Hello Harvey

Post Twenty-two

Harvey, one of our North London Ulysses brethren asked the far from original but nonetheless worthy question: just what is the point of chapter three, Proteus? After plodding through two readings we were approaching half way through and like Harvey, some of us felt about as ‘stogged’ as that empty bottle of porter in the sand. Some passages do seem like an unfathomable mess of words and it is very tempting to just skip it and run to the sunny uplands of the joyous and far more fathomable Leopold Bloom.

So for Harvey and no doubt several others who thought but did not express the same question, I shall try to plead the case for Proteus and justify why it’s worth hanging in there. I don’t mean this to be a guide to the chapter, I can heartily recommend my book if you want that (!). This is not so much a what’s going on as a why is it going on.

By way of background, Stephen walks along the beach at Sandymount Strand. He engages no one and simply thinks to himself. Which means that its pages of dialogue are either memories (e.g. time spent in Paris with Kevin Egan and Patrice Egan) or imagined (e.g. the visit to his Aunt Sara in Strasbourg Terrace and his various discussions with his younger self).  It is probably also relevant in a structural sense that it is the last ‘chapter’ of the three chapter Telemachiad which may indicate a parallel both to Penelope being the last chapter of the bookending three chapter Homecoming and also to Hades, chapter three of the middle section, which occurs at the same time.

Significantly and obviously Proteus helps to establish Stephen’s character. There is no understanding of the book without understanding the three protagonists and so we can’t simply skip knowing Stephen, especially if we have not read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and even if we have. The initial two chapters hinted of certain themes and characteristics; his guilt regarding his mother, his disdain for his father, his rejection of religion but this is a modernist book and so character will not be gift wrapped in narrative, rather it must be teased out as we walk half a mile in Stephen’s shoes - or rather Buck Mulligan’s cast-off boots. This chapter completes our stream of consciousness training. Telemachus was some initial prep in a chapter of significant dialogue before we limbered up in Nestor. To hazard a guess, I’d say Proteus is 10% narrative, 90% interior monologue and zero % dialogue; we really dwell under his skin and need to glean what we can.

He's a man in turmoil. Invaded by various demons and they work in mischievous concert. Let’s start with his lack of self-confidence. We saw this in Nestor with his envy of schoolboys whom he expects, are for all their tender years, at comparative ease with sex; already in imagined relationships whereas his younger self sat alone atop of a bus screaming ‘naked women’. His disdainful accusations directed at his younger self punctuate Proteus. The books he was to write but never did, the embarrassing play acting in front of his bedroom mirror.

His notion of self and self-worth is to my mind revealing. As he looked in the cracked mirror in Telemachus (and amateur psychologists will have a field day with that image, Wilde readers or not), he said:

“As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me?”

I hope I’m not alone in relating to this confused notion of self. I sometimes look in the mirror and wonder who is this face I see? Or occasionally if I catch myself in ugly profile (as Bloom will refer several chapters hence) I marvel at the strangeness of the person that is apparently me. I rather hope we all do this and that it is not just Stephen and I! What is self? We need the Proteus chapter not to tell us who we are but at least to remind our several selves to pose the question.

Proteus the sea-god was/is a shape-shifter and could become all manner of different beings, different personas. It’s almost impossible to pin him down; “Put a pin in that chap, will you?” Same with us and certainly the same with Stephen. For a while I was perplexed by his thought re the alibi bus ticket :

“Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c'est moi. You seem to have enjoyed yourself.”

‘Other fellow did it: other me. ‘ points I think, to his paranoia at being comprised of various selves and was so unsure of the real Stephen that he needs evidential proof in terms of the punched ticket. The notion that one of his personae is capable of murder feeds into the imagined killing of the post office official and his inability to save a drowning man, both a little further on in the chapter.

I have previously blogged [Fathoming Fathoms] on the molecule changing ‘barnacle goose’ reference in this chapter and also on similar [The Milky Way ] in chapter nine with AE;IOU; both are of the many references to Stephen’s confused and arguably schizoid notion of ‘self’ which will also be replicated by Bloom in Circe and elsewhere. Little wonder he’s confused in this chapter of confused notion of reality. If we cannot trust the ineluctable modality of the visible, audible, tactile etc., that is, if we cannot trust what we perceive to be the reality around us, how can we trust our notion of self within it? And where does that leave self-worth? Aristotle’s answer was to move on and create some sort of reliable framework otherwise we all just go mad.

Having considered Stephen’s notion of self-worth, or lack of, let us ponder another essential characteristic evolved in this chapter, his bitterness. He feels alone and embittered. Resentful of the colonising Brits, he’s also mistrustful of the Fenian bombers such as Kevin Egan and equally of their political comrade, Arthur Griffith and his newly formed Sinn Fein. He feels usurped by the Catholic middle class in the guise of Buck Mulligan that accommodates the Brits and which has left him literally but more importantly spiritually homeless and of the simoniac Church (dringadring and jackpriests) which banishment from his life leaves a spiritual void. It is though perhaps in Art for that defines him, that the bitterness bites to the core. He is bitter that he didn’t write those intended books, that his self-proclaimed genius remains unrecognised (we’ll see that AE has not included him in the compendium of Ireland’s new young poets) and that he must create his art in English, the conqueror’s tongue. But those words, linguist though he may be, are the only tools available. Per A Portrait  

“His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language.”

These were all nets that he, a soul born in Ireland, was supposed to fly high to escape. But he failed. The blue telegram ‘curiosity to show’, called him back from bohemian Paris to his dying mother. The mother who even in the advance stages of cancer and despite their impoverishment, sent him postal orders to cash in Paris which must only enhance his guilt at the role he played in her death. Mulligan of course constantly touches this nerve, as if Stephen could possibly forget it.

The Proteus chapter also sheds light on Stephen’s opinion of his father Simon. Hawkman whose name he bears and whom in consubstantial terms he fears he will replicate; this talented witty man, now a well-liked (outside of his family) but impoverished drunk well known, too well known around the Dublin pubs. Stephen sees this father/son ambivalence not simply in Oedipal terms but before him in bar MacMahon with Kevin and Patrice Egan, in a wider sense in Daedalus and Icarus, Prince and King Hamlet, in Shakespeare and his father (and son) and in Jesus and God.

For me, the most significant characteristic is Stephen’s sense of insulation. He operates like too many of us, in a silo. Most comfortable alone with his own pretty destructive thoughts but when in company, especially if he tries to express such thoughts, is taken to be inadequate, aloof, arrogant bordering on aggressive and simply strange.

If Harvey, we take some of this from Proteus, then when we meet Bloom, we can better understand how he might help Stephen, despite having plenty of problems of his own. I have no doubt that this links to 16th June 1904, a day of huge significance for the 22 year old James Joyce for it is the day he first dated Nora Barnacle. Of what that date comprised depends on who one believes but at any rate it was the day on which for Joyce, the silo started to crumble ‘shattered glass and toppling masonry’ and that there was another human with whom he could relate. Not only this, that his art would be better expressed and enriched by a life shared with others; shared in the true sense.

Stephen recoils at both the live dog and the carcass of the dead dog but will perhaps unknowingly at this point, have registered the empathy that the live dog has for his dead brother and one never knows, by the early hours of 17th June, Stephen’s ‘other me’ may have improved for the better.

Stick with it Harvey.

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