Happy Bloomsday!

Celebrating Kindness to Cats.

. . James Joyce's drawing of Leopold Bloom

. . Well, today is Bloomsday. Happy Bloom’s Day: the day in which we celebrate Joyce’s great work Ulysses, happily? Bloom is the central character of Ulysses. The 'every[wo/]man' through which Joyce proposes a new form of heroism. A heroism that is kind to cats, pacific, loving, helpful, self abnegating, at times blundering, compassionate, forgiving and understanding. He is like all of us. Here are some passages which will introduce you to Bloom:
.

. - Mkgnao!
. . - O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.
The Cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round the leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writing table. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.
. . - Milk for the pussens, he said.
. . - Mrkgnao! the cat cried.
. . They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.
. . - Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chook-chooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as pussens.
Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.
. . - Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.
. . She blinked up out of her avid shame closing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser took the jug Hanlon’s milkman had just filled for him, poured warm bubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.
. . - Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.
James Joyce, Ulysses, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993, pp53-54



. . - And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Also now. This very moment. This very instant.
. . Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.
. . - Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs to us by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction off in Morocco like slaves or cattle.
. . - Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.
. . - I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.
. . - Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.
. . That’s an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he’d adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse’s apron on him. And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag.
. . - But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it’s the very opposite of that that is really life.
. . - What? says Alf.
. . - Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred.
James Joyce, Ulysses, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993, pp318-319

. . And finally, Bloom, on getting into bed next to his wife whom he knows has committed adultery during the day:

. . What did his limbs, when gradually extended, encounter?
. . New clean bed linen, additional odours, the presence of a human form, female, hers, the imprint of a human form, male, not his, some crumbs, some flakes of potted meat, recooked, which he removed.

. . If he had smiled why would he have smiled?
. .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 originating in and repeated to infinity.


. . …What retribution, if any?
. . Assassination, never as two wrongs did not make one right. Duel by combat, no. Divorce, not now. Exposure by mechanical artifice (automatic bed) or individual testimony (concealed ocular witnesses), not yet. Suit for damages by legal influence or simulation of assault with evidence of injuries sustained (selfinflicted), not impossibly. If any, positively, connivance, introduction of emulation (material, a prosperous rival agency of publicity: moral, a successful rival agent of intimacy), deprecation, alienation, humiliation, separation protecting the one separated from the other, protecting separator from both.
James Joyce, Ulysses, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993, pp683 & 685

. . So today, I have been thinking about Bloom and whether I think he is truly heroic. To be honest, I’m not sure. You see I love that Bloom remains passive in the face of ugly one-eyed nationalism in the Cyclops episode, I love that Bloom helps old blind men across the road, I love that Bloom takes the bedraggled Stephen home to save him from a worse fate and show him hospitality, I love that Bloom loves his cat and buys nice soap for his wife, but I don’t like his passivity in the face of his wife’s adultery. I really don’t like it.
. . Friends have tried to convince me of Bloom’s heroism in the face of his wife’s adultery. They have asserted that considering the violence of the times, the certain destitution Molly would have faced had he kicked her out, the difficulties of their relationship, and the undesirability of a ‘silent marriage,’ Bloom’s choice not to divorce Molly was heroic. I agree, up to a point: it was compassionate and understanding of Bloom to recognise the difficulties in the marriage, to take partial responsibility for the lack of intimacy since their son’s death, and to resolve to persist in the marriage. However, he doesn’t even confront her about it! He gets into bed with the crumbs another man has left! Having experienced the pain of adultery, this image disturbs me greatly! Getting into bed with someone who has been unfaithful is a torment; it's sickening. It is like sleeping next to the "flakes of potted meat, reheated," (Ulysses, p683). It is revolting. Nevertheless, it is real. To his credit, Bloom does remove the flakes.
. . A classmate suggested that the whole novel is an interrogation of Irish nationalism. I think this view is highly probable and indeed, there is much textual evidence to support this claim. In this interpretation, Bloom would represent the kind of nationalism Joyce hoped would emerge for Ireland. A nationalism that is, like Bloom, of mixed origin, inclusive, pacific, compassionate, forgiving, interested in reconciliation, understanding, and perhaps, not unimportantly, loving towards cats. I very much admire this vision for a nation. It is a beautiful, if at times blundering, image. Still, I wish Bloom would talk to his wife! There exists between them so much in common; yet without it being verbalised they can never achieve the intimacy they both desire. It is frustrating, depressing, disheartening. Then I think, perhaps this is the bitter taste Joyce wanted to create. Perhaps a right response is to lament the fact that these two factions never resolve their differences, so that we are left with a wish for reconciliation and discussion. Perhaps this was part of his push towards inspiring a new nationalism? Perhaps.
. . Today I remember Bloom as a hopeful image of a pacific people and as a result I am both inspired and frustrated. Happy Bloomsday. Be nice to your cats! - Mrkgnao!