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Movement and Words: Thought, Activity, And Narrative Style in Ulysses

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Ulysses is set in Dublin but also in a pair of minds in Dublin, those of Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom. The reader follows these characters through most of the novel and experiences Joyce's Dublin through the lenses of these characters' perceptions, never receiving a piece of information free from judgment or inclination. Bloom and Stephen are no stock protagonists, each a wheeling mess of thought incessantly and obsessively examining both their surroundings and their own workings. The reader does not experience Joyce's Dublin but rather experiences Stephen and Bloom experiencing Dublin. The opening of "Lestrygonians" exemplifies these characters' place in the novel. The episode begins, "Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl shoveling scoopfuls of creams for a Christian brother. Some school treat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His Majesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking red jujubes white" (U 8.1-4). The physical scene, here, is secondary in importance to Bloom's methods of observation and presentation, his eccentric and shifting means of engaging his surroundings. In these brief lines, we find an expansive, restless mind. Bloom starts with plain reportage, listing the foods. Then, though, he plays with alliteration—"A sugarsticky girl shoveling scoopfuls of creams"—adopts the language of a parent talking to a young child—"Bad for their tummies"—and finally sidetracks himself thinking of the King. Even within this tangential line of thought, Bloom thinks alinearly, moving from "King" to "God. Save. Our." The poetic impulse evident in Bloom's earlier alliteration now returns with "Sitting on his throne sucking red jujubes white," and a hint of music lurks also; "God. Save. Our." may establish the rhythm of the mental waltz to which the following sentence adheres.

As Bloom's frenetic presence shows, thought is an essential concern in Ulysses. Joyce presents thought not as a cold, scientific exercise, but as a feverish combination of hopes, opinions, calculations, prejudices, fears, and denials. Very rarely is it a rational undertaking; it is instead whimsical or misguided in some aspect, as evidenced in Bloom's frequent imprecise lists. Stephen, too, thinks in a haphazard but attentive manner that draws the reader's attention. Franz Stanzel writes of Stephen's reading a letter early in Ulysses, "The emphasis is clearly on what Stephen's mind makes of this letter—for instance, it characteristically picks out the stylistic clichés and oddities contained in it. Here Stephen functions as a reflector-character...Had an (authorial) narrator given the contents of this letter, the focus of the reader's attention would have shifted to the writer of the letter, Mr. Deasy, and to its actual contents, which, evidently, was not the intention of Joyce" (251). Stephen exists not to communicate the nature of his surroundings but to communicate his understanding of those surroundings and the methods of his own mind. The characters of Ulysses, even when they seem to serve as presenters of the novel's action, are the primary subjects, the nature of their thoughts themselves often more important than the material those thoughts communicate.

If Ulysses unequivocally presents thought as worthy of attention, it is less sure of its effectiveness. Bloom and Stephen are both marked by inactivity, a kind of thought-induced paralysis. Each character has a driving desire—for Stephen, to write and create artistically; for Bloom, to find peace in his relationship with his wife Molly—that remains unfulfilled. Each character's approach to fulfilling his desire lacks tangible activity; Bloom eventually rationalizes Molly's infidelity without resorting to confrontation while Stephen avoids actually writing.

With Bloom and Stephen, Joyce examines the roles of thought and action in the age of modernism. Ulysses's shifting narrative styles are crucial to this undertaking, creating an undeniable and almost physical activity within the text just as a certain physicality is evident in Bloom's and Stephen's thoughts. In a novel concerned largely with upsetting binaries, Joyce chooses as one of his main targets the divide between thought and action, the interior and exterior, the considered and the accomplished, utilizing shifting style to demonstrate the fragility of the distinction between these two concepts in the modern world.

Critics have written about Joyce's stylistic concerns at great length, and a central debate has emerged over whether Joyce's experiments in Ulysses demonstrate the insufficiency and arbitrariness of language or have more nuanced aims, asking the reader to "trust" certain voices while distrusting others. Karen Lawrence typifies the perspective of the former camp, writing, "As the narrative norm is abandoned during the course of (Ulysses) and is replaced by a series of styles, we see the arbitrariness of all styles. We see styles as different but not definitive ways of filtering and ordering experience." (Lawrence, 9). In this conception, Joyce's subject, language, is its own device; he shifts his narrative style enough that the reader will eventually see the fundamental folly of the narrative and recognize that no narrative mode sufficiently portrays its content.

Weldon Thornton represents those who consider Joyce's aims less direct. He writes that Joyce refused stylistic relativism as evidence by the fact that "Joyce's earlier works—Dubliners and Portrait—clearly do involve values, such as the wish to expose various sources of paralysis, including the ways that certain modes of language can paralyze us, and it seems plausible to see Ulysses as consistent with those human and aesthetic values, rather than having abandoned them" (39). In Thornton's understanding, Joyce opens Ulysses with a narrative voice that he sanctions before contrasting this voice with those in the later episodes, which are intentionally disruptive. "Thus the full-fledged initial style provides a normative base that underlies even the later episodes," Thornton writes," where the narrative voice becomes aberrant" (40). He argues, "Joyce devoted so much time and energy to developing this array of styles in Ulysses not because he was a relativist, but in order to expose for his readers certain modes of language and received ideas and attitudes that would inhibit their lives" (95).

While both sides of this critical debate recognize that the shifting styles in Ulysses are more than just an aesthetic exercise, both assume that Joyce uses language to make a statement about language, that his narrative style is its own subject. Thornton and Lawrence largely neglect the characters to whom these styles are attached, even as Bloom and Stephen appear to have more influence on the narrative style than most protagonists are afforded. I will argue that Joyce uses narrative as a tool but not as a subject; he is concerned with representing the human psyche as an active, tumultuous thing best reflected on the page by an assortment of narrative modes.

Even within a single episode, the narrative style changes to accommodate a character's shifting thoughts or mood. In "Proteus", in which a brooding Stephen reflects on his life and his hopes while walking along a beach, the tone shifts from uncaring and almost lazy to hopefully poetic. As Stephen thinks about his quotidian responsibilities, the narrative reads, "Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy's letter. Here. Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled words. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter" (U 3.404-407). The narrative reflects Stephen's frustrations. Joyce chooses quick, percussive words - "blast," "tear," "blank, "rock"—and favors short sentences and fragments, but the larger narrative framework works towards the same goal, the interruption of omniscient narration with Stephen's thoughts suggesting a frustrated indifference. Paragraphs later, though, Stephen's poetic impulse returns. Looking at the water, Stephen or the narrator notes, "It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. / Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds" (U 3.458-463). Here, Joyce does not merely match the brief lift in Stephen's spirits with a poetic narrative voice; he matches it with a narrative voice beginning to be poetic. The alliteration-laden sentence "It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling" reads less like a polished poetic observation than a series of considered and discarded lines, a poetic trial-and-error with which Stephen is surely familiar. The tone shifts and responds to Stephen's thoughts from sentence to sentence and from paragraph to paragraph, demonstrating Joyce's concern with tying narrative style to the characters' concerns.

Even outside the stream of consciousness style of "Proteus", Joyce retains the close connection between the thoughts of characters and narrative style. He writes of Bloom's avoiding looking at Boylan, "Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him that they she sees? Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes feel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails" (U 6.200-204). Here, Joyce almost diagrams the mind, as Bloom's simply processing and recognizing what his eyes see, the nails, sits beside hastily arranged considerations of weightier matters and quick assignments of labels. Joyce does not describe Bloom's mind; he follows and mimics it with his language.

Hugh Kenner, in Ulysses, writes of the relation between narrative and thought. He writes, "Fussing with the absurd complications posed by Keyes' trivial ad—Can the crossed-keys design be obtained? Will 'puffs' be forthcoming? Can Keyes be persuaded to renew for a sufficient span?—(Bloom) has room for but a single hasty thought of Eccles Street: 'I could go home still: tram: something I forgot' (U 7.230)" (52). Kenner's choice of words here is telling; Bloom does not lack "time" but "room." The narrative and Bloom's thoughts are conflated at this point, and there is no practical difference between lacking time and lacking space on the page.

Joyce's attention to his characters' thoughts, however, is ambivalent. While Stephen and Bloom are the novel's central characters, they fail to find success, often retreating to the familiarity of thought when a less cerebral course of action may prove beneficial. Stephen never writes, preferring instead to think about writing, while Bloom fails to confront Molly about her relationship with Boylan, instead asking in in the catechistic "Ithaca", "If he had smiled why would he have smiled?" and answering, "To reflect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be first, last, only and alone whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a series origination in and repeated to infinity" (U 17.2126-31). Again, narrative and thought are tied, as the structure of the catechism reflects Bloom's attempts to hide behind his own thought. Bloom's answer runs unnecessarily long; his repetition of "nor" and general neurosis of language is a sort of linguistic pacing.

Bloom and Stephen are routinely seized by a paralysis of thought, their reflections getting in the way of fulfilling basic desires. Nowhere is this better exemplified than in Joyce's use of animals, which are throughout the novel placed opposite the cerebral central characters as agents of action, things that fulfill desires and act on impulses without extensive consideration. Real or imagined, literal or figurative, the presence of the animal illuminates Bloom's and Stephen's inactivity. As Bloom witnesses men eating in a bar, he notes, "Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin. New set of microbes. A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shoveled gurgling soup down his gullet" (U 8.654-59). Here, the men are presented as beasts, and Bloom, who has been looking for food, decides against eating at the bar. He is displeased by the bar's cleanliness, as evidenced by his recognition of a "new set of microbes," but his primary displeasure derives from the behavior of the men so ruthlessly acting, refusing to disguise their desire for food behind manner or implication. Their behavior betrays no refinement, no evidence of consideration. Bloom is perhaps less disgusted by the microbes than by the likelihood that none of the bar's patrons recognizes their potential presence.

Stephen similarly finds vulgarity in animalistic action. In Nestor, as he considers what is the "true thing in life" (U 2:144), Stephen remembers his mother and then thinks, "A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped" (U 2:147-150). Here, Stephen constructs a straightforward dichotomy; his mother, a symbol of the "true" and "poor," is aligned opposite a cruel, base beast. The fox acts with an instinctual violence—"scraped and scraped"—and lacks apparent thought or feeling. Its senses are unbridled by consideration; it has "merciless bright eyes" and it "listened," but nothing processes what the senses receive, and there is only reaction. These thoughts follow Stephen's considerations of an "Ugly and futile" (U 2.139) student, whose mother, Stephen imagines, protected him: "But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail" (U 2.141-42). Here Stephen betrays a deep-seated fear of the world's activity, a hidden hope that gentler aspects—thought, love—might trump the sheer, physical, animalistic movement of "the race of the world." If the world is primarily active and combative, Stephen thinks, there is little place for a "snail" like his student or, presumably, Stephen himself. As a result, he habitually uses his own thoughts as a refuge, a way to avoid engaging the active world.

The characters' ultimate inactivity, their failure to achieve their goals, may be traced to this aversion to action, this alignment of the active with the animalistic and vulgar. Jacques Derrida, in "The Animal That Therefore I Am," aligns the animal not with vulgarity but with creation, stating, "For thinking concerning the animal, if there is such a thing, derives from poetry. There you have a hypothesis: it is what philosophy has, essentially, had to deprive itself of. That is the difference between philosophical knowledge and poetic thinking" (377). Here, Derrida disturbs the dichotomy Bloom and Stephen propose and points to a possible reason for their inability to achieve. Stephen, the aspiring poet, fails to recognize the proposed relation between the animal—the active—and the poetic, which he seems to presume is an inactive, wholly cerebral undertaking.

Joyce, too, proposes that the truest realization of human potential occurs when thought and action are related, not separated. "Circe" finds Bloom and Stephen at their most active and, in some ways, successful. They are social, conversational, and active. They are more overtly sexual, forgetting for a time their frustrations. Animal imagery returns but now lacks the negativity with which it had been previously associated. The episode's "stage directions" note, "On the antlered rack of the hall hang a man's hat and waterproof" (U 15.2032-33), "A man...passes with an ape's gait" (U 15.2035-36), "Averting his face quickly Bloom bends to examine on the halltable the spaniel eyes of a running fox" (U 15.2038-39), "In the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers" (U 15.2047-48), "promts in a pig's whisper" (U 15.2412), and "head askew, arches his back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at the moth out of blear bulged eyes, points a horning claw and cries" (U 15.2460-61). Here, the human and the animal are conflated in more nuanced ways than they had been in previous episodes. Condemnation like that that appeared in "Lestrygonians" is now replaced with a curious coexistence of the refined and the animalistic. "A man's hat and waterproof," decidedly civilized items, rest on "the antlered rack;" the man with an "ape's gait" does not rumble or tear but merely "passes." Bloom "examines" the eyes of a fox, in stark contrast to Stephen's earlier presentation of a fox as a ruthless, destructive, thoughtless, and vulgar being. The characters now recognize the relation between the animalistic, the active, and the poetic. They begin to recognize and utilize the cerebral not as a refuge but as a component of a larger humanity, one that encompasses both the internal and the external.

The episode's form communicates this shift most effectively. "Circe" adopts the form of a script for a play, suggesting that the episode trades in action and speech, not in thought. The audience member does not have the access to the workings of a play that the reader has to a text; an actor must act or speak to make the audience member aware of any thought. Joyce predictably toys with the familiar roles of stage directions and speech, though, relegating conversations to "offstage" while attributing to characters' voices what may or may not be "spoken." Writes Joyce in one "stage direction," "(Bloom explains to those near him his schemes for social regeneration. All agree with him" (U 15.1702-03). Here, that which would normally be spoken for the "audience," the conversation, is hidden in "stage directions." The precise workings of the directions would be impossible to stage. If a play wished to preserve mystery about the nature of the conversation, the actors would have to speak in an indecipherable mumble, and the audience would have no idea about the content of the conversation. If the play wished to communicate that Bloom was speaking about "social regeneration," it would have to include specific words, the type that would, in a traditional script, be presented as speech. Certain stage directions delve even further into impossibility, as when Joyce writes, following an order from the Man in the Macintosh to shoot Leopold M'Intosh, or Higgins, "(A cannonshot. The man in the macintosh disappears. Bloom with his scepter strikes down poppies. The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of standing committees, are reported. Bloom's bodyguard distribute Maundy money, commemoration medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay cigars..." (U 15. 1565-70). This passage is almost its own parody, a recognition of the impossibility of these "stage directions" ever being carried out on a stage.

If "Circe" recognizes its own inability to exist on a stage, it nevertheless introduces the possibility of an episode reliant on action and speech instead of thought and presents thought as inherently tied to action, not removed from it. Kenner writes, "Nothing, in '"Circe"', distinguishes 'real' from 'hallucinatory', nor any part of the episode from any other" (123), but perhaps more tellingly, nothing in "Circe" distinguishes the interior from the exterior. The minds of Bloom and Stephen, for the first time in Ulysses, cannot be separated from their surroundings; they are wholly involved and active. Kimberly Devlin cites Lacan's conceptions of the waking state and the field of dream and Freudian psychology in deciphering "Circe"'s workings. Lacan notes, "In the so-called waking state, there is an elision of the gaze, and an elision of the fact that not only does it look, it also shows. In the field of dream, on the other hand, what characterizes the images is that it shows" (75, quoted in Devlin, 882). Freud notes, "a objectified in the dream, is represented as a scene" (572-73, quoted in Delvin, 882). Devlin proposes that this conception of the dream informs Joyce's choice of structure, writing, "The seemingly 'scenic' and 'objectified' status of the dream text may help to explain why Joyce chose the dramatic mode for '"Circe"'...What the unconscious theatrically 'shows,' on one level, are images of the self and its desires that the subject does not want to recognize and that are hence elided in waking life" (882). Counterintuatively, "Circe"'s theatrical form, which would seem to contain the least thought-centric content, allows Joyce a vehicle both to explore the psyche and to relate it to the physical and "real." Joyce utilizes the dramatic form to present thought as a compliment, not opponent, to action.

Indeed, thought and action are here inseparable. Where earlier episodes invite the reader to question what is "real" or present and what is imagined, what is interior and what is exterior, "Circe" renders such questions irrelevant. Fantastic events are so numerous and frequent that there is not vantage point from which to make judgments of reality. Martin Puchner writes of the acceptance the reader must adopt, "Bella's sex change happens simply by virtue of substituting the letter o for a; Bella becomes Bello, and nothing else is needed to bring this transformation about" (88). The text now assumes the role of an unquestionable legislator; there is nothing objective within the episode that allows a critique of the subjective. The reader who searched previous episodes for something unassailable now is out of options, forced to accept every fantastical turn of "Circe".

Additionally, "Circe"'s events may not be attributed to a single character's imagination. Joyce again plays with the episode's dramatic structure, as the characters are most defined on the page, with their names announcing their words, while they display the least autonomy, perpetually subject to the episode's dizzying workings. Hèléne Cixous writes of the impossibility of defining characters in "Circe", "Bloom passes in the street which passes into Bloom. He opens the door which opens him and enters the brothel which prostitutes him. Who touches thinks speaks here? Where is 'I'?" (387). The familiar units of the novel—characters, setting, speech, action—are, in "Circe", inseparable from one another, part of a larger construction that does not observe even the experimental conventions established in Ulysses's previous episodes. Cixous' alignment of "touches thinks speaks" is telling; just as character is only vaguely separable from character, action is only vaguely separable from thought. Joyce does not condemn thought in favor of action but rather recontextualizes it, recognizing it as a piece, not the whole, of humanity.

For all of its craziness, "Circe" finds Bloom achieving a sort of accomplishment. Throughout the novel, Bloom is preoccupied with sex and his relationship with Molly, and in "Circe" he achieves a sort of sexual fulfillment. Austin Briggs recognizes the connection between the theater as an active space and the brothel as a sexual one, writing, "In the brothel, Joyce found a ready-made setting for a drama that insists on the theatricality of the real and the reality of the theatrical" (56). The connection is explicitly recognized even within the episode. Briggs writes, "The earliest sexual experience recalled by Bloom bears a theatrical dimension: he confesses in '"Circe"' to masturbating at sixteen when aroused by Lotty Clarke, on whom he had spied through his 'papa's operaglasses'" (45). Sexual fulfillment and theatrical, physical activity are linked; each exists outside of the thought-dominated space Bloom usually inhabits. Writes Cixous, "He (Bloom) is abandoned to influences; absolute executant, his body hesitates, mutates, materializes inconceivable possibilities, falls, turns, forks, slots itself, perversifies itself: all that he cannot be invades him" (393). By acting, by becoming an "absolute executant," Bloom achieves through action, or through surrender to action, that which he cannot normally achieve through thought. Characterized throughout the novel by a desire to control, he now subjects himself to control—"all that he cannot be invades him"—and participates in a sort of sexual activity that had regularly eluded him, despite his preoccupation with it, previously.

Bloom's other preoccupation, Rudy, appears at the episode's end and "gazes, unseeing, into Bloom's eyes and goes on reading, kissing, smiling. He has a delicate mauve face. On his suit he has diamond and ruby buttons. In his free left hand he holds a slim ivory cane with a violet bowknot" (U 15.1964-67). Rudy's name appears alongside Bloom's and those of the other "real" characters, the episode's structure again requiring that the previously imagined become actualized. "Circe"'s manic activity, its refusal to allow Bloom to inhabit solely his own thoughts, allows him to fulfill his desire to have his son. Whether this achievement is "actual" is unknowable in the episode's logic, but Bloom, in "Circe", has acted and received his reward. Importantly, Rudy too is marked with the animalistic, as "A white lamkin peeps out of his waistcoat pocket" (U 15.1967). This reminds that it was not thought or consideration but surrendering to activity that allowed Bloom this reward.

The activity of "Circe" is, ultimately, not a solution but a respite. At the novel's end, Stephen has not written, and Bloom has not achieved a comfortable relationship with Molly. The principal impediment to each character has been an inability to act borne of overindulgence in thought. As the narrative continues to follow its principal characters' thoughts, it reveals Bloom's and Stephen's inability to retain their activity outside of Nighttown's intoxicating influence. "Ithaca"'s catechistic structure, in many ways "Circe"'s opposite, is a sort of overcorrection, a definitive return to the insular space of self-directed and self-concerned thought. The episode asks, "Did it flow?" (U 17.163) and answers, "Yes. From Roundwood reservoir in county Wicklow of a cubic capacity of 2400 million gallons, percolating through a subterranean aqueduct of filter mains of single and double pipeage constructed at an initial plant cost of £5 per linear yard by way of the Dargle, Rathdown, Glen of the Downs and Callowhill..." (U 17.164-68). Bloom's hyperactive mode of thought has returned, here applied even to an investigation of the physical path of water throughout Dublin. He has again removed himself, observing but not participating in the physical and active world. Here, Bloom does not merely neglect his relation to the physical but seems consciously to avoid it, presenting that most fundamental of human necessities, water, as something strange, scientific, and foreign. If, as Puchner suggests, the language of "Circe" communicates an immediacy and activity, "Ithaca" seems designed to render language as inactive as possible, tracing Bloom's descent from the frenzy of "Circe". As "Ithaca" asks, "In what state of rest or motion?" (U 17.2306), it answers, "At rest relatively to themselves and to each other. In motion being each and both carried westward, forward and rereward respectively, by the proper perpetual motion of the earth through everchanging tracks of neverchanging space" (U 17. 2307-10). Again, movement is presented in scientific or pseudo-scientific language. Here, also, "everchanging tracks of neverchainging space" seems to suggest a lack of agency, a refusal of the practicality or effectiveness of action. "Circe"'s wildness, the seeming opposite of "neverchanging space," has been forgotten or denied, and thought's centrality has returned.

If, as Thornton argues, "Joyce devoted so much time and energy to developing this array of styles in Ulysses not because he was a relativist, but in order to expose for his readers certain modes of language and received ideas and attitudes that would inhibit their lives" (95), then a life founded primarily on the internal and inactive is perhaps most vehemently argued against. In constructing a novel in which seeming opposites perpetually feed and inform each other and cause and effect give way to one another so regularly that they become almost indistinguishable, Joyce reminds the reader that humans, too, have components so complimentary they may become indistinguishable. Insofar as he makes a claim about language, Joyce claims that language is also imbued with this simultaneous need for logic and activity, interiority and exteriority. Ulysses questions, argues, and illustrates but also moves and changes, striving to make the novel less a wholly cerebral undertaking and more one that mimics, responds to, and communicates with different aspects of humanity. In Scylla and Charybdis, as Stephen presents his obtuse literary theories, the library is described, "Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words" (U 9.352-53). Joyce seeks to avoid this conception of literature as dead and preserved, a static artifact to be looked upon. The words are not a mere "spice" but are rather active agents, working and shifting from sentence to sentence, page to page, episode to episode. Ulysses presents humans as creatures of intellect and activity and requires a narrative style that contains the same attributes.

Citations and Related Sources

Briggs, Austin. "Whorehouse/Playhouse: The Brothel as Theater in the‘ Circe’ Chapter of Ulysses." Journal of Modern Literature 26, no. 1 (2002): 42–57.
Cixous, Hélène, and Carol Bové "At Circe’s, or the Self-Opener." Boundary 2 3, no. 2 (1975): 387–97.
Derrida, Jacques, and David Wills. "The Animal That Therefore I Am (more to Follow)." Critical Inquiry 28, no. 2 (2002): 369–418.
Freud, Sigmund, and James Ed Strachey. "The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud.," 1964.
Kenner, Hugh. Ulysses. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1980.
Lawrence, Karen. "The Odyssey of Style in." Princeton, Princeton University Press 120 (1981): 121.
Puchner, Martin. Stage Fright: Modernism, Anti-Theatricality, and Drama. JHU Press, 2002.
Sheridan, Alami. "The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-Analysis, B’." Am J Psychiatry 36, no. 7 (1979).
Stanzel, Franz K. "Second Thoughts on‘ Narrative Situations in the Novel’: Towards a‘ Grammar of Fiction.’" In Novel: A Forum on Fiction, 11:247–64, 1978.

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