On February 2 the whole world remembers the Irish writer James Joyce. Joyce wrote his most monumental novel, Ulysses, for 7 years, and when creating it, he relied on Homer’s Odyssey: the works have similar plots and structure. The title of the novel comes from the Latin version of Odysseus's name - Ulysses. On the 132nd anniversary of the writer’s birth, AiF.ru publishes an excerpt from Ulysses, one of the greatest masterpieces of world literature.

Mr Bloom lazily turned the pages of The Astonishing Disclosures of Maria Monk, then Aristotle's Masterpiece. Ridiculous font, hooked. Colored inserts: babies curled up in blood-red wombs, reminiscent of fresh bovine liver at a slaughterhouse. At this very moment there are many of them all over the world. And everyone is poking their heads, wanting to get out of there. Every minute a baby is born somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.

A specially commissioned image of James Joyce for the Ulysses subscription form. Paris, 1921. Photo: Commons.wikimedia.org

He put both books aside and glanced at the third: “Stories from the Ghetto,” Leopold von Sacher-Masoch.

“I read this one,” he said, pushing it away.

The merchant plopped two volumes onto the counter.

These are a nice couple,” he promised.

The counter reeked of onions from his rotten-toothed mouth. He bent down, picked up a stack of other books, pressed them to his unbuttoned vest and carried them behind the dirty curtain. On O'Connell's Bridge numerous persons could observe the imposing bearing and picturesque attire of Mr. Denis J. Maginni, dance master, etc.

Mr. Bloom, left alone, looked at the titles of the books. "Beautiful Tormentors" by James Loveburch. Rozgolub. It's clear what type it is. Did I have it? Yes. He opened the book. It seems like the same one. Female voice behind a dirty curtain. Let's listen. Man. No, she doesn't really like that. And he already brought it.

He read another title: “The Delights of Sin.” Perhaps more to her taste. Let's watch. Opening it at random, he read:

And she spent all these dollars that her husband showered on her in stores on luxurious dresses and the most ruinous trinkets. For him! For Raoul's sake! Yes. Exactly what is needed. We'll see.

Their lips merged in a greedy and voluptuous kiss, and his hands caressed her curvaceous form under a light debauchery.

Yes. This will do. And at the end.

The slender beauty threw off her coat trimmed with sable fur, revealing her luxurious shoulders and magnificently billowing curves. An elusive smile touched the perfect contours of her lips as she calmly turned to him.

Mr. Bloom reread it again: Slender beauty...

Warmth gently enveloped him, relaxing his entire body. Bodies in tangled clothes give way; the whites of the eyes are filled. Its nostrils flared, sniffing out its prey. The vapor of anointed breasts (for his sake! for Raoul’s sake!).

Tart onion armpit sweat. The sliminess of fish glue (the heaving roundness!). Feel it! Squeeze! Squeeze as hard as you can! Gray lion droppings! Youth! Youth!

An elderly female person, no longer in her early youth, left the courthouse of the Lord Chancellor and the royal, tax and civil courts, having heard in the first the case of declaring Potterton insane, in the second, in the admiralty department, in the absence of one of the parties - the case of the claim owners of the "Lady Cairns" to the owners of the barque "Mona" and in the Court of Appeal - adjournment of the hearing of the case of Harvey v Marine Insurance Company. A bubbling cough shook the air in the bookstore, ruffling the dirty curtain. The owner's gray, unkempt head stuck out, his face reddened from coughing and unshaven. He roughly cleared his throat and vomited the clot onto the floor. Then he stepped on his hard skin with his boot, rubbed it with the sole and bent down, showing his bare skull with a crown of sparse vegetation. Mr. Bloom examined the skull.

Trying to calm his breathing, he said:

I'll take this one.

The seller raised his eyes, festering from a chronic runny nose.

“The delights of sin,” he said, patting the binding. “Great book.”

Excerpt from James Joyce's novel Ulysses.

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A special point that concludes the episode in a number of publications and manuscripts - Undoubtedly, the symbol has other meanings, of which the main one, I believe, is the womb, the mother's womb. The text suggests that the question “Where did Bloom travel?” the answer has already been given a little higher, and this answer is the womb. On another level, the mother’s womb is an archetype that, in Joyce’s symbolic-artistic system, correlates precisely with the place of the beginning and end of the odyssey, with “Ithaca” (cf. “Mirror”, eps. 15, 16). Hence the following. inevitable level, textual: the famous point is “Ithaca” itself as a text, the only place where, according to the religion of the text (Mirror, ep. 11), all the wanderings of all the heroes lead.

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18. PENELOPE

Plot plan. Playing the role of an epilogue, extending beyond time (Joyce designated the hour of the episode with the symbol oo, infinity). "Penelope" could be extra-plot. But two plot events still occur in it. We learn that the husband, against family rules, wanted breakfast to be served to him in bed the next morning. And we are present when the wife begins menstruation. There was no shortage of in-depth analysis and subtle interpretations of these events; in the great Ellmann's monograph Ulysses on the Liffey, the most extensive section is entitled: "Why Molly Bloom Menstruates." But these soaring thoughts, alas, are too sublime for my blooming mind. Why does Molly Bloom menstruate? I confess, I can only give the most miserable answer. I think it's because she didn't get pregnant from Boylan. There is also an acute plot problem that worries scientists: does the heroine masturbate, and if so, in what parts of her famous monologue.

The real plan of “Penelope” has been known to us for a long time: this is Nora Joyce herself, née Barnacle; and also, little by little, other prototypes of Madonna Bloom (see Real plan “Calypso”). The closest prototype of the episode's style is Nora's letters: Joyce has long noticed their various features, starting with the main one: the desire for fluid, flowing, unified speech, not loving any punctuation or obstacles, shunning periods, commas, capital letters. He selected these features, processed them and constructed with their help a special, purely feminine discourse - and he did exactly the same with Nora herself. The closest prototype of the heroine’s character, her style and personality type is the character and style of Nora. From Nora - a sharp eye, a caustic word, a stock of biting and spicy expressions in the spirit of “farting pigs”. From Nora - freedom from intellectual complexes, from any reverence for sublime matters - a sober and earthly look, but at the same time not vulgarizing. There is much more from Nora (although in general, there are more deviations and additions in the construction of the image than in the construction of the discourse - we will talk about this below). In her early youth, in Galway, she had two admirers, Sonny Bodkin and Willie Mulvey, and both of them entered the work of Joyce. Sonny's touching story formed the basis of "The Dead" (if not for this, we would probably have found him in Gibraltar); Mulvey, keeping his last name, became Jack and the character of Penelope. And it’s worth mentioning that Molly herself also became part of the author’s real plan, part of his life. He dreamed of her, spoke to him, he celebrated her birthday, and on March 12, 1925, the new Pygmalion, wrote a poem in her honor.

Homer's plan is based on an unshakable dogma: Molly - Penelope. Like any genuine dogma, this thesis contains a contradiction incomprehensible to reason, but this does not waver at all (alas, only for believers). In the epilogue, after the sublimation has taken place, the author is only interested in the symbolic aspect of the dogma, and the correspondences he affirms are as follows: Penelope - Earth, Penelope's fabric (that she weaves and unravels, XIX, 149-150) - movement. Earth or Mother Gaia – Molly, as we know from “Ithaca”; The development of the episode was seen by the author as similar to the circular motion of the Earth (see below).

Thematic plan. The role and purpose of the episode - the epilogue - is exhaustively expressed by the author’s laconic phrase: “Molly must put her signature on Bloom’s passport to eternity.” The execution of the “signature” consists of two mutually symmetrical and closely related tasks: the construction of female speech and the construction of a woman - the owner of speech. After everything that has been done in the novel, the new leading device, the female stream of consciousness, seems not so complicated (and not entirely new, we have already seen the girlish stream of consciousness in Nausicaä). As already said, the main feature of this flow is flowing, flowing, continuous speech, similar to a river flow. The element of speech and the element of the river achieve an amazing, unique similarity in Joyce. Molly's monologue flows in a continuous stream, but this stream is not a rough mass, all at once carried away in one direction, as if through a pipe. It has internal structure and form. Words in a monologue are connected with each other, forming syntactic blocks and parts of phrases; themes arise, they develop, branch like streams of a stream, turn, intertwine with each other - and all this flows without stopping, flows and flows endlessly... Before us is clearly a free river, with a whimsical flow, streams, riffles, rapids: the last again literally, for seven times the flow of speech, without interruption, suddenly makes a change - a paragraph. From this model of speech - the river, a direct thread leads to Finnegans Wake, where the connection between the river and female elements is enshrined in the mythological image of Anna Livia Plurabelle, the wife of a Dublin innkeeper and at the same time - the Dublin River Liffey. And it is already clear that for Joyce there are, in fact, no two different tasks. The construction of speech is already the construction of a woman, it has everything, and the result of the construction, the river, equally represents speech and the river. Just as in Molly’s speech there are fluid boundaries between words and phrases, so in her world, as Joyce wrote, “there are no sharp lines that would separate one person from another” (cf. Theme plan “Eumaea”). The reader can easily develop this correspondence further.

INTRODUCTION

Psychology, proudly eking out its existence in a small and highly academic alcove, has in recent years become, as Nietzsche prophesied, an object of interest to the general public, breaking the boundaries established for it by universities. In the form of psychotechnics her voice was heard by industry, in the form of psychotherapy she penetrated into the vast fields of medicine, in the form of philosophy she legalized Schopenhauer and von Hartmann, she literally rediscovered Bachofen and Carus, through the mythology and psychology of primitive man she became an object of additional interest, is about to revolutionize the science of comparative religion, and not too few theologians want to involve it in the healing of souls. Will Nietzsche eventually be right about his “scientia anicilla psychologiae** At present, unfortunately, this inspiring development of psychology represents a chaotic mixture of chaotic currents, each of which belongs to one of the opposing schools trying to remove the confusion with increasingly militant dogmatism and fanatical devotion to his doctrine. Equally one-sided are attempts to provide psychological research to all spheres of life and human knowledge. One-sidedness and limited provisions, however, are childish delusions of a young science, which must solve unprecedented problems ONLY WITH THE HELP OF several intellectual tools. Despite all [MY] tolerance and understanding regarding various doctrine-like opinions, I tirelessly repeat that one-sidedness and dogmatic backwaters themselves pose a HUGE danger specifically for psychology. The psychologist must always REMEMBER THAT his hypothesis at first represents only his subjective assumption, as a result of which it cannot immediately be endowed with the qualities of a generalization. What the individual investigator can contribute to the elucidation of any of the innumerable aspects is only a POINT OF POINT, and to attempt to present this point of view as the basic all-encompassing truth is sheer violence to the object of study. The phenomenology of the psyche is so multicolored, so different in form and content, that we most likely will not be able to reflect all this wealth in one mirror. It is also impossible to make a comprehensive description of THESE phenomena and it is worth concentrating efforts on THOSE in order to shed light on a separate part of them. Since it is characteristic of the psyche to be not only a source of mental productivity, but first of all to express itself in human mental activity and its achievements, we will not be able to find a way to grasp the nature of the psychic regse * we will only be able to determine it by its numerous manifestations. Thus, the psychologist is obliged to familiarize himself with a wide range of subjects of study, not only from his assumptions and interest, but more from the love of knowledge, and for this reason he must leave his well-fortified specialist fort and go out in search of truth. He will not be able to confine the psyche within the confines of a laboratory OR a doctor's office, but

* for oneself, through oneself (French) Note. ed. ** Science is the handmaiden of psychology (lat.). Note ed.

follow him beyond the indicated limits to where his manifestations somehow reveal themselves, no matter how unusual they may seem. It so happens that I, being a doctor by profession, am talking to you today about the poetic imagination from the point of view of psychology, although this should be within the scope of consideration of literary criticism and aesthetics. But on the other hand, this is a mental phenomenon, and in this form it should be considered by a psychologist. In doing so I am not invading the territory of the literary historian or the esthete, since it is not my intention to replace such points of view with psychological ones. Of course, I may well be accused of the sin of bias, which I have already mentioned. Nor am I going to present you with a complete theory of poetic creativity, which I sincerely consider impossible. My observations should be taken as nothing more than the point of view from which a psychologist is generally able to view poetry. It is quite understandable that psychology, which is the study of mental processes, can be involved in the study of literature, since the human psyche is the cradle of the arts and sciences. Psychological research, on the one hand, should explain the psychological structure of a work of art, and on the other hand, identify the factors that make a person creatively active. Thus, the psychologist faces two completely different tasks, which require a completely different approach. When considering a work of art, we are faced with a product of complex mental activity - but this product is clearly intentional and consciously formed. In the case when the author becomes the object of consideration, we are dealing with the mental apparatus itself. In the first version, the object of analysis and interpretation is the result of artistic creativity, and in the second - the creative human being, as a unique individuality. Although both of these objects are very subtly related and even independent, they are not able to explain each other. Of course, it is possible to make assumptions about an artist based on his work, or vice versa, but these assumptions will never reach the level of conclusions. At best, they can play the role of witty guesses. Knowledge of the relationship between Goethe and his mother sheds light on Faust’s exclamation: “Mother, mother, how strange it sounds!” But attachment to the mother does not explain to us the appearance of the drama Faust itself, no matter how deep, in our opinion, this relationship left a mark in Goethe’s work. Likewise, we will not achieve success in opposing reasoning. There is nothing in The Ring of the Nibelungs that would lead us to deny or accept the fact of Wagner's penchant for transvestism, although there is still a hidden connection between the heroism of the Nibelungs and the pathological femininity in the character of Wagner the man. The psychology of an artist's personality can explain many aspects of his work, but not its result. But even if it successfully explains his activity, the artist’s creative activity itself will find manifestation only as a symptom. This may cause damage to the work of art and its public reputation. The present state of psychological knowledge does not allow us to establish strict causal relationships in the field of art, which would be expected from science. In addition, psychology is the youngest science. Only in the field of psychophysics of instincts and reflexes can we confidently use the concept of causality. From the moment when real physical life begins - and this is already a level of enormous complexity - the psychologist must engage in a comprehensive description of mental processes, creating a portrait of the diverse and elusive process of thinking in all its amazing complexity. At the same time, he must refrain from calling any part of this process “necessary” in the sense of being causally determined. If a psychologist could demonstrate the presence of cause-and-effect relationships in a work of art, or during the creative process itself, he would leave no room at all for aesthetics, reducing it to one of the branches of his science. Although a psychologist should never give up his efforts to study and establish the internal conditionality of complex mental processes - not to do this would mean depriving psychology of the right to exist - he is unlikely to ever be able to carry out his task fully, since the creative impulse that finds its most full expression in a work of art, is irrational, and in the end will only expose all our rationalistic attempts to ridicule. All conscious mental processes can be explained in terms of causality; but the creative act, the origins of which are deep in the unconscious, will always be beyond our understanding. It reveals itself only in manifestations, allows you to make assumptions, but never allows you to decipher yourself completely. Psychology and aesthetics will always turn to each other for help, and neither science will be able to neutralize the other. The ability to demonstrate the origin of any mental material by the method of causality is an important principle of psychology; for aesthetics, the mental product is considered as existing in itself and for itself. Regardless of whether the work or the author himself is being considered, both of the above principles are quite applicable, despite their relativity.

1. WORK OF ART

There is a fundamental difference between the psychological approach to a work of literature and the approach of the literary critic. What is of decisive importance and value for the latter is absolutely unimportant for the former. Naturally, literary products of very dubious merit are often of great interest to the psychologist. The so-called “psychological novel” is, without a doubt, the most beneficial for the psychologist as a way of literary thinking. Viewed as a self-containing whole, such a novel explains everything itself. He has already done the work of psychological interpretation, and the psychologist in this case can criticize heartily or simply develop the theme. In fact, it is the non-psychological novel that hides the greatest opportunities for psychological revelations. In such a work, the author, having no intentions of this kind, does not present his characters in a psychological light, and thus leaves enough space for analysis and interpretation, sometimes even calling for them due to the impartiality of the manner of presentation. A good example of such works are the novels of Benoit, or English novels in the style of Rider Haggard, as well as the most popular part of the literary mass production - the detective story - first developed by Conandoyle. I would also include here Melville’s “Mobidick,” which I consider the best American novel in its wide class of literary production. A remarkable observer, clearly devoid of psychological orientation, presents greatest interest for a psychologist. His plot is formed on the basis of unspoken psychological positions, and the more the author is unaware of them, the more this basis is revealed with all the clarity to a keen eye. In a psychological novel, on the other hand, the author independently tries to introduce the raw material of his work into the sphere of psychological research, but instead of highlighting its psychological background, he obscures it even more. It is from “psychological novels” that the average person takes his understanding of psychology, while novels of the first type require a real psychologist to reveal their deep meaning. I was talking about the novel, but the real topic of discussion is psychological principle, which is quite applicable for this type of literature. We also encounter it in poetry, and in “Faust” it is so distinct that it completely separates the first and second parts of the work. Gretchen's tragedy of love explains itself completely; there is nothing here that a psychologist could add that has not already been said in the best words by the poet himself. But the second part simply cries for interpretation. The phenomenal wealth of imagination has so outweighed or shown the inconsistency of the author's methods of presentation that nothing explains itself anymore and every line makes the need for interpretation more and more obvious to the reader. Faust is perhaps the best illustration of the two extremes in the psychology of art. To be clear, I would like to call one type of artistic creation psychological* and the other visionary. The psychological type of creativity deals with material drawn from a person’s conscious life - with his dramatic experience, strong emotions, suffering, passions and human destiny in general. All this is assimilated by the poet’s psyche, rising from everyday life to the level of poetic experience, and expressing itself with the power of conviction, which reveals to us the depths of existence, depicting everyday events that we avoid or elude our attention due to the fact that they seem boring to us or cause discomfort. . The raw material for this type of creativity is taken from the content of human consciousness, from its ever-repeating joys and sorrows, clarified and transformed by the poet. There is no work left for the psychologist here - unless we want him to explain Faust's love for Gretchen or why Gretchen had to kill her child. Such themes represent the fundamental features of human existence; they are repeated millions of times and add to the monstrous tally of court hearings and verdicts. No veil hides them, and everything here speaks for itself. A huge mass of literary production belongs to this class: all romance novels, all books describing family relationships, crimes and social problems, together with didactic poetry, various lyrics and drama - both comic and tragic. Whatever artistic form they take, their content always originates in the sphere of conscious human experience - one might say, from the psychic basis of life. That's why I called this type of creativity “psychological; it does not go beyond the psychologically intelligible. Everything it covers - both experience and its artistic expression - belongs to the realm of completely understandable psychology. even raw psychic material, pure experience

* Here and earlier, there are insufficiently clear differences between the types of novels: non-psychological, psychological and visionary. Apparently, if we adapt them to psychological novels we understand popular literature (detectives, science fiction, romance novels), and by visionary - the psychological type of novel. Note ed.

the form does not have any oddities, on the contrary, it is known from the beginning of time - passion and its destined result, the fate of man and his suffering, eternal nature in its beauty and ugliness. The abyss separating the first and second parts of Faust demonstrates the difference between the psychological and visionary types of artistic creation. In the second part everything is inverted. The experience that formed the basis of artistic expression is no longer recognizable. There is something strange in all this, originating in the margins of human thought, originating, it seems, from the depths of prehistory or from the superhuman world, where light and darkness are opposed. It is a primary experience that defies human understanding, and of which it is a victim because of its weakness. can easily become The very enormity of the experience gives it value and power of impact. Concentrated, full of meaning and chilling in its alienness it rises from the depths of timelessness, exciting, demonic and grotesque, it undermines human values ​​and aesthetic norms, a tangled tangle of primeval chaos, crite laesae majestatis humanae* On the other hand, this may be a discovery, the highest degree and depth of which is far beyond our imagination, or a vision of beauty that we can never express in words. This exciting spectacle of a gigantic process, surpassing human feelings and understanding in all respects, makes completely different demands on the artist’s talent than do the mental basis of life. She will never lift the veil that hides the cosmos from us; will never require us to go beyond the limits of our human capabilities, and precisely because of this, it is a more pliable material for artificial processing, no matter how amazing it may seem to the individual. However, primary experience from bottom to top tears the curtain on which the ordered world is painted, and reveals to the gaze the unknown realm of the unborn and that which is yet to be. Is this a vision of other worlds or spiritual darkness, or the beginnings of the human psyche? We cannot say anything for sure.

*Accused of insulting human greatness (lat.). Note ed.

Birth, rebirth, Eternal Mind, eternal rebirth.

2. ARTIST

Notes 1 See my essay Wotan, par 375 2 Recently interpreted by the method analytical psychology Linda Fiertz-David in “The Dream of Poliphilo” 3 Some excerpts from Boehme can be found in my “Psychology and Alchemy, par. 214, and also in “An Inquiry into the Process of Individuation,” par. 533, 578. 4 See the detailed study of Aniela Jaffe 5 Worth just remember “Ulysses” by James Joyce, a work of enormous significance, despite all its nihilistic tendencies, and maybe because of them b Confessions, p. 158 7 Isaiah 33:14. 8 “Die Stammeslehren der Dschagga”, published by Bruno Gugmann, consists of three whole volumes and 1975 pages! 9 Letter to Albert Brenner in 1855 [Also see “Symbols of Transformation” by Jung, par. 45.] 10 Written in 1929 11 Dream of Polifilo” p. 234 I2 Ibid., p. 27 13 I am talking about the first version, written in prose 14 See Psychological types Par 321 15 See his essay on Jensen's Gradive (Collected Works, Volume IX) and on Leonardo da Vinci in this collection 16 Psycho, ed. Ludwig Klages, p 158 17 Eckermann's dream, in which he saw Faust and Mephistopheles falling to the Earth in the form of two meteors, recalls the motif of Dioscuria (cf. the motif of two friends in my essay “Conceming Rebirth” p. 135), and this sheds light on specific features Goethe's psyche A particularly significant moment is when Eckermann notices that the swift, horned silhouette of Mephisto reminded him of Mercury. This observation is in complete agreement with the alchemical character of Goethe's masterpiece (I must thank my colleague W Kranefeltz for refreshing my memory of Eckermann's Conversations) 18 C Kerenyi, Asklepios 78

18 S Kerenyi, Asklepios 78

Carl Gustav Jung "Monologue of Ulysses"

The Ulysses of my title refers to James Joyce, and not to that cunning, sea-driven character of Homer, who, with the help of deceit and treachery, always managed to avoid death at the hands of men and gods and who, after a long weary journey, finally returned to his native hearth. Joyce's Ulysses, in contrast to its ancient namesake, represents the passive, purely contemplative consciousness as simply eye, ear, nose and mouth, a sensory nerve that has no choice and is left to the tyranny of the raging, chaotic, sleepwalking cataract of the physical world and physical events, which it records with photographic precision.

“Ulysses” is a book of seven hundred and thirty-five pages, a stream of time seven hundred and thirty-five days long, but in fact consisting of one single faceless day in the life of any person, the completely unremarkable sixteenth of June 1904 in the city of Dublin - the day during which, frankly, nothing happens. A stream arises from nowhere and flows to nowhere. Perhaps this is just one incredibly long and complex Strindberg maxim on the essence of human life - a maxim that, to the bewilderment of the reader, was never completed? It may be related to essence, but it certainly reflects tens of thousands of facets of existence and hundreds of thousands of their color shades. As far as I noticed, in these seven hundred and thirty-five pages there are no repetitions, there is not the slightest island, on

where the long-suffering reader could rest; there is no place where he could sit down and drink with memories, and look back with satisfaction on the path he has traveled, even if it is a hundred pages or less. If only it were possible to discover even a tiny common place that would catch one's eye when it is not expected! But no! The merciless stream rushes on without rest, and in the last forty pages its speed and density increase so much that it washes away even punctuation marks. Here the suffocating emptiness becomes so unbearable that it reaches explosive levels. This absolutely hopeless emptiness dominates the entire book. It not only begins and ends in nothing, it consists exclusively of nothing. Everything here is devilish nonsense. As an example of technical excellence, the work is magnificent, and at the same time it is an infernal monster.3

I had an uncle whose thinking was specific and objective. One day he stopped me on the street and asked: ‘Do you know how the devil tortures people in Hell?’?” When I answered “no,” my uncle said, “He’s making them wait. Then he turned around and moved on. This remark came to mind when I was making my way through Ulysses for the first time. Each sentence gives rise to the feeling that it is not finished; eventually, out of pure principle, you stop expecting anything, and it dawns on you, to your horror, that this is precisely the point. In fact, nothing happens, nothing follows from it,4 and secret expectations in the fight against hopeless loss lead the reader from page to page. Seven hundred and thirty-five pages, containing nothing, are undoubtedly blank paper, and yet it is densely covered with text. You read, read, read, and pretend to understand what you read. At times you fall into a new sentence as if through a hole in the air, but the level of complete loss that you have achieved has made you ready for anything. So I read to page 135, falling asleep twice along the way, and became completely despairing. The incredible versatility of Joyce's style leads to monotony and a hypnotic effect. Nothing is turned towards the reader, everything has its back turned to him, and he has to clutch at straws. The book leads up and away, dissatisfied with itself, ironic, sardonic, poisonous, contemptuous, sad, desperate and bitter. She plays on the reader’s sympathies for his eventual destruction, until a benevolent dream intervenes and puts an end to this energetic robbery. Having reached page 135, after several heroic attempts, as they say, “to do the book justice, I fell into deep oblivion.5 When I woke up some time later, my assumption had acquired such clarity that I began to read the book in the opposite direction. This method turned out to be no worse than the usual one; the book can be read backwards because it has no beginning or end, no top or bottom. Everything could have happened before, or could have happened after.6 You can read any conversation backwards with equal pleasure, since the essence of the puns still remains clear. Each sentence is a pun, but taken together they are meaningless. You can also stop in the middle of a sentence and the first part will seem to make sense on its own. The whole work resembles a worm cut in half, which, if necessary, can grow a new head or a new tail.

K.G. Jung. ULYSSES

This is a literary essay first published in Europä ische Revue”, pretends to be a scientific study no more than the essay on Picasso that follows it. Nevertheless, I include it in the collection of my Psychological Works, since Ulysses is significant and remarkable for our time document Humain

and, besides, it seems to me that this is a psychological document, the ideas of which, which also play an important role in my works, as they are practically implemented in the book, allow us to come to very definite conclusions. My essay lies aside not only from scientific, but also from any didactic intentions, and therefore the reader should consider it as just an expression of a subjective and non-binding opinion.

The title of the article refers to James Joyce, and not to the wandering, inventive hero of Homeric antiquity, who, with the help of cunning and enterprise, managed to protect himself from the enmity and vindictiveness of both gods and people and, having completed his arduous journey, returned to his native hearth. In complete contrast to his ancient namesake, Joyce's Ulysses represents an inactive, only perceiving consciousness, when before us is just an eye, an ear, a nose, a mouth, a touching nerve, which without restraint and indiscriminately and almost with photographic precision respond to the influence of the seething, chaotic and the absurd flow of spiritual and physical reality.

Ulysses is a book whose narrative stretches over 735 pages; Before us is a stream of time, and it is unclear whether it lasts 735 hours, days or years, all consisting of the same completely ordinary, stupid day, the sixteenth of June 1904 in Dublin, on which, in fact, nothing significant happens. This flow begins and ends in Nothing. What is this? The one and only Strindbergian truth about the essence of human life, unheard of long, most unimaginably complicated and, to the horror of the reader, never fully expressed?

About the “essence” of life - yes, perhaps, but about its ten thousand sides and one hundred thousand nuances - undoubtedly. On these 735 pages, as far as I could notice, there is not a single obvious repetition, not a single island for the reader’s soul, where he could look back with satisfaction on the path traveled, say, a hundred pages long, and remember even some banality, which, it seemed, could show up with friendly sympathy in some unexpected place. No, before your eyes the same stream is rolling unceasingly and inexorably, the speed or inevitability of which reaches the point that punctuation marks disappear in the last forty pages in order to most ominously express the oppressive, suffocating, unbearably intensifying tense emptiness. This pervasive, hopeless emptiness is the leitmotif of the entire book. The flow not only begins and ends in Nothing, but itself consists entirely of Nothing. Everything here is hellishly insignificant, and the whole book, if you treat it in an art-historical way, is a downright magnificent creation of hell.

I had an uncle who didn't like beating around the bush. Once, when he was already an old man, he stopped me on the street and asked: “Do you know how the devil torments souls who have gone to hell?” And when I answered that I didn’t know, he said: “He’s tormenting them with anticipation,” and went on his way. This remark came to mind when I was first finishing Ulysses. Here, every sentence gives rise to expectation, which, however, turns out to be in vain, so that the reader, who has finally resigned himself, not only expects nothing more, but, moreover, the horror of his situation intensifies as it gradually dawns on him that what to expect is... then he really has nothing. Here, in fact, nothing happens and nothing follows from anything, and, nevertheless, in spite of humility, which leaves no room for hope, some incomprehensible expectation does not leave you when moving from page to page. These empty 735 pages are not just white paper, but paper covered in cramped type. You read and read and it seems to you that you understand what you read. Suddenly you seem to fall through and find that you are already in the next sentence, but nothing surprises you anymore as a person who has reached a certain degree of submission. So, while reading Ulysses, I fell into despair until, having fallen asleep twice, I reached page 135. The unheard-of polysemy that Joyce achieves with the help of his style has a monotonous and hypnotic effect. The reader finds that he has nothing to grab onto, the text eludes him, leaving him alone with his efforts to understand what he read. A life unfolds before him, which waxes and wanes and, not at all prone to narcissism, looks at itself with irony and malice, with contempt, despair and sadness, evoking a sympathetic attitude in the reader that would threaten to swallow him completely , if sleep had not rushed to his aid to stop this wasteful waste of energy. When I reached page 135, after repeated heroic efforts to concentrate on the book and, as they say, “do it justice,” I finally fell into a truly deep sleep. When, having slept for quite a long time, I woke up, my understanding of the book became so clear that I decided from now on to read it, starting from the end.

This reading method turned out to be no worse than the generally accepted one, that is, it was discovered that Joyce’s book can be read backwards, since, strictly speaking, it has neither front nor back, neither top nor bottom. What happens there on every page may well take place in the past or in the future. You can, for example, get the same pleasure by reading dialogues from the beginning or from the end, since nothing is stated in essence in them. Taken as a whole, they are meaningless, but each statement, considered in itself, appears meaningful. Or, when reading a sentence, you can stop in the middle, because even half of it has sufficient raisond’ê treto be or appear viable. The whole book resembles a worm, which, when cut into pieces, grows a tail from its head, and a head from its tail.

This feature of Joyce's style, strange and eerie, makes his work akin to cold-blooded ones, for example, worms, which, if they were capable of literary composition, would use the sympathetic system due to the lack of a brain. nervous system. I suspect that Joyce can be understood in this way, that we have before us a person who thinks from the inside, since his brain activity is so suppressed that it is essentially focused only on discrimination sensations. A person, according to Joyce, should never cease to admire the activity of his senses: what and how he sees, hears, tastes, smells and touches should amaze beyond all measure, regardless of whether we are talking about external or the internal side of the matter.

Ordinary specialists in problems of sensation or perception, of which there are thousands, focus on either the first or the second. Joyce has access to both at once. Garlands, formed from a series of subjective associations, are intertwined with the objective contours of a Dublin street. The objective and the subjective, the external and the internal, constantly penetrate each other here, so that, despite all the clarity of a single image, it remains, in the end, unclear whether the tapeworm wriggling before your eyes is a physical or transcendental creature. The tapeworm, which represents the entire cosmos of life and has fantastic fertility, is, in my opinion, an ugly, but not entirely inappropriate image of the chapters that make up Joyce’s book. This tapeworm can't spawn anything but the same tapeworms, but there are unlimited quantities of them. Joyce's book could just as easily have been 1,470 pages long, or many times more, and yet we would never have gotten one iota closer to the end and its essence would still remain unspoken.

Did Joyce have anything significant to say at all? How justified is this old-fashioned claim here? A work of art, according to Oscar Wilde, is devoid of any usefulness. Nowadays, even educated philistines would not object to this, but in their hearts they still expect some kind of “essence” from a work of art. Yes, but where is it in Joyce? Why doesn’t he offer it to the reader, denoting it so unambiguously that he could not make a mistake when in front of him would be “ semita sancta ubi stulti non errent?

So I, reading the book, felt that it was fooling me, forcing me to lose patience. She did not want to meet me halfway; there was not the slightest attempt on her part to make her content easier to understand, which gave me, as a reader, a humiliating feeling of my own inferiority. I myself, apparently, have in my blood the feeling of being a philistine from my education, and it is this that makes me naively believe that the book I am reading wants to tell me something and wants to be understood by me, but this may be a transference on an object, in this case a book, rooted in the mythology of an anthropomorphic attitude towards the world! Actually, this book O which is impossible to form an opinion - the embodiment of the unfortunate defeat of the intelligent reader, and he, in the end, also does not ... (I say, resorting to Joyce's suggestive style). A book, of course, cannot exist without content, without depicting something, but I strongly doubt that Joyce wanted to “depict” something. Did he end up depicted? myself - and perhaps this is where this genuine loneliness in the book comes from, this action that excludes witnesses, this lack of respect that infuriates the diligent reader? Joyce incurred my displeasure. (You should never confront the reader with his own stupidity, but that is exactly what Ulysses does.)

A psychotherapist like me cannot live without his psychotherapy, including without practicing it on himself. And if a person gets irritated, then, from his point of view, he seems to want to say to himself: “You have approached a line beyond which you have not yet looked.” In this regard, it is natural to expect that his mood will deteriorate with all the ensuing consequences; So what gets on my nerves is this solipsistically careless, disrespectful attitude of the author towards me as an educated, intelligent member of the reading public who views the printed text favorably and expects that his well-intentioned efforts to understand what is in it will be fairly rewarded contained. Here it is, the effect of the indifference that has penetrated into Joyce's way of thinking, typical of cold-blooded people, which seems to go back to the lizards and even lower - as if he were in his entrails and playing with them - this stone man, just that same Moses with stone horns, a stone beard and petrified entrails, who with stone calmness turns his back on both the Egyptian cauldrons of meat and the Egyptian host of gods, and at the same time cruelly wounds the best feelings of the benevolent reader.

From the hellish depths of this world of stone innards rises before your eyes the likeness of a peristaltic, undulating tapeworm, monotonously assimilating its eternal food with all its members. Although these members are not completely identical to each other, they are so similar that it is difficult not to confuse them. Whatever part of the book you take, even the smallest one, you will recognize Joyce in it, and at the same time it has its own content. Everything appears here for the first time, being the same from beginning to end. So this is the highest degree of interdependence that can exist in nature! What wealth, but also... what boredom! When I read Joyce, I become bored to the point of crying, and this is an unkind boredom, fraught with danger, which even the most tiresome vulgarities are unable to cause. This is the boredom of Nature itself, such as is carried by the homeless howls of the wind in the rocks of the Hebrides, the sunrises and sunsets in the deserted expanses of the Sahara, the incessant noise of the sea - this, as Curtius quite rightly notes, is “Wagner’s endless melody”; and at the same time this is a repetition established from time immemorial. Despite all his striking versatility, Joyce follows certain melodies, although he does this perhaps unconsciously. It is possible that he is not satisfied with any melodies at all, since in his world neither causality, nor subordination to initially given goals, nor, by the way, orientation towards any values ​​have any place or meaning. But the fact is that no one can do without melodies, they represent the skeleton of everything, What happens in spiritual life, no matter how hard someone tries to erase the soul from everything that happens, even if this is done with the tenacity of Joyce. Everything in his book appears somehow soulless, instead of hot blood, some kind of cold blood flows everywhere, events follow each other, locked in some kind of icy egoism - and what kind of events are these! In any case, you will not find anything dear to the heart, nothing refreshing the soul, nothing that gives hope; instead, such definitions as gloomy, terrible and terrible, pathetic, tragic and ironic are suitable for what is happening; everything here is an experience of the wrong side of existence, all the more chaotic because you have to look for the melodic basis connecting events with a magnifying glass. And yet it can be detected, first in the form when it manifests itself in the form of insinuating expressions of hostility of the most personal nature, the remnants of desecrated youth, the ruins that crowned the general history of the spirit, in the idle crowd exhibiting their wretched life as it is. The preceding is reflected in its religious, erotic and intimate facets on the dull surface of the event flow; and it is not hidden from the reader’s eyes that the banal practical Bloom, immersed in his feelings, and the almost ethereal Stefan Dedalus, busy with spiritual research (and it turns out that the first has no son, and the second has no father) are the result of the decomposition of the author of his personality into two components.

There are probably some implicit relationships or correspondences between the chapters of the book, this can be argued, apparently with sufficient grounds, but if this is so, then they are hidden so well that at first I did not even imagine the possibility of their existence. And the fact that the inability to recognize them would cost me as a reader a lot of nerves, apparently, was not taken into account by the author at all, just as the simple spectacle of ordinary human life leaves us indifferent.

And today “Ulysses” still causes me the same boredom as in 1922, when I first picked it up and, after reading it for a while, disappointed and annoyed, put it aside. Why am I writing about him in this case? By myself, I would deal with it no more than with any other form that exceeds the level of my understanding." surrealism»’ a(and what else is this? surrealismsuch?). But I am writing about Joyce because one publisher had the imprudence to ask me what I thought about him and, accordingly, about Ulysses, opinions about which, as we know, still differ. What is certain is that “Ulysses” is a book that has already gone through ten editions, and that its author is praised to the skies by some and cursed by others. At the same time, the fact that it turned out to be the focus of controversy points to it as an outstanding phenomenon, which is quite difficult for a psychologist to ignore. Joyce had an extraordinary influence on his contemporaries. And initially it was to this that I owed most of my attention to Ulysses. If this book had been consigned to oblivion, without leaving a trace, then I probably would never have returned to it: it annoyed me quite enough, only somehow entertained me, and mainly gave me such oppressive boredom, that I began to fear for my creative abilities, in general, it only had a negative effect on me.

Of course, I have my own characteristics. I am a psychiatrist, which means that I treat any manifestations of mental activity as a professional. In this regard, I warn the reader: the tragicomedy of human mediocrity, the cold darkness of the other side of existence, the twilight state of the soul that has fallen into nihilism - all this is my ordinary, everyday food, which evokes in me no more sentimentality than a beaten, boring, lost one. charm motive. The pitiful appearance of the human soul required me to provide medical assistance too often for me to experience shock or any touching feelings. Mental illness for me is something that I always have to actively resist, and I feel compassion for the patient only when I see how much they hope for my help. “Ulysses” doesn’t count on me. He doesn’t need me: he likes to tirelessly sing his endless melody (a melody that is already familiar to me ad nauseam), as well as to constantly reproduce his system of thinking with his gut and limiting brain activity by analyzing immediate sensations - the system is always the same, like moving on a rope ladder , a system that closes in on itself and shows no signs of change. (The reader simply feels bad, because he feels his complete worthlessness.) The destructive principle appears here, therefore, as an end in itself.

All this can be considered not just as a characteristic of the text, but as a symptom of the author himself! After all, reading the book, it is impossible not to note that precisely in the manuscripts produced in huge quantities by the mentally ill, the action of consciousness is manifested only fragmentarily, a logical conclusions and value orientations are completely absent. At the same time, sensory perception often sharply intensifies; observation becomes very sharp; memory reproduces perceived objects with photographic accuracy; feelings focus on registering the slightest internal and external changes; memories of the past and hidden grievances take over in behavior; a delusional state of mixing subjectively directed mental experiences with objective reality arises; the description of something is characterized by an interest in new word formations, in fragmentary quotation, onomatopoeic and linguomotor associations, in abrupt transitions from one to another and arbitrary switching of attention from one sense to another - all this without any regard for the need to be understandable to the reader; The atrophy of the capacity for emotional experiences is such that a person does not stop at the most absurd and cynical actions. You don't need to be a psychiatrist to see the similarities between the psyche of a schizophrenic and the state of mind of the author of Ulysses. But, nevertheless, it is not worth highlighting the analogies that come to mind in this case, if only because then some dissatisfied reader may, without giving himself the trouble to think, put the book aside and diagnose her with “schizophrenia.” As for psychiatry itself, these analogies cannot, of course, fail to catch the eye of specialists, but they would precisely note that at the same time, attention is drawn to the absence in Joyce’s work of the dominance of stereotyping, typical of the writings of the mentally ill. In Ulysses, if you wish, you can find everything except such monotony, when the presentation is reduced, but essentially, to repetition of the same thing. (This does not at all contradict what was stated earlier. The idea of ​​contradiction is not at all suitable for understanding Ulysses.) The content of the book is presented consistently and plastically, everything here is charged with movement and there is absolutely no marking time. Emerging from the life-giving depths of the soul, the whole appears in the form of a stream, united and regulated in the strictest way. which undoubtedly indicates the action of a single, imbued with a personal will and the purposefulness of intentions! Consciousness functions here not spontaneously and chaotically, but is subject to the most careful control. Throughout the book the functions of perception, sensation and intuition are given preference, while the functions of judgment, thinking and emotional sensitivity are invariably suppressed. The latter are assigned in the book the role of an insignificant moment or simply an object of the author’s perception. Let us note that the author purposefully follows the plan to show the underside of the inner and outer life of the human soul, although, despite this, he is often tempted to succumb to the temptation of the beautiful that suddenly appears to him. But that's all not typical mentally ill. If, however, you think otherwise, then this is tantamount to saying that we have a case that goes beyond the boundaries of psychiatry. To a healthy person there may be inherent deviations that must appear to the mediocrity as a mental illness or simply indicate a level of development that exceeds her own level.

It would never have occurred to me to regard the author of Ulysses as a schizophrenic. In any case, such an attitude is not productive if we want to know what explains such a significant influence of Ulysses, and not whether its creator was susceptible to some degree of schizophrenia. “Ulysses” is the same product of a sick imagination, like all modern art. It is in the fullest sense “cubist”, since it dissolves the image of reality in an immensely complex picture, the main tone of which is the melancholy of abstract objectivity. Cubism is not a disease, but an art direction, even if it reflects reality through grotesquely presented objects or through no less grotesque abstraction. All this, of course, is very similar to what we observe in schizophrenia - the patient is under the influence, apparently, of the same tendency: he alienates reality from himself or, what is the same thing, has an alienated attitude towards it. But at the same time, as a rule, he does this unconsciously, and in this case we are dealing with a symptom that inevitably arises as a result of the disintegration of personal integrity into separate fragments (the so-called autonomous complexes). As for contemporary artists, in their work this trend represents symptoms of time, and is not the result of the disease of each of them separately. The main thing here does not belong at all to any individual impulses in themselves, but rather to collective aspirations, which have their immediate source, of course, not so much the consciousness of this or that individual person, but - to a much greater extent - the collective unconscious of mental existence ( psyche) our time. And since the matter lies in the collective manifestations of the psyche, this means that it will identically influence various areas, both painting and literature, both sculpture and architecture. (It is significant, by the way, that Van Gogh, one of the spiritual fathers of the art movement we are examining, was truly mentally ill.)

In the case of a patient, the distortion of beauty and meaning by endowing objects with emphasized materiality or no less emphasized deprivation of their real outlines appears as a result of the destruction of his personality, while the artist is led along this path by purposeful creative efforts. Far from treating the process of creating art as a method suitable for experiencing and undergoing various manifestations of the destruction of his personality, the modern artist is immersed in the processes of destruction in order to affirm the integrity of his personality through them. Mephistophelian conversions of meaning into nonsense, and beauty into ugliness, the almost painfully close similarity between meaning and its complete absence, the attractive power of ugliness presented as beauty - all this currently stimulates acts of creativity with such an intensity that has never been equal before. the entire history of the human spirit, although as regards these acts in themselves, there is nothing fundamentally new in them. We see something similar, for example, in the seemingly unnatural departure from the undividedly dominant style during the reign of Amenhotep IV, in the simple symbolism of the image of the Lamb during early Christianity, in the pitiful image of man in the primitives of the Pre-Raphaelites, in the descending baroque, which suppressed itself by the pretentiousness of its own ornaments. No matter how sharply the mentioned eras differ from each other, they are related to each other, since they all represent incubation periods of creativity, attempts to causally explain the essence of which give completely unsatisfactory results. Considering them as phenomena of collective psychology, we discover that they can be understood correctly only if we try to see their meaning in anticipation of the future, that is, if we treat them teleologically.

The era of Amenhotep IV (Akhenaton) is the cradle of monotheism, which was then preserved by the Jewish tradition for the whole world. The barbaric infantilism of early Christianity was caused only by the fact that the Roman Empire had by that time turned into a state of God. The primitives of the Pre-Raphaelites directly foreshadow the return to the world of unheard-of bodily beauty, lost since early antiquity. Baroque is the last surviving church style, which by its self-destruction anticipates the predominance of the scientific spirit over the medieval dogmatic spirit. Thus, if we consider the art of Tiepolo, who in him reached the limits of the possible that were unsafe for the spirit, as a manifestation of his creative personality, then we will see that the point is not whether he himself disintegrates, but that disintegration is for him a necessary means of expressing his creative individuality. And if the early Christian did not recognize the art and science of his time, then by doing this he did not turn his life into a desert, but affirmed the man in himself.

We can therefore proceed from the fact that not only Ulysses, but all the art with which it is connected by ties of spiritual kinship, contains positive creative values ​​and meaning. As for the destruction of hitherto accepted criteria for the expression of beauty and meaning, here Ulysses occupies an outstanding place. He insults established habits of feeling, he violates what is usually expected from a book in terms of meaning and content, he mocks any attempts to bring together the thoughts that arise during reading. It seems that only an ill-wisher can attribute to “Ulysses” at least some kind of tendency towards generalizations or figurative unity, since if it were possible to prove the presence of such unmodern things in it, then in this case it would turn out that he seriously deviates from the canons of beauty that he himself affirmed . Everything that causes dissatisfaction in Ulysses only proves its merits, for this dissatisfaction is caused by hostility towards modernity on the part of non-modernity, which does not want to see precisely what the “gods” are so far “by their mercy hiding from his eyes.” "

It is in the works of the modernists that the That, which always defies any attempts to curb or tame oneself, that which in Nietzsche overflowed with bacchanalian delight and took precedence over his intellect, burdened with psychological research (which, we note, would be quite appropriate in Ancien Regime). Even the darkest passages from the second part of Faust, from Zarathustra, and even from Esse Homo“One way or another they show their respect to the world. And only the modernists were able to create art with its back turned to the public, or, what is the same thing, to put on public display the reverse side of art, which neither loudly nor quietly demonstrates any respect for the public and which, in general, loudly tells what it means when art does not need empathy, thereby continuing the trend of confrontation that made its way - although not so clearly, but quite consistently - in the works of all the predecessors of modernism (let’s not forget Hölderlin!) and led to the collapse of former ideals.

It seems completely impossible to understand the essence of the matter, limiting ourselves to only one single aspect of it. After all, the main thing for us is not some single impulse, even if its effect was successfully manifested somewhere, but those almost universal shifts in the life of modern man, which, apparently, mean his renunciation from the entire old world. Since we are unfortunately unable to look into the future, we do not know to what extent we still belong to the Middle Ages in the deepest sense of the word. Personally, at least, I would not be surprised to learn that from the point of view of the future, we are immersed in it up to our necks. After all, only this circumstance could satisfactorily explain the appearance of such books and other works of art as Ulysses. All of them are very effective as laxatives, and their cleansing action would be largely wasted if it were not resisted by a sufficiently strong and stubborn resistance. All of them are such a cleanser for the soul, the use of which is justified only if it is necessary to free it from the most stubborn and persistent influences. In this they are no different from Freud's theory, which, with the narrow-mindedness typical of fanaticism, also emasculates values ​​that are already in decline.

Although the author of Ulysses seems almost scientifically objective, and sometimes resorts to “scientific” vocabulary, his work is nevertheless distinguished by a truly unscientific one-sidedness; "Ulysses" is just a negation. Denial is, however, creative. "Ulysses" - this is creative destruction, not Herostratus’ acting, but a serious act aimed at rubbing his contemporary’s nose in reality, like her Same there is, and to do this not with malicious intent, but with the sinless naivety of an artist following objectivity. This book can with a clear conscience be called pessimistic, although at the very end, almost on the last page, one can assume that the light of deliverance is breaking through the clouds. Yes, only for one On page 734 or so, you learn that you have left the underworld behind. In the mud flow flowing in front of you, here and there crystals emitting a magnificent radiance catch your eye, from which even a non-modernist can guess that Joyce is a real artist, that he “can” - but for a modern artist this is, of course, not at all of course, even if he is a true master, since this master is guided by such higher goals that force him to depreciate his creative capabilities with pious meekness. No matter how radical Joyce's renunciation was, it did not become a conversion for him, and he was and remains a devout Catholic: he uses the explosive power of his talent mainly against the division of the church and the psychological formations directly or indirectly caused by it. Modern world rejected by Joyce as inappropriate for the characteristically high Middle Ages, entirely provincial and eo ipso Catholic atmosphere of Erin, frantically trying to rejoice over his political independence. In whatever distant countries its author worked on Ulysses, he, like a devoted son, did not take his eyes off the Mother Church and his Ireland, and he needed a foreign land only as an anchor that prevented his ship from perishing in the abyss of the surging seas. him of Irish memories and the bitter experiences associated with them. But as for the world as such, at least in Ulysses it never reached Joyce, even in the form of a tacitly accepted premise. Ulysses does not strive to return to his Ithaca; on the contrary, he is desperately trying to hide from the very fact of his birth in Ireland.

What, strictly speaking, is unfolding before us is so limited that, it would seem, the rest of the world might not arouse any interest in it! But this world, on the contrary, did not remain indifferent at all. Judging by the influence of Ulysses on his contemporaries, it turns out that its limitations embody more or less universal features. So, “Ulysses” came at the right time for its contemporaries. We must have a whole community of modernists, so numerous that since 1922 they have been able to completely absorb ten of its editions. This book will certainly reveal to them something that they may not have known or felt before. They do not fall into hellish boredom from it, but, on the contrary, grow with it, feel renewed, advanced in knowledge, turned to the path of truth or ready to start all over again and, obviously, brought to a certain desired state, without which only burning hatred could motivate the reader to read all these 735 pages carefully, without the fatally inevitable attacks of sleep. I therefore believe that medieval Catholic Ireland apparently has an extent that is still unknown to me and infinitely greater than indicated on our familiar geographical maps. This Catholic Middle Ages, through which Messrs. Daedalus and Bloom walk, seems, so to speak, to be a universal phenomenon, or, in other words, there must be almost entire classes of population, the place of residence of which, like Ulysses, is determined by the spiritual coordinates in to such an extent that the explosive power of Joycean thought was necessary so that other people could also see with their own eyes their existence, previously hermetically sealed from them. I am convinced that the deep Middle Ages will never end in our lifetime. And there's nothing you can do about it. That is why such prophets of negativity as Joyce (or Freud) were needed to tell contemporaries, who will not stop living by the standards of the Middle Ages, that “that” reality is still with us.

The fulfillment of this task, gigantic in its significance, is unable to meet due understanding on the part of those who, being filled with Christian goodwill, are inclined to turn their gaze away from everything dark that fills this world. For them it would be a “performance” that would leave them indifferent. But no, Joyce masterfully calculates his revelations in the appropriate mood. Only in relation to it does the play of negative emotional forces it sets come into play. Ulysses provides an example of how Nietzsche's "blasphemous penetration into the past" should be carried out. He does this calmly, with knowledge of the matter, and as “deafeningly” as Nietzsche never dreamed of. And all this - with a quiet but completely correct assumption that the witchcraft influence of the spiritual terrain should be sought not at all in the mind, but in the depths of the soul! One should not be tempted to believe that Joyce in his book depicts an exclusively bleak, godless and unspiritual world, and therefore it is inconceivable that anything life-affirming could be taken from it. Strange as it may sound, the truth is that the world of Ulysses is better than the world of those who are hopelessly bound by the grayness of their spiritual origins. And even when evil and destruction take over in him, he is still visibly different or even superior to “good”, that very ancient “good”, which in fact turns out to be an irreconcilable tyrant, representing a system of prejudices that generates illusions, which in the most cruel way prevents the real richness of life from being revealed and condemns the thoughts and conscience of everyone who falls into its arms to unbearable torment. “A slave revolt in the moral sphere” - this is how Nietzsche could define the guiding idea of ​​Ulysses. For people bound by the grayness of their spiritual origin, deliverance lies in “knowingly” recognizing the existence of their world and their “authentic” being in it. Just as a representative of the Bolshevik guard is delighted to be unshaven, so a person spiritually bound by dullness feels happy from objective discussions about what it is like in his world. It will be a blessing for the blind to exalt darkness over light, and the boundless desert will be a paradise for the prisoner. For a medieval person, absolute deliverance lies in depriving one’s life of beauty, goodness and meaning, because for shadow people, ideals are not creative achievements, not light from fire on the tops of mountains, but teachers of obedience and bonds of imprisonment, this is a kind of metaphysical a police force originally conceived by the tyrannical leader of the nomadic people, Moses, high on Sinai, and then cunningly and cleverly imposed on humanity.

If we apply a cause-and-effect approach to Joyce, he appears as a victim of Catholic authoritarianism; in teleological terms, he is a reformer who, for the time being, is satisfied with denial; he is a Protestant, who, in anticipation of what will happen next, makes his living with his protest. Joyce, as a modernist, is characterized by an atrophy of feelings, which, according to experience, always arises in response to their excessive manifestation, especially when they are false. The apathy shown in Ulysses suggests that we have an excessive amount of sentimentality. The question, therefore, is, is this really the case?

This is still one question that could best be answered by a man from the distant future! Nevertheless, we have some reason to believe that our preoccupation with the sentimental side of life has reached completely obscene proportions. Let us remember the downright catastrophic consequences of expressing popular feelings during the war! How many cries there were about our so-called humanity! About the extent to which each of us is a helpless, although unworthy of pity, victim of our own experiences, a psychiatrist can probably tell us better than anyone else. Sentimentality is one of the external manifestations of cruelty. Atrophy of feelings is another manifestation of it, inevitably suffering from the same flaws. The success of Ulysses proves that, despite all the apathy it contains, it has an impact positive influence; This suggests a conclusion: the reader himself is so overloaded with sentiment that their absence seems beneficial to him. I am also deeply convinced that we are held tenaciously in its embrace not only by the Middle Ages, but also by sentimentality, and therefore we can fully understand the appearance of a prophet of the compensating insensitivity of our culture. Prophets are always unsympathetic, and their manners, as a rule, are bad. But they say that sometimes they hit the eye rather than the eyebrow. There are, of course, great and small prophets, and history will decide which of them Joyce belongs to. The artist, as befits a true prophet, pronounces the secrets of the spirit of his era as if involuntarily, and sometimes simply unconsciously, like a somnambulist. He imagines that he himself composes his speeches, while in fact he is guided by the spirit of the era, and according to his word everything comes true.

"Ulysses" isdocumentHumainof our time and, moreover, therein lies his secret. It may be given to him to free those who are spiritually bound, and the one who goes from His cold freezes to the bones not only sentimentality, but all sensitivity in general. But its essence is not exhausted by these healing effects. No matter how interesting the remark is that evil itself favored the birth of Ulysses, this does not say everything. After all, there is life in it, and life is never only evil and destruction. True, all that we are initially able to extract from this book relates to negation and disintegration, but at the same time there is a premonition of something incomprehensible, as if some secret purpose imparts to it a positive meaning, and with it goodness. Is it correct to conclude that the words and pictures unfolding before our eyes like a colorful carpet should ultimately be understood “symbolically”? I’m talking, God have mercy, not about an allegory, but about a symbol as an expression of an otherwise incomprehensible essence. But if this were really so, then, probably, in the bizarre intricacies of the text, a hidden meaning would flicker towards us, That here and there mysterious sounds would sound, which would echo memories of other times and other spaces, and exquisite dreams would flash before our eyes, or now forgotten peoples who had sunk into the darkness of oblivion would appear again. The possibility of all this, of course, can be assumed, but I don’t know how to see it. Moreover, in my understanding, the author’s consciousness illuminates every corner of the book; it is not a dream or a revelation emerging from the unconscious. The author's prudence and deliberate bias are expressed in the book even more clearly than in Nietzsche's Zarathustra or the second part of Goethe's Faust. This, apparently, explains the shortcomings of Ulysses in terms of symbolism. One can, naturally, admit the hidden presence of archetypes in it, suggesting that Daedalus and Bloom personify the eternal figures of spiritual and carnal man; in the intricacies of Mrs. Bloom’s everyday life, the image of the soul is manifested ( anima), Ulysses himself would then express the symbolism of the Hero, but the point is that not only does the book in no way contain clear indications of the legitimacy of such conclusions, but even, on the contrary, everything in it is illuminated by the light of the clearest, most enlightened consciousness. This is clearly not symbolist and is the opposite of all symbolism. If it were discovered that in some of its parts the book still carries a symbolic load, then this would mean that the unconscious was playing a trick on the author, despite all his precautions. For when we say “symbolic,” we indicate that in an object, whether it is from the spirit or from the world, there is an essence immanent to it, incomprehensible and powerful, but man is desperately trying to subjugate the mystery opposing him, having caught it in precise expression. To do this, he must direct all his thoughts to this object, so that, having penetrated through all the diversity of its constituent shells, he can get to the true jewel, jealously hidden in an unknown depth, and bring it to daylight.

In Ulysses, what can lead to despair is that, penetrating further and further through countless shells, you find nothing else besides them, and that, emitting lunar cold, it does not prevent the comedy of becoming, being and disappearing from taking its course, watching its progress from some distant space. I sincerely hope that Ulysses does not consist of symbolic constructions, since otherwise it would diverge with your goal. What kind of fearfully kept secret could it be, for the sake of which it was worth finishing with such unprecedented diligence as many as 735 pages, which are simply unbearable to read? So let the reader better not waste either time or energy searching for non-existent treasures. We should not even admit the thought that they could be hidden somewhere inside, because, having succumbed to it, our consciousness, again drawn into the spiritual and material world of Mr. Dedalus and Mr. Bloom, would be doomed to endless wanderings among ten thousand its surfaces. This is not the intent of Ulysses. He wants, like the Moon, looking alone from the beyond, to be a consciousness free from an object, not restrained by either gods or base desires, not led by either love or hatred, not burdened by either beliefs or prejudices. "Ulysses" does not speak, but does it: he strives for liberation of consciousness as if towards a target ghostly looming along his course. This, perhaps, lies the secret of a new worldview, which is given not to those who diligently read all 735 pages of the book, but to those who, for 735 days, looked at their world and at their spirit through the eyes of Ulysses. This period of time carries a symbolic meaning - this is what happens “in the continuation of time, times and half a time,” that is, the time is long enough, unlimitedly long, so much so that the circulation in it is completed completely. Release of Consciousness happens in Homeric style - the beautiful patient Odysseus, sailing through the narrow strait between Scylla and Charybdis, between the Symplegades of the spirit and the world - and in Dublin Hades: between Father John Conmee and the Viceroy of Ireland, like “a crumpled piece of paper that drives further and further "down the Liffey: " Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by flanks of ships and trawlers , amid an archipelago of corks beyond new Wapping street past Benson " s ferry, and by the threemasted schooner Rosevean from Bridgewater with bricks » .

Is this liberation of consciousness, this depersonalization of personality, the Ithaca of Joyce's Odyssey?

It can be understood that in a world where everyone is completely insignificant, apparently only one survives. I, whose name is James Joyce. But is it possible to notice that among all the unfortunate ones who exist as their own shadows I would one real self stand out? Each character in Ulysses, of course, is in no way inferior to the others in their life uncertainty, and it is unlikely that there could be others in their place; they are original in all respects and, nevertheless, they do not have their own I, In general, there is no acutely felt core, so inherent in man, there is no island washed by hot blood I, which - ax! - so small and yet so important for life. All these Daedalus, Blooms, Harrises, Lynches, Mulligans and whatever their names speak and move as if in one general sleep, which does not begin anywhere and does not end anywhere, which exists only because “Someone” sees it, some invisible Odysseus. None of them knows anything about this, and yet they all live, for some god calls them to life. Such is this life, and in it the images created by Joyce are so valid - vitasomnium breve.But that's the same I, which embraces them all, does not itself appear even once. It does not reveal itself as anything, nor any judgment, nor participation in anything, nor any anthropomorphism. I As a result, it is impossible to detect the creator of all these images. One might think that it was completely dissolved in the countless characters of Ulysses. And yet, more precisely, this is why everything and everyone here, even the absence of punctuation marks in the last chapter, is myself Joyce. His liberated, contemplative consciousness, which one with an indifferent glance embraces the untimely coincidence of events on June 16, 1904, must say to everything that happens there: Tat twam asi - it’s you - “you” in the high sense, i.e. no I, and the Self turning to itself, for only the Self immediately embraces I And not me, the underworld, the bowels of the earth, " imagineset lares» and the sky.

When I read Ulysses, I always have before my eyes the Chinese image published by Wilhelm of a yogi with twenty-five figures emerging from his head. Before us is the state of mind of a yogi directing efforts towards deliverance from his I, in order to move into that more perfect, more objective than I, state of the Self, which is like the “lonely disk of the Moon,” into a state sat- chit-ananda, meaning the highest manifestation of the unity of being-non-being, this ultimate goal of the eastern path of salvation, the most precious wisdom of India and China, sought and extolled for thousands of years.

“A crumpled piece of paper that drives further and further” floats to the East. This leaf appears three times in Ulysses, each time being mysteriously connected with Elijah. Twice it is proclaimed: “Elijah! Or me!" And he actually appears in a scene where a brothel is depicted (rightfully similar by Middleton Murray to Walpurgis Night), and there he interprets the mystery of a piece of paper in American slang:

“Boys, do it now. God's time is 12.25. Tell mother you'll be there. Rush your order and you play a slick ace. Join on right here! Book through to eternity junction, the nonstop run. Just one word more. Are you a god or doggone clod? If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Florry Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, ifs up to you to sense that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos ?No. Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the higher self. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Are you all in this vibration? I say you are. You once nobble that, congregation, and a buck joy ride to heaven becomes a back number. Did you get me? It's a lifebrightener, sure. The hottest stuff ever was. Its the whole pie with jam in. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. It isimmense, supersumptuous. Itrestores».

It's clear, What here happened: the release of human consciousness and the associated approach him to“Divine” consciousness - the basic principle of construction and the highest artistic achievement of "Ulysses" - is subjected to devilish distortion in a drunken hell for fools of a brothel, when the thought of it is expressed in the shell of traditional verbal formulas. Ulysses, a patient man who has wandered repeatedly, strives to get to his native island, to find himself again, while resisting all deviations from his course, captured in Chapter XVIII, and frees himself from the world of clownish illusions, “looking at them from afar” and relating to they are indifferent. He thereby accomplishes exactly what a certain Jesus or a certain Buddha did, that is, he overcomes the world of jesters, he frees himself from contradictions, thereby realizing exactly what Faust also sought. And, like Faust finding himself in fusion with the high feminine principle, the action unfolds in Ulysses, where Mrs. Bloom, who, as Stuart Gilbert correctly believes, has the role of bringing the Earth back to life, has the last word, spoken by her in the form of a monologue without punctuation marks, and the grace descends upon her to evoke, after all the devilishly screaming dissonances, a harmonious final chord.

Ulysses is the creator god who settled in Joyce, a true demiurge who managed to free himself from involvement in the world of his mental and physical nature and free his consciousness in its relation to this world. Ulysses is to the real person Joyce, as Faust is to Goethe, as Zarathustra is to Nietzsche. Ulysses is the Self in its highest manifestation, which returns to its heavenly homeland, overcoming the chaotic interweaving of worldly interdependencies. After reading the entire book, you will not find any Ulysses in it; the book itself is Ulysses as a microcosm living in Joyce, the world of his Self and the Self of one world placed in another. The return of Ulysses can only be considered complete when he has finished turning his back on the entire world, both spiritual and material. There is perhaps a deeper justification for the picture of the world presented in Ulysses. This is June 16, 1904, the most banal everyday life, during which small people, rigid in their own limitations, say and do vain, disorderly and stupid things, and you see before you a vague, illusory picture, reminiscent of hell, in which there is both irony and negativism, and hatred, and demonism, but all this really corresponds to a world similar to a bad dream or a post-Maslenitsa hangover, or what approximately the Creator must have felt on August 1, 1914. After a surge of optimism on the seventh day of creation, it is unlikely that the demiurge will have an easy time it was believed that 1914 was also its creation. “Ulysses” was written from 1914 to 1921, when there was no reason to think about the world in any elevated tones and there was no reason to lovingly embrace this world in one’s arms (and nothing has changed here since). Therefore, it is not surprising that the creator of the world, living in the artist, projects his world in a negative way, so negative, so blasphemously negative that in Anglo-Saxon countries censorship felt obliged to prevent a scandal from growing, caused by the inconsistency of this world with ideas about permissible for art, and Ulysses was banned without further ado! This is how the unknown demiurge turned into Odysseus, striving to regain his homeland.

In Ulysses we find very little feeling, which must undoubtedly be very pleasing to any esthete. But suppose the consciousness of Ulysses were not moon-like, but some kind I, capable of reasoning and feeling; in this case, his path through 18 chapters would not only be annoying, but would also bring real suffering, and by nightfall our wanderer, humiliated and driven to despair by the grief and nonsense that characterize our world, would still collapse into the arms of Great Mother, signifying the beginning and end of life. The cynicism of Ulysses covers up great compassion, the enduring existence of a world that is both bad and ugly, in which, worse than that, there is no hope, since it consists of a once and for all established everyday life, a clownish dance that captivates people for hours, months and years. Ulysses dared to break the relationship between his consciousness and the object that fills it. He freed himself from the bonds that forced him to show complicity, to get involved in the intricacies of what was happening and to forget about himself, and was therefore able to return to his homeland. And his thoughts are not for one self-occupied person limited by personal experiences, for there is no creative genius one, because in it many, and therefore he speaks to many in the silence of his soul, for whom he is the meaning and destiny to the same extent as for an individual artist.

Now it seems to me more and more that all the negative, “cold-blooded”, pretentiously banal and grotesquely infernal moments of Joyce’s book are its positive achievements, and he should be grateful for them. Carrying terrible boredom and ominous monotony, but at the same time the extremely rich, million-sided language of the book, from which the successive episodes are built like a long worm, is epically magnificent, this is a genuine Mahabharata, which has absorbed the inferiority of the world of vegetation, and everything that occurs in human life, similar to the buffoonery of the devil. "From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes". And any religious idea, no matter how high and extremely clear it may be, is quite definitely reflected in this blasphemously perverted swamp - as in dreams. (The country cousin of Ulysses, set in the big city, is Alfred Kubin's The Other Side.)

I could join this, because here it is, it is. Moreover, the appearance of eschatology in scatology proves the truth of Tertullian: “ Animanaturaliter Christiana». Ulysses demonstrates that he is a good Antichrist, and thereby proves the strength of his Catholic Christianity. Before us is not just a Christian, but here we also have more honorable titles: Buddhist, Shaivite, Gnostic. “(With a voice of waves.)... White yoga of Gods. Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. (With a voice of whistling sea-wind.) Punarjanam patsypunjaub! I won't have my leg pulled. It has been said by one: beware the left, the cult of Shakti. (With a cry of stormbirds.) Shakti, Shiva! Dark hidden Father... Aum! Baum! Pyjaum! I am the light of the homestead, I am the dreamery creamery butter."

The highest and most ancient property of the human spirit, not lost even at the bottom of a sewer - isn’t this touching and significant? This is not a hole in the soul through which the spiritus divinus could eventually breathe his life into a world of sewage and stench. The ancient Hermes, the father of all detours for heretics, said correctly: “As above, so below.” Stephen Dedalus, a bird-like man of the air element, was stuck too tightly in the fetid mud accumulated on the earth to want to soar into the bright air spaces towards a Higher Power, by joining which he could return down. “And if I fled to the ends of the world, then...” - what Ulysses says as he continues is blasphemy that has the force of proof. Or even better: Bloom, this lustful pervert, impotent and spy, immersed head over heels in mud, experiences something that has never happened to him before: a transformation that reveals the God-Man in him. Good news: when the eternal signs have disappeared from the firmament, they are discovered in the ground by a pig rummaging in it in search of truffles, for they are forever and inviolably imprinted both above and below, and they will never be found only in the warm middle cursed by God.

Ulysses is absolutely objective and absolutely honest, and therefore you can trust him. Relying on his testimony about the power and insignificance of the world and spirit, you cannot go wrong. Ulysses himself is their meaning, life and reality; in him himself lies and plays out the true phantasmagoria of the spirit and the world, all these I and "It". In this regard, I would like to ask Mr. Joyce the following question: “Have you noticed that you yourself are an idea, a thought, or perhaps a whole complex of ideas of Ulysses? In other words, did you understand that he, like the hundred-eyed Argus, looks at all sides at once, conveying his thoughts to you? O world and counterworld, so that in your head there are objects through which your I acquired self-awareness?” I don’t know what the venerable author would answer me. And, in the end, this shouldn’t bother me at all if I’m going to solve questions of metaphysics on my own. "Ulysses" is capable of raising perplexed questions when you watch how its author carefully fishes out the Dublin microcosm of June 16, 1904 from the macro-chaos-cosm of world history, places it in an isolated space and dissects it, highlighting all its attractive and disgusting sides, and with amazing describes meticulously, speaking as a completely outside observer. Here, they say, are the streets, here are the houses, here is a couple walking, but the real Mr. Bloom is busy with his advertising business, but the real Stephen is busy with his aphoristic philosophy. It would not seem incredible if Mr. Joyce himself came into view somewhere on a deep Dublin street. Why not? After all, he is as genuine as Mr. Bloom, and therefore he could be fished out, dissected and described (as is done, for example, in “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”).

So, who is Ulysses? He apparently symbol everything that comes from bringing together, from combining all the individual characters of the whole of Ulysses: Mr. Bloom, Stephen, Mrs. Bloom and, of course, Mr. James Joyce. Let us pay attention: before us is a being that contains not only a colorless collective soul and an indefinite number of quarrelsome individual souls that do not get along with each other, but also houses, long streets, churches, the Liffey, big number brothels and a crumpled piece of paper on the road to the sea - and yet a creature endowed with consciousness that perceives and reproduces the world. This unimaginability challenges the tendency to speculate, especially since nothing can be proven anyway and one has to limit oneself to assumptions. I must admit, it seems to me that Ulysses, as a more voluminous Self, relates in one way or another to all the objects dissected by the author; it is a being that behaves as if it were Mr. Bloom, or a printing press, or some crumpled piece of paper, but in reality it is the “hidden in the dark father” of these objects. « I - bringingvictimAndbroughtVvictim», Whatonlanguageinhabitantsbottommeans: “I am the light of the homestead, I am the dreamery creamery butter.” Turns aroundHe, revealinglove­ newembrace, facecoeverythingto the world - AndblossomAllgardens: « ABOUTand the sea... crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses..."further - “labitur et labetur in omne volubilis acvum.”

At first, out of his vanity, the demiurge created the world, and it seemed perfect to him; when, however, he looked up, he saw a light that he had not created. And then he returned to where his homeland was. When he did this, his male creative power turned into female readiness, and he had to admit:

The goal is endless

Here in achievement. pieceglass, onlyingdeepat the bottomIreland, VDublin, onEccles- straight 7, Vtwohoursmorning 17 June 1904 G., lying downVbeds, spokemis­ sisBloomsleepyvoice: « ABOUTand the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”

O Ulysses, you are indeed a blessed book for the object-believing, object-cursing pale-faced man! You are a spiritual exercise, asceticism, a ritual full of internal tension, a magical performance, eighteen alchemical retorts placed one after another, in which the homunculus of a new world consciousness is released with the help of acids, poisonous vapors, cooling and heating!

You are silent, it is unknown whether you want to say anything, O Ulysses, but you act. Penelope no longer needs to weave an endless veil; now she walks in the gardens of the earth, for after all her wanderings her husband has returned home. A certain world collapsed and rose again.

Addition: Now the reading of Ulysses is moving forward quite tolerably.

Application

[The history of the above article is interesting because it is presented differently in different publications. The most likely version is offered below under number 1.

1) In paragraph 171, Jung casually notes that he wrote this article because a publisher asked his opinion of Joyce and, by extension, of Ulysses. We are talking about Dr. Daniel Brody, former head of the publishing house " Rheinverlag"(Zurich), which was published in 1927. German translation"Ulysses" (2nd and 3rd editions in 1930). Dr. Brody said that in 1930 he listened to Jung’s talk in Munich on the topic “The Psychology of the Poet.” (This was probably an early version of the essay “Psychology and Poetic Creativity”, numbered VII in this volume). When Dr. Brody later spoke about this report with Jung. vhe had the distinct impression that he was referring to Joyce, although he did not mention him by name. Jung disputed this opinion, but said that he was really interested in Joyce and that he had read part of Ulysses. To this, Dr. Brody remarked that “ Rheinverlag"is going to publish a literary magazine, and He I would be glad if Jung wrote an article about Joyce in his first issue. Jung accepted the offer and about a month later gave the article to Dr. Brody. The latter stated that Jung considers Joyce and Ulysses as, in principle, the same clinical case and, moreover, supposedly truly mercilessly. He sent the article to Joyce, who telegraphed in response:

“Hang lower”, that is, in figuratively: “Show it when it is printed” (Joyce quotes verbatim from Frederick the Great, who ordered that one poster that criticized him be hung lower so that everyone could see it). Joyce's friends, among them Stuart Gilbert, advised Brody not to publish the article, although Jung was of the opposite opinion. Meanwhile, political tensions arose in Germany, so the leadership " Rheinverlag" decided to abandon the publication of the journal, and Dr. Brody returned the article to Jung. Jung later revised his essay (primarily softening its harshness), and then published it in “ Europä ische Revue" The first version was never published.

These conclusions are based, on the one hand, on what Dr. Brody recently told the Anglo-American publishers of Ulysses, and on the other, on the contents of a letter from Professor Richard Ellman, which talks about similar information he received from Dr. Brody.

2) In the first edition of his book “ James Joyce" (1959, p. 64) Richard Ellman wrote that Brody asked Jung to write the preface to the third German edition (late 1930) of Ulysses. Patricia Hutchins in " James Joyce World” (1957, p. 182) quotes the following words from Jung in an interview: “In the thirties I was asked to write an introduction to the German edition of Ulysses, but I did not succeed. Later I published the prepared material in one of my books. I was attracted not by the literary aspects of Joyce's book, but by those that were relevant to my profession. And from this point of view, Ulysses was an extremely valuable document for me...”

3) In a letter to Harriet Shaw Weaver dated September 27, 1930, Joyce wrote from Paris: “The publishing house Rhein-Verlag approached Jung with a request to write a preface to the German edition of Gilbert’s book. Jung wrote an article with a detailed analysis of the text and sharp attacks on me... they were very excited about this, but I would not want the article to go to waste..." ( Letters, hg. vonStuart Gilbert, p. 294). "Rheinverlag» published on German book " James Joyce" s « Ulysses»:

A Study",callingher « Das Rä tselUlysses" (1932).Stuart Gilbert wrote to the publishers in this regard:

“I'm afraid my recollection of Jung's Ulysses is inaccurate, however... I am almost certain that Jung was asked to write his article for the riddle I propose, and not for any German edition of Ulysses." And finally , Professor Ellman notes in one letter: "I believe that during the period of negotiations with Jung the possibility of using his article as a preface to Gilbert's book was taken into account, regardless of whether it was proposed by Brodie or Joyce."

Jung sent Joyce a copy of his revised article, accompanied by the following letter:

“Your Ulysses posed such a difficult psychological task to the world that I was approached several times as a supposed authority in psychology.

“Ulysses” turned out to be a tough nut to crack and forced my soul not only to very unusual efforts, but also to quite extravagant wanderings (if we keep in mind that we're talking about about a scientist). Overall, your book was a source of considerable tension for me, and it took me about three years until I felt that I could put myself in the shoes of the author. And yet I must tell you that I am extremely grateful to both you and your titanic work, since I have gained a lot. I will probably never be able to say with sufficient certainty whether I enjoyed it, because it required a lot of nervous and mental investment on my part. I’m equally not sure whether you liked what I wrote about Ulysses, for I couldn’t help but tell the world how much I missed, how much I grumbled, how I swore and how delighted I was. And the last 40 pages, which I devoured in one gulp, are a string of genuine psychology gems. I believe that only a damn grandmother understands as much about the actual psychology of a woman; I, at least, knew less before reading the book.

So, I would like you to consider my little essay as the comic efforts of one complete outsider, who got lost in the labyrinth of your “Ulysses” and only escaped from it by chance and with sin in half. At least, reading my article. You can see that Ulysses was made with a psychologist with a reputation for being calm.

I remain with the expression of my highest appreciation, dear Mr. Joyce, devoted to you

K. G. Jung"

On the title page of Jung's working copy of Ulysses, Joyce's handwriting reads in English: “Dr. C. G. Jung is gratefully acknowledged for his help and advice. James Joyce, Christmas 1934, Zurich." This is obviously the same copy that Jung used when writing his article, since some excerpts from the text he cited are marked in pencil.]

TRANSLATED BY V. TERIN