrow of time does not always move
neatly forward, however. Section 2 occurs at a moment that
must be earlier than the end of section 1. Another general
principle, articulated by Hart and repeated by many other
scholars, is that the interpolations show temporal
simultaneity across spatial distance. But, again, there are
exceptions. Interpolations in sections 9 and 10 show things
happening around the Four Courts building that seem to
correlate to actions represented in section 19, but in fact
both of them are happening a bit earlier. Here the principle
of moving forward in time from section to section is
preserved, but the principle of interpolations marking
simultaneous occurrences is not.
Joyce also challenges his readers by thwarting the
expectations he creates about interpolations. Some sections
contain as many as three or four, while several (6, 17, 18,
19) lack them entirely. Some sections (2, 5, 9) contain
sentences that at first glance may appear to be interpolations
but really are not, or are not merely so. Some contain
interpolations (the bike race in 11, the crumpled paper
floating down the Liffey in 4, 12, and 16) that do not refer
to any action represented by continuous narrative in another
section. One (in section 5) jumps not only to an earlier
section (1) but to a still earlier action that the principal
character there remembers. The first and third interpolations
about the throwaway show it floating "eastward," but the
second shows it moving cryptically "westward," a little after
another interpolation in section 12 shows Denis
Breen moving in the opposite direction from when he was
last seen. Readers must constantly be alert to such tricks,
which are a good reminder that for all his maniacal love of
systematic order Joyce was never content to reduce things to a
system. Artistic freedom invariably prevails.
In his 1974 essay, Hart notes another kind of devious
patterning: the thematic burden of the interpolations, which
not only play with space and time but also imply similarities
or differences with the people represented in the surrounding
section. Usually suggestive indications of linkage can be
found, Hart suggests, in sentences immediately before or after
the interpolation. Pursuing these, he reproduces each
interpolation of the chapter along with some nearby text and
identifies what he sees as linking elements. In three cases he
admits that he has come up empty, but his honesty about those
rare exceptions only strengthens his overall claim. I pursue
these leads, often adding further observations to the brief
comments that Hart makes.
I follow Hart's lead also in noting instances of still
another kind of patterning that Joyce worked into this
chapter: misleading linguistic constructions. Its first words,
"The superior, the very reverend John Conmee," refer to the
priest's title (a noun) but manage to suggest adjectivally
that he regards himself as one of the elite (which he does).
When he thinks that Mrs. M'Guinness has a "fine carriage," he
refers to her manner of holding herself but a reader may
suppose (not unreasonably, given the tenor of the priest's
thoughts) that she owns a grand vehicle. In much the same way
that readers of this chapter must continually struggle to
understand where in Dublin they are, with whom, at what time,
and why bits of unrelated action keep flashing into their
field of view, simply making sense of words and phrases can
require keen navigational skills.