ness a “barbaric technique, an illusionrndear to man in his decadence, the beliefrnthat an impoverished consciousness mayrnbe enriched by an uprush of unconsciousrnvitality. As a chthonic creature manrnhopes to be born again from the samernwomb. He wishes to be either pure organismrnor pure spirit, but he is condemnedrnto be man.” The Joycean woridrnis not a world of hard crisp reality or intellect.rnIt is a vague one of timelessnessrnand flux that conforms to the dominantrnideologies of the age—Scientism, Evolutionism,rnFreudianism, etc. Behind it allrnis the dead idea that man is minutia thatrnis acted upon like a puppet rather than arnspecial creature who thinks and acts.rn”So timeless seemed the grey warmrnair, so fluid and impersonal.” This quotationrnfrom Joyce is demonstrati’e of thernmodern idea that eternity is imprisonedrnin its unchangeableness; God, too, is arndistant prisoner of His own eternal plan.rnThis intellectual naivete looks at God inrnhuman terms. Eternity is thus misunderstoodrnin a purely negative sense asrn”timelessness,” as the opposite to time,rnas something that cannot make its influencernfelt in time. In short, there is nornHoly Spirit. This is the despair of thernmodern mind-set. It lends itself to feelingsrnof extreme loneliness, uselessness,rnand futility. It turns the mind in on itself.rnThis is the modern equivalent of arnvery ancient and destructive heresyrncalled gnosticism. It is the fundamentalrnproblem of the modern worid.rnWith all his dramatization of Catholicrneducation and talk of St. ThomasrnAquinas, Joyce, the product of a corruptrnIrish clericalism, did not understand therntrue nature of what it means to bernCatholic nor the truth about grace, love,rnand the Hol’ Spirit. This is why there isrna coldness and pride in his work.rnMuch is made of the Joycean techniquernof “epiphany.” But it should bernunderstood as a secular epiphany, onerntrapped in time that does not seernthrough to the nature of things. Sincernrejecting the Holy Spirit, modern manrncannot reconcile his eternal element ofrnbeing with the world, and so he createsrnhis own world. He becomes his ownrnGod in his own mind, with such terriblernconsequences in this century.rnLewis sees Joyce as conforming to hisrntime and being coldly indifferent to arnmodern cultural problem where thingsrnare very debased—with a universal conformit’rnof puppet people who neverrnthink for themselves but do as they arerninstructed by the mass society so as tornavoid thought, the exercise of free will,rnsuffering, and all that makes a real humanrnbeing. All the worid—O’ConnellrnBridge included—is falling, fallingrndown, falling down, while Joyce hidesrnbehind thick indifferent lenses. PatrickrnKavanagh, a great modern poet andrnprophetic critic, said that Joyce was notrnbuilding up a patrimony like Dante butrnwas engaged in “spending our spiritualrnpatrimony, leading us away from thernIdeal to utter emptiness and futility, andrnthat history would deal savagely withrnsuch spenders.”rnNothing heroic happens in thisrnUlysses. No adventures present themselvesrnto this inner traveler. No monstersrnmet. No Circe circumvented. Nothing!rnBloom meets Daedalus. Bloom masturbates.rnMolly adulterates. There is nornrecognized home to which to return.rnModern man is adrift. There is no abidingrncity. When the rosy fingers of dawnrnappear, we are assaulted by words andrnendless excursions into the mind. Wordsrnand sounds take the place of constructivernthought and action. Words are beat,rnbeat, beaten into you. All is awhirl likernthe pounding thump of modern dance,rnor the disorder of jazz.rnFor Lewis, the artist must be intelligentrnand stand outside the conformity ofrnhis era. With T.S. Eliot, he believed thernartist should be heterodox when everyonernelse is orthodox in order to bringrnman back to the real. The artist mustrnnot be an empty cistern to be filled withrnthe prevailing ideology but an overflowingrnfountain. Lewis sees Joyce as more ofrna technician than an inventive intelligence,rnsaying, “There is very little goingrnon in the mind of Mr. James Joyce.”rnThis past Bloomsday saw the publicationrnof yet another edition of Ulyssesrnedited by another Joycean, one DanisrnRose, and published by Picador. ThernNew York Times arts page reported therncontroversy. Mr. Rose said he sought tornclarify the text by making 10,000 edits tornthe 250,000 words. But another Joycerncultist rose up in arms against clarity.rnFritz Senn, director of the James JoycernFoundation of Zurich, said “that in tryingrnto make the text clearer, Mr. Rosernmay have subverted elements thatrnbrought genius to Ulysses.” He added:rn”I’ve always enjoyed the passages wherernyou couldn’t tell what the authorrnmeant.”rnAnother far more interesting controversyrnwill brew with the publication thisrnautumn of a book by Lawrence Rainey ofrnYale entitled Institutions of Modernism:rnLiterary Elites and Public Culture. A synopsisrnof the book’s thesis, “The RealrnScandal of Ulysses,” was published in thernTimes Literary Supplement on Januaryrn31. It seems Ulysses and other works ofrnliterary modernism manipulate the bookrnmarket with limited expensive editionsrnbought up by dealers and speculators inrnorder to increase demand and inflate thernprice. As Professor Rainey writes, “nornlonger confident that they could appealrnto the public sphere in support of theirrnassertions about the aesthetic value ofrnUlysses [they] turned instead to thernworkings of the market itself, taking itsrnoutcomes to be confirmation, even justifications,rnof their claims.” Adds the goodrnprofessor, “the invisible hand of AdamrnSmith is not a moral or rational agent,rnnor can it be an aesthetic agent.” Onernwonders whether this is a demonstrationrnof the third principle in the Joycean trinityrnof “silence, exile, and cunning.”rnSo perhaps your Bloomsday has beenrnforever punctured. Not to worry. Getrnout that old Victorian dress, rent a horse,rnoil a jaunting car, and go for a drivernaround town. Someone will take yourrnphotograph. Everyone (well, most everyone)rnwill believe you most cultured andrnintelligent. And what, after all, is massrnsociety but solipsistic escape fromrnreality?rnPatrick J. Walsh writes from Dorchester,rnMassachusetts.rnLIBERAL ARTSrnBRINGETH THE GARBAGErnHITHER, DEARrn”To liven up your holiday gettogethers,rnimpress your friends withrnyour literary knowledge. Shakespearernfor the 21st Century . . . will havernShakespearean quotes rolling offrnyour tongue in any situation yournencounter. Sound like a genius atrnwork, a romantic lover, or an intellectualrnparty guest by spouting Shakespeareanrnphrases at the perfectrnopportunity.”rn—from an advertisement forrnShakespeare for the 21 st Centuryrn{Angel Management)rnNOVEMBER 1997/45rnrnrn