The LSD effect

Nabokov once had a student who could recite to him every single chapter of Ulysses and what chapter of the Odyssey it corresponded to. Nabokov asked him who the man in the brown McIntosh was. The student had no idea, so Nabokov slapped him.

This, in a number of unfortunate ways, is how I felt taking my course on Ulysses this Spring. Each class, we would begin a new chapter. Each class, we would review exactly which chapter of The Odyssey corresponded to our chapter of Ulysses, and how, and all the small ways in which the symbology functioned. We would discuss how Joyce sent family members out to measure the Dublin streets in steps, his biography and how he related to Stephen Dedalus, his fascinations and his dislikes, the meaning of every allusion in every line. In many ways, it was exactly what I wanted from the course. I had read Ulysses once before, in a sort of blind rage, drinking up the language without understanding half of what was going on but with a minor understanding of the story and a huge adoration for the manipulation of language, consciousness, and pure poetry. Now, I wanted it explained. What actually happened?

“Now we should probably ask what really happened in this section of the book. As if it matters, it’s fiction, nothing ‘really’ happened…”

My professor said this at least once a week. Every time, I cringed. He had a dearth of information, an expertise in Joyce, Aquinas, Aristotle, the Odyssey, and Ulysses that might be unrivaled. His explanations was very helpful. But I never got over the sense that he didn’t believe in literature, or at least in getting joy out of literature, in what the text evokes outside of historical explanations of attempts to ban the book. I kept expecting more, kept expecting the course to turn into an appreciation of Joyce and his manipulations in a way that wasn’t simply factual but joyful, for the blissful appreciation for what Joyce did, for who he was, for the incredible beauty of this text. It never did. 

Nabokov would have slapped my professor. 

By the end of the course, Ulysses had been explained to me. I understood the allusions and the parallels. I had written one terrible paper on Stephen and Deasy, and a much better paper that I desperately enjoyed on Molly and what she affirms in the final chapter (I decided that what she affirmed was her own physicality and womanhood, and that this was the basis of her worldview). I have rarely, however, had such a bad re-read, and I was glad that I had read Ulysses before, or I worry it might have been ruined forever as a maze-book of horribly specific allusions. We never once talked about death of the author. We never talked in depth about who the man in the brown M'Intosh was meant to be. When we got to the last chapter, I did something I had never done before. 

We began my favorite chapter, the joyous, sexual stream of consciousness that is Molly’s famous monologue. He began to talk about how Molly’s comparison of her lover’s amount of sperm when he orgasmed vs. Bloom’s big penis was really, clearly, about her desire to have more children. I looked around the room. My paper was turned in. I realized how desperately I didn’t want this class to ruin one of my favorite chapters of everything I’ve read. I realized that this was the final moment of ruining my reread of Ulysses, that he was about to try and analyze Molly’s monologue through allusion and fact, something I found desperately impossible.

So I walked out (see the photo on top right: me walking out).