[ExI] John C. Wright Interview

[Lee Corbin]

Randall writes

> On Jan 25, 2008, at 7:31 PM, Damien Broderick wrote:
>> At 04:12 PM 1/25/2008 -0800, Lee quoted Wright:
>>
>>> It ["Ulysses"] has the same relationship to a real novel as a  
>>> Rorschach blot has to a real painting. As in a Rorschach
>>> blot, any meaning, including parallels to the Odyssey, can
>>> be invented freely by critics and students of literature and
>>> shoehorned to fit.
>>
>> Does this look like gibberish to anyone except a Philistine?
> 
> It's so *obviously* gibberish that I'm not sure if you're
> joking (because of the way you put it, here).  I get waves
> of spam that looks like that.

I empathize. The bottom line, as always, is:  there is no
accounting for taste.

But your phrase, "*obviously* gibberish", has to be too strong,
since clearly upon study you'd find some intricate patterns, and
probably some impressive renderings of the human condition.
(I would suspect that you might consider that you have better
things to do with your time---as I certainly do.)   Besides, we
are told that some parts have a lot more appeal than others.

The reviews of "Ulysses" at Amazon explain quite a bit about
the appeal of the book to some people.  I quote an entire one
at the bottom of this email.

Thousands of novels are published each year. I suspect that
not many people find this style and content enjoyable, and as
a result it did not start a literary tradition.

But to me, the most egregious error is to state flatly that "it's 
wonderful", or "it's rubbish", or any other kind of attempt 
to make objective that which is primarily a matter of taste.

(This is to say nothing of the skill involved. However, one
might learn how to do all sorts of very silly things in a very
skillful way.)

Lee

    A Review by Bill Slocum:

    At the end of one of "Ulysses" most unpleasantly challenging
    chapters, "Oxen Of The Sun," Joyce throws out an offhand comment
    which might read as a sort of gauntlet to anyone who fancies him or
    herself as a capable reader: "Just you try it on."

    People have been "trying on" "Ulysses" ever since, and if my
    experience is any indication, the result is an infuriating and
    intoxicating read, not always both at once however. Sometimes it's
    great, and sometimes it's terribly self-conscious and clever,
    serving no purpose except allowing self-aggrandizing
    deconstructionists and post-modernists a chance to strut their stuff
    and feel like they have something over the rest of us.

    I want to be clear in saying I regard "Ulysses" as a supreme example
    of craft and literary brilliance, but I don't think it is the great
    English-language novel, only maybe the most important. J.D.
    Wombacher said it very well in one of the earlier reviews: "My own
    view is that Ulysses is an example of a writer not doing his job."
    If a writer's job is to create a novel in such a way as to let the
    reader in, this is not only a valid sentiment, but a boldly honest
    one.

    You start out thinking this isn't going to be as bad as every says.
    We watch an awkward young man named Stephen deal with his supersmug
    semi-friend and an annoying British interloper high atop the city of
    Dublin, in Martello Tower. Stephen is aware of the fact his "pal"
    Buck is really a bit of a user, and patronizing as hell, and in
    subtle, clever, and often funny ways, Joyce lets the reader see how.
    Then we watch poor Stephen alternately try to instruct a bunch of
    Anglo-Irish brats and deal with a supercilious headmaster, who
    fancies himself an expert on everything from livestock to why the
    sun will never set on the British empire.

    Then Stephen goes to the beach, and what follows in the third
    chapter, "Proteus," is something that would make any good editor cry
    out for a rewrite. Joyce noted that his writing skills by the time
    he got to "Ulysses" were of such an advanced degree that he could do
    anything he wanted to with the English language, but there's ample
    evidence in the finished work that such absolute power can corrupt
    absolutely.

    At least Joyce seems to realize this, too, somewhat. He shifts the
    focus to another social outcast, a Jewish advertising salesman named
    Leo Bloom who busies himself with the stream of life around the fair
    city of Dublin so as to avoid going home, where he knows his fat
    wife is about to carry on an affair with a callow bounder.

    The results are some of the most affecting chapters ever written,
    each one slightly askew from the next, but forming a kind of whole
    that takes into account the whole history of literature, while
    advancing that history into unexplored territory with
    stream-of-consciousness narratives and multiple perspectives.
    Chapters like "Wandering Rocks," "Sirens," and especially "Cyclops"
    work on so many levels they make the head spin, and Joyce the
    humorist (he claimed one of his principal goals in writing "Ulysses"
    was to make the reader laugh) rivals Twain in his humanistic
    humorousness. Witness this sardonic exchange in "Cyclops," my
    favorite chapter.

    "Dead?" says Alf. "He is no more dead than you are!"

    "Maybe so," says Joe. "They took the liberty of burying him this
    morning anyhow."

    But do we really need the mindgames of "Oxen Of The Sun," or the play-form
    phantasmagoria of "Circe," which lead us into blind alleys and throw enough
    red herrings to kill us with mercury poisoning? People say you need to read
    the Greek legend this all is based on, and I didn't, but I don't think I'm
    alone in finding this tangent strained. When Stephen finally ditches his
    false friend, he does so off-stage as it were, and it is never explained what
    transpired. Critics have their ideas why the connection between Stephen and
    Bloom, once made, is so vital, but it eluded me, even with all the
    supplemental reading I did.

    The end result is a writer writing essentially for himself, and for
    those who will play his games. That leaves out the rest of us.

    I'm glad I read this book, and hope God grants me the time to read
    it again someday. But don't believe the hype. Read "Ulysses," but
    don't sweat what you don't get. Many of those who say they do "get"
    it are kidding themselves. Better to be honestly perplexed, and
    humbled by the experience. Humility has its virtues, and Joyce might
    have benefited from it more in writing this, creating a real
    masterpiece for the masses rather than an ivory tower to which only
    he held the key.