Tuesday, January 15, 2019

"Flood," by James Joyce

James Joyce

This poem was written by James Joyce in 1914 [1915?] in Trieste, shortly before the start of WWI (or a year into that conflict?).

Flood

Goldbrown upon the sated flood
The rockvine clusters lift and sway;
Vast wings above the lambent waters brood
Of sullen day.

A waste of waters ruthlessly
Sways and uplifts its weedy mane
Where brooding day stares down upon the sea
In dull disdain.

Uplift and sway, O golden vine,
Your clustered fruits to love's full flood,
Lambent and vast and ruthless as is thine
Incertitude!

Since Joyce was a personal friend of MacLeish, the latter surely knew of this poem, and the twelve years till 1926 gave plenty of time for reading it. In fact, MacLeish did see the poem at least one time, in March 1927, when MacLeish responded very favorably to the poems in the booklet prepared to contain them (Pomes Penyeach), so Joyce went ahead with publication. They were first published 6 (or 7) July 1927 by Silvia Beach's Shakespeare and Company.

Plus, the poem's title allows for reading the title as reference to the epic flood in the Bible, which might explain the use of the title in apocalyptic senses.

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Tuesday, February 17, 2009

James Joyce et al.: "Rattle his bones"

Announcement
Initial Publication of Ulysses
(Image from Wikipedia)

Yesterday, I inquired about Neil Gaiman's borrowing of what he calls a "Traditional Nursery Rhyme":
Rattle his bones
Over the stones
It's only a pauper
Who nobody owns
Specifically, I wondered if it were truly a nursery rhyme, for it seems to 'ultimately' come from the refrain of Thomas Noel's 1841 poem, "The Pauper's Drive," published in Rymes and Roundelayes (pages 200-201):
Rattle his bones over the stones;
He's only a Pauper, whom nobody owns!
My cyber friend and fellow Milton enthusiast Eshuneutics commented:
An intriguing question . . . I have never heard of it as a nursery rhyme. It is a Northern Chartist song, known in my city of Leeds. (I guess its northern/Manchester connection encouraged The Smiths to plagiarise the refrain) It must have been a popular ditty since Joyce uses it in "Ulysses". And that suggests its origin is in music hall rather than nursery rhyme. If it was ever a nursery-rhyme, it would be in Peter Opie's collection, but I do not recall it from that. A puzzle.
Eshuneutics certainly knows a good deal about things literary and popular, and he sends me off in several directions. I had in fact noticed the Joyce connection yesterday but didn't have time to look into that. Gaiman has surely read Joyce's Ulysses and might have been thinking of that, but Joyce's use of the lines differs in being abbreviated:
The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.
This appears in Ulysses, Part II, "The Odyssey," Episode 6, "Hades," which describes the protagonist, Leopold Bloom, in a funeral carriage on his way to the funeral of Paddy Dignam, who died an undignified death in a drunken stupor, somewhat like Elpenor, a friend of the original Ulysses, Odysseus.

Here's a larger passage, which contains several allusions to the lines (which I've emboldened):
The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.

--In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.

--But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own life.

Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.

--The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.

--Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We must take a charitable view of it.

--They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said.

--It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham's large eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent. Like Shakespeare's face. Always a good word to say. They have no mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn't broken already. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Found in the riverbed clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wife of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning. Start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight that night Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and capering with Martin's umbrella.

AND THEY CALL ME THE JEWEL OF ASIA, OF ASIA, THE GEISHA.

He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.

That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like yellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed. Verdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son Leopold.

No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.

The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.
Zack Bowen discusses these allusions in Musical Allusions in the Works of James Joyce: Early Poetry through Ulysses (1974) but doesn't mention Thomas Noel's poem of 1841. I've not read Bowen's book, and Google Books doesn't provide all of the pages, so I don't know if Bowen explains what song is meant, whether the Chartist mentioned by Eshuneutics or some other. But Don Gifford and Robert J. Seidman, in Ulysses Annotated: Notes for James Joyce's Ulysses (1988), refer readers to Noel's poem, calling it a song but saying nothing of a Chartist song using the lines in question. Earlier even than Bowen, Weldon Thornton wrote in Allusions in Ulysses: An Annotated List (1968) of Noel's poem but also cites this as a song noted by Helen K. Johnson, in Our Familiar Songs (pp. 630-32), who cites Noel for the words but J.J. Hutchinson for the music, but again no reference to a Chartist song.

No one seems to be mentioning any nursery rhyme at all.

Perhaps Gaiman is merely toying with us and misleading the scholars. He probably didn't get these lines from Shelagh Delaney's 1960 play, The Lion in Love, which has:
So rattle her bones all over the stones, she's only a beggar-man whom nobody owns.
Nor from The Smiths' 1984 album (i.e., The Smiths), which has seemingly borrowed from Delaney, for the playwright's lines are echoed in the song "The Hand That Rocks the Cradle":
So rattle my bones all over the stones / I’m only a beggar-man whom nobody owns.
I have the information on Shelagh Delaney and on The Smiths from "Culture isn't linear," which has some interesting things to say about literary 'borrowings'.

Still, Gaiman's own borrowing differs from all of these, including the 'original' poem by Thomas Noel, who used the personal pronoun "He":
Rattle his bones over the stones;
He's only a Pauper, whom nobody owns!
Gaiman uses the less personal "It":
Rattle his bones
Over the stones
It's only a pauper
Who nobody owns
In doing so, he comes closer to a version cited by the psychiatrist Shobal Vail Clevenger on page 255 of Fun in a Doctor's Life: Being the Adventures of an American Don Quixote in Helping to Make the World Better (1909):
Rattle his bones over the stones,
It's only a pauper whom nobody owns.
The sole difference here is Gaiman's use of "who" rather than the more grammatical "whom." Clevenger is quoting something, or thinks that he is. Possibly, Clevenger gets it from the Reverend William Cochrane's Future Punishment; or Does Death End Probation? (1886), which differs from Clevenger's version only in punctuation:
Rattle his bones, over the stones,
It's only a pauper, whom nobody owns.
But this is about as far as I can take things . . . for now.

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Thursday, September 25, 2008

"comes the money punishment possibility"

James Joyce on the Ponterosso Bridge in Trieste
"when it meets the foreigner from the road"
(Image from Wikipedia)

At times, my students leave me baffled in the labyrinth of their wandering literary skills:
By the way recently from the world-wide various nations numerous people is pushed into in Korea and entirely the multi racial culture that is unfamiliar is formed. It accomplishes a rapid development and to Korea which is a country which now lives in opulence comes the money punishment possibility it is quickly and a dream to hold until the industrial trainee who comes in and the illegal employment sleeping field continuously it is coming in flocks. Yes from the day when it meets the foreigner from the road was already generalized.
Was the student channeling James Joyce?
Sir Tristram, violer d'amores, fr'over the short sea, had passen-core rearrived from North Armorica on this side the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor to wielderfight his penisolate war: nor had topsawyer's rocks by the stream Oconee exaggerated themselse to Laurens County's gorgios while they went doublin their mumper all the time: nor avoice from afire bellowsed mishe mishe to tauftauf thuartpeatrick not yet, though venissoon after, had a kidscad buttended a bland old isaac: not yet, though all's fair in vanessy, were sosie sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe. Rot a peck of pa's malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface.
Then again wakes a useless odyssey? Oh, through the "sleeping field continuously it is coming in flocks," and there awaits my student an illustrious literary future.

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Thursday, July 26, 2007

Oversleeping a homework assignment...

"Much depends upon dinner," breakfast,
and the occasional snack...
(cf. Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto 13, Stanza 94)
(Image from Wikipedia)

I overslept this morning and couldn't help my hillbilly friend JK with his homework assignment:
I recall a fairly recent blog on a poem that you and your class discussed that ended (it seems) with a general consensus that it had to do with a suicide? And love. I'm about to go on Gypsy and look for it, it was fairly recent but I've never really searched on your site, just hit the daily blog. I know that you're sleeping as I type but if you have the time (provided I can't find it) might you send me the poem?
As he said, I was sleeping, really deeply sleeping, but he found my "Luke Havergal" post on his own anyway. I'm awake now but probably not going to be much help with his other homework assignment:
Because I've missed two days of class in Comp I've been rewarded with the coveted "Compare James Joyce with Proust" essay. 2000 words. It took me three years to wade thru Ullysseys [sic]. 6 citations. He didn't give any specific date but August 8 is when the semester ends . . . . I'm sort of familiar with Joyce tho' it's been nearly 20 years. Proust is outta my universe, definitely beyond my ken. But were you to provide a few lines in the way of an "approach" that could prod me in forming a good thesis I would be most appreciative and in your debt. Were you to point me to . . . research resources that would too be nice.
I'm ashamed to say this, but I was so groggy when I awoke to JK's request that I couldn't recall precisely what it was that prompted Proust's remembrance of things past -- as I confessed in a note to JK:
I'm not well-read in Proust or Joyce, but maybe you could look at what triggers the remembrances. In Proust, it's a piece of pastry, right? In Joyce, something triggers Molly's remembrances, but what? I don't recall. Is it sex? Are their memories triggered by something similar? Concrete? Sensuous?
Only over a slightly late breakfast as I bit into my morning toast did I recall -- in a trickle of memory -- that Proust had bitten into a madeleine that triggered his flood of memory:
And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine... (Marcel Proust, Swann's Way: Remembrance of Things Past, C.K. Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin, translators (Vintage 1989), page 63)
But what triggered Molly Bloom's total recall? I do recall that her internal monologue in the final chapter of Joyce's Ulysses begins and ends with "Yes":
Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs...

...I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
Rather a lot of yeses. But does anything trigger this? The memory of a breakfast, possibly? Perhaps this Ulyssesian site has all the Joycean answers.

Meanwhile, if other readers could advise JK, I'm sure that he'd be grateful. Not full of great rewards for those who help, but he'd offer at least his grateful thanks over a toast...

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Saturday, May 05, 2007

Lacan, Joyce, Chuangtzu

Zhuangzi (Chuangtzu)
Contemplating a Lacanian analysis of Joyce
(Image from Wikipedia)

Today, I will be participating, as a "Discussant," in an "International Conference on Psychoanalysis and Socio-Humanities" devoted to the works of Jacques Lacan.

I must be crazy.

But my craziness should help, I suppose, in understanding Lacanian psychology. Think of my insanity as a hermeneutical key opening the way toward understanding the twists and turns that Continental Philosophy takes when it undergoes psychoanalysis.

I'll be responding to a talk by one of my colleagues, Kwon Teckyoung, who has written a paper titled "From Aesthetics to the Green Aesthetics: Lacan, Joyce, Chuangtzu." I'm not sure that I agree with everything Teckyoung has written, but more crucially, I'm not sure that I understand everything that she has written.

Partly, this stems from my own ignorance. While I do know something of James Joyce, I know only superficially of Lacan and merely one thing about Chuangtzu. I've decided to make a virtue of my ignorance and ask openly ignorant questions.

Because I have little time this morning, I'll spare you the usual boilerplate stuff and instead post my response to Teckyoung's paper, which will not only demonstrate my laudable ignorance but leave all of you pleasantly baffled since you haven't read the paper to which I'm responding. But baffled was my own experience as well, so you will understand as I have understood...
Prefatory Remarks, Questions, and a Digression for Kwon Teckyoung

Thank you for a very interesting paper. I fear that my questions will be not quite so interesting. Rather than insightful questions, I can offer only ignorant ones, for I know too little about the thought of Jacques Lacan. Of James Joyce, I am somewhat more familiar, but more as a literary artist than as a thinker. Chuangtzu, I have heard of, for his dream of the butterfly -- or the butterfly's dream of Chuangtzu -- is very famous, even in the West, but I know nothing of Chuangtzu's larger system of thought.

So, allow me to ask my three ignorant questions, then end with an equally ignorant digression.

1. Could you make more clear, perhaps by summarizing the point, how this aesthetics that you find in the thought of Joyce, Lacan, and Chuangtzu constitutes a green aesthetics, for the inner connection to ecological thinking is not entirely clear to me?

2. Could you explain more about the Median-Void and its function in Lacan’s thought? I ask partly because Guo Jian, in the article "In Search of an Unconscious: Jacques Lacan and China" (published in Ex/Change, Issue Number 6, February 2003), remarks that:
The "median-void," or the French "vide-médian," is a rather odd translation of the Chinese 沖氣 or 中氣, from section 42 of the Laozi, meaning literally "blending the breath [of yin and yang]".
[Much more can be found in Footnote 22 of Guo Jian's article, "In Search of an Unconscious: Jacques Lacan and China":
François Cheng, "Entretien avec Judith Miller," p. 54. Quoted in Roudinesco, ibid., 352. The "median-void," or the French "vide-médian," translates the Chinese 沖氣 (or 中氣, according to the 馬王堆甲本 of the Lao-zi) in the line 萬物負陰而抱陽, 沖氣以為和 from section 42 of the Laozi. The phrase means literally "neutralize (or moderate, or blend) the qi (breath or air, of yin and yang)." The line may be translated as "ten thousand things [that is, everything in the universe] carry yin on their backs and embrace yang in their arms and are harmonized by the blending of the breath (of yin and yang)."
Perhaps this is useful material to have as a reference.]

3. Could you explain something about the following passage:
Towards a mystery as well as an importance of the number three, Lacan is not exceptional at all. When he formalized the third ring as the Real in the interconnected Borromean Knot, the Real becomes the link, the Median-Void, between two opposite sides, the imaginary and the symbolic. If we examine the three rings in terms of Tao, we posit the Real in the realm of the Void, which would turn out to be the imaginary in the symbolic -- a fantasy object (a). This may be the key to solving the mystery of the number three. The three is the emblem of the ethics of Lacanian psychoanalysis as well as the emblem of Chuangtzu's wuwei because it is to follow two courses at once, to satisfy both Kant and Sade at the same time. Thus, Kant with Sade, or number three is as mysterious as the harmony of Yin and Yang.
Here is my question: How would one satisfy both Kant and Sade? Is this wei wu wei (action without action)? Is this Kant's universal moral law of categorical imperative and Sade's amorality of willfully polyvalent individual desire, the pursuit of pleasure, namely, of licentiousness?

4. Finally, my ignorant digression.

Lacan's terminology invites possible Christian connections, e.g., his expression "the name of the father" recalls Johannine expressions (John 12:28; 17:5-6, 11-12, 25-26), but the terminology recalls even more strongly the Valentinian Gnostic formulation that "the name of the Father is the Son" (Gospel of Truth 45-46; cf. John 17:12).
45. Now the Name of the Father is the Son. He first named him who came forth from himself, and who is himself. And he begot him as a Son. He bestowed his own Name upon him. It is the Father who from his heart possesses all things. He has the Name, he has the Son who can be seen. Yet his Name is transcendental -- for it alone is the mystery of the invisible, which thru him comes to ears completely filled with it. (Mt 1:21, Lk 1:31, Jn 17:6-26!, Ph 11!)

46. For indeed the Name of the Father is not spoken, yet rather it is manifested as a Son. (Jn 17:6) Accordingly, great is the Name! Who therefore could proclaim a Name for him, the supreme Name, except him alone whose Name this is, together with the Sons of the Name? -- those in whose heart the Name of the Father reposes and who themselves likewise repose in his Name. Because the Father is immutable, it is he alone who begot him as his own Name before he fashioned the eternal-ones, so that the Name of the Father would be Lord over their heads -- this-one who is truly the Name, secure in his command of perfect power. (Ex 3:14, Th 13)
Probably, there is no significant connection between Lacan's use of the expression "the name of the father" and the Valentinian formulation "the Name of the Father," but Gnostic systems generally might provide further illumination into Lacan's thinking (recall that Jung pursued an interest in Gnosis).

Anyway, these are my three questions and one digression -- which, incidentally, happen to add up to four. Perhaps I should undergo Lacanian analysis....
So . . . there it is, what I'll say today. If you see this early enough, wish me luck.

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