The Telemachiad

In the opening pages of Ulysses, James Joyce begins with a relatively straightforward narrative. It only takes a few pages before the narrative begins to degrade and the reader is forced to reckon with their own capacities to read. The pages oscillate like a the waves on a shore where the tide is moving in, with each chapter marking a key conquest of Joyce's tidal narrative sweeping over the reader's consciousness.

The result: Joyce is effectively teaching readers to read, or reteaching them to read; rereadteaching. He is forcing readers to layer their reading and often balancing the allusory, intertwined existence of the characters with the same weight as their physical existence, and the author's own propensity to challenge their writing capacity. While mainstream texts often prioritize the physical existence of the characters, the associative linguistic complexities of the characters of Ulysses exist along side their physical counterparts. For this reason, a hat cannot simply be a hat, and a yellow robe cannot simply be a robe. Instead, they exist with simultaneous weight with their linguitic developments and allusions.

At first, this shift might feel jarring. Stephen’s inner thoughts aren’t a stream of consciousness, but a deep, complex internal monologue. The narrator distinguishes themselves syntactically and grammatically, rather than visually; often their narration exists alongside Stephen's monologue within a paragraph, or even sentence. Initial readers of Ulysses can be disheartened and frustrated at first (as I was). However, this style becomes one of the novel's greatest joys.

The result is a complex labyrinth fitting for the Stephen Dedalus, a creator of labyrinths. Much like Stephen isolates himself and pushes away friends and family, the narrative is seemingly attempting to do the same with the reader. Yet, what happens if the reader pushes beyond that surface level defiance to be understood? What happens when readers don't abandon Stephen, despite him seemingly desiring nothing more?

This is the 'source key' for the Telemachiad, as far as I'm concerned. On the surface is a labyrinth of psychological defense mechanism desperate to avoid, isolate, and accost. Beneath that surface exists a scared child in the body of a gifted academic. The Dedalian labyrinths that intimidate, distract, or even inspire the readers are actually towers of sugar build on an oceanic shore. 

Reading Ulysses is an act of empathy. It can be turned into an intellectual exercise, a joke, an act of conquest, an act of erotica even (in the later chapters). However, to do so is to dismiss the characters entirely and get lost in the tapestry of style that coats something far more complex than any literary device: grief. 

So, as you wake through your reading of these chapters, never forget to return to that anchor: grief. A sigh of Stephen? Connect it to grief. A frustrated conversation? Grief is lingering under the surface. A riddle? The answer is clear, but how it is formed? A complex allusion? Joyce is effectively practicing a literary 'six degrees of separation' with (you guessed it) grief.

There's not much more to the Telemaid. Yet, there is so much more to it, too.