For my lexicon entry, I think it would be very interesting to explore the word “blind” (“-er” if need be). While there are various reasons this term is particularly interesting, some specific ones would be the many different meanings it can have, the importance to the novel considering the lengthy descriptions of visual components (in this way this word would function nearly in opposition), and the connotations it can carry.

In exploring this word, it seems important to point out the various functions of “blind.” An initial form that comes to mind is the adjective that describes one who unable to see, as seen when there is a moment describing Abraham as “the old blind Abraham recognizes the voice and puts his fingers on his face” (5.201-202). Another more obvious example is the noun version–an object that blocks sun from coming through a window. This version appears in the fourth episode, when Bloom asks Molly: “Do you want the blind up?” (4. 255) upon her waking up. While these are only a couple of examples, I think the extent of their difference shows how interesting an evaluation of this word could be. Moreover, it is evident that there a multitude of other ways this word is used, a fact that makes this investigation even more extensive and interesting.

Other words I thought might be interesting were “heir (hair, air, err)” and “box.” For the first, I though the connotations that come along with that first version (heir) would be very useful in the evaluations of the other iterations of the word. For “box,” I was interested by the simplicity of the term, but how it can actually be interpreted in many different both physical and metaphorical ways.

Throughout Katherine Mullin’s examination of the relationship between ‘little magazines’ and Joyce’s writing, the topics of high vs. low culture and the self-awareness each magazine had of its own place in time were topics that continuously came up. Mullin discusses the experimental nature of Joyce’s pieces, specifically Ulysses, and the tendency of such material to match up or compliment the tone and aim of the magazines in which it was published. One specific moment that seemed to characterize The Little Review‘s tone in the time of interest was an explanation of the magazine’s self-reflective attitudes: “Encouraging opinionated debate about the nature and value of art, The Little Review frequently startled through its provocative confrontational declarations of its own place at the pinnacle of high culture” (Mullin 380). Mullin goes on to not only give examples, but also acknowledge that this “journal both flaunts and ridicules its own intellectual and aesthetic aspirations (380). Something I would like to look for tomorrow in The Little Review would be moments when this tone is apparent, exclamations in the magazine that make apparent its self-aware recognition of the audience/perspective the writings within its pages are meant for–moreover, if these statements also carry the “self-parody” (Mullin 380) Mullin speaks of.

From the very start of Ulysses, it is immediately apparent that the death of Stephen Dedalus’ mother is an important topic of conversation. The controversy surrounding Stephen’s refusal to kneel at her deathbed is a point of contention that exists as a large source of speculation. It is this initial moment that first jumped out at me as an important example of the coexistence of beginnings and endings in the book. More obviously, this death marks both the end of a life and a relationship (that of Stephen and his mother). However, it is also the beginning of a year (Gifford 15) during which Stephen can only wear black: “I can’t wear them if they are grey” (Joyce 80). Beginning the novel with the ending of a human life seems to set a course for many moments and relationships that follow.

Another key moment that emphasizes a concurrent example of beginnings and endings is when Stephen decides to tell his class a riddle. Firstly, the class has already “bundled their books away” and “buckled their satchels”–in essence–the class has ended. But it is at this moment that he decides to begin telling a riddle. While this stands out as an interesting overlap of beginning and ending, it is the content of the riddle itself that complicates our understanding of the two concepts. Although given the riddle itself, the children of the class are still rendered speechless, one even responds “We give it up” (Joyce 22). Thus, Stephen gives them the answer, and naturally, the end to the riddle. As put by Gibson: “it is unanswerable unless the answer is already known” (33). Such a fact left me wondering, what is the significance of a riddle that emphasizes the importance of knowledge of the ending over the process of understanding?

Lastly, a key moment to the study of beginnings is the discussion of birth and life in “Proteus.” In speculating about the contents of a midwife’s bag, the possibility of a “misbirth with a trailing navelcord” (Joyce 32) is considered.  While this image (the navelcord) is so key to the beginning and manifestation of life, this image complicates such an understanding as it is now useless and attached to a lifeless being. This complicated imagery is only continued when Eve–“Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon” (Joyce 32)– is considered as without this literal source of beginning that was so recently mentioned (a “navelcord”). Instead, she is said to have “Belly without blemish, bulging big, a taut vellum, no whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting” (32). It is clearly emphasized that human sustenance was not a source of Eve’s beginning, however, it is also stated that hers is a “Womb of sin” (32). While this portion of the novel is clearly discussing human beginnings, both in present (for the novel) times and in religious imagery, it still leaves me with many questions. What purpose does the emphasis of both scientific and religious creation (beginning) serve? How does it relate to this rest of this episode and the novel overall?

A passage that jumped out at me as similar to the discussions we had in class came early in Levine and Gibson’s piece. With awareness of the historical moment in which “Ivy Day in the Committee Room” is set, Gibson calls for attention to be paid to the importance of presence and/or absence. In class, we touched upon the significance of the absences of the narrator’s parents in “Araby,” as well as the absence of an often mentioned character in “Ivy Day” (Parnell). In our discussions, we seemed to focus on the use of such absences for characterization purposes (i.e. possible explanations for the narrator’s behavior and perspective–“Araby”), and how such a function encourages readers to fill in some remaining vague areas on their own. However, Gibson offers an analysis of absence that moves beyond character and plot. Instead, the author furthers the conversation into one focused on a duet of politically important aspects at the heart of absences in “Ivy Day”:

“‘Ivy Day’ has long been thought of as built around an absent center, the dead Parnell. It would, however, be better to conceive of it as having two absent centers or, better, two occluded foci: Parnell or nationalist hopes and aspirations, on the one hand, and Labour and socialist hopes and aspirations, on the other[…]The case for Parnell is obvious: from the title of the story to Hynes’s poem, Parnell is missing and missed, but also omnipresent. The question of Labour, by contrast, might be thought of as flitting in and out of the story as Hynes flits in and out of the committee room” (Levine & Gibson 265).

Gibson emphasizes not only the fact that Parnell and what he represents are absent, but also how an entire concept  –“Labour and socialist hopes and aspirations”–seems to be perpetually “in and out” of presence as well. While we as a class discussed the entrances and exists as similar to those of a play, Gibson offers an explanation of such that parallels the political importance of Parnell’s perpetual absent state. It seems as though this piece takes our conversation further by describing the Labour/socialist desires in comparison and connection to the continual flitting of Hynes. Whereas we had previously considered the connection between Parnell and “nationalist hopes,” it  appears as though this continued analysis of absence serves to reiterate the political complications so prevalent throughout the story. But I’m left wondering if either historical commentary or accuracy ends up being the main concern of the story (or if it’s neither). In other words, are the absences so crucial to this story highlighting a reality, or calling for the examination of certain hypothetical situations (and their potential outcomes)? Does the historically political context (moreover, the absences and presences) add or subtract from the sentiments being portrayed? Vice versa?