CENTENARY OF ULYSSES BY JAMES JOYCE. (II) – Veraz Newspaper

CENTENARY OF ULYSSES BY JAMES JOYCE I Veraz Newspaper

’12/15/2022′

1670886944 458 CENTENARY OF ULYSSES BY JAMES JOYCE I Veraz Newspaper

’12/15/2022′

“Complex, demanding, but brilliant novel.”

mtro. Jose Miguel Naranjo Ramirez.

In the traditional novel, the reader is used to knowing linear stories, the events happen in a logical, chronological, orderly order, the characters are clearly defined and this makes the reading fluid, without complications. With James Joyce’s Ulysses things changed radically, although there are three key characters here: Leopold Bloom, Molly Bloom, and Stephen Dedalus. The story of what is narrated is not linear, and even in the work we will find many reflections that apparently have no connection with the central story, although, as a whole if one goes spinning and finding uniformity in the ideas, an example is the following :

In the first chapters we learn about the death of a character named Dignan, in fact, this event is important because Leopold Bloom and other characters attend Dignan’s funeral and reflect on endless topics such as death, the meaning of life, etc. Once Dignan is buried, several chapters go by where the reader does not know anything about the deceased protagonist again, and suddenly, when Dignan’s death ceased to be a topic of interest or one may come to think that it is a closed topic in the novel , without so many details, Patrick Aloysius Dignan, son of the deceased, appears and performs the following meditations: “Dad inside the coffin and Mom crying in the living room and Uncle Barney telling the men how they had to lower it around the corner. It was a big, tall coffin, and it looked heavy. How was this? Last night Daddy was standing drunk on the landing, yelling for his loot so he could go to Tunney’s for more, and he looked wide and short in his shirt. I will never see him again. Dead, that’s right. Dad is dead. My father is dead. He told me that he was a good son for mom. He couldn’t hear the things he said, but I saw his tongue and teeth trying to get it better. Poor dad. That was Monsieur Dignan, my father. I hope he’ll be in purgatory now, because he went to confession with Father Conroy on Saturday night..”

These loose musings, these long monologues of the characters invariably prompt personal soliloquies in the reader on the same subject that the protagonists think. I imagined the moment when a coffin is lowered to physically disappear into a being we will never see again. You never know the order in which things will happen, however, I thought that my father is an advanced man, not so old to die now, but as the years go by, the endings are getting closer. If I have to witness that difficult moment that until today fortunately I have not experienced it with someone as close as a father or mother. How will I live it? how will i face it What internal revolution will cause the death of someone very close? It is difficult to answer these questions, however, the questioning itself leads me to another line of thought, such as the value of life, the value of time. We can do nothing in the face of the tragic feeling of life such as death. Then, Kantianly, we would have to ask ourselves: what can I do? what should I do? Or, perhaps, it is better to live without questioning ourselves, to live as we see fit without complicating ourselves. Within this universe of loose lucubrations, I want to match those written here with those expressed by Lepold Bloom:

Mr Bloom advanced, raising his troubled eyes. Don’t think about it anymore. The last one The signal above the maritime office is down. Break time. Fascinating little book is that of Sir Robert Ball. Parallax. I never understood exactly. There is a priest there. I could ask him. Para is from the Greek: parallel, parallax. They put in if things called her, until she told him about the transmigration. what nonsense Mr Bloom smiled silly at the two windows of the maritime office. She is right after all. Just big words for common things because they sound good. She is not very witty to say. She can be rude too.”

Tying what is transcribed here with the previous article I wrote[1]We know that Mr Bloom is referring to comments he made with his wife Molly about their recent reading. This is a specific example that shows that, despite the lack of continuity of the stories, as the reading progresses, it is possible to perceive that uniformity of ideas, that chain of the issues raised. However, focusing on the meditations that the characters carry out in isolation, and particularly, when I asked myself about the value of this new way of narrating, this includes answering whether it is worth spending so many hours and effort to try to understanding and deepening the reading of a complex, demanding work, I came across these deliberations:

“–Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton censured, have yet to create a figure that the world can place next to the Saxon Shakespeare’s Hamlet, though I admire him, as old Ben did, without idolatry. “All these questions are purely academic,” Russell predicted from his shadow. I mean, if Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex. Discussions of ecclesiastics on the historicity of Jesus. Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question regarding a work of art is how deep life can emanate from it. Gustave Moreau’s painting is the painting of ideas. Shelley’s most profound poetry, the words of Hamlet, put our spirit in touch with eternal wisdom, Plato’s world of ideas. Everything else is speculation by schoolchildren for schoolchildren..”

The answer that Joyce gives through her characters about the value of art is wonderful: “Art has to reveal to us ideas, spiritual essences without form.” Yes, because we always take care of the form, and, above all, because we know that the form is very important, I admit it. The bad thing is that the form has limited our freedom to create, it is so rigid that it limits our freedom to think, want, dream, act. The shape frames us. White. Black. The form imposes us, we are prejudiced beings. Now, how much can we control the way in the various aspects of our lives? Because yes or yes we are the product of a civilization, of an education. How to free ourselves from all that burden? Perhaps the path is not to deny what we are, on the contrary, to know what we are and from there modify what we don’t like. Because the centuries will pass and pass, and, after all: “nobody is nothing.”

The entire population of a city disappears, another replaces it, also passing away: another coming, going. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of pavements, stacked bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that one. They say the owner never dies. Another takes his place when the notice to leave arrives. They buy the place with gold and yet they still have all the gold. They rip you off somewhere. Piled up in cities, spent age after age. pyramids in sand Built on bread and onions. Slaves. The Chinese wall. Babylon. Big stones remain. round towers. The rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, built to hell, Kerwan’s mushroom houses, built of wind, shelter for the night. nobody is nothing.”

That nobody is nothing, irrefutable truth is. What should I do? Live while nothing comes to me…

Email: miguel_naranjo@hotmail.com

Twitter @MiguelNaranjo80

Facebook: José Miguel Naranjo Ramírez.

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CENTENARY OF ULYSSES BY JAMES JOYCE. (II) – Veraz Newspaper


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