1. See Pinkerton and colleagues 104, 114, and Herbenick and colleagues.
2. See “Le Sinthome,” http://gaogoa.free.fr/SeminaireS.htm (accessed July 19, 2012).
3. See, for example, Rabaté, James Joyce and chapter ten of Jacques Lacan; Brivic, Joyce; and the essays in Aubert.
4. In cognitive science, “cognitive” may refer to logical or other “information processing” components of the mind, in contrast with the emotional or “affective” components. Moreover, “cognitive” analyses often adopt a mentalistic idiom and therefore may be distinguished from brain-focused “neuroscience.” At the same time, “cognitive science” is frequently used as a generic term to refer to current theories of and research on all information processing and motivational components, as well as mental and neural ways of construing those components. In the following pages, I will follow this mixed usage when the relevant meaning of “cognitive” is clear from context.
5. I refer to the sections of Ulysses as episodes in order to avoid confusion with the chapters of the present book.
6. See chapter one of Hogan, What Literature Teaches Us About Emotion.
1. Due to the publisher’s constraints on quoted materials, this and subsequent quotations from Ulysses refer to the public domain edition of the work, available on the World Wide Web through Project Gutenberg at http://www.gutenberg.org/files/4300/4300-h/4300-h.htm. As this edition is not paginated, no page citations are included; however, readers may easily search the Web-based text for the quoted passages.
2. The publisher’s constraints referred to in the preceding note bear only on direct quotations. In order to facilitate identification of unquoted passages, I have provided the episode and line numbers in the Gabler edition here and elsewhere.
3. On the poverty of Ireland, see O’Rourke 411 and Ferriter 49.
4. On Joyce’s use of Hiberno-English, see Wall 11 and chapter one of Wales.
5. Despite this, the topic of shame is rarely treated by Joyce critics, with some psychoanalytic exceptions (see Brivic, “Dealing” and Joyce).
6. Stephen, too, has connections with Wilde, as did Joyce (see, for example, Backus).
7. The discrepancy in these characters attitudes may explain some of the uncertainty critics feel about homosexuality in the novel. For example, Rabaté speaks of “Joyce’s … homophobic prejudice” (“On Joyce” 165). Lamos sees Joyce and Stephen as viewing homosexuality as English. (The relation of homoeroticism to nationalist issues is broached by Lapointe.) Readers interested in further exploring homosexual issues in Ulysses may wish to consult Valente’s influential volume.
8. The precise source of the phrase “wild Irish” is not entirely clear. It is a characterization of Haines’s view of Stephen. But it is not obvious whether this is an exceptional manifestation of Haines’s inner thought or derives from the narrator (or perhaps Stephen). In any case, there is no reason to believe it is inaccurate.
9. On mood repair, see Forgas 258 and citations.
10. Needless to say, other critics have noted political implications of language in Joyce. Much of this discussion is obscured by questionable ideas drawn from critical fashions (e.g., concerning the non-self-identity of language in Eagleton’s influential discussion, particularly 268–269). A valuable exception is Watson (see 230).
11. Critics have noted the presence of Fergus, though rather differently. For example, Tymoczko considers comic links (see 86–87). In keeping with this, one difference between the present analysis of Ulysses and that of many other critics is that the latter are likely to stress the comedy of the work (see, for example, Bowen’s important Ulysses as a Comic Novel).
12. Unsurprisingly, there has been critical disagreement about the precise nature of Joyce’s political attitudes. As will be clear throughout the book, I take them to be both anticolonialist and antinationalist. However, Nolan rightly cautions against the current vein of antinationalist “revisionism” (20). The problem with the approach criticized by Nolan is that it appropriates Joyce for the “anti-terrorist” political orthodoxy that has replaced the anti-Communist orthodoxy of the Cold War (on the latter in relation to Joyce, see Booker’s compelling analysis). For a brief, but lucid and nuanced discussion of some relevant issues, see Howes.
13. For a selection of postcolonial discussions of the play, see Graff and Phelan (203–322).
14. Of course, Joyce’s presentation of realism is much more comic than that of Flaubert. In some ways, one could see some aspects of Joyce’s project as more similar to that of Cervantes in Don Quixote.
15. On industry and trade in Ireland at this time, see Lyons, Ireland (54–70).
1. In keeping with this, Prescott briefly links Bloom’s recollections of Mosenthal with guilt (335).
2. Students at my university are required to take four advanced courses outside their major in a “related” field.
3. For a discussion of these criteria, see chapter one of Hogan, Understanding Nationalism.
4. On disgust and in-group/out-group divisions, see Gazzaniga 204 and citations.
5. The quotations are from one of the prisoners, who, Zimbardo explains, “eloquently compared the Stanford Prison Experiment with real prisons he had come to know as a staff member working in a California prison” (189).
6. Critics of Ulysses have noticed something along these lines (see, for example, Kiberd 45). But, working from a pre-neurocognitive psychology, they tend to formulate the issue very differently.
7. Unsurprisingly, critics have noticed that Stephen engages in a dialogue with himself, though they have approached the point differently. For example, Cohn considers this dialogue in relation to the history of novelistic representations of internal thought (90–92), an extremely valuable, but different, concern.
8. There is a theoretical problem with Gazzaniga’s formulation here. If the various components are all “local consciousness,” then it is hard to say what it means that they are competing for “conscious recognition.” For our purposes, however, the point is simply that there is neurological multiplicity even at this relatively basic level.
9. I take “they” to refer to the unnamed topic of Stephen’s reflections here— sexual desires. One reader of the manuscript suggested the antecedent might be “Naked women” (the phrase Stephen recalls shouting). This seems to me unlikely as there are in fact no women referred to in the preceding paragraph, there is just Stephen’s non-referential shout. More significantly, Stephen’s reflection parallels those of Conmee and Molly, who are clearly referring to sexual desires.
1. For a fuller discussion of simulation, particularly in relation to literature, see chapter one of Hogan, How Authors’ Minds. The seminal treatment of literary imagination as simulation, to which I am greatly indebted, is that of Oatley (“Why Fiction”).
2. For example, some researchers have argued that “creative inspiration occurs in a mental state where attention is defocused, when thought is associative, and when a large number of mental representations are simultaneously activated” (Kaufman et al. 218).
3. Though our precise analyses differ (e.g., on the reasons for pleasure in transportation), I am indebted to Melanie Green for her insights on transportation and simulation (see Green and Donahue).
4. See Hogan, Narrative Discourse, especially chapter one, for a treatment of implied authorship in these terms.
5. For an insightful discussion of multiple audiences, see Maltby.
6. Critics have addressed various aspects of Joyce’s audiences. For a series of valuable perspectives, different from that presented here, see the essays in Nash.
7. For some recent reflections on Shakespeare’s biography and Joyce, see chapter four of Putz.
8. Needless to say, critics have noted the link also. See, for example, Gilbert 104 and Kenner, Dublin’s 194.
9. See Schacter and Addis; Addis and colleagues; and Schacter, Addis, and Buckner.
10. The division here is somewhat different from that of Barbara Tversky. However, both stress the relation of spatial divisions to “properties that afford, enable, and constrain perception and action” (201). Moreover, in both cases, the larger spatial category involves an organization prominently featuring landmarks. If I were to develop this account of space further, however, I would stress the centrality of emotion—for instance, in what counts as a significant landmark (as the preceding examples suggest). On space and emotion, see Hogan, Affective Narratology 29–31.
11. Any of these may constitute what Harding terms the “underthought” of a passage.
12. In some cases, Bloom’s thoughts about Molly’s adultery are directly a matter of mood repair. For example, he sometimes focuses on the financial benefits of the affair (see 13.841) or imagines it as a pornographic performance (see 15.3760–15.3793).
13. See Hogan, What Literature 114.
14. See, for example, Doherty 48.
15. On the sexual revenge narrative, see Hogan, Affective Narratology 221.
16. The preceding list comprises the cross-cultural genres isolated in Hogan, The Mind and Affective Narratology.
17. In addition to these story genres, the work combines different emplotment and style genres; for an insightful discussion of this, see Sinding.
1. In addition to narration, there are often intrinsic norms for other aspects of style. See, for example, Nagy on sentence types in Ulysses.
2. A number of critics have made the general point about there being a usual narrational format in roughly the first half of Ulysses. See, for example, chapter two of Lawrence.
3. The foundational discussion of construal is Anscombe.
4. I am drawing these terms from Bordwell.
5. For a more detailed argument, see chapter one of Hogan, Narrative Discourse.
6. Iser makes a similar point about “Aeolus” (24), though in a different analytic context and with very different inferences.
7. This representation of the misleading character of titles may have implications for our interpretation of the title Ulysses as well as the (external) episode titles, such as “Aeolus.”
8. The point here is that the critique moves in the direction of enhancing the possibilities for communicating an understanding of reality, rather than deconstructing “the mimetic functions of language,” as Lawrence puts it (61).
1. As noted earlier, by “mentalistic narration,” I mean narration that has as its primary purpose the communication of the inner life of characters, usually focalized characters.
2. For a more extended development of this argument, see chapter one of Hogan, What Literature.
3. On the centrality and significance of parallel processing in the brain, see, for example, the section on “The Virtues of Parallel Computation” in chapter 14 of Loewenstein.
4. Critics have widely recognized that nonverbal aspects of thought must be put into words in a novel (see, for example, Wales 72–73).
5. Steinberg makes a similar point (23), as does Cohn (87).
6. This claim obviously goes against Cohn’s influential views (see 86).
7. An insightful discussion of some techniques of signaling simultaneity may be found in Frehner (see also Malouf on a possible precursor).
8. The foundational work is Bowen, Bloom’s. For a more recent analysis, see Ordway. I am grateful to Torrey MacGregor for this material.
9. I am self-consciously speaking as if Bloom’s mind were real because our simulations of characters and of real people appear to follow the same general principles (see chapter one of Hogan, How Authors’ Minds and citations).
1. The point may be suggested by the novel itself, specifically through the implied criticism of titles as misleading in “Aeolus.”
2. Some readers have misunderstood the point here. It is not that Iser should have known about mood repair. It is, rather, that there are significant coherences in the text, including coherences that manifest the work’s realism.
3. I take it that something along these lines was suggested by Adorno when he contrasted “the true realism” with “Realism in art [that] has become ideology” (101).
4. This is suggested by research on activation of anterior cingulate cortex (ACC) due to task conflict, with subsequent cognitive modulation (see Carter and colleagues 748 and MacDonald and colleagues 1835 on ACC operation; see Lieberman and Eisenberger 179 on the results of ACC operation; on this two-stage process more generally, see Ito and colleagues 198–199; for a broader discussion, see Hogan, “Consciousness” 232).
5. Critics have of course noted that we are not dealing with a single narrator in this episode. See, for example, Marilyn French (141).
6. Lawrence points out that the main targets here are epic and news (104).
7. Kiberd makes this general link as well and fills in some historical resonances (see 185–186).
8. See Hogan, Colonialism 321.
9. The idea is closely related to Kenner’s “Uncle Charles Principle” (Joyce’s 35). It is also related to the idea of “stylistic contagion” (Cohn 33). I intend narrational mimesis to be somewhat broader than stylistic contagion, since it encompasses imitative verbalization of nonverbal cognition.
10. This apparent contradiction may be connected with the operation of Gerty’s exhibitionism. According to Judith Silverstein, “Genital exhibitionism is a sexualized form of countershame,” motivated in part “by a wish to overcome shame” (33). On the other hand, it seems more likely that the shame results from the arousal, thus that the exhibitionism arises for distinct reasons, but then provokes shame as it provokes arousal. The apparent contradiction is then a case of ambivalence.
1. The point is noted by Janusko (17) in his careful reading of the episode.
2. This link too is identified by Janusko.
3. On Joyce’s marriage, see Ellmann 637–638.
4. See, for example, Ellmann 328–330 for a part of the unhappy history of Dubliners.
5. For a comprehensive discussion of unbelief in Joyce’s work, see Lernout.
6. On beauty and pattern recognition, see Vuust and Kringelbach (256 and 266). For a fuller discussion of these and the following points, see Hogan, “Stylistics.”
7. On beauty and average cases, see Hansen and Topolinski (710) and citations.
8. For example, prototypical diet food—tacitly opposed either to normal or to fattening food—has far fewer calories than the actual average of diet foods (see Kahneman and Miller 143).
9. Specifically, there is some research linking the caudate nucleus to aesthetic preference, on the one hand, and to attachment, on the other (see Nadal and colleagues 388; Vartanian and Goel; Arsalidou and colleagues 47, 50; and Villablanca 95).
1. I have drawn the second term from Lawrence’s overstated, but insightful, comment that the “entire chapter is … figurative” (146).
2. Critics have recognized a division in “Circe,” sometimes to dispute it (see, for example, Benstock 128). Kiberd links the fantastical sections with “self-deception” (223). This is part of what is going on. But in part this is simply the nature of consciousness, with its serial, attentional focus in language, but complex, fleeting, parallel associations that occur largely outside attentional focus or serial language processing.
3. Richard Cross discusses the relation between The Temptation of St. Anthony and “Circe” in detail and depth.
4. On Widow Twankey generally, see Kaplan 269–270. Herr lucidly and insightfully explores the relation of characters in “Circe” to theatrical traditions of cross-dressing.
5. The extensive cross-dressing in the episode as well as the challenges to normative gender roles recall the ideas of Judith Butler. Readers interested in Butler and Ulysses may wish to consult Brown.
6. Critics have not missed the androgyny in this episode. However, they have not generally considered it in terms of identity categories (see Rado for trends; see Burgan for a partial exception). Rado locates the book’s androgyny in an historical context. This is valuable, but it only particularizes something much more general—as shown by Klein’s isolation of Homeric precedents. For an overview of some of the main themes of androgyny in the episode, see Henke.
7. On Shaw in Joyce, see Martha Black.
8. For a discussion of transgendering, transsexuality, and related terms and categories, see Wheeler, Newring, and Draper 273. See also Milner, Dopke, and Crouch on autogynephilia (408).
9. The allusion to Teiresias (see Rose 195) suggests Bloom’s interests are not idiosyncratic.
10. For further discussion, see Baumeister, “Masochism.”
11. Subsequent research has not supported Baumeister’s contentions. However, that research was based in part on questionnaires, so its implications are not entirely clear. Moreover, in that research, “no support was found for any of the theories” concerning the etiology of masochism (Hucker 258).
1. The definitive discussion of the exhausted style of the episode is that of Lawrence. Lawrence’s stylistic sensitivity and the precision of her account of stylistic features are magisterial. In this case, however, I simply do not agree with her judgments.
2. The general point is indicated by Kenner, however, with a very different evaluation (see Joyce’s 35–38).
3. On the function of the definite article in producing a sense of shared prior knowledge, see Ong (13).
4. For discussion of some issues in gender bearing on Murphy, see Levine.
5. In using the word “monological,” I am alluding to Bakhtin. Though I would not subscribe to Bakhtin’s views as a literally construed theory of language, his work draws our attention to verbal interaction in ways we might otherwise have missed. The value of this for studying Joyce is well illustrated by Kershner.
6. I leave aside Stephen’s self-address as “you,” which is not a form of audience direction in this sense (cf. Cohn 91–92). I also leave aside the figural sequences of “Circe,” since they do not literally represent processes of interior monologue—though their development is a partial preparation for the subsequent audience-directed interior monologue of “Eumaeus.”
7. The point is not unequivocal. One could also read this reference to Menton as not tracking Bloom’s thoughts, but as being a comment by the narrator. Indeed, this is true for several of the examples cited here. However, in keeping with the general tendencies of the episode, I have assumed the narration follows external events or the focalized character’s thoughts unless there is positive reason to believe the narrator is intruding information from outside those two sources. On the other hand, even this is complicated in that some of the narrator’s reports of Bloom’s thought reflect the main points of that thought but do not necessarily quote interior monologue. In general, it seems reasonable to assume the reports closely follow Bloom’s subvocalization, but one cannot be certain in individual cases.
8. Pfister notes something along these lines in drama—“dialogical exposition” (92).
9. On the components and structure of such oral narratives, see Labov and Waletzky.
10. Like the titles in “Aeolus,” there are several sources for the question-and-answer narration of this episode. The suggestion here is simply that a legal interrogation is one consequential source.
11. I am grateful to Tiffany Touma for pointing out this passage to me.
12. Personal correspondence.
13. On emotion sharing, see Rimé.
14. See Hogan, “Literature” 129.
15. Critics have noted something along these lines (see, for example, Kiberd 271–272).
16. See Benstock (75) on some possible ambiguities regarding Rudolph’s suicide. Molly’s reflections here at least indicate Rudolph’s suicide was bound up with his wife’s death (see 18.1059–1062).
17. As Cohn notes, “imagined interlocutors are almost entirely absent” in “Penelope” (232).
18. Pinkerton and colleagues note that “masturbation was rated as more pleasurable than vaginal intercourse in one study of young married women” (107).
1. On the general relation between instructions and simulation, see, for example, Carlson and Kenny 37 and throughout on instructions involving the words “above” and “near” or Glenberg and colleagues 119 on temporal adverbs. The account of story and discourse simulation presented in the preceding pages is broadly compatible with accounts of simulation at the concept and sentence levels, as presented by Barsalou, Zwaan (see Zwaan and Kaschak, as well as Zwaan and Madden), and others. Much simulation theory of this sort is connected with “situated cognition” theory, an account of cognition that stresses its sensorimotor basis, its interaction with the environment, and its reliance on distributed networks (e.g., different sorts of expertise held by various members of a cooperating group; for an overview of situated cognition theory, see Robbins and Aydede, “A Short Primer”). The preceding analyses are largely compatible with the positive claims of situated cognition theory. I differ from writers in this tradition primarily on negative claims, such as their common rejection of rules or principles (see, for instance, Zwaan and Kaschak 370; though see Griffiths and Scarantino 448 for a more conciliatory view in the case of emotion).
Given the preceding account of simulation, it is perhaps worth noting that simulation may be situated and still occur off-line. For some points regarding on-line versus off-line cognition in the situated cognition framework, see Robbins and Aydede (“A Short Primer” 5) and Barsalou (236).
2. Other spatial divisions are of course possible (see, for example, Tversky) and may be significant for particular literary works.
3. See Zwaan and Kaschak 376 for relevant research.
4. Writers treating concepts and smaller discourse units (such as sentences) have stressed the spontaneous simulation of perceptual perspective (see, for example, Barsalou 251).
5. See Gazzaniga 164 and citations on mimicking emotional expressions and in-versus out-group divisions as well as competition (which is often related to identity group divisions).