Ulysses and the Metamorphosis of Stephen Dedalus
Bucknell University Press, 2001 - 222 Seiten
This study makes the case that the novel's intricate self-consciousness begins as a very recognizable story: the 'Kunstlerroman.' In such a reading, Ulysses emerges as the story of the time-obsessed Stephen Dedalus, who desires to compose a masterful chronicle that will one day rival the timeless narratives of Ovid and Homer. McBride's analysis treats at length Stephen's poetic theories and compositions, examinig them as clear forerunners to the novel that the reader is reading. The culminating point is the claim that the figures of Leopold and Molly Bloom may be elaborate fictions created by Stephen.
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Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before Stephens Poetics and the Creation of Ulysses
A Perfect Wreath The Nostos as the Novels Source
Beyond the Modality of the Audible The Silent Subtext in Stephens Story About Bloom
The Circle of Penelope Weaving and Unweaving the Artists Image
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actual added appears Aristotle artifice artist becomes begins Bloom Boylan calls Calypso chapter character Circe clock close comes course create creation critical death Dedalus diegesis discussion Dublin earlier emphasis episode evident eyes fact father fiction figure final follow four hand hour imagination important initial James Joyce Joyce's kind later letter live looking meaning meeting mention metafictional mind Molly Molly's morning move narration narrative nature never noted novel once opening Ovid Penelope perhaps phrase play poet poetic Portrait possible potential present reader reading references role says scene Scylla and Charybdis seems seen sense Shakespeare simply soap Stephen Stephen's story story Street suggests takes tale telling temporal theory thinks thoughts throughout turn Ulysses University Press vision watch wife women wonder write young
Seite 64 - Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor ; So sinks the daystar in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky...
Seite 63 - Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite possibilities they have ousted.
Seite 152 - MR LEOPOLD BLOOM ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
Seite 12 - We shall never know, for the good reason that writing is the destruction of every voice, of every point of origin. Writing is that neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away, the negative where all identity is lost, starting with the very identity of the body writing.
Seite 19 - What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. A star, a daystar, a firedrake rose at his birth. It shone by day in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the night, and by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the recumbent constellation which is the signature of his initial among the stars.
Seite 87 - Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves.
Seite 154 - Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that. Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets his notice to quit.
Seite 44 - Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.
Seite 44 - Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes.
Seite 130 - Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley Road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind.