1. A publication in post-First World War Paris

In his monumental autobiographical series of novels My Struggle, acclaimed Norwegian novelist Karl Ove Knausgaard devotes a considerable number of pages to discuss James Joyce’s fictional works. In the last volume of the series – The End –, practically the entire body of Joyce’s fiction – from early works such as Stephen Hero and Dubliners to the modernist masterpieces Ulysses and Finnegans Wake – is included in a discussion on the Irish novelist’s literature. Only one among Joyce’s major works is not tackled by Knausgaard in The End: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Nonetheless, it is precisely Knausgaard who writes the preface to a celebrated Centennial edition of Joyce’s first novel in which, amidst other topics, he ponders over what he understands to be “the very essence of literature.” The article aims at highlighting some key aspects of Knausgaard’s take on Joyce’s fictional output and provide enough evidence to support the hypothesis that the Norwegian writer’s conceptualization of the literary phenomenon, including Joyce’s work, is based upon questionable essentialist premises.

David Rando's meticulous and thought-provoking Modernist Fiction and News nevertheless begins with a somewhat misleading title. Rando is less concerned with specific news sources or the publication history of little magazines, and much more interested in “the news” broadly conceived in opposition, and apposition, to modernist literature. Rando's main interest is the important ways in which literary output in the early twentieth century—he concentrates on works appearing in the 1930s—reacted to and against the proliferation of newsprint in the space of the “media ecology,” building on Mark Wollaeger's 2006 Modernism, Media and Propaganda.Literature, according to Rando, both appropriates and questions the methods used in popular newspapers, using techniques like “nearness” and “delay” to open up an anecdotal space within the story itself. Rando draws heavily on Benjamin's writings about the modes of experience to lay out his argument; Benjamin also gets the very first lines of the book: “Every instant brings us news from across the globe, yet we are poor in noteworthy stories. The previous sentence is adapted from Walter Benjamin's statement in his 1936 essay, ‘The Storyteller’; I have substituted ‘instant’ for ‘morning’ and perhaps that is modification enough to make Benjamin's idea absolutely contemporary” (1).The idea of contemporaneity saturates this book, and Rando is at pains to stress the relevance of his comments about the relationality of literature and newsprint to current times: “Modernist novelists are … the first tentative denizens of the information age who responded creatively, and thus, for us, importantly, to a media environment and public orientation toward experience that has by now become quite naturalized” (23). Nearness, contiguity in time and space on multiple levels, is an important thematic concern: there is first the nearness of a page of newsprint, where each story bears little or no relation to the one contiguous to it except a random simultaneity; contrasted to this is the nearness engendered by Benjamin's idea of the anecdote, where authorial specificity “shocks” the reader into an immediate awareness of events in a way that the newspaper never can. In other words, the physical nearness of news stories on the printed page paradoxically results in a distancing and flattening of affect that, for Rando as for Benjamin, is a problem addressed through literature: “[M]odernists perceived a growing distance between news reporting and lived experience, and they developed and honed narrative techniques and an experimental resolve that made nearness and experience defining values. Improving on what the newspaper promised but failed to do, modernist novelists hoped not just to ‘make it new,’ but also to ‘make it near’” (18).To this end, Rando devotes his attention in this slim volume to a “limited” set of literary texts that includes Joyce's Finnegans Wake, Dos Passos's U.S.A., and Stein's three major autobiographical works, as well as the many references to Benjamin's writing, especially from The Arcades Project (20). He invokes Derrida's Archive Fever to theorize about the simultaneous acts of recording and repression involved in modernist literature's desire to be a better record of the times than newsprint could be. Rando's bibliography is both current and theoretically rigorous, and his revisiting of critical texts like Andreas Huyssen's After the Great Divide (1987) revitalizes older works that have already had an important impact on the field of modernist studies.The chapter titled “Nearness” begins Rando's exploration of literary space and Benjamin's understanding of experience. Beginning with the division between erfahrung and erlebnis, Rando explains that the move from the former toward the latter parallels the move from anecdotal, personal storytelling toward nuggets of information for immediate consumption, that is, the news. In this light, modernist fiction's use of the newspaper both as raw material for plot and also as props within stories, becomes a resistance to the assimilative, easy-to-consume nature of news media. Reading Woolf's “The Mark on the Wall,” Rando shows how the narrator's opening refusal to date the story “reclaim[s] an experience in time and an experience of time … [that] will form the antithesis to the newspaper's homogenous, empty time, which is held off until the very end of the story” (40). Narrative twists are tied up with formalist experiments, so that we might identify in Woolf's stream of consciousness style “a sustained fantasy that explanations and facts can be indefinitely suspended, that one might dwell in illegitimate freedom, be released from the illusion that knowledge must be cobbled together from facts, and be exempted from the compulsion to live in the world clocked and charted by homogenous, empty time” (43).Rando suggests that if newsprint can be thought of as the “conscious,” linear, all-inclusive archive, then modernist literature becomes the “unconscious,” immediate, experiential one, working with and against its other, simultaneously imitating its methods even while it questions its claims to superiority and truth. Fiction becomes not simply contra facts but a more invidious version of them. It demands that readers substitute the idle act of empathy, which comes from reading news, for the shock caused by the “pathos of nearness” brought on by anecdotal literature.In the chapter entitled “Scandal,” Rando takes on Finnegans Wake and stresses its anecdotal nature as “a space where experience can emerge with a striking and unexpected intimacy not found in a newspaper, and where history that threatens to become abstract can concretize on a human scale not often found in traditional historiography” (53). Rando's comments on Joyce vis-à-vis Dante recalls some more recent work,1 but avoids convergences between Joyce criticism and genetic criticism.2 Benjamin's idea of the “pathos of nearness,” so central to Rando's own argument, comes from the former's “First Sketches,” for the The Arcades Project, and is itself therefore a tacit invitation to further consider literary revisions as an avenue for criticism. Although Rando does not develop this insight, his work perhaps provides fruitful avenues for further inquiry.In any case, Rando begins his chapter on Joyce and scandal with a discussion of HCE's “incident” in the park and draws on the work of other literary critics, Margot Norris and Wollaeger among them, to point out that the book “embarrasses the desire of news to extract reportable events from personal experience [and brings] scandal from the distant spheres of news into the intimate space of readers” (62). While this part of the chapter might sound familiar to those who have already spent time with the Wake, the second half uses the 1922 murder case against Frederick Bywaters and Edith Thompson and builds on the work of previous critics to demonstrate how Joyce's book of the night can be read as a series of “nested books” (72), the stories within stories loosely contained by the overarching text. The adulterous romance between Bywaters and Thompson nests inside the description of Paolo and Francesca, which is itself framed in the playacting between Glugg (Shem) and Issy, and the passage ends with one finger pointed outward, implicating the audience, with one word of sympathy: “Sowouyou.”3 Rando is best when he stops to dwell in close reading a single paragraph or even a line, and his claim that in each nested story “there exists a moment of pathos in which reports and events fall away and leave unframed experience in their stead, experiences that creep up and spring upon swooning observers” (71) is entirely convincing.Rando's obvious enjoyment in the complexities of Stein and Joyce that open his book poses some danger to the rest of the volume: subsequent texts seem to pale in comparison. He faces this problem in the third chapter, where the discussion of Dos Passos's trilogy is prefaced by the observation that the liquidation of character in the Wake is only one of the ways in which modernism tries to clear a space for itself in the media ecology. Dos Passos “writes characters right on the edge of the news” in a story that has been called “plotless, or propelled forward only by historical circumstances” (74–75). Thus, “[i]f Finnegans Wake denies all abstract contexts that would remove experience from its human scale, then Dos Passos's strategy is much the opposite … characters are seen from [a] great height, almost as mere side effects of news and history” (77). This examination of character leads Rando to deeper insights about language and nationhood that are closely tied to his opening injunction that we look to the modernists' “public orientation toward experience.” In a passage that can equally be read as literary criticism and political commentary, Rando notes, “For Dos Passos, the powerful continue to pervert the radically and distressingly malleable language of America for the purposes of domination, while the powerless seek to reinforce and rebuild the language of freedom upon which America was said to be founded” (86). Linking power, language, and the media ecology together, Rando concludes that “we see different strata of power productively engaged in struggle and disputation of the same single language, in the same way that Dos Passos self-consciously sculpts his narrative out of the common language and media space he shares with the news” (94).Rando's final two chapters, “Identity” and “War,” concentrate on Stein's autobiographical works, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas certainly, but more so Everybody's Autobiography and Wars I Have Seen, to show how the anecdotal form is used masterfully to break conventions of autobiographical writing as well as news reporting, so that one is “transformed from the empathetic newspaper reader to one who experiences a pathos of nearness” (111). These two chapters function like mirrors to each other, the first explaining Stein's pains to find an autobiographical mode that has no ending, and the second contrasting war news stories to assert the central truth about war, that it is made up of “endings of all kinds—of stories, of lives, the war, and, finally, Wars I Have Seen itself” (120). It is chiefly and most fruitfully in this last chapter that Rando turns to Derrida's ideas about archive fever, the simultaneous recording and suppressing of experience with which a testament like Wars necessarily engages. Again, Rando brings up the thorny relationship between news media and works of fiction that are forced to share the same media ecology, and shows how War both uses and abuses the techniques of reportage (one of the ironies of a book focused on “being existing,” or lived experience, is that it was marketed as war reportage when first published in 1945, and Rando dwells on the deliciousness of this). If Everybody's Autobiography is a book that is concerned with showing the hollowness of an always-already completed authorial “I” engaging with its own past, War, to Rando, is primarily concerned with ending, a (to quote Benjamin) “Messianic cessation of happening.”4 Of course, in the clash between the “real” and created worlds, there can be no ultimate contest, and Rando considers that fact: “Practically nothing can finally distinguish modernist fiction from news. The privileged sphere of the ‘literary’ is now everywhere and nowhere. The purview of news is finally everything. Between Stein and [war reporter Ernie Pyle] … there is little besides the ability to end, arrest, or stand still that can distinguish them. But it may be that this is no small difference in the age of endless information” (137).Rando's very last chapter is a brief statement he calls “Coda: Make It Now” in which he argues emphatically for the need to presume that “modernism matters most right now, and always has” (143). He cites recent work by Keith Williams and Patrick Collier, as well as Wollaeger, to assert that one must read modernism's questions and comments as relevant to our current perceived crisis in the news media. One cannot resist the rightness of his assertions—I wonder how many modernists would deny that they, at least, find the issues brought up by modernist writers relevant to their own daily, lived experiences. But Rando desires to reach beyond the literary reader, to the socially conscious and politically active one, the reader of works like Tom Fenton's Junk News: The Failure of the Media in the 21st Century (2009), which title he quotes as an example of how relevant modernist anxiety about news media is to the present day. This desire to “make now” some of the most obtuse works of modernist fiction to the field of cultural studies best further commentary. Rando's call to “make it now” strikes most powerfully in an example that he includes in his introduction but never revisits: Toni Morrison's refashioning of the real-life tale of Margaret Garner in Beloved. This novel, as opposed to Finnegans Wake or Everybody's Autobiography, say, is an example of a book that can equally be found in a small lending library or book club as in a classroom or literary investigation. It thus best demonstrates the political angle that Rando is at pains to stress: that the techniques of struggle used by fiction writers against the influence of news media can fruitfully be adapted by contemporary writers as well. Morrison's book is the best example of how Rando's conclusions about Woolf's resistance to reported time, Joyce's flirtations with scandal and immediacy, Dos Passos's refusal of historical determinacy through characterization, and Stein's ambivalence about beginnings and endings might all usefully and accessibly be applied to break the chains of constant and never-ending RSS feeds.Ultimately, this book provides a small Benjaminian shock of warning: it does not do to be glib about the shortcomings of hard-nosed commercial news media. Its strength, however, is when it ignores this larger context and concentrates on the playful, erudite reworkings of ordinary life that make up so much of modernist literature.

Joyce, Finnegans Wake, and the Energy Epic* Enda Duffy (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Figure 1. A reproduction for the installation Beuys (Still a Discussion), by Sean Lynch (b. 1978) of the sculpture Irish Energy, Joseph Beuys, 1973. Peat briquettes and Kerrygold butter, 21x8x6 cm, Collection Oliver Dowling, Irish Museum of Modern Art, copyright Joseph Beuys IVARO 2010. [End Page 8] [Begin Page 10] In the following essay I start with the conclusion I propose to reach. It is this: Finnegans Wake is the greatest book on energy ever written, the epic novel of the age of energy.1 It is a monumental encyclopedia of the varieties of human-energy generation, production, and deployment. As the great modern book of drinking, eating, disputing, laughing, celebrating, and dreaming—in short, of the liveliest and most intense communal ways of being alive—it is an anatomy of human-energy generation in all its best forms. In this sense the novel is about what Karl Marx called Stoffwechsel—that is, "metabolism"—by which he means the ways in which human and animal bodies take in energy, transform it, and expend it in other forms.2 In a philosophic register Finnegans Wake is also a remarkable Bergsonian text. In the wake of Henri Bergson's considerable influence on French and western philosophy before and after World War I, this novel finally and most completely synthesized the lessons of Bergson's thinking. (Intriguingly, Bergson, through his mother Katherine Levison, had Irish-Jewish ancestors; he also had family connections to the Celtic Revival since his sister Moina was married to Samuel Liddell MacGregor Mathers, one of the founders of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.)3 Finnegans Wake may well be the most wide-ranging exploration of Bergson's élan vital ever attempted, the most astounding [End Page 10] vitalist work of art constructed by any of the modernists. Its governing impulse, I suggest, is to convert the vital into the raucous. The account at its core of the wildest night ever in a Dublin pub generates raucousness as the life mode of what the Greeks called thumos—the courage to precipitate energy into an event, to act.4 But Finnegans Wake is also a book about the vast energy resources of the planet that began to be harnessed on an unprecedented scale in the early twentieth century. Immersed in what began to be called the "energy crisis" only in the 1970s, this book is, in a real sense, about oil. In other words, the genius of Joyce's work is far from being simply a matter of the deconstruction of standard-language or realist-romance plots. Such modernist experiment is generally cast as the artist's reaction to urban anomie, the loneliness of a postcommunal life in the modern metropolis, the reification engendered by consumer culture and the demands of a money economy, the colonization of time for the modern subject, and the colonization of global space by the great western imperial powers. For an encyclopedic novel as ambitious as Finnegans Wake, however, the stakes were greater than any of these matters. Like most novels since the rise of the genre in the eighteenth century, it centers on the domestic sphere: in this case a pub in Chapelizod, Dublin, home of HCE (Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker, Here Comes Everybody); ALP (Anna Livia Plurabelle), his spouse; and their children Shem, Shawn, and Iseult.5 At the same time, HCE is stretched out on the landscape as the topography of Dublin, his head the Hill of Howth, while ALP is the river Liffey that flows from Poulaphouca down to the city of Dublin, from which it streams into the Irish sea to ALP's cries of "I'll slip away before they're up" (627). The book is about the globe, the earth itself, as well as about the more traditional novelistic subject of an unhappy family. And its account of the earth, just as in its account of the family and of the raucous wake of the book's title, is a narrative of flow, of [End Page 11] change over geologic time, and of energy. Just as it is concerned with...

'The Tommy Moore Touch':Ireland and Modernity in Joyce and Moore Emer Nolan (bio) In A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, Stephen Dedalus expresses his disdain for Thomas Moore, author of the Irish Melodies and the most popular Irish writer of the nineteenth century. As he passes 'the droll statue of the national poet of Ireland' in College Green, Stephen remarks on the figure's 'servile head', describing Moore as a 'Firbolg in the borrowed cloak of a Milesian' (P V.216-21).1 In Ulysses, Leopold Bloom sees the same statue and comments, with an ironic nod to one of the best-known Melodies, that '[t]hey did right to put him over a urinal: meeting of the waters' (U 8.414-15). Moore is apparently a despised figure, but perhaps here as elsewhere, Stephen's contempt is in fact a measure of his intense involvement. In spite of his occasional scorn for Moore, Joyce refers to the Melodies throughout his works, alluding to every one of them in Finnegans Wake: he takes their appeal seriously and clearly was not immune to it himself.2 Louis Gillet recalls how Joyce would play 'his treasury of Irish melodies' on the piano in Paris, his listeners 'suspended on the doleful and nostalgic cadences'.3 On one occasion in A Portrait, Stephen returns to 'the chaos and misrule' of his father's house and finds his younger brothers and sisters singing Moore's 'Oft in the Stilly Night' over the remains of their tea and bread: He was listening with pain of spirit to the overtone of weariness behind their frail fresh innocent voices. Even before they set out on life's journey they seemed weary already of the way. [...] He heard the choir of voices in the kitchen echoed and multiplied through an endless reverberation of the choirs of endless generations of children: and heard in all the echoes an echo also of the recurring note of weariness and pain. All seemed weary of life even before entering upon it. And he remembered that Newman had heard this note also in the broken lines of Virgil giving utterance, like the voice of [End Page 64] Nature herself, to that pain and weariness yet hope of better things which has been the experience of her children in every time (P IV.593-605).4 Through the medium of a popular song, Stephen makes connections between the present, past generations, Newman, Virgil, and finally 'Nature's children' - human beings. In a style which anticipates 'The Dead' and even Finnegans Wake, a single, rather lowly fragment of Irish culture yields a vision of shared experience. In such instances, Joyce proves himself to be a partial exception to the early twentieth-century flinch from Moore's 'servility' and 'inauthenticity', acknowledging the element of utopian longing as well as the sentimental nostalgia in his music. In a 1979 tribute to Moore, Seamus Heaney remarks that modern Ireland rescinded Moore's title of 'national bard' because his characteristic tone was 'too light, too conciliatory, too colonisé' for a nation 'whose conscience was being forged by James Joyce, whose tragic disunity was being envisaged by W.B. Yeats and whose literary tradition was being restored by the repossession of voices such as Aodhagán O Rathaille's or Brian Merriman's'. Heaney recalls: Yet this was the note I often heard coming over the wireless from Athlone in the forties, the note that John McCormack struck, the note that was struck in the schoolroom for generations. This was the music of what happened in the sentimental national heart, where Tara and Avoca and Lough Neagh's banks glimmered fitfully in the light of other days. Before I read my Corkery [...] my own sense of an Irish past was woven from the iconography of AOH [Ancient Order of Hibernians] banners and phantoms out of Moore's Melodies.5 Heaney had listened to Radio Éireann from Northern Ireland. He does not suggest that Moore's Melodies resonated any differently for Catholics on the northern side of the Irish border. Rather, he focuses on a division within Anglophone Irish culture, between writers devoted to cultural revivalism or modernist...

This is the first book to examine in full the interconnections between Giambattista Vico’s new science and James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. Maintaining that Joyce is the greatest modern “interpreter” of Vico, Donald Phillip Verene demonstrates how images from Joyce’s work offer keys to Vico’s philosophy. Verene presents the entire course of Vico’s philosophical thought as it develops in his major works, with Joyce’s words and insights serving as a guide. The book devotes a chapter to each period of Vico’s thought, from his early orations on education to his anti-Cartesian metaphysics and his conception of universal law, culminating in his new science of the history of nations. Verene analyzes Vico’s major works, including all three editions of the New Science . The volume also features a detailed chronology of the philosopher’s career, historical illustrations related to his works, and an extensive bibliography of Vico scholarship and all English translations of his writings.

The idea that Joyce’s multilingual experimentations and translational writing style are a reflection of his exposure to linguistic diversity during his voluntary exile has already been advanced by Italian scholar Serenella Zanotti (2013). This article expands on this observation and highlights the fact that the Irish author’s real-life multilingualism was never static. Rather, Joyce’s multilingual and translingual experience constantly evolved throughout his life as a three-times migrant to cosmopolitan European cities (Trieste, Zurich, Paris). This eventually resulted in a cosmopolitan inner language. This paper therefore argues that Joyce’s migration experience is at the basis of his evolving literary translanguaging or, in other words, that the latter should be seen as the textual reflection of his constantly growing personal exposure to different languages in cosmopolitan environments. Each translinguistic instance should therefore be considered in light of the specific spatio-temporal situatedness it originated from. Using Joyce’s correspondence in addition to his novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916), Ulysses (1922), and Finnegans Wake (1939) as examples, this article will explore how Joyce’s literary use of language(s) evolved hand-in-hand with a growing metalinguistic awareness and crosslinguistic agility, which characterized his everyday use of language as a multilingual speaker. Finally, this article will reflect both on the implications that Joyce’s use of language(s) has for the translation of his literary works, as well as on his contribution to the issue of migration and identity.

n A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Stephen points out that his recourse to the aesthetics of St. Thomas of Aquinas has a restriction: When we come to the phenomena of artistic conception, artistic gestation and artistic reproduction I require a new terminology and a new personal experience (P 209). The notorious letters Joyce wrote to Nora in December 1909 record that new, intersubjective experience, linking the act of writing to the drive, while marking a significant in Joyce's aesthetic development.' If we understand an event as a moment indicating an irreversible change, we may see these letters as the beginning of the incremental movement in Joyce's fiction away from mimesis to an ever more performative and rhythmic style in which the act of writing overrides the desire to create a transparent copy of real life. Samuel Beckett notes, [Joyce's] writing is not about something; it is that something itself.2 The movement towards enactment instead of representation, which Beckett sees as characteristic of Joyce's writing in Finnegans Wake, had its beginnings in Joyce's correspondence with Nora. That the Nora letters are highly performative is obvious. Written to sustain the onanistic complicity between husband and wife (SL xxiv), they feature the characteristics of performative speech. They use the present tense, and they comment on the activity of reading and writing, as well as on the relationship between reading and masturbating: Darling, I came off just now in my trousers so that I am utterly played out. I cannot go to the G.P.O. though I have three letters to post (SL 190); [Y]our letter was lying in front of me and my eyes were fixed, as they are even now, on a certain word in it. There is something obscene and lecherous in the very look of the letters. The sound of it too is like the act itself, brief, brutal, irresistible and devilish (SL 180). Representing a process of increasing fetishization, the letters stand in for the absent body of the beloved. The tangibility of the paper,

This essay examines James Joyce’s creative engagement with Latin and its connection to Luc Deitz’s philological scholarship, notably his edition of Julius Caesar Scaliger’s Poetices libri septem. Joyce’s Jesuit education provided a strong foundation in Latin, shaping his linguistic sensibility and aesthetic theory. Across A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Ulysses, and Finnegans Wake, Latin appears in liturgical phrases, scholastic terminology, Dog Latin, and complex syntactic play, serving as a cultural marker and a tool for humor and modernist experimentation. The study highlights Joyce’s dialogue with Aristotle, whose concepts of tragedy, catharsis, and aesthetic stasis inform his work. This engagement is contrasted with Scaliger’s nuanced reception of Aristotle, which Deitz demonstrates to be far less dependent on Aristotelian doctrine than assumed. Ultimately, Joyce revitalizes Latin to articulate radical modernist forms, affirming the enduring relevance of classical languages and humanistic scholarship—a conviction central to Deitz’s work.

James Joyce's near blindness, his peculiar gait, and his death from perforated ulcers are commonplace knowledge to most of his readers. But until now, most Joyce scholars have not recognized that these symptoms point to a diagnosis of syphilis. Kathleen Ferris traces Joyce's medical history as described in his correspondence, in the diaries of his brother Stanislaus, and in the memoirs of his acquaintances, to show that many of his symptoms match those of tabes dorsalis, a form of neurosyphilis which, untreated, eventually leads to paralysis. Combining literary analysis and medical detection, Ferris builds a convincing case that this dread disease is the subject of much of Joyce's autobiographical writing. Many of this characters, most notably Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom, exhibit the same symptoms as their creator: stiffness of gait, digestive problems, hallucinations, and impaired vision. Ferris also demonstrates that the themes of sin, guilt, and retribution so prevalent in Joyce's works are almost certainly a consequence of his having contracted venereal disease as a young man while frequenting the brothels of Dublin and Paris. By tracing the images, puns, and metaphors in Ulysses and Finnegans Wake, and by demonstrating their relationship to Joyce's experiences, Ferris shows the extent to which, for Joyce, art did indeed mirror life.

A Note on Edmund Epstein John Tytell Universally acknowledged as the most brilliant member of a distinguished English department, Eddie came to Queens College in 1974 after a decade at Southern Illinois University. He had attended Yale and Columbia as a graduate student and Queens College as an undergraduate so his appointment violated the general bias against an academic nepotism that prevented most institutions of higher learning from hiring its own graduates. But Eddie was an exception, and rules, even unofficial protocol guidelines, sometimes need to be reinterpreted. I knew Eddie from the time of his arrival at Queens College and could establish several points of personal connection. Eddie was a Joyce scholar, and I was writing a biography of Ezra Pound who had helped James Joyce early in his career so the evolution of Anglo-American literary modernism became a shared subject area. I was a Jewish European immigrant like his parents, and I had the additional advantage of a mother who had been raised in Dublin in a flat with a wooden tub. When I told Eddie that, every afternoon on the way home from school, my mother was expected to stop at the corner pub and fetch a wooden pail of stout for her father, he was charmed, fully aware that she could have figured in Joyce’s Dubliners. Generous, humane, loved by the best of our students, he spent [End Page 225] his academic career studying, teaching, and writing about Joyce, an expatriate from Dublin who taught in the Berlitz system in Trieste and then moved to Paris where a bookseller named Sylvia Beach chose to publish his masterpiece, Ulysses, now considered the supreme artistic achievement in the art of the novel written in the English language in the twentieth century. Joyce, whose earlier work, the realistic stories of Dubliners and the more modernistic A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, had already been published, then spent several decades creating what may be considered the most ambitious fiction of any century, Finnegans Wake, a huge compendium written in a highly charged paralanguage that reinvented artistic possibilities while exploring the very roots of all language. Its problem for the general audience, however, was its incomprehensibility, a code that, like the hieroglyphics of the Egyptians or Mayans, needed to be explored and explained. Eddie, always so unpretentious and affable, was up to such a task because he knew more about the origins of language and the etymologies of its words than any other member of my department. He taught like a rabbinical Talmudist who would not rest until he could annotate everything in reach, so his classes were often fascinating footnotes into a vital, formative past. As a colleague, he was eminently approachable and congenial, full of good cheer and encouragement, and I will always remember him as a short, rotund man full of cherubic glee and a touch of whimsy in his eyes, singing Gilbert and Sullivan songs and accompanying himself on the piano at department parties twenty years ago. I asked Eddie to volunteer to help evaluate student eligibility for Phi Beta Kappa—a task that required the sacrifice of many hours involving the close examination and discussion of transcripts—and he generously gave us years of scrupulous commitment. When I asked him to write for American Book Review, a magazine I was editing, his reviews were incisive and penetrating. I knew Eddie had publishing experience and once, when I was having trouble finding a publisher for a book I was writing, he advised me to submit to Routledge, a fine choice for scholarly monographs but one that could not satisfy my ambitions to discover a larger audience for literature or to get paid for my efforts. Before embarking on academic life, Eddie had worked in publishing as an editor of Capricorn Books at Putnam’s and later for Farrar, Straus, and Giroux. At Capricorn, he took the risk of reprinting an allegorical fable that had only sold 2383 copies in its American hard-cover edition about children on a deserted island devolving to savagery. The Lord of the Flies was by an unknown author named William Golding, and it had been a modest...

This paper explores how modernist writers, specifically D. H. Lawrence and James Joyce, employ intermedial techniques (ekphrasis, multimodality, sonic-textual layering, Bakhtinian parodying of media, etc.) to capture a collective experience of neophobia as the fear of modernity and novelty. Using examples from The Rainbow, Aaron’s Rod, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Ulysses, and Finnegans Wake, the study discusses the concept of affective intermediality as cases of intermedialized textual elements targeting emotions and leading to actions; this helps examine how fear operates as a cultural and aesthetic collective concept, which is encoded in archetypal imagery, subconscious referencing and allusions, and medial suggestive forms. The hermeneutic method and close reading applied allow the conclusion that the writers reflect on the critical matters of the turbulent reality and, through affect and suggestiveness, impact the readers: they manifest the feeling of fear, refer to the subconscious, cause confusion and the sense of loss, puzzlement, and shock, bring forward empathy, comparison, and frustration. As an outcome, the collective memory targeted through neophobia becomes a veiled layer of modernist novels, an active construct of affective intermediality.

Biographical Note. Michael Patrick GILLESPIE: James Joyce and the Fabrication of an Irish Identity: An Introduction. Vincent J. CHENG: Terrible Queer Creatures: Joyce, Cosmopolitanism, and the Inauthentic Irishman. Garry LEONARD: Holding on to the Here and the Now: Juxtaposition and Identity in Modernity and in Joyce. Maria PRAMAGGIORE: Unmastered Subjects: Identity as Fabrication in Joseph Strick's Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man and Ulysses. Colleen JAURRETCHE: Poetry, Prayer and Identity in Finnegans Wake. John RICKARD: A quaking sod: Hybridity, Identity and Wandering Irishness. Margot BACKUS: Sexual Figures and Historical Repression in The Dead. Kevin DETTMAR: Vocation, Vacation, Perversion: Stephen Dedalus and Homosexual Panic. Joan JASTREBSKI: Pig Dialectics: Women's Bodies as Performed Dialectical Images in the Circe Episode of Ulysses. Lauren ONKEY: Teaching Joyce's Multiple Identities. Contributors.

ABSTRACT“Bloom’s CV” analyses James Joyce’s representation of Bloom’s early career as a commercial traveller in Ulysses. Reading Bloom’s various jobs—from cattle sales to insurance—in their historical context, the article presents a clearer understanding of Joyce’s mimesis, and shows that he presents a strikingly realistic career path for a second-generation Hungarian-Jewish immigrant in 1904 Ireland. While the recent historicist turn in Joyce studies has tended to suppress the text’s other narrative dimensions, the article proceeds to identify unsettling intertextual connections to anti-Semitic discourses that were contemporary in the Irish nationalist press. Explaining these connections as part of Joyce’s broader reimagining of Odysseus as a Semitic traveller, the article positions Joyce’s overdetermined characterisation of Bloom as a crucial transitional moment between the naturalistic aesthetic the author inherited and developed in Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and his complete transcendence of the realist mode in Finnegans Wake.

David Jones: Engraver, Soldier, Painter, Poet, by Thomas Dilworth, David Jones: A Christian Modernist?, ed. by Jamie Callison, Paul S. Fiddes, Anna Johnson, and Erik Tonning

One of the addressees of the letters of Prof. Ananiasz Zajączkowski was Aleksander Mardkowicz (1875–1944), a notary from Lutsk, who was one of the most affluent Karaim activists of the inter-war period. As a young man he moved to Yekaterinoslav, where he worked in a notary’s practice. There he made his debut publishing a few poems in Russian in some literary magazines. After Poland gained its independence, in 1921 Mardkowicz returned to Lutsk, where he started to play an important role in the life of the local Karaim community as a member and, for a time, a president of the Board of the community. But the major focus of his work were literary and editorial activities. As there was a need for literature which would encourage Karaim readers to develop an interest in their own language, tradition and past, towards the end of the 1920s Mardkowicz struck upon the idea of creating a Karaim publishing house. In ten years between 1930 and 1939 he published 15 brochures (most of them written by himself): four short stories, four poems, a collection of religious songs, a calendar, a Karaim-Polish-German dictionary, a grammar of the south-western dialect (written by A. Zajączkowski) and three brochures in Polish on the history and traditions of the Karaims. “Karaj Awazy”, a magazine entirely in Karaim, whose twelve issues appeared between 1931 and 1939, can be regarded as his major work. It had an enormous impact on the cultural life of Karaim communities not only in Lutsk, but in Halicz and in Lithuania as well. The letters written by Zajączkowski to Mardkowicz between the summer of 1933 and the spring of 1939 show us some unknown aspects of the relations between the editors of two Karaim magazines appearing in the same time: “Myśl Karaimska” in Vilnius and “Karaj Awazy” in Luck.