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Taking Lorca’s much-discussed claim for the realism and reality of La casa de Bernarda Alba as its starting point, this essay muses on Spanish literature’s tendency to revisit its allegedly inherent realist tradition. It looks at how this tradition was being seen widely as a weakness and considers how Damaso Alonso attacked such views as a myth, arguing that Spanish writers lie in fact between the Scylla of realism and a post-realist Charybdis, since they frequently look back to the artistic achievements of the Golden Age. The essay also recalls how Menendez Pidal identified a special ‘Hispanic realism’ and revisits his own discussion of the realism of Lorca’s play. The essay briefly recalls the post-war current of realist writing, describes the critique offered by novelists and commentators such as Goytisolo and Castellet, and closes on a personal note in describing a robust and more recent defence of a great realist novelist which, bizarrely, involved a critique of a course taught partly by the ...

For a long time, discussion of "Scylla and Charybdis" has tended to be over-mindful of the "[n]o" that Stephen answers when John Eglinton asks him whether he believes his theory about William Shakespeare (LI 9.1067).1 For some, in fact, it is as if the whole production had turned out to be a shaggy-dog story with a weak punchline. I question this evaluation and begin by suggesting that Joyce would not willingly have wasted his reader's time like that, especially in an episode that he considered the final curtain of his book's first half.2 After all, that word "believe" is one that Ulysses has invited us to fuss over ever since Haines asked Stephen, "You're not a believer, are you?" (U 1.611), and received no straight answer. In "Scylla and Charybdis/' the word's chief exponent is, again, Eglinton, who uses some version of it nine times, often with significantly dif ferent senses. For instance, right after the question to Stephen, he remarks of one Herr Karl Bleibtreu that "he believes his theory" (U 9.1077), That is, he, at least, believes his theory, unlike a certain young person present whom Eglinton could mention. Bleibtreu's theory was that Shakespeare's plays were written by Roger Manners, the fifth earl of Rutland, He had other beliefs too. He was a highly vocal anti-Semite (it was he who informed Joyce, doubtless with scorn,3 that the original name of the eminent Shakespearean Sir Sidney Lee was Simon Lazarus Lee?JJII 411), a paranoid Teutonophile obsessed with protecting Germany's volkische literature from foreign contamination, and, by the time "Scylla and Charybdis" was being written, someone who was literally identifying with Napoleon.4 Bleibtreu was, in short, a nut and is clearly to be taken as one. Indeed, the whole library discussion occurs against a background of nutty ideas about Shakespeare, all devoutly believed in by various cranks. In the episode's dialectic, this lot occupies the hard right. True believers, they correspond to the Scyllan rock-monster?the one with six maws for swallowing you up. They represent one way of getting Shakespeare wrong. At the other extreme is the woozy whirlpool

A comparison between Odyssey's book 12 and Aeneis' book 3 shows some similarities in the handling of the myth: Scylla and Charybdis are hidden creatures, which the reader of both the poems can glimpse only behind the veil of the description of the seers Elenus and Circe. In the Vergilian version, however, there are traces of the rationalizations of the myth operated by Sallust and Lucrece.

The inventorying work which has been carried out in Poland unceasingly since the 1950s has provided the basis for carrying out large-scale iconographical and iconological research. The main subject of the research is sacred art dating from the late 16th, 17th and 18th centuries. The majority of the works that have been studied were executed by anonymous artists working in provincial painting workshops. The message conveyed in the fine arts often does not provide the viewer with enough data to interpret it correctly, nor to gain a deeper understanding of the true meaning of church paintings. In the search for meaning it is essential to refer to the written word in its diverse forms. The character of sacred art largely determines the literary sources to which we refer. These consist primarily of collections of sermons, prayers and sacred songs. The use of the so-called indirect comparative method not only widens the scope of research through the use of selected examples of Polish religious texts but, most i...

The modern classical guitar is an instrument that has seen a great deal of change and experimentation in recent years with regards to its construction and concomitant sound production. Guitar builders are faced with the significant challenge of having to produce instruments that can adhere to aspects of playability and volume required of the modern instrument. This often results in having to sacrifice in some way the colour and sound so characteristic of the instrument as produced by the ‘traditional’ construction method consolidated by Spanish guitar builder Antonio de Torres. This uncomfortable position of having to sacrifice in one area in order to gain in another will be interrogated by investigating seven selected South African guitar builders. The manner in which they confront this challenge by adhering, to a greater or lesser degree, to two ‘poles’ of construction in line with international trends is highlighted. It is argued that this changing voice of the guitar is inherently part of wha...

El vituperio generaba identidad y señalaba a sujetos constitutivos de alteridad para el orador y su audiencia. En las Filípicas, Cicerón justificó la eliminación política de Marco Antonio situándolo junto a gentes infames, pervertidos, mujeres y bárbaros. Todos estos sujetos fueron descritos y relacionados con el léxico del campo semántico de la barbarie., Invective created identity and pointed at subjets constitutive of otherness from the point of view of the orator and his audience. Cicero stood up for the political murder of Antonius by placing him near to infamous people, degenerated individuals, women, and barbarians in the Philippics. All together were characterized and linked with the vocabulary of the barbarism semantic field.

The story of reliability is like the story of other technical and scientific disciplines. High and low points, good ideas and mistakes, sincere enthusiasm and fatigue, rigorous approaches and fads; we find these not only in art, culture and politics, but also in the world of engineering. It's always the same story, ever since the Tower of Babel: we are driven by ambition and pride. Many works of literature have lived for centuries and millennia: Homer, Dante Alighieri, Shakespeare and many others have spoken to us in a universal way. Their stories seem fresh and modem, because humankind is always the same, unable to understand and learn from errors. So we can always find similarities, for example between the Odyssey and the story of our field. Illusions, monsters, storms, errors and hope woven together.

To suggest his own biographical relationship to Ulysses Joyce has Stephen propose his expressive theory of the relationship between Shakespeare’s art and life. What makes Shakespeare a man of genius is that he encompassed in his vision “all in all in all of us” (U.213; IX.1049–50). Joyce recreates Shakespeare according to his own experience of him and thus becomes the father of his own artistic father and the artist whose imagination is so inclusive and vast that it contains the “all in all” of Shakespeare plus the very substantial addition — or, in current terminology, the supplement — of his own imagination. Like Joyce, Shakespeare used the details of everyday life for his subject: “All events brought grist to his mill” (U.204; IX.748). The major creative artist discovers in his actual experience the potential within his imagination: “He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible” (U.213; IX.1041–2).

The German Karl Bleibtreu (1859–1928), now largely forgotten, was an immensely prolific German writer, who published more than a hundred works ranging from epic and lyrical poems and plays to critical and scholarly writings. Joyce was interested in his book Die Losung der Shakespeare-Frage and incorporated the theory presented there, that the plays attributed to Shakespeare were actually written by Roger Manners, 5th Earl of Rutland, into the “Scylla and Charybdis” episode of Ulysses.

'Well!' thought Alice to herself. After such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down-stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home!' --Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland As the Odyssey's Circe turns from treacherous witch to helpful advisor and takes it upon herself to warn Odysseus against, first, the Sirens, and, second, the twin dangers that are Scylla and Charybdis, she curiously does not immediately proceed to discuss the latter pair. In her preamble, Circe begins by claiming that Odysseus's path is a matter of choice: one leads to the Clashing Rocks or Planctae, the other to Scylla and Charybdis (Od. 12.56-8). It quickly emerges, however, that Odysseus does not, in fact, have a choice: the Planctae, which spare not even the doves carrying ambrosia to Zeus, have only once been successfully crossed, and even so, only thanks to Hera's direct intervention (Od. 12.69-72). How formidable these rocks are can be glimpsed in the fact that the Planctae are known only by a name the gods have given them. In only one other instance does the Odyssey refer to this divine taxonomy--what scholars have called the "language of the gods"; it is when Hermes introduces the molu plant to Odysseus and discusses what makes it unique: (1) [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] (2) (And the gods call it "molu"; for mortal men / It is hard to dig up; the gods, however, are capable of everything, Od. 10.305-6). Like steering a ship through the treacherous Planctae, to find and dig up the molu is a simple matter for the gods; for mortals, the same task is not so easy. It is implicit in Odysseus's subsequent questions to Circe about how best to tackle Scylla that he does not for a moment consider the Planctae to be a real alternative. (3) Odysseus thus gives up beforehand on a trajectory that is doomed to failure as it leaves no room for him, as a mortal, as a hero without the direct divine protection enjoyed by the likes of Jason, to exercise his famed resourcefulness. There is a strong suggestion here that the Clashing Rocks may belong to a heroic past that cannot be revisited by Odysseus. Circe's introduction is thus significant, for it frames the hero's encounter with Scylla and her counterpart as, unlike the Planctae, a challenge that is not beyond remedy--provided he follows her advice to steer clear of Charybdis and thus stay closer to Scylla. And not only did Odysseus follow the advice, so have most commentators. The pair has been the object of many fruitful studies, but common to these treatments is a stress on Scylla, often to the neglect of Charybdis. Both monsters are, scholars agree, female, engulfing mouths, but Homer's own tendency to humanize Scylla while leaving Charybdis as landscape rather than fully gendered creature has slanted the traditional reading, favoring an interpretive close-up of Scylla. (4) Scholarly discourse, at its most fleshed-out, interprets the whirlpool as an extreme example of the anthropophagous, one of the Odyssey's main structuring themes, and largely leaves it at that. Yet, equally central to the description of Charybdis as a voracious mouth is the tall fig tree perched atop the lower crag that lies in the middle of the vortex. I argue in this paper that a close analysis of Charybdis, and of her unique combination of whirlpool, rock, and fig tree is essential for making sense, first, of the pair of which she is part, and, second, of the role that these two interconnected monsters play in shaping Odysseus as a distinctive kind of epic hero. (5) I suggest that Charybdis's importance lies not merely in being a danger of greater magnitude than Scylla, but in embodying a new type of monster. Charybdis is the threatening (although not absolutely fatal) landscape that Greek navigators must contend with in the real world, the world Odysseus seeks to return to. Scylla, by contrast, represents the old, perhaps even obsolete, model of the nightmarish monster, the kind encountered in the Theogony s catalogue of monsters, and the kind that Odysseus leaves behind, as he left behind Polyphemus in his shattered Golden Age. …

Two chapters, "Scylla and Charybdis" and "Penelope," in James Joyce's Ulysses are crucial to an understanding of the novel as a whole. "Scylla and Charybdis" stands midway in the novel, the ninth of eighteen chapters, and is designed to serve as a kind of exegesis of the writer's methods and intentions. An analysis of that chapter helps to explain the meaning of the controversial final chapter, "Penelope," and to clarify its thematic and stylistic relation to the text as a whole. Ulysses is the story of a quest, actually of many quests that all coalesce into a single goal: the search for value in a modern world that is somehow diminished and constructed in comparison with the Homeric world where mortals strode the universe in company with gods and goddesses. How, in this dwarfed setting, can men and women redefine heroism in secular humanistic terms relevant to twentieth-century life? Almost by definition a quest narrative culminates in the attainment of the goal or in the potential for its attainment; Joyce's Ulysses affirms this possibility in "Penelope."

Joyce's fascination for Shakespeare and his use of his work fuse in the "Scylla and Charybdis" episode of Ulysses. In that section the Shakespearean parallels, allusions, echoes, and references are ordered into a pattern rich in detail, rare in texture, and weighted with symbolic complexity. Elucidation of the meaning of "Scylla and Charybdis," in relation to the work as a whole, has been the subject of several studies. This essay does not attempt to work that extremely fertile ground. It is simply concerned with the structure of the episode and in particular with a structural pattern which has so far escaped notice.

When we think of a character for Joyce's aesthetics, we usually think of Stephen Daedalus, not Leopold Bloom. Stephen's neat aesthetic theories in A Portrait and in the "Scylla and Charybdis" episode of Ulysses overlap in many ways with Joyce's own. Stephen also resembles the young Joyce, of course-a thin tall lad with spectacles and rotting teeth-and his thought usually comes to us in a literary mask. For these reasons, he seems the logical one to comment on the "linguistic screens" and the "textual anonymity" that we have come to think of

Although it is a commonplace among Joyceans that the “Aeolus” episode in Ulysses is concerned with classical rhetoric, the degree and manner of the concern has not been well understood. This essay addresses both, arguing first that, besides the often-mentioned attention to rhetorical figures, the episode as a whole mirrors formally—and thus parodies—classical treatises on rhetoric like Cicero’s De Oratore and Plato’s Phaedrus and, second, that, with “Scylla and Charybdis,” “Aeolus” constitutes yet another entry in the ancient debate between the philosophers and the sophists. Unlike its classical forebears, however, Ulysses offers no easy answers to the problem of rhetoric, underscoring its dangers in “Aeolus” and its aesthetic potential in “Scylla and Charybdis.”

Cormac McCarthy's novel The Road contains at least one heretofore unrecognized likely allusion to Joyce's Ulysses: the father's description of his son as a “firedrake,” which recalls Stephen Dedalus's appellation for a bright celestial body that he (misleadingly) claims appeared in the sky at Shakespeare's birth in the ninth episode of the novel, “Scylla and Charybdis,” an event that his “adopted” father Leopold Bloom attempts to describe in pseudoscientific language in the seventeenth episode of the novel, “Ithaca.” McCarthy has the boy's father use this archaic word, which traditionally has meant “dragon,” to describe his son because he recognizes that his son is a spiritual shooting star and a potential future author who can narrate events morally as did Shakespeare and Joyce and even Stephen himself. Through apprehending his allusion to Joyce's novel, we gain a sense of both the boy's light-filled immanence in a line of sons going back to the original Son, Christ, and his emerging facility with narrative as author-in-the-making.

It is intrinsically plausible that theOdyssey, which freely uses realistic details of many aspects of life on and beside the sea, was informed by real seafaring experience. This paper corroborates that hypothesis. The first part catalogues parallels between details of Odyssean and real-world seafaring. Odyssean type-scenes in particular echo real practice. The second part argues that three larger episodes have real-world parallels—the visit to the Lotos Eaters anticipates incidents of sailors deserting in friendly ports; the escape from Skylla and Charybdis demonstrates a safe course through a turbulent strait, and the encounter with Ino / Leukothea foreshadows the contemporary phenomenon of a sensed presence during a crisis. The pattern of coincidence between theOdysseyand the real world of seafaring constitutes a cumulative argument that suggests that those episodes in particular, and the poem as a whole, was informed by that world—a conclusion with consequences both for our understanding of the poem, and for our knowledge of the early Mediterranean maritime.

(ProQuest: ... denotes non-US-ASCII text omitted.)John W. M. Krummel, Nishida Kitaro's Chiasmatic Chorology: Place of Dialectic and Dialectic of Place Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2015. 314 pages. Hardcover, $60.00. isbn 978-0-253-01753-6.The present volume is an inspiring analysis of Nishida Kitaro's ... dialectics, the philosophical method developed and employed by the founder of the socalled Kyoto School. It is easily one of the three most important English-language works on this pivotal philosopher and joins the ranks of James W. Heisig's Philosophers of Nothingness (2001) and Michiko Yusa's Zen and Philosophy: An Intellectual Biography of Nishida Kitaro (2002) as the must-read commentaries on a philosopher who pioneered the practice and discipline of comparative philosophy and whose significance for philosophy in general is increasingly being recognized around the world.1 What makes Krummel's work stand out is that on the one hand, he focuses on Nishida's philosophical method, and on the other explores it's relevance at the intersection of Continental and Buddhist philosophies.Krummel approaches the task of illuminating Nishida's "enigmatic assertions regarding 'contradictory self-identity,' 'inverse correspondence,' 'continuity of discontinuity" and 'self-negation,' which seem to shamelessly defy any allegiance to the logical law of non-contradiction" (1) in three steps: Part I, "Preliminary Studies" locates Nishida's philosophy at the intersection of Continental and Buddhist philosophies; Part II, "Dialectics in Nishida" traces the development of Nishida's philosophical method throughout his life work; and Part III, " Conclusions," attempts an interpretation of Nishida's philosophical method and system that is "original and challenging" (141). In all three sections, Krummel takes utmost pains to stay on the difficult path between the Scylla of repeating Nishida's enigmatic phrases without adding any interpretation or commentary and the Charybdis of venturing too far from the text to superimpose one's own philosophical beliefs every interpreter of Nishida is more than familiar with.In Part I, Krummel succeeds in locating Nishida's project in its proper historical context and identifying "a 'Buddhist metaphysic,' reformulated in the language of Western philosophy, hidden within Nishida's formulations" (165). Anyone familiar with Nishida knows that this claim is both appealing and problematic at the same time. On the one hand, Nishida clearly responds to philosophical problems and questions as formulated in Neo-Kantianism, and "Nishida's texts in general, except for his last few essays are short on any direct references to traditional Buddhist sources" (36). On the other hand, quite a few of his later conceptual constructions seem to reverberate Buddhist insights to varying degrees.While he attempted to overcome the Kantian dualism, as he himself professed in his Intuition and Reflection in Self-Consciousness (Jikaku ni okeru chokkan to hansei , ... NKZ 2) , Nishida did so in his later work by suggesting a middle path between Aristotle's "substance" and Plato's "forms" in his Fundamental Problems of Philosophy (Tetsugaku no konpon mondai ... NKZ 7) and between Spinoza's monism and Leibniz's monadology in Philosophical Essays Vol. 5 (Tetsugaku ronbunshu ... NKZ 10: 339-565). Krummel seeks the origin of Nishida's philosophy in Nishida's response to "Aristotle's substantialism" and "NeoKantian dualism" as well as in Hegel's dialectical philosophy. It is clearly in the latter that Nishida found his inspiration.In chapter 2, Krummel examines the ways in which the philosophies of Madhyamaka, Yogacara, Tiantai, Huayan, and Chan/Zen Buddhist philosophers as well as D. T. Suzuki's reading of the Diamond Sutra have responded to dualism and substantialism. He focuses specifically on the concepts of "emptiness" (sunyata), the "three natures" (trisvabhava), the "three truths" (sandi . …

“These two books [Theod. and Historia Norwegie] might be picked out of the Middle Ages on purpose to make a contrast of their style with the Icelandic saga. Th. . . . indulges in all the favourite medieval irrelevances, drags in the Roman historians and the Platonic year, digresses from Charybdis to the Huns, and embroiders his text with quotations from the Latin poets.” In this way, W. P. Ker highlights the radical differences between the sagas and Latin contemporary literature, in accordance with scholarly opinion of the nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. Ker’s perspective was in turn connected to the idea put forward by the Norwegian Historical School (Munch and Keyser) in the mid-nineteenth century that the sagas were based on oral tradition and contained trustworthy information about events in the distant past. This idea often had a background in the various national revivals of the nineteenth century, according to which the sagas formed part of a Scandinavian, Norwegian, or Icelandic heritage. T he understanding of the sagas as products of oral tradition was gradually weakened during the second half of the nineteenth century, before being rejected in its entirety by Lauritz Weibull in 1911.2 According to Weibull, the sagas, far from representing oral tradition, were in fact literary products that reflected their time of composition and were consequently useless as source material for events that had occurred several hundred years earlier. Weibull was mainly concerned with the use of the sagas as historical sources; but he also referred to literary loans as a way of explaining the origins of certain episodes in the sagas that had previously been understood as deriving from oral evidence.

“The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father." Thus jeered Buck Mulligan, ridiculing Stephen Dedalus’ chief obsession, the theme of paternity, which in all its various ramifications continued to haunt Stephen throughout the whole of Ulysses. Commentators have long recognized the importance of this father-son relationship for a proper understanding of Joyce's symbolism; indeed, Ulysses is largely the saga of Stephen's search for a father. In spite of this, I feel that it has never been adequately treated. It is true that Stuart Gilbert devotes a whole chapter of his book on Ulyssesto a discussion of the paternity theme, but since he uses theosophy as a Procrustean bed on which to fit Joyce's text, his treatment is necessarily somewhat limited. It is in the Scylla and Charybdis episode, somewhat neglected by commentators, that we may hope to find an answer to the following questions: "Why was Stephen Dedalus not satisfied with ordinary fatherhood, the relationship with Simon, his consubstantial father; and what was the particular relation for which he quested?" The Scylla and Charybdis episode, usually known as the Library scene, so called because it takes place in the National Library in Kildare Street, is significant because of the light which it throws on Stephen's relations with his father and mother. Here Stephen expounds a theory concerning Shakespeare's family, based principally on a study of Hamlet, and, under cover of this exposition, propounds a theory of fatherhood and rids his soul of some of the bitterness caused by his relations with his own family.

Much criticism of Joyce falls into three camps: one that understands Joyce as an exemplar of artistic autonomy; another that finds in the author’s language a hybridity that resists the logic of colonialism; and a third that locates his works’ politics in their narrative material. This essay argues for a fourth position: that a distinct anti-imperial politics can be located in the style of Ulysses , if style is construed not at the level of the sentence but rather at that of the word. In the inauguration (in “Proteus”) and strategic and asymmetrical deployment (in “Scylla and Charybdis”) of the portmanteau, Joyce attempts to create a language that surpasses Standard English and the political project it supports.

Since the 1920s, criticism on Sir Walter Scott, has ironically oscillated between the Scylla of presenting Scott as the progressive founder of the historical novel, and the Charybdis of being considered the first British author of international best sellers of a questionable literary merit. The former view, of course, comes from the work of Hungarian critic Georg Lukacs, and more specifically from his groundbreaking The Historical Novel (1947), a book of criticism in which he put forward a critical approach that emphasized how 'great novels' should link their narrative elements (characters mainly, but also all kinds of descriptions, motifs, themes, point of view etc...) to the material conditions of existence of a given historical moment. For Lukacs, the genuine historical (or 'total') novel appears with Sir Walter Scott, although this writer's conscious political allegiance was, nevertheless and according to the Hungarian scholar, utterly reactionary (Lukacs 8-12). However, the novels of this Scottish author, Lukacs argues, present the reader with the progressive disintegration of residual, aristocratic, social forms as a consequence of the emergence of capitalism (the bourgeoise) (3-19). Additionally, Scott - for Lukacs -understood how historical events intervene in the affairs of ordinary people, who in his novels appear as characters who are not either modernized or made our contemporaries. In other words, if, until Scott, historical novels had merely portrayed their historical characters with superficial 'historicized' features, and characters had been simply presented in 'historical' settings, Scott went beyond that formula in order to offer his readers a connection with "vividly exposed 'typical' conflicts and dynamics of their societies" (Eagleton 30), becoming, albeit his reactionary character in other respects, a literary figure of gigantic proportions: for Lukacs, Scott was the first writer to articulate the true historical novel (Lukacs 3).But - as mentioned above - there is another earlier and similarly influential approach to Scott's fiction, one that presents the Scottish writer as, basically and solely, a good narrator of considerable commercial success, and this comes from another seminal work, namely E.M. Forster's Aspects of the Novel (1927). In this collection of lectures, Forster developed an approach to Scott's fiction that, far from finding in Scott's narrative any insightful perception of something like the Lukacsian true historical consciousness, emphasized Scott's allegedly superficial and facile story-telling ability. For Forster there was no realization of the historical forces of an epoch "revealing their unfolding potential in its fullest complexity" (Eagleton 28); instead, he argued that Scott has "a trivial mind and a heavy style"; that he "cannot construct" and that he "has neither artistic detachment nor passion" (Forster 44). In Forster's words, Scott "only has a temperate heart and gentlemanly feelings, and an intelligent affection for the countryside" (44). Furthermore, even his integrity as a writer is easily discarded as "commercial integrity" 44). His commercial success is simply a consequence of his being a "reminder of early happines" (45), of his being "entangled with happy sentimental memories" (44-5). All of which, of course, "is not basis enough for great novels" (44)}The object of such contradictory perceptions, Walter Scott (1771-1832), was the sheriff of Selkirk and son of a magistrate. He eventually became more a humanist than a lawyer: a translator (of Goethe and several French authors) as well as a fluent reader of Cervantes in Spanish and of Ariosto in Italian, an editor of Swift and Dryden, a poet (rival and friend of Byron), an antiquarian and philologist, and, above all, an extremely reputed and successful fiction writer. Interestingly, this dichotomy seems to extend to his self-appointed role as a writer involved in promoting the Union of Scotland and England and advancing the British Empire, to the extent that, in spite of his tremendous success as a fiction writer, it is sometimes difficult to say how seriously he took his own writing from a strictly literary point of view, as we can judge from the following statement reproduced by Thomas Carlyle:But how soon he had any definite object before him in his researches seems very doubtful. …

The Satyricon as a whole has long been recognized as deeply indebted to the Odyssey , both in its individual episodes and as an adventure narrative, and perhaps even as an extended parody of Homer9s poem. However, the longest extant episode of the Satyricon , the Cena Trimalchionis , has traditionally been thought to contain only glancing references to the Odyssey . This article demonstrates the importance of the Odyssey as a primary intertext for the Cena Trimalchionis . While Plato9s Symposium and Horace9s Satire 2.8 are recognized influences on the Cena , Odysseus9s visit to the Phaeacians and the account he gives there of his adventures are even more systematically and repeatedly alluded to, evoked, and reworked in the Cena . Petronius appropriates episodes from the adventures of Odysseus from his arrival on Scheria to his encounters with the Lotus-Eaters, Circe, Scylla and Charybdis, the Sirens, and the Cyclops. These and other episodes are transmuted and incorporated into the world and experience of Trimalchio9s dinner party in a variety of ways: as clever extended allusions, as epic reworked in folktale form, as contemporary events occurring in the midst of Trimalchio9s dinner party. What emerges from this discussion is the recognition that the Cena Trimalchionis is much more integrated into the overall narrative and thematics of the rest of the Satyricon than heretofore appreciated.

This article highlights main features of two preeminent theological approaches to original sin inspired by Girard’s theory, which were independently developed in the late 1990s by James Alison and Raymund Schwager SJ—both standard works representing the “state of the art” within mimetic theory. Tracing also the quest for “positive mimesis,” the article considers ambiguous Girardian passages, features some arguments advanced in the controversy, and outlines a proposal for understanding positive mimesis beyond the Scylla of a “beautification of mimesis” and the Charybdis of an ontologization of violence.

The Word Known to All Men; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love James Joyce Kiberd, Declan. 2009. Ulysses and Us: The Art of Everyday Life in Joyce's Masterpiece. New York: Norton. $28.95 hc. $17.95 sc. xi + 400 pp.Utell, Janine. 2010. James Joyce and the Revolt of Love: Marriage, Adultery, Desire. New York: Palgrave. $75.00 hc. x +177 pp.John Lennon-a closet James Joyce scholar who even subscribed to the James Joyce Quarterly in the 1970s-claimed in the 1967 hit song by The Beatles that "all you need is love." Since its original publication in 1922, some critics have suggested that love is all you need to break through the thorny thicket of complexity presented by Joyce's experimental style in Ulysses (not to mention the subsequent, and even more daunting, Finnegans Wake in 1939), a style that shifts and evolves from episode to episode. Joyce himself hinted that the novel was his epic affirmation of that "[w]ord known to all men," as his literary alter-ego Stephen Dedalus puts it in the "Scylla and Charybdis" episode of Ulysses (Joyce 1986,429-430). That "word" is widely interpreted as love, and love is the subject of Joyce's great, human epics.Reading Ulysses simultaneously as Joyce's treatise on the nature of love and as a kind of love letter to love is nothing new. The most widely accepted theory on why Joyce selected June 16, 1904 as the date his epic of a single day takes place is because that was possibly the date that he first went out with his lifelong partner and future wife, Nora Barnacle. Such a reading makes the book, on one level, a kind of anniversary present, a token of love for the love of Joyce's life. One of the originators of the theory that the date of Ulysses had this biographical origin, Richard Ellmann, is also one of the first proponents of the idea that, in spite of all the stylistic bells and whistles, the "theme in Ulysses was simple" (Joyce 1986, ix). Ellmann and others have established an interpretive tradition that Ulysses is essentially about love, the entire spectrum of love from the eros to agape. According to this interpretation, Joyce's epic fits into a tradition of narratives of love and reconciliation in an attempt to apply epic conventions to subject matter that is all-toohuman. Or, as Ellmann himself puts it, "Ulysses revolts against history as hatred and violence, and speaks in its most intense moments of their opposite" (xiv), namely Stephen's "word known to all men." Despite ostensible differences in tone, style, and method, Declan Kiberd and Janine Utell both recognize that Ulysses is concerned with love as the most complex and the most human of emotions. Each text offers a critical reappraisal of Joyce's work emphasizing what one can still learn from reading Joyce in the early twenty-first century, and how one might learn again to love reading Joyce. As a result, their books represent an important step in restoring a sense of humanity to an author whose texts have been relegated to the status of relics for specialists."Ulysses" and Us: The Art of Everyday Life in Joyce's Masterpiece, Declan Kiberd's ode to the ordinary in Ulysses, attempts to find some middle ground between the extremes of unabashed praise and unqualified contempt by arguing that what makes the book great is exactly that which it celebrates: its humanness. Kiberd's task, taken up by others before him, is to save Joyce's book from its abstraction into inscrutable theory by "specialist elites" (2009, 10) and to return it into the hands of the ever-elusive "common reader" (17). He argues that Ulysses "should be accessible to ordinary readers as once were the Odyssey, the New Testament, the Divine Comedy and Hamlet" (21). Making an argument that Joyce was as much Romantic as Modern in his celebration of the minutiae of everyday life, Kiberd claims that "[i]t is time to reconnect Ulysses to the everyday lives of real people," for it-according to Kiberd- still has much to teach "real people" (11). …

A TOPOLOGY OF THE SENSIBLE Michel Serres, The Five Senses: A Philosophy of Mingled Bodies, London, Continuum, 2008; 364pp, £19.99 paperback There is a tendency towards the hagiographie that runs through commentary on Michel Serres. Some of this is undoubtedly well deserved as recompense for the relative neglect of his work in the Anglophone academic world. The translation into English of only limited parts of his now extensive body of publications (running to 50 plus books) has robbed this contemporary of Foucault and Deleuze of the critical attention and acclaim lavished on his peers. Matters may well now be changing with the recent re-publication of die translation of one of his finest works - The Parasite - and the very welcome and long overdue translation of The Five Senses. Whilst there is much to celebrate here, a few words of caution are also in order. Published originally in 1985, this is a long book that demonstrates that by this mid-point in his career Serres was unconstrained by the demands of prudent editing. The tone of much of the book is poetic, rhapsodic and allusive - readers in search of clear citation or footnotes, which show the 'workings out', will need to brace themselves. Structurally the book is elliptical and rather bloated in places (the third chapter in particular is a long haul). There are wince-inducing moments throughout, notably around the gender and class politics of the text. The sections that reflect Serres' complex relationship to Christianity will also likely leave some readers cold, as will the unpalatable bon vivant theme diat dominates one chapter which the publisher has mystifyingly chosen to highlight on the front cover and the back cover text. ARE YOU STILL HERE? Good. Now the reasons why you nevertheless need to read this book. Much has rightly been made of the theoretical turn toward affect and sensibility. Yet much of it is mired in somewhat outmoded notions of perception, such as the idea of the senses acting as automatic filters of inputs structured by habit. In such an approach the tendency is to insist on the prioritisation of one 'repressed' sense (e.g. touch) above another 'dominant' sense (e.g. vision). Thus the agenda is set to turn from visual culture to auditory culture, olfactory culture and so on. Serres, by contrast, provides a challenge to the template on which we consider sensation itself and its relationship to philosophies of knowledge. Rather than consider these issues in the abstract or through direct discussion of key philosophical precursors, Serres chooses an empirical path. Every page is alive with rich descriptions of feeling, sensing, apprehending, engaging, living. This is a vibrant text that is at times overwhelming in its channelling of the noise of the world as it erupts through the body. Serres' writing is well known for its insistence on 'taking the long way home', as Tom Waits has it. The journey here is particularly circuitous, beginning with a tall tale of a fire on a ship and passing by way of the death of Socrates, the drunken Platonic symposium, the Last Supper, Orpheus in the underworld and Ulysses navigating Scylla and Charybdis. In its course look out for tattoos, trampolines, ritual dismemberment, the fairytale 'glass' slipper, Captain Nemo and a bottle of 1 947 Yquem. But also prepare for stunning meditations on the nature of empiricism, the resistance of the body to language, and subjectivity as a multiply mediated distribution of sensory engagements. The division of the body's sensory capacities into a fivefold scheme is deeply embedded in Western Culture. It has its roots in the Aristotelian conception of special senses which would underpin common sense. With die assistance of memory and imagination, these senses form the 'passive' components of consciousness. Being rooted in the world of appearance, they are considered as inferior, yet necessary, capacities in contrast with the power of thought and geometric reason. …

In this article I will pursue the meaning of the word known to all men in Joyce’s Ulysses. The sentence appears three times in the novel in three different locations that each adds meaning to it in diverse ways. First it appears in ‘Proteus’ where it is associated with Stephen’s amorous longings; latter is turns up in ‘Scylla and Charybdis’ where it is inscribed within a scholastic and Thomistic discussion of love; eventually it appears in ‘Circe’ where the anguished Stephen is confronted with his dead and dreaded mother, who reminds him of the interdependence of maternal love (amor matris) and the inescapable common lot of all, namely death. The importance of love to the understanding of the sentence is, in addition, deepened by the circumstance that Bloom, as an embodiment and representation of love, is present at all of the textual locations of the sentence.

A few hours before Bloom meets his Nausicaa on Sandymount beach, Stephen meets his Scylla and Charybdis in the Irish National Library. The Dublin intelligentsia have convened to discuss art and artists, in particular Shakespeare, and there seems to be a general agreement that a work of art should be approached by way of its author's biography. When Stephen has expounded his theory that Shakespeare is to be equated with Hamlet's father, the talk turns to other recent scholarship in that vein: The most brilliant of all is that story of Wilde's, Mr Best said, lifting his brilliant notebook. That Portrait of Mr. W. H. where he proves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all hues. ... It's the very essence of Wilde, don't you know. The light touch. (9.522-30) Wilde's short story, which suggests that the sonnets were written for (not by) a Willie Hughes, was published in 1889, adding to a controversy more than a century old. As early as 1766, Thomas Tyrwhitt had argued that "Mr. W. H.," according to Shakespeare's dedication the "onlie begetter" of his sonnets, was a young actor named Willie Hughes. There was virtually no historical evidence to support this hypothesis; its proponents mainly relied on the line from sonnet 20, "A man in hue all hues in his controlling," and on the recurrent puns on the name Will, which, of course, might just as well refer to the author himself. For the informed scholar of 1904, however, Wilde's would not have been the most recent contribution to the debate. Only five years before, in 1899, Samuel Butler had published Shakespeare's Sonnets Reconsidered, where he took up Tyrwhitt's hypothesis to argue that if read in the "proper" sequence, the sonnets yield further information about the background and character of Mr. Hughes. The addressee, he claimed, was a young man of modest standing, good-looking and popular but vain and heartless; in consequence, "his character developed badly, and ... before the end of the year he had got himself a bad name" (137). Given the discussion that precedes Mr. Best's remark, it is reasonable to assume that his mistaken attribution of authorship to Willie Hughes is not an error on Joyce's part but another allusion to the theme, recurrent in Ulysses, of covert self-portraiture. The same, I believe, applies to the indirect reference to Butler, which acquires unexpected significance at a later point in the novel. The works of Samuel Butler have often been identified as a probable influence on Joyce. Until recently, scholars focused on The Way of All Flesh as a precursor to the Joyce canon, and especially to that other bildungsroman on the verge of modernism, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. (1) New inquiries were incited when the list of books in Joyce's Trieste library was published in Richard Ellmann's The Consciousness of Joyce (1977). Besides The Way of All Flesh, the list includes four other works by Butler: Shakespeare's Sonnets Reconsidered, Erewhon, The Humor of Homer, and The Authoress of the Odyssey. As its title suggests, it is the last of these books that can be read most profitably against Joyce's works, especially Ulysses. A scholarly study published in 1897, 'The Authoress argues that the Homeric Odyssey was actually written by a Sicilian girl who portrayed herself in the figure of Nausicaa. The book met with critical reservations on its appearance but soon achieved a certain notoriety among students of the Homeric poems. Joyce was among these students, and since The Authoress was on his bookshelf at the time, it is reasonable to assume that he had Butler's hypothesis in mind when he wrote the Nausicaa episode of Ulysses in 1919-20. (2) Critics have occasionally speculated about the influence Butler's study might have had on Joyce's conception of Ulysses. Hugh Kenner, who first drew attention to specific intertextual links, sees a parallel between the description of Telemachus's tower in The Authoress and the Martello Tower where Ulysses opens ("Homer's Sticks and Stones" 293). …

In this dissertation, I am concerned with the specific relationship between William Blake's Milton and James Joyce's Ulysses. In chapter one, I excavate and examine Joyce's acknowledgement of a deep debt to Blake and especially to Milton through a long series of texts extending from his 1902 essay on James Clarence Mangan to selected passages of Finnegans Wake. These acknowledgements indicate that the ground of this debt was Blake's self-reflexive analysis within Milton of the formal and material properties of the written text. In chapter two, I review the contemporary theoretical debate on writing and intertextuality and adumbrate the relation of these areas of debate to Milton and Ulysses. My assumption throughout is that both Blake and Joyce saw a close relation between a writer's formal approach to language and his historical posture. In chapter three, I analyze writing and intertextuality in Milton and begin to extract the set of definable structural relations that are the basis of my collocation of Milton and Ulysses. In chapter four, I look first at A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man because the earlier novel is Joyce's most lyrical and Romantic text and because he completed it at a crucial point in his relation to Blake. Then I examine four chapters of Ulysses. Two of these chapters, "Proteus" and "Sirens", contain an extensive analysis of the structure of the written sign and its relation to other modes of communication. The other two, "Scylla and Charybdis" and "Cyclops", present positive and negative structures of intertextuality. Milton, I maintain, was one of Joyce's intertextual sources for the analysis of Shakespeare's creative and erotic life in "Scylla and Charybdis", as well as for the overall borrowing and transforming of the narrative pattern of the Odyssey. I conclude by defining the set of linguistic and historical relations that link Milton and Ulysses.

����� ��� idway through Stephen Dedalus’s famous analysis of Hamlet in the “Scylla and Charybdis” episode of Ulysses, Buck Mulligan appears in Mr. Lyster’s office to read aloud from the telegram Stephen sent to him at the Ship: “The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done” (U 9.550-51). Stephen has signed the telegram himself, but he does not reveal to Mulligan that he has cribbed the definition from George Meredith’s The Ordeal of Richard Feverel; moreover, since the cryptic sentence is, in fact, a misquotation, the actual authorship of the quotation becomes further obscured. 1 Even more confusing is the fact that neither Stephen nor the text of Ulysses ever bothers to make clear to whom he refers in the telegram. Is the telegram intended to apply to Buck Mulligan, or does it refer to Stephen himself, the acknowledged debtor both to Mulligan and to the poet George Russell? 2 Does it, perhaps, refer to both men simultaneously? 3 Finally, what does the quotation suggest is to be “enjoyed,” and what would constitute an “immense debtorship for a thing done”? The more closely we look at the definition of a “sentimentalist” that the quotation offers, the less definitive it truly seems. The term's full meaning remains strikingly still in abeyance. The definitions not only of a sentimentalist but also of sentimentalism, sentimentality, and sentiment itself have yet to be satisfactorily addressed in Joyce’s fiction. In a crucial article, Clive Hart argues, “The Joycean modes of sentimentality require closer and more careful scrutiny than they have hitherto received.” 4 While certain Joyceans have given passing attention to the presence of sentimentality in Joyce’s corpus in the thirty-five years since Hart’s call, a full inquiry into what the term “sentimentality” means with regard to Joyce’s position as a modernist has largely remained unaccomplished. 5 This stands as an especially important task for Joyce scholarship in that Ulysses questions what constitutes sentimentality and its related terms, a pressing engagement both for the 1904 bourgeois Dublin the novel depicts and for the 1916-1922 modernist milieu in which Joyce composed the text. This essay traces the sentimental novelistic tradition within which Ulysses is situated to show why the identification of

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust: A Tragedy, Part 1. Trans. Mike Smith. Bristol: Shearsman Books, 2012.205 pp.Mike Smith, author of three volumes of poetry and assistant professor of poetry at Delta State University, has produced a new English translation of the first part of Goethe's Faust. Given the sheer volume of Faust translations, in prose and in verse, and of annotated English editions, the appearance of a new translation may raise some difficult questions. What, after all, does a new version of Faust offer that cannot be readily found in the dozens of available English versions?Smith is aware of these possible objections to the mere existence of his book, and he responds to them in his translator's note, writing that a new version of Faust "may seem difficult to justify" before calling his work "a project that has become deeply personal" (11). This remark speaks to why it is necessary to translate Faust anew: By and large, those for whom Faust is an object of literary-historical interest either read German or will be satisfied with any one of a number of adequately accurate translations. But for those to whom the play offers a chance to be "unsettled," as Smith puts it, every new version is a new chance to experience the text in a slightly different way, or else a new possible point of entry to Goethe's creation. Smith testifies that the process of translating Faust can be deeply personal; it should go without saying that to do so is to open the door to the complementary personal experience of reading it. Translation as the multiplier of potential personal encounters with the text: this sounds closely akin to Goethe's own support of translation as the basis for intercultural communication at the personal and national level, as "eines der wichtigsten und wurdigsten Geschafte in dem allgemeinen Weltverkehr" (GA 14:933). A new translation is not a competition with previous translations but a reminder of the freshness of the classic text and a renewal and expansion of its presence on our bookshelves and in our minds.As for the mechanics of this particular translation, Smith lays out some of the choices he has made. His translation is in verse, but it is not a transposition of Goethe's meter. He writes that he sought "to represent the sense and fluidity of Goethe's variable line in a thoroughly contemporary idiom. To accomplish this, I have collapsed and broken lines for my own purposes and frequently relied on off-rhyme" (11). I consider this a sound strategy-sailing between the Scylla of slavish duplication of meter and rhyme and the Charybdis of inattention to the text's poetic resonance. Nevertheless, the off-rhyme is so frequent that the ear must strain at times to catch even a hint of true rhyme. One notable stanza in Faust's first soluoquy offers nine lines near-rhymed in an ababacdcd pattern, in which every single combination except the third and fifth rhymes is imperfect (the analogous lines in the German rhyme perfectly in pairs, with Smith having inserted a stanza break to disrupt the first pair). …

V A U hat is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who M m m m has faded into impalpability through death, through absence, W lf through change of manners" (?79.147-149). According to Ste? phen Dedalus' definition of the ghost in the "Scylla and Charybdis" chapter of Ulysses, anyone living "out-of-time"(even due to something as seemingly inconsequential as a "change in manners") can be incorporated into ghostliness. Central to this understanding ofthe ghost is the provision that the ghost need not have died before returning in spectral form. Indeed, throughout Ulysses the lines between living and dead are blurred, and the paralysis which Joyce identi? fies at the core of Ireland has the peculiar effect of transforming the characters into ghosts, trapped between life and death. The state of living death caused by the paralysis at the heart of Irish life means that Ireland is a place where the living and the dead indistinguishably haunt the streets and interiors, the fields and tombs. Ireland is a country populated by ghosts. Joyce's use of the Gothic as a mode of expression, available to comment upon a situation engendered out of deep and repeated trauma, develops, I believe, out of his reading of earlier writers who adapted Gothic techniques to their own ends. Any reading of Joyce's Gothic must therefore look to Joyce's predecessors as the starting point, the omphalos of the Joycean Gothic. In particular, the nineteenth century poet James Clarence Mangan wrote ofthe effects ofthe Great Famine in terms ofthe living dead. Joyce had more than a casual interest in Mangan's writing, for he wrote several lectures upon Mangan, focusing on the notion ofthe poet as a symbol ofthe nation. In these lectures, Joyce simultaneously praises and condemns the poet, revealing a nuanced understanding of Mangan's verse which he puts to greater use in portraying