Summary of the Work
On June 16, 1904, Stephen Dedalus, after breakfast with a friend*** with whom he rented the Round Turret, decided never to return. After giving a history lesson to students at a private elementary school, he went to the beach and floated away. Meanwhile, Jew Bloom, an advertising tout, guesses from letters he receives that his wife is going out with her lover in the afternoon and begins a day-long wander after breakfast. He first goes to the post office to retrieve a love letter from Martha, a typist, and then attends the funeral service of his friend Dignamou. After the funeral, he goes to the newspaper office to fulfill his advertising business, goes to the library to look up materials, and twice meets Stephen, who is in the library to preach his views on Shakespeare's plays. In the afternoon, Bloom hears Stephen's father, Simon Dedalus, sing in a bar, is attacked by a national chauvinist nicknamed "The Citizen" in another bar, and is then teased by the crippled girl, Gertie, on the beach ***. During the course of the day, he encounters Boylan several times, who is on his way to an appointment with his wife, but he avoids them all. When he visits his friend's wife in labor at the maternity hospital, he encounters Stephen and the medical students, who are drinking heavily. Out of concern for Stephen, he follows them to the brothel and helps Stephen back to his home after he is beaten by two British soldiers, chatting with him for a long time. After Stephen leaves, Bloom goes to bed. His wife, Molly, is awakened and begins a half-sleeping monologue.
Selected Works
Dorad's voice came rushing in like a great pipe, overpowering their shell-shocked harmonies:
When Wild Love Turns Me On ......
The thunderous voice of Benjamin, the soul of Ben, shook the house, and shook the glass of the skylight with the shudder of love. with a shiver of love.
"War! War!" Father Cowley was yelling, "You're a warrior."
"Precisely," smiled Ben the Warrior, "I was thinking of your landlord. Love too, and money too."
He stopped short. For the great mistake he had made, he shook the beard from his great face.
"With a voice like yours," said Mr. Deidales, in a haze of cigarettes, "you're bound to break her membranes, man."
Dollard shook his mustache and laughed out loud at his keyboard. He was made to do it.
"And don't mention the other membrane," added Father Cowley, "take a break. Contain your feelings but don't overdo it. I'll play it."
Miss Kennedy brought the two gentlemen two large glasses of cool, strong stout. She exchanges pleasantries. The first gentleman said it was a beautiful day. They drank the cool, strong stout. Did she know where the Governor was going? Did she hear hoofbeats, horses' hooves? No, she couldn't say. But it'll be reported later. Oh, don't bother her. No trouble. She shook the spread of the Independent as she searched for the Viceroy. Her high bun moved slowly as she searched for the Viceroy. Too much trouble, said the first gentleman. Where, it's no trouble at all. Here, he stares like that. His Excellency the Viceroy. Blonde hair next to brunette, heard hoofbeats, steel rattling.
...... While I was delirious,
I couldn't bear to be anxious for the morrow.
Bloom stirred mashed potatoes in liverwurst. Love and war - some people are like that. Ben Dollard was famous. One night he came running to us to borrow a nightshirt he had worn to get to that concert. The pants were as tight on him as drums. A musical pig. After he walked out, Molly laughed out loud for a while. She fell back onto the bed, screaming and kicking. Wasn't this an exhibition of all his things? Ah, saints in heaven, I'm so sweaty! Ah, how nice for the female guests sitting in the front row! Ah, I've never laughed so hard! Noo, it's that way that he can make that low barrel sound. Let's say the castrati. Who's playing the piano? Nice rhyme. Quasi Cowley, with musical qualities. Whatever tune is played, it's understandable. But he has a bad breath problem, poor man. The piano stopped playing.
The charming Miss Duthie, Lydia Duthie, bowed towards a gentleman who was walking in, the amiable junior solicitor George Leadville. Greetings. She held out a moist, upper-class lady's hand, which he clasped tightly. George Lidwell. Yes, she had returned. Busy doing it again.
"Your friends are inside, Mr. Leadville."
George Lidwell, amiable, took a fleshy hand as if tempted.
As has been said, Bloom ate liver. The place is at least pretty clean. At Burton's Diner, the guy used his gums against cartilage. There's nobody here. Except Goulding and me. Clean tablecloths, flowers, napkins that look like bishop's crowns. Pat's fluttering around. Bald Pat. Nothing to do. It's the best value for money in the city of Dublin.
Playing the piano again. That's Cowley. When he sits facing the piano, it's like he's one with it, understanding each other. The futile, tiresome musicians plucked away at the strings. Staring at one end of the bow, it's like pulling up the cello like a saw, reminding you of when you have a toothache. She snored long, high pitched snores. We sat in the box that night, and during the intermission, the trombone gasped like a dolphin underneath; the other brass-playing hombre unscrewed the screws and poured out the accumulated spittle. The conductor's legs danced a jig in his baggy pants. It was still right to keep them covered.
The two-wheeled light carriage clattered away.
Just the harp. Lovely brilliant golden light. The maiden strummed it. Lovely hips, good for a little gravy. A ship of gold. Irene. That harp has been touched once or twice. Cold hands. Mount Hoth, Rhododendron Bush. We are their harps. Me. Him. Old. The young.
"Ah, I can't, man." Mr. Deidales said, scowling and listless.
Gotta use a strong tone.
"Pop it down, dammit!" Ben Dollard yelled, "Take it one little piece at a time."
"Do a bit of Love Now, Simon." Father Cowley said.
He took a few large steps toward the lower head of the stage and spread his long arms in a grave, infinitely sad manner. The knots of his throat hissed a slight rasping sound. He sang softly to a dust-covered seascape there, The Last Farewell. A headland reaching into the sea, a ship, with the undulating lone sail. Farewell. Lovely maiden. Her veil scrapes around her with the wind, and it flutters in the wind towards the headland.
Cowley sang:
Love now visits,
Catch my eye ......
The maiden did not listen to Cowley's song. She shakes her gossamer veil to the departing beloved, to the wind, to the love, to the sailing sail, to the returner.
"Play on, Simon."
"Ay, my heyday is indeed past, Ben ...... here ......"
Mr. Dedalus, laying down his pipe beside the tuning-fork. sat down and touched the obedient keyboard.
"No, Simon," said Father Cowley, dropping over, "play it as it was written. A descant."
The keyboard became dutifully high, telling, hesitant, confessional, confused.
Father Cowley strides toward the head of the stage.
"Hey, Simon, I'll accompany you," he said, "get up."
The brisk two-wheeled carriage clattered past the pineapple-flavored hard candies in Graham Lemon's store and the Elephant's Note store in Elverly.
Bloom and Goulding sat down like princes, with steak, loin, liver, and mashed potatoes, for a meal fit for a prince. They raised their glasses like princes at dinner and drank Bauer whiskey and cider.
Ritchie said it was the most beautiful tune ever written for tenor: "The Sleepwalker. He had heard Joe Mars sing it one night. Ah, McGuckin was marvelous! Yeah. He had his own way. The flavor of a teenage choir. The teenager's name was Mass. Mass Junior. You could say he was the lyrical tenor. Listen to it and never forget it, ever.
Once Bloom had destroyed the liver, he ate the rest of the steak while watching with sympathy the tense look that flooded the taut face across from him. His back hurt. That bright stare of a Bright's patient. The next item on the program. Pay the piper. Pills, like playthings made from breadcrumbs, a guinea a box. We'll see what we can do about that. Sing, too, among the dead. Loin cakes. Good flowers. It's not much money. It's worth it. Bauer's whisky, he's a fussy drinker: a glass with a chip in it, a glass of Valtteri water instead. To save a few bucks, he'd fish a few boxes of matches off the counter. Then you go and spend a gold pound. And when it's time to pay, there's not a penny left. And when he's drunk, he won't even pay for the carriage. What a strange fellow.
Richie will never forget that night. As long as he lives, he will never forget it. On the top floor of the old Theater Royal, with little Peek-a-boo. Just as soon as the first note was played.
Richie swallowed his words.
Now comes the big lie. Whatever you say is wildly exaggerated. And believe in your own bullshit. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do that. The word of heaven is the number one liar. But what he lacks is a good memory.
"What's that tune?" Leopold Bloom asked.
"'Now All Is Lost'."
Richie pouted. The lovely snarling doggling girl murmured a low-pitched overture: everything. A paintbrush. A paintbrush. His breath was as sweet as birdsong, and between his mouthful of good teeth, of which he was so proud, he sang mournful anguish in a flute-like voice. Lost. A mellow voice. The two tones blended at this moment. I hear the warbling of the painted lady in Hawthorn Valley. It takes over my bassline, rubs it down, changes key. The overly novel call disappears into everything. Echo. What a mellifluous echo! How did that come about? All is lost now. He whistles mournfully. Collapsed, subdued, gone.
Bloom tucked the tassel of the lace table runner under the vase and pricked up his leopard ears. Order. Yeah, I remember that. A lovely tune. In sleepwalking she came to him. An innocent maiden bathed in moonlight. Brave. Unaware of the perils they face. Yet it was better to keep her. Call her name. Touch the water. The light two-wheeled carriage clatters. It's too late. She's looking forward to going. Because of this. Woman. It's easier to stop the sea. Yes, all is lost.
"A beautiful tune," said Bloom, oblivious of Leopold, "I know it well."
Rich Goulding never ......
He knew it all too well. Perhaps there has been some realization. Still mentions his daughter fondly. Didalus once said, "Only a wise daughter knows her father." What about me?
Bloom squinted across his plate where the liver had been eaten. The face of the man who had lost everything. This Ritchie had at one time indulged in orgies. The tricks he played were now obsolete. Flapping his ears, peering through napkin rings. Now he sent his son a letter of complaint against the gang. And cock-eyed Walter says, "Dad, I did it, Dad. I don't want to bother you, but I was counting on receiving money. In his own defense.
Played the piano again. The tone is better than the last time I heard it. Probably tuned. Stopped again.
Dollard and Cowley were still urging the hesitant singer to sing.
"Come on, Simon."
"Come on, Simon."
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am y grateful for your indulgence."
"Come, Simon."
"I do not claim money, yet if you will listen, I will sing for you all a pensive song of the heart."
In the shade of the curtain, beside the bell-shaped sandwich container, Lydia had a rose on her breast. A brunette lady's skilful pie was suddenly visible; and Mina, with her hair pulled back into a high bun and immersed in a cool, silvery patch of pale greenish blue, did the same in front of the two patrons who were holding up large glasses of wine.
The introductory melody ended. The *** that dragged on as if it had something to look forward to disappeared.
When I first saw that nicker,
Richie turned back.
"The voice of Sy Didalus." He said.
Their minds filled with excited elation, their cheeks flushed, and as they listened they felt a wave of adoration flow over their skin, limbs, heart, soul, and spine. Bloom gestured toward Pat, who was bald behind the ears, and told him to leave the barroom door half open. The barroom door. That's it. That would do. Pat, the pantry man, was there to do as he was told, for he could not hear well standing in the doorway.
It seemed as if my sorrow would vanish.
A low voice came through the still air. It was not the rain, nor the rustling leaves; neither was it like the sound of strings or reeds, nor what was called the dulcimer; touching their still ears with the lyrics, and recalling to their respective quiet hearts the memories of a bygone life, so wow, it was worth a listen. As soon as they had just heard it, the sadness of the two men seemed to vanish separately. When they--Rich and Boldy--were bewildered by their first sight of the goddess of beauty, they heard for the first time words of tender attachment, of affection, of infinite lingering, from the lips of one whom they had not in the least expected to hear.
Love sings. The old sweet love song. Bloom slowly undoes the elastic band on his bag. Knocking the ancient sweet blonde hair of his lover. Bloom wrapped the elastic around four forked fingers, stretched it out, loosened it, and wrapped it two, four, eight ways around the restless fingers, strangling them tightly.
Chest full of hopeful exultation ......
Tenor singers are able to get dozens of women into their hands. In this way their voices were flooded. Women throw flowers at his feet. When will we meet? It makes me dizzy. Clattering and rejoicing. He can't sing exclusively for the bowler hats. It makes you dizzy to wear perfume for him. Which perfume does your wife wear. I'd like to know. Clattering. Stop it. Knock on the door. She always takes one last look in the mirror before opening the door. Foyer. Ah, here it comes! How are you? I'm fine. There? What? Either that or? Her handbag is full of chewing tablets, candies for kissing. Want one? Hands to caress her plump ......
Alas, the song rose high, sighed, changed key. Bright, full, brilliant, proud.
A dream shattered an empty ......
He has a most wonderful singing voice to this day. Corkers just sing a little softer, even with their earthy accents. Fool! Could have made sea money. Sang the wrong words. Tired his wife to death. Now he's singing. But it's hard to tell. It's just the two of them together. As long as he doesn't collapse. He can still run along the boulevard. All his limbs are singing too. Drink. Nerves are too tense. For the sake of singing, eat and drink in moderation. Soup in the Jenny Lind style: stock, sorrel leaves, raw eggs, half a pint of cream. For rich, dreamy singing.
The tenderness came up. Slowly, swelling, throbbing. That's the word. Ha, there it is! Take it! It's thumping, it's standing tall.
Lyrics? Music? No, it's what's behind it.
Bloom wrapped and unwrapped, knotted and unbuckled again.
Bloom. Warm, joyful, licking the light of this secret heat, turning it into music, into lust, letting it flow, invading in order to lick that which flows. Push her down and caress her and pat her and squeeze her. Rams. Pores swelled and widened. Rams. That joy, that sensation, that intimacy, that. Rams. The torrent that rushes through the gates and rolls down. The flood, the rapids, the rising tide, the joyful rapids, the rams vibrating. Ah! The language of love.
A ray of hope,
Joyous. The goddess Lydia, in a ladylike manner, speaks shrilly to Leadville. It is inaudible because the glimmer of hope is muffled by the shrill voice.
It's Marta. Coincidence. I was about to write a letter. Lionel's song. That's a lovely name you have. I can't write. Please accept my little gift. Tugging at her heartstrings and the ribbons of her purse. She is. I once called you a naughty girl. And yet this name, Masha. How strange! Today.
Lionel's voice is back, diminished from earlier, but not tired. It sang once more to Ritchie, to Boldy, to Lydia, to Leadville, and to Pat over there, with his mouth open and his ears perked up, while he waited on the customers. How he had first glimpsed that more than adequate figure, how the sorrow had seemed to vanish, how her eyes, her voluptuousness, and her talk had fascinated Gould and Leadville, and had won Pat Bloom's heart.
But if only I could have seen his face. The meaning would have been clearer. Now I understand why he always looked at my face when I spoke to the barber's face in the mirror at Draeger's Barber Shop. Even though it was a bit far away, I could hear him a bit more clearly here than in the barroom.
Meet Your Warm Elegant Bright Eyes ......
The night I first met her at Matt Dillon's house in Telenya. She was wearing a soft yellow dress with black mesh. Musical chairs. We were the only two left at the end. Destiny. Me chasing after her. Destiny. Slowly going in circles. Hurry up and turn around. There's two of us. Everyone's watching. Stop! She sat down. The eliminated look at each other. Each one grinning. Tender yellow knees.
My eyes were transfixed ......
Singing. She sang Waiting. I turn the sheet music for her. The range of sound is vast and the aroma is overwhelming. Your lilac tree, what brand of perfume. I saw breasts, so plump on both sides, and my throat trembled. When I first met, she thanked me. Why did she ...... me? Fate. The eyes of Spanish charm. At this moment, in old Madrid, Dolores-she, Dolores, in the shadow under the pear tree in the center courtyard. Looking at me. Seducing. Ah, seduced.
Marta! Ah, Marta!
Lionel, free from all depression, sang a lament, calling for the return of his lover, in deeper and deeper harmonies, and with a powerful ***, calling for the return of his lover. Lionel's lonely call, she is supposed to understand; Marta is supposed to perceive. For she alone was the one for whom he waited. Where? Here, there; try there, here; try everywhere. Where. Somewhere.
Come back, you who are lost!
Come back, my dear you!
Alone, the only love. The only hope. My only solace. Marta, chest ****ing, come back!
Come back!
The voice flew, a bird, ceaselessly, a swift, clear cry. Dance, limp, the silver sphere; it leaps serenely, swiftly, continually comes. Don't drag your breath too long; he's got enough bottom to live a long life. Soaring high, shining and burning on high, with crown on his head, high in symbolic splendor, high in the bosom of the heavens, high in the universal illumination of the vast, supreme light, all soaring, all whirling around the All, stretching on without end, without end, without end ......
Return to me!
Theobald!
Exhausted.
Oh, well sung. Everyone applauded. She should have come. To me, to him, to her, and you, me, us.
"Wonderful!" Clap. "That's marvelous, so good, Simon." Crackle crackle. "One more!" Crackle crackle. Very loud and clear. "Wonderful wow, Simon!" Crackle. "One more!" More applause. Ben Dollard, Lydia Duthie, George Leadville, Pat, Mina, the gentleman with the two large glasses in front of him, Cowley, the first gentleman embracing the large glass and the brunette waitress, Miss Duthie, and the blonde waitress, Miss Mina, could not stop themselves from saying and shouting and clapping.
Blaise Boylan's new tan shoes clattered across the barroom floor, as has already been said. As has been said, the brisk two-wheeled carriage clattered past the statues of Sir John Grey, Horatio One-Armed Nelson, and the venerable Father Theobald Matthew. The horses trotted upside down, hot and steaming, and sitting there was hot and steaming. The bell. Ringing. The bell. Ring it. The mare slowed slightly and moved along the knoll beside the round church in Rutland Square. The mare paced forward with a lurch. It was far too slow for the hyper-emotional, impatient Boylan.
Cowley's accompaniment ends, and the lingering aftermath fades into the sensuous air.
(Translated by Xiao Qian and Wen Jieruo)
Appreciation
Ulysses is the masterpiece of the Irish writer James Joyce, and was also recognized as the finest English-language novel of the 20th century by the editorial board of the Random House Modern Series. When it was first published, it was censored as obscene in Britain, the United States and Ireland, and the American magazine that serialized it was fined. When the book was first published in Shakespeare's bookstore in Paris, some people even brought veils to purchase the book. It was not until 1933 that Judge John Woolsey lifted the ban on Ulysses in the U.S. In 1999, British critics recognized this masterpiece of alternately poetic and erotic depiction as the most important work of the next hundred years.
In fact, Ulysses has no dramatic plot, and the only slightly dramatic element of the affair between the protagonist Bloom's wife, Molly, and her lover, Boylan, is treated as background material. Moreover, Ulysses is not distinctively philosophical; its depiction of the activities of Dublin, the capital city of Ireland, on the unremarkable day of June 16, 1904, and the characters' evaluations of and reflections on life and society through their inner monologues, are as ordinary and uninteresting as life itself. However, unlike most literary works, Joyce has made an extremely delicate, sincere and beautiful record of this commonplace life, which can be said to be the Qingming Shanghe Tu in the field of literature, in which the overall social breadth and the localized meticulousness are vividly and harmoniously combined. At the same time, this work is also like life itself, seemingly ordinary but meaningful, sometimes vulgar and sometimes elegant. Stephen's loneliness and Bloom's love seem to be clichés, and there is no lack of their kind in literary history, but they contain the true meaning of life, and Joyce's portrayal of their complex emotions especially makes these ordinary human feelings show their profundity and timelessness. On the other hand, unlike those sentimental and pretentious works, in Ulysses, the vulgarity is not covered up in any way, and the most hidden and vulgar side of human beings is pushed straight to the surface, while the elegance shows the author's superior literary talent, which is like a song or a picture, and the mouth is full of flavors after reading it.
The passage in which Bloom hears Stephen's father, Simon Dedalus, singing in Osmond's bar exemplifies the coexistence of the commonplace and the profound, the vulgar and the elegant, that characterizes Ulysses. Plot-wise, this passage is but an ordinary episode in Bloom's day-long ramble, with little bearing on the development of the plot or on the development of the character's thoughts; and the passage is no more than a depiction of what it is like to listen to a song, with no dramatic element whatsoever. But, first of all, in terms of the content of the singing, Ben Dollard's love affairs and wars, and Simon Didares's love lost and called for, are the very themes that have characterized the history of mankind for thousands of years in eternity. In his very last book, Finnegan's Wake, Joyce summarizes human history as sex and war. And the loss and call of love is a reflection of Bloom's current state of mind.
But what makes this passage even better is the artistic technique Joyce uses here. Indeed, unlike Joyce's earlier work, Ulysses stands out most for its innovation, versatility, and perfection in artistic technique. If the theme of Ulysses is as ordinary but eternal as the earth, then its artistic techniques are as gorgeous as the rainbow in the sky. In Ulysses, Joyce tries a variety of literary styles and techniques, each chapter changes with the content, newspaper style, dramatic style, doctrinal question and answer style, inner monologue, parody, and montage combinations of scenes ...... like a kaleidoscope to dazzle people. Joyce's use of so many genres is not merely for the purpose of showing off skills or engaging in wordplay, but rather to make the form of the work echo the theme of the work directly, and the genre of some chapters expresses even deeper meanings than the content of the narrative itself. For example, the setting of Chapter 7 is a newspaper office, and the whole chapter is written in the newspaper style, with bold headlines and short narratives; the setting of Chapter 14 is a woman giving birth in a hospital, and the chapter also uses various styles of literature from ancient to contemporary English literature in order to echo the development of human beings from the embryo up to the twentieth century. In addition to such thematic echoes, the stylistic innovations in some chapters constitute another thematic layer that parallels or complements the plot. Chapter 12, for example, criticizes the one-sided national chauvinism of the "citizens". In this chapter the same event is repeated in a solemn old style, such as epic, legal, or sentimental, as in the case of the American writer Washington Irving, and in a vulgar colloquial style that mimics the narrator's style, thus reflecting the different perspectives that different genres may give to the same event. This comparison shows the one-sided perspectives and positions contained within the genres themselves, as well as the impact that the narratives themselves may have on the way people see the world. This chapter is thus a critique of both the one-sidedness of the mindset (what is thought) and the one-sidedness of the way of thinking itself. Then there is Chapter 13, which criticizes the vanity and pretentiousness of the young girl, Gertie, both through the plot and through Gertie's use of the pretentious women's magazine genre. The use of this women's magazine style also suggests that Gertie's flaws are not so much flaws in her character itself as they are the negative effects of the vulgar sentimentalist literature. In conclusion, the main theme of Ulysses exists not only within its plot, but also within its narrative form.
Chapter 11, from which this selection is taken, also employs a unique but thematically relevant artistic technique. Since the chapter describes singing and listening to songs, it is also structured in imitation of the musical fugue form, adopting the technique of polyphonic counterpoint, structuring the chapter according to the form of prelude, presentation, interlude, unfolding, recapitulation, and coda; and at the same time, in terms of words and syntax, it also breaks with the norms of grammar, and obtains the effect of music directly from the utterance through word distortion and ungrammatical sentences. In addition, the musical form of the chapter directly echoes the theme of the chapter. The chapter takes place at the exact time that Bloom's wife, Molly, and her lover, Boylan, have agreed to go on a date at Bloom's house, which Bloom knows about and has been thinking about all day. Therefore, in this chapter, Bloom's emotions are the most complex: annoyance, anger, jealousy, sadness, shame, helplessness, desire for his wife ...... The so-called "love to know that words are difficult to hate, not like the lute Road to the truth", compared with the text, the music is better at expressing the hazy and subtle, difficult to express emotions, and the music is better than the words.
For example, "Bloom. Warm, happy, lick the light of this secret heat". This passage expresses a sense of visual and auditory flow, both of the musical melody Bloom is listening to, and of the erotic currents Bloom has been aroused to rush through his body. First of all, the length and repetition of the sentences are based on the rhythm of the music, and the words used have a smooth musical effect; the intermittent repetition of the three "Tups" (meaning "rams") symbolizes, on the one hand, the drumbeats in the music, and on the other hand, Bloom's heartbeat. "tipping", "tepping", "tapping", "topping" topping" (pressing down) The crescendo of vowels reveals the crescendo of Bloom's eroticism as the music grows stronger. "The joy the feel the warm the" (that kind of joy, that kind of feeling, that kind of intimacy, that kind of) belongs to the urgent plate musically, and emotionally it shows the mixed feelings, no way to say. In short, by mobilizing the audio-visual elements of the words, directly appealing to the senses, Joyce does not leave traces of the environment and state of mind intuitively and vividly expressed.
After Simon Didares sings the last line, the word "Siopold" - a portmanteau of the names Simon Didares and Leopold Bloom - shows that the song is actually a performance. -shows that this performance is in fact a duet: on the one hand the singing of Simon Didares, on the other the heartfelt music of Leopold Bloom; on the one hand the flow of the musical melody, on the other the flow of Bloom's associative **************************************************************************************************************************. Here, the elegance of music and the vulgarity of *** harmonize together. At the same time, the two men are in different spaces, Simon in the depths of the bar, Bloom outside the bar door, but echoing each other; and one is the father of Stephen's flesh, the other the father of Stephen's spirit, and the two men, though they don't know each other, are one here through the music.
The sophistication and mastery of Joyce's artistic skill is fully evident here. Every word and every detail, seemingly ordinary, has a profound aesthetic consideration. From this point of view, although Joyce's early work "Portrait of a Young Artist" is famous for its exquisite perfection, in fact, the delicacy of "Ulysses" is not inferior to the former in any way, only that its grandiose social picture and the intention of truly reproducing the trivial details of social life masks its formal wordplay and elaborate and ingenious conception. If only a genre as limited in length as poetry makes it possible to scrutinize word by word, then Ulysses can even be described as fine poetry with the social breadth of a novel. To read Ulysses, especially the original English text of Ulysses, to feel its words as crisp as pebbles, its melody as rich as a symphony, to experience how Joyce uses the most concise and precise words and phrases to convey indescribable emotions, and to appreciate the colorfulness of society in not too voluminous a space, is indeed an artistic pleasure.
(Dai Congrong)