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 he relied on Homer's Odyssey: the works have similar plot and structure. The name of the novel comes from the Latin version of the name Odysseus - Ulysses. On the 132nd anniversary of the birth of the writer, AiF.ru publishes an excerpt from Ulysses, one of the greatest masterpieces of world literature.

“Mr. Bloom lazily turned the pages of Maria Monk’s Astonishing Revelations, then Aristotle’s Masterpiece. Ridiculous font, hooked. Colored inserts: babies in a ball in blood-red wombs, reminiscent of fresh ox liver in a slaughterhouse. Right at this very minute there are many of them all over the world. And everyone is poking their heads, they want to get out of there. Every minute a baby is born somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.

Specially made image of James Joyce for the subscription form for the novel "Ulysses". Paris, 1921 Photo: commons.wikimedia.org

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

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

The merchant slapped two volumes on the counter.

Here's an anti nice couple,” he promised.

Through the counter reeked of onions from his rotten mouth. He bent down, picked up a stack of other books, pressed them against his unbuttoned waistcoat, and carried them behind a dirty curtain. On the O'Connell Bridge, numerous people could observe the impressive posture and picturesque outfit of Mr. Denis J. Maginni, a dance teacher, etc.

Mr. Bloom, left alone, glanced at the titles of the books. "Beautiful Torturers" by James Lovebirch. Rozgolyub. It's clear what kind it is. Was I? Yes. He opened the book. Seems to be the same one. Female voice behind a dirty curtain. Let's listen. The male. No, she doesn't like that very much. And already brought.

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

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

Their lips met in a greedy and voluptuous kiss, and his hands caressed her magnificent forms under a slight desabil.

Yes. It will go. And at the end.

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

Mr. Bloom re-read: Slender beauty ...

Warmth gently enveloped him, relaxing his entire body. Bodies in tattered robes succumb pliantly; the whites of the eyes are filled. Its nostrils flared as it sniffed out its prey. Vapors of anointed breasts (for his sake! for Raoul's sake!).

Astringent onion sweat from armpits. The sliminess of fish glue (heaving roundness!). Feel! Squeeze! Squeeze that only forces! Smashing gray lion droppings! Youth! Youth!

An elderly female lady, no longer young, left the courthouse of the Lord Chancellor and the courts of the royal, tax and civil, having heard in the first case on the recognition of Potterton insane, in the second, in the Admiralty department, in the absence of one of the parties - the case of the claim of the owners of the Lady Cairns to the owners of the barge Mona and in the Court of Appeal, the rescheduling of the Harvey v. Marine Insurance Company hearing. A rattling cough shook the air in the bookshop, shaking the dirty curtain. The owner's grey, unkempt head popped out with an unshaven face that turned purple from coughing. He cleared his throat roughly and vomited a clot on the floor. Then he stepped on his spit with his boot, rubbed it with his sole, and bent down, showing a bare skull with a halo of sparse vegetation. Mr Bloom surveyed the skull.

Trying to catch his breath, he said:

I'll take this one.

The salesman raised his eyes, festering from a chronic cold.

- "Delights of sin" - he said, patting on the cover. "Great book."

An excerpt from James Joyce's Ulysses.

Buy book online

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 wander?" 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, which in the symbolic-artistic system of Joyce corresponds precisely with the place where the odyssey begins and ends, with "Ithaca" (cf. "Mirror", eps. 15, 16). Hence the trace. inevitable level, textual: the famous dot 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 heroes lead.

2069

18. PENELOPE

Story plan. Playing the role of an epilogue, extending beyond time (Joyce symbolized the hour of the episode with the symbol oo, infinity). "Penelope" could be off-plot. But there are still two plot events. We learn that the husband, against family life, wished that the next morning breakfast would be served to him in bed. 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 monograph of the great Ellmann "Ulysses on the Liffey" the most extensive of the sections is called: "Why Molly Bloom menstruates." But these soaring thoughts, alas, are too lofty for my blooming mind. Why is Molly Bloom menstruating? I confess, I can only give the most miserable answer. I think it's because she didn't get pregnant by Boylan. There is another acute plot problem that worries scientists: does the heroine masturbate, and if so, in which particular places of her famous monologue.

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

Homer's plan rests on an unshakable dogma: Molly - Penelope. Like any genuine dogma, this thesis contains a contradiction incomprehensible to the mind, but it does not fluctuate in the slightest (alas, only for believers). In the epilogue, after the completed sublimation, only the symbolic aspect of the dogma is already important to the author, and the correspondences he affirms are as follows: Penelope - Earth, Penelope's fabric (which 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 gyratory motion of the Earth (see below).

Thematic plan. The role and purpose of the epilogue episode 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 all that has been done in the novel, the new leading device, the female stream of consciousness, does not seem so complicated (and not entirely new, we have already seen the girlish stream of consciousness in Nausicaa). As already mentioned, the main feature of this stream is a flowing, flowing, continuous speech, similar to a river current. The element of speech and the element of the river achieve in Joyce an amazing, unique similarity. Molly's monologue flows in a continuous stream, but this stream is not a rough mass, all at once carried in one direction, as if through a pipe. It has an internal structure and form. Words in a monologue are interconnected, form syntactic blocks and parts of phrases; themes arise, they develop, branch, like jets of a stream, turn, intertwine with each other - and all this flows without interruption, flows and flows endlessly ... Before us is clearly a free river, with a whimsical flow, jets, rifts, rapids: the last again literally, for seven times the flow of speech, without interruption, suddenly makes a difference - a paragraph. From this model of speech - the river, a direct thread leads to "Finnegans Wake", where the connection between the river and the 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, in fact, there are 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 river. Just as in Molly's speech the boundaries between words and phrases are fluid, so in her world, as Joyce wrote, "there are no sharp lines that would separate one person from another" (cf. The theme plan of "Eumeus"). This correspondence can easily be developed further by the reader.

INTRODUCTION

Psychology, proudly eking out its existence in a small and highly academic alcove, in recent years has become, as Nietzsche prophesied, an object of interest to the general public, breaking the boundaries set for it by universities. In the form of psychotechnics its voice has been heard by industry, in the form of psychotherapy it has penetrated vast areas of medicine, in the form of philosophy it has legalized Schopenhauer and von Hartmann, it has literally rediscovered Bachofen and Carus, through the mythology and psychology of primitive man it has become an object of additional interest, is going to revolutionize the science of comparative religion, and not a few theologians want to use it in the healing of souls. Will Nietzsche eventually be right about his “scientia anicilla psychologiae” At present, unfortunately, this inspiring development of psychology is a chaotic mixture of currents, each of which belongs to one of the opposing schools trying to clear the confusion with increasingly militant dogmatism and fanatical devotion to his doctrine. In the same degree one-sided ARE ATTEMPT to provide psychological research in all spheres of life and human knowledge. One-sidedness and narrow-mindedness, however, are childish delusions of young science, which must solve unprecedented problems ONLY WITH THE HELP OF A few intellectual tools. Despite all [MY] tolerance and understanding regarding various doctrine-like opinions, I tirelessly repeat that one-sidedness and dogmatic backwaters in themselves represent a HUGE danger precisely for psychology. The psychologist must always REMEMBER THAT his hypothesis is at first only his subjective assumption, and therefore cannot immediately be endowed with the qualities of a generalization. What an individual researcher can contribute to explaining any of the innumerable aspects is only a POINT of view, and to try to present this point of view as the main comprehensive truth is pure violence against the object of research. 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 richness in one mirror. It is also impossible to make a comprehensive description of THESE phenomena and it is worth focusing on THAT in order to shed light on a separate part of them. Since it is characteristic for the psyche to be not only a source of mental productivity, but above all to express itself in the mental activity of a person and its achievements, we will not be able to find a way to grasp the nature of mental perse * we can only determine it by numerous manifestations. Thus the psychologist is obliged to become familiar with a wide range of subjects of study, not only from his own assumptions and interest, but more from the love of knowledge, and for this reason he must leave his well-fortified fort of the specialist and go out in search of truth. He will not be able to confine the psychic to a laboratory OR a doctor's office, but

* for yourself, through yourself (fr.) Approx. ed. ** Science is the servant 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 included in the consideration of literary criticism and aesthetics. But on the other hand, it 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 a literary historian or aesthete, since it is not my intention to replace such points of view with psychological ones. I also do not intend to present you with a complete theory of poetic creativity, which I sincerely consider impossible. My observations should be taken no 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 drawn to 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. In the case of a work of art, we are confronted with a product of complex mental activity - but this product is clearly intentional and consciously shaped. 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 - a creative human being, as a unique individuality. Although both these objects are very thinly connected 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 guesswork. Knowledge of the relationship between Goethe and his mother sheds light on Faust's exclamation: "Mothers, mothers, how strange this sounds!" But attachment to the mother does not explain to us the appearance of the Faust drama itself, no matter how deep, in our opinion, this relationship left in the work of Goethe. In the same way, we will not succeed in opposing reasoning. There is nothing in Der Ring des Nibelungen to lead us to deny or accept the fact of Wagner's propensity for transvestism, although there is still a hidden connection between the heroism of the Nibelungen and pathological femininity in the character of Wagner as a man. The psychology of the artist's personality can explain many aspects of his work, but not its result. But even if it successfully explains his activity, the very creative activity of the artist will find manifestation only as a symptom. In doing so, the work of art and its public reputation may be damaged. The present state of psychological knowledge does not allow us to establish strict causal relationships in the realm of art, as one would expect from science. In addition, psychology is the youngest science. Only in the area of ​​the 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 great complexity - the psychologist must deal with a comprehensive description of mental processes, creating a portrait of a diverse and elusive thought process in all its amazing complexity. At the same time, he must refrain from calling any part of this process "necessary" in the sense that it is causal. If a psychologist could demonstrate the existence of causal relationships in a work of art, or in the course of the creative process itself, he would leave no room for aesthetics at all, reducing it to one of the branches of his science. Although the psychologist should never abandon efforts to study and establish the inner conditioning 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 in full, since the creative impulse, which finds its most full expression in a work of art, is irrational, and in the end will only expose all our rationalistic efforts to ridicule. All conscious mental processes can be explained in terms of causality; but the creative act, whose origins lie deep in the unconscious, will always be inaccessible to our understanding. It reveals itself only in manifestations, allows one to make assumptions, but never allows itself to be fully deciphered. Psychology and aesthetics will always turn to each other for help, and neither science can level the other. The possibility of demonstrating the origin of any mental material by the method of causality is an important principle of psychology; for aesthetics, the psychic product is regarded as existing in and for itself. Regardless of whether the work or the author himself is 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 that of a literary critic. What is of decisive importance and value for the latter is absolutely unimportant for the former. Naturally, literary production of highly dubious merit is often of great interest to the psychologist. The so-called ‘psychological novel’ is undoubtedly the most beneficial for the psychologist as a way of literary thinking. Considered as a self-contained whole, such a novel explains everything on its own. 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 precisely the non-psychological novel that hides in itself the greatest opportunities for psychological revelations. In such a work, the author, having no intentions of this kind, does not expose his characters in a psychological light, and thus leaves enough room for analysis and interpretation, sometimes even calling for them due to the impartiality of the manner of presentation. The Benoit novels, or the English novels in the style of Ryder Haggard, are good examples of such works, as is the most popular piece of literary mass production, the detective story, pioneered by Conandoyle. I would also include Melville's Mobidica, which I consider to be the best American novel in its wide class of literary output. A remarkable observer, distinctly devoid of psychological orientation, represents the greatest interest for a psychologist. His plot is formed on the basis of unspoken psychological positions, and the more the author is not aware of them, the more this basis is revealed with all distinctness to a sharp eye. In the psychological novel, on the other hand, the author himself tries to introduce the raw material of his work into the sphere of psychological research, but instead of highlighting its psychological underpinning, he obscures it even more. It is from “psychological novels” that the layman 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 in reality the topic of discussion is psychological principle , which is quite applicable to this kind 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. The tragedy of Gretchen's love is quite self-explanatory; there is nothing here that a psychologist could add that has not already been said in better words by the poet himself. But the second part just cries for interpretation. The phenomenal richness of the imagination has so far outweighed or shown the inconsistency of the author's methods of presentation that nothing else explains itself here, and each line makes the need for interpretation more and more obvious to the reader. Faust is probably 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 the conscious life of a person - with his dramatic experience, strong emotions, suffering, passions and human destiny in general. All this is assimilated by the psyche of the poet, rising from the ordinary to the level of poetic experience, and expressing itself with the power of conviction, which reveals to us the depths of being, depicting everyday events that we avoid or escape 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-recurring 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. Themes like these represent the basic features of human existence; they are repeated millions of times and add to the monstrous account of trials and sentences. No veil hides them, and everything here speaks for itself. A great 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; he does not go beyond the psychologically intelligible. Everything it covers - both experience and its artistic expression - belongs to the realm of a completely understandable psychology. even raw psychic material, experience in pure

* Here and earlier, there are insufficiently clear differences between the types of novels: non-psychological, psychological and visionary (visionary). Apparently, if we adapt them to a psychological novel, we mean popular literature (detectives, science fiction, romance novels), and by visionary - a 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 intended 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 creativity. In the second part, everything is turned upside down. The experience that formed the basis of artistic expression is no longer recognizable. There is something strange about all this, which originates in the backyard of human thought, originating, it seems, from the depths of the prehistoric era or from the superhuman world, where light and darkness are opposed. can easily become The very colossal experience gives it value and impact. Concentrated, full of meaning and chilling with its alienness, it rises from the depths of timelessness, captivating, demonic and grotesque, it undermines human values ​​and aesthetic norms, a tangled tangle of primitive chaos, critep laesae majestatis humanae * On the other hand, it can be a discovery, the highest degree and depth of which is far beyond our imaginations, or by seeing a beauty that we can never put into words. This exciting spectacle of a gigantic process, in every respect superior to human feelings and understanding, makes completely different demands on the artist's talent than the psychic basis of life does. She will never lift the veil that hides the cosmos from us; never asks us to go beyond our human capabilities, and it is precisely because of this that it is a more malleable material for artificial processing, no matter how amazing it may seem to the individual. However, the primary experience from top to bottom tears the curtain on which the ordered world is drawn, and reveals to the eye the unknown realm of the unborn and that which is yet to be. Is it a vision of other worlds or spiritual darkness, or is it the beginnings of the human psyche? We cannot say anything for certain.

* 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 Firtz-David in Poliphilo's Dream 3 Some excerpts from Boehme can be found in my Psychology and Alchemy, par. 214, and also in Inquiry into the Process of Individuation, par. 533, 578. 4 See detailed study by Aniela Jaffe 5 only to remember "Ulysses" by James Joyce, a work of great significance, despite all its nihilistic tendencies, and perhaps 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 Jung's Symbols of Transformation, par. 45.] 10 Written in 1929 11 The Dream of Poliphilo p.234 I2Ibid., p.27 Psychological Types Par 321 15 See his essay on Jensen's Gradive (Collected Works, Volume IX) and Leonardo da Vinci in this collection 16 Psyche, 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, is reminiscent of the Dioscuria motif (cf. the two friends motif in my essay “Conceming Rebirth” p. 135), and this sheds light on specific features of Goethe's psyche The moment when Eckermann notices that Mephisto's impetuous horned silhouette reminded him of Mercury is especially significant. This observation is in full agreement with the alchemical character of Goethe's masterpiece (I must thank my colleague V Kranefelts for refreshing Eckermann's Conversations in my memory) 18 C Kerenyi, Asklepios 78

18 C Kerenyi, Asklepios 78

Carl Gustav Jung "Ulysses Monologue"

The Ulysses of my title refers to James Joyce, and not to that cunning character of Homer, driven by the sea wind, who, by means of deceit and treachery, always managed to avoid death at the hands of people and gods, and who, after a long wearisome journey, nevertheless returned to his native hearth. Joyce's Ulysses, in contrast to his ancient namesake, represents the passive, purely contemplative consciousness as merely an eye, ear, nose, and mouth, a sensory nerve that has no choice and is left to the arbitrariness of the raging, chaotic, lunatic cataract of the physical world and physical events, which it registers with photographic accuracy.

"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 featureless day in the life of any person, the completely unremarkable June 16, 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 unimaginably long and complicated Strinberg maxim on the essence of human life - a maxim that, to the bewilderment of the reader, was never completed? Perhaps it has to do with 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

which the long-suffering reader could rest; there is no place where he could sit down and drink with memories, and take a satisfied look at the path he had traveled, even if it was a hundred pages or even less. If it were possible to find even a tiny common place that would catch the eye when it is not expected! But no! The relentless 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 an explosive level. This absolutely hopeless emptiness dominates the entire book. It not only begins and ends in nothingness, it consists entirely of nothingness. It's all diabolical nonsense. As an example of technical perfection, the work is magnificent, and at the same time it is an infernal monster.3

I had an uncle whose way of thinking was concrete and objective. One day he stopped me in the street and asked, ‘Do you know how the devil tortures people in Hell?’?” When I said no, my uncle said, “He makes them wait. Then he turned around and walked on. This remark came to my mind when I was plodding through Ulysses for the first time. Each sentence gives the feeling that it is not finished; in the end, out of pure principle, you stop expecting anything, and to your horror it dawns on you that this is the point. In fact, nothing happens, nothing follows from this,4 and secret expectations in the struggle against hopeless loss lead the reader from page to page. The seven hundred and thirty-five pages, containing nothing, are no doubt 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 proposal as if through an air pocket, but the level of total loss that you have achieved has made you ready for anything. Thus I read up to page 135, falling asleep twice on the way, and fell into utter despair. The incredible versatility of Joyce's style leads to monotony and a hypnotic effect. Nothing is turned to the reader, everything is turned back 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 sympathy for his greater doom, until a well-wisher dream intervenes and puts an end to this energy robbery. when I got to page 135, after several heroic attempts, it is said, "to do justice to the book, I fell into a deep slumber.5 When I woke up some time later, my assumption became so clear that I began to read the book backwards. This method turned out to be no worse than the usual; a book can be read backwards because it has no beginning, no end, no top, no bottom. Everything could have happened before, and it can happen after.6 You can read any conversation with equal pleasure backwards, since the essence of the puns is still 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 the journal europä ische Revue”, claims to be a scientific study no more than the essay on Picasso that follows it. Nevertheless, I include it in my collection of Psychological Writings, because Ulysses is an essential and noteworthy for our time. document human

and, moreover, it seems to me that this is such a psychological document, the ideas of which, which also play an important role in my works, as they are put into practice in the book, allow us to come to quite definite conclusions. My essay lies apart not only from scientific, but also from any didactic intentions, and therefore the reader should regard it as merely an expression of a subjective and non-binding opinion.

The title of the article refers to James Joyce, and not the wandering inventive hero of Homeric antiquity, who, with the help of cunning and enterprise, managed to protect himself from hostility 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 is an inactive, only perceiving consciousness, when we have before us just an eye, an ear, a nose, a mouth, a tactile nerve, which without restraint and indiscriminately, and almost with photographic accuracy, respond to the impact of a seething, chaotic and an absurd flow of spiritual and physical givens.

Ulysses is a book whose narrative stretches over 735 pages; before us is a stream of time, and it is not clear whether it lasts 735 hours, days, or years, consisting all of the same quite ordinary, stupid day, June 16, 1904 in Dublin, on which, in fact, nothing significant happens. This stream both begins and ends in Nothing. What's this? The one and only, unheard of long, most unthinkably confusing and, to the horror of the reader, Strindberg's truth about the essence of human life, never fully expressed?

About the "essence" of life - yes, perhaps, but about ten thousand of its sides and one hundred thousand nuances - no doubt. On these 735 pages, as far as I could see, there is not a single obvious repetition, not a single island for the reader’s soul, where he could look back with satisfaction at the path traveled, say, a hundred pages long, and recall even some banality, which, it seemed, could show up with friendly participation in some unexpected place. No, before your eyes, the same stream rolls unceasingly and inexorably, the speed or inevitability of which reaches such a point that punctuation marks disappear on the last forty pages in order to most ominously express the oppressive, suffocating, unbearably increasing tense emptiness. This ubiquitous, hopeless emptiness is the theme of the entire book. The stream not only begins and ends in Nothingness, but itself consists entirely of Nothingness. Everything here is hellishly insignificant, and the whole book, if you treat it in an artistic way, is downright magnificent creation of hell.

I had an uncle who didn't like roundabouts. Once, being already an elderly 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 did not know, he said: "He torments them with expectation," and went on his way. This remark came to my mind when I first mastered Ulysses. Here, each sentence gives rise to an expectation, which, however, turns out to be in vain, so that the reader, who is already completely resigned at last, not only does not expect anything else, but, moreover, the horror of his position is still intensified as it gradually dawns on him what to expect. he really has nothing. Here, in fact, nothing happens and nothing follows from anything, and yet, despite the humility that leaves no room for hope, when you move from page to page, some kind of incomprehensible expectation does not leave you. These 735 pages of nothing contain not just white paper, but paper covered with small 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 humility. So I, reading Ulysses, fell into despair until, having managed to fall asleep twice, I reached page 135. The unheard-of polysemy that Joyce achieves with his style operates monotonously and hypnotically. 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. Life unfolds before him, which either waxes or wanes, and, by no means prone to narcissism, looks at itself with irony and malice, with contempt, despair and sadness, arousing a sympathetic attitude towards itself from the reader, which would threaten to swallow him completely. if sleep had not rushed to his aid to stop this wasteful waste of energy. When I got to page 135, and it cost me repeated heroic efforts to focus on the book and, as they say, "do it justice", I finally fell into a really deep sleep. When I woke up after a long sleep, my understanding of the book cleared up so much that I decided to read it from now on, starting from the end.

This method of reading turned out to be no worse than the generally accepted one, i.e., it was found that Joyce's book can be read backwards, since, in fact, it has neither front nor back, neither top nor bottom. What happens there on every page may very well take place in the past or in the future. It is possible, for example, to get the same pleasure by reading the dialogues from the beginning or from the end, since nothing is essentially affirmed in them. Taken as a whole, they are meaningless, but each statement, considered by itself, seems to make sense. Or, when reading a sentence, you can stop in the middle, because even half of it has enough reasond’ê treto be or appear to be viable. The whole book resembles a worm, which, if cut into pieces, grows a tail from its head, and a head from its tail.

This feature of Joyce's style, strange and creepy, makes his work akin to cold-blooded, for example, worms, which, if they were capable of literary writing, would use the sympathetic nervous system. I suspect that Joyce can be understood in this way, that we have a person who thinks from the inside, since the activity of the brain is suppressed in him to such an extent that it is essentially focused only on discrimination sensations. A person, according to Joyce, should, without ceasing, admire the activity of his senses: what and how he sees, hears, tastes, smells and feels, should amaze beyond all measure, regardless of whether it is about external or about the inside of the case.

Ordinary specialists in the problems of sensation or perception, which are thousands, focus either on the first or on the second. Joyce has access to both at the same time. Garlands, made up of rows of subjective associations, are intertwined with the objective outlines of a Dublin street. The objective and the subjective, the external and the internal, are constantly interpenetrating each other, so that for all the distinctness of a single image, in the end it remains unclear whether the tapeworm writhing before your eyes is a physical or transcendental being. The tapeworm, representing the whole cosmos of life and possessing fantastic fertility, is, in my opinion, although an ugly, but not entirely unsuitable image of the chapters that make up Joyce's book. This tapeworm cannot spawn anything other than the same tapeworms but they are in unlimited quantities. Joyce's book could just as well have been 1470 pages, or many times more, and yet we would not be one iota closer to the end and its essence would still remain unsaid.

Did Joyce want to say anything significant at all? How justified is this old-fashioned claim here? A work of art, according to Oscar Wilde, is devoid of any utility. In our time, even philistines from education would not object to this, but in their hearts they still expect some “essence” from a work of art. Yes, but where does Joyce have it? Why does he not offer it to the reader, denoting it so unambiguously that he could not make a mistake when he would have “ semita sancta ubi stulti non errent"?

So I, reading a book, felt that she 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 facilitate the understanding of her content, which aroused in me, as a reader, a humiliating feeling of my own inferiority. I myself, apparently, have a feeling of a philistine from education in my blood, 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, perhaps, is a transference on an object, in this case a book, rooted in the mythology of an anthropomorphic attitude to the world! Actually, this book about which it is impossible to form an opinion - the embodiment of the unfortunate defeat of an intelligent reader, and he, in the end, also does not ... (I say, resorting to Joyce's suggestive style). A book, of course, is not without content, without not depicting something, but I strongly doubt that Joyce wanted to "depict" anything. Did he end up pictured myself - and, perhaps, from here in the book is this genuine loneliness, this action that excludes witnesses, this lack of respect that infuriates the diligent reader? Joyce incurred my displeasure. (The reader should never be confronted with his own stupidity, but that is exactly what Ulysses did.)

A psychotherapist like me cannot live without his psychotherapy, including without practicing it on himself. And if a person is irritated, then, from his point of view, by this he seems to want to say to himself: “You have come to 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; and this solipsistically casual, disrespectful attitude of the author towards me as an educated, intelligent member of the reading public, who favors the printed text and expects that his well-intentioned efforts to understand what is in it will get on my nerves. contained. Here it is, the action of the cold-blooded indifference that has penetrated Joyce's way of thinking, which seems to have its roots in lizards and even lower - as if he is in his own intestines and playing with them - this stone man, just the same Moses with stone horns, a stone beard and petrified entrails, which with stone calmness turns its back on both the Egyptian meat cauldrons and the Egyptian host of gods, and at the same time cruelly hurts the best feelings of a benevolent reader.

From the hellish depths of this world of stone entrails 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, even the smallest, part of the book you take, 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 after all, this is the highest degree of interdependence, which can only be in nature! What wealth, but also ... what a bore! When I read Joyce, I get bored, even cry, and this boredom is unkind, fraught with danger, even the most tiresome platitudes are incapable of causing it. It is the boredom of Nature itself, such as the homeless howling of the wind in the rocks of the Hebrides, the sunrises and sunsets in the desert expanses of the Sahara, the unceasing sound of the sea - this, as Curtius quite rightly notes, is "Wagner's endless melody"; and at the same time it is a repetition, instituted from time immemorial. For all his striking versatility, Joyce follows certain melodies, although he may do so unconsciously. It is possible that he is not satisfied with any melodies at all, since in his world neither causality nor subordination to initially set 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 are the skeleton of everything, what happens in the spiritual life, no matter how hard someone tries to exterminate the soul from everything that happens, even if it is done with the persistence of Joyce. Everything in his book appears to be somehow soulless, instead of hot blood, some kind of cold blood flows everywhere, events follow one after another, locked in some kind of icy egoism - and what kind of events are these! In any case, here 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 fit what is happening; everything here is an experience of the underside of being, all the more chaotic, because one has to search with a magnifying glass until the melodic basis that connects events. And yet it can be discovered, 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 wretched life exposed by the idle crowd as it is. The previous is reflected with its religious, erotic and intimate facets on the dull surface of the event flow; and even the fact that the banal and practical Bloom, immersed in his feelings and the almost ethereal, spiritual research Stephen Daedalus (it turns out that the first has no son, and the second has no father) is not even hidden from the reader’s eyes, are the result of the author’s decomposition of his personality into two parts.

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

And today Ulysses still causes me the same boredom as in 1922, when I first picked it up and, after reading a little, disappointed and annoyed, put it aside. Why am I writing about him then? By itself, I would be no more concerned with it than with any other form beyond my level of understanding. surrealism»’ a(and what is this surrealismsuch?). But I am writing about Joyce because a publisher had the imprudence to ask me what I thought of him and, accordingly, of Ulysses, about which, as you know, opinions still differ. What is certain is that "Ulysses" is a book that has already gone through ten editions, and that some praise its author to the skies, while others curse it. At the same time, the fact that he turned out to be the focus of controversy points to him as an outstanding phenomenon, which is rather difficult for a psychologist to pass by. Joyce has an exceptional influence on his contemporaries. And it was originally to this that I owed most of all my attention to Ulysses. If this book had been consigned to oblivion, leaving no trace of itself, then I probably would never have returned to it: it annoyed me quite enough, only somehow amused me, and mainly gave me such an oppressive boredom, that I began to fear for my creative abilities, in general, it only affected me negatively.

I have my own idiosyncrasies, of course. 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 life, the twilight state of the soul that has fallen into nihilism - all this is my usual, everyday food, which arouses no more sentiment in me than a battered, bored order, who has lost his charm motif. The pitiful aspect of the human soul required me to give medical attention too often for me to experience shocks or any touching feelings at the same time. Mental illness for me is a thing that I must always 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 does not need me: he likes to tirelessly sing his endless melody (a melody that is already familiar to me to disgust), as well as to constantly reproduce his system of thinking inside and limiting brain activity to the analysis of immediate sensations - the system is always the same, like movements on a rope ladder , a system that closes in on itself and does not show any signs of change. (The reader, meanwhile, 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 symptoms of the author himself! After all, reading the book, it is impossible not to note that just in the manuscripts produced in huge quantities by the mentally ill, the action of consciousness manifests itself only fragmentarily, a logical conclusions and value orientations are completely absent. At the same time, sensory perception is often sharply exacerbated; observation becomes very acute; memory reproduces perceived objects with photographic accuracy; feelings are focused on registering the slightest internal and external changes; in behavior, memories of the past and hidden grievances take over; a delusional state of confusion of subjectively directed emotional experiences with objective reality arises; the description of something is characterized by an interest in new word formations, in fragmented quoting, 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 consideration of the need to be understandable to the reader; the atrophy of the capacity for emotional experiences is such that a person does not stop before the most ridiculous and cynical acts. You don't have to be a psychiatrist to see the similarities between the mentality of a schizophrenic and the state of mind of the author of Ulysses. But, nevertheless, it is not worth sticking out the analogies that come to mind in this case, if only because then some dissatisfied reader can, without giving himself the trouble to think, put the book aside and diagnose it with schizophrenia. As for psychiatry proper, these analogies cannot, of course, fail to catch the eye of specialists, but they would just note that in this case, the absence in Joyce's work of the dominance of stereotyping, typical of the writings of the mentally ill, attracts attention. In Ulysses, if you wish, you can find everything, except for such monotony, when the presentation is reduced, but essentially, to a repetition of the same thing. (This does not at all contradict what has been argued before. 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 no marking time. Arising from the life-giving depths of the soul, the whole appears as a stream, unified and regulated in the strictest way. which undoubtedly indicates the action of a single will, imbued with a personal principle, 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 priority, while the functions of judgment, thinking, and emotional sensitivity are invariably suppressed. The latter are given the role of an insignificant moment in the book or simply an object of the author's perception. Note that the author purposefully follows the idea of ​​showing 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 psychiatry. healthy person deviations may be inherent, which must appear to mediocrity as a mental illness, or simply indicate a level of development that surpasses her own level.

It would never have occurred to me myself 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 schizophrenic to some extent. "Ulysses" is the same product of a sick imagination, like all modern art. It is in the fullest sense "Cubist", because it dissolves the image of reality in an immensely complex picture, the main tone of which is the melancholy of abstract objectivity. Cubism, on the other hand, is not a disease, but a direction of art, even if it reflects reality through grotesquely presented objects or through no less grotesque abstractness. 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, alienates himself from it. But at the same time, as a rule, he does so unconsciously, and in this case we are dealing with a symptom that inevitably arises as a result of the breakdown of personal integrity into separate fragments (the so-called autonomous complexes). As for contemporary artists, in their work this trend is time symptoms, and is not the result of the disease of each of them individually. The main thing here belongs not to any individual impulses in themselves at all, but to collective aspirations, which have as 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 being ( psyche) our time. And since the matter lies in the collective manifestations of the psyche, this means that it will identically affect 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 direction of art we are analyzing, was truly mentally ill.)

In the case of the patient, the distortion of beauty and meaning by endowing objects with emphasized materiality or by no less emphasized deprivation of their real outlines appears as a result of the destruction of his personality, while the artist is guided in this way by purposeful creative efforts. Far from treating the process of creating art as a way suitable for experiencing and undergoing various manifestations of the destruction of his personality, the modern artist plunges into the processes of destruction in order to assert the integrity of his personality through them. Mephistopheles' conversions of meaning into nonsense, and beauty into ugliness, the almost painfully close resemblance between meaning and its complete absence, the attractive force of ugliness, presented as beauty - all this currently stimulates acts of creativity with an intensity that has never been equaled before. the entire history of the human spirit, although as far as these acts themselves are concerned, there is nothing fundamentally new in them. We observe something similar, for example, in the seemingly unnatural departure from the reigning style during the reign of Amenhotep IV, in the uncomplicated symbolism of the image of the Lamb in the days of early Christianity, in the pitiful image of a person in the primitives of the Pre-Raphaelites, in the descending baroque overwhelming itself with the pretentiousness of its own ornaments. No matter how sharply the mentioned epochs differ from each other, they are related to each other, since they all represent incubation periods of creativity, attempts at a causal explanation of the essence of which give completely unsatisfactory results. Considering them as phenomena of collective psychology, we find that they can be correctly understood 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, 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 god-state. Pre-Raphaelite primitives directly portend the return to the world of unheard-of bodily beauty, lost since early antiquity. Baroque, on the other hand, is the last surviving church style, which, by its self-destruction, anticipates the predominance of the scientific spirit over the medieval dogmatic spirit. So, if we consider the art of Tiepolo, who reached the limits of the possible, unsafe for the spirit, as a manifestation of his creative personality, then we will see that the point is not whether he himself is disintegrating, 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 this he did not turn his life into a desert, but affirmed the man in himself.

We can thus proceed from the fact that not only in Ulysses, but in all the art with which it is connected by ties of spiritual kinship, there are positive creative values ​​and meaning. As for the destruction of hitherto accepted criteria for the expression of beauty and meaning, here "Ulysses" occupies a prominent place. It offends established habits of feeling, it violates what is commonly expected from a book in terms of its meaning and content, it mocks any attempt to bring together the thoughts that arise when reading. It seems that only an ill-wisher can attribute to "Ulysses" at least some tendency to generalizations or figurative unity, since if it were possible to prove the presence of such out-of-date things in it, then in this case it would turn out that he seriously deviates from the canons of beauty he himself affirms. . Everything that causes dissatisfaction in "Ulysses" only proves its merits, because this discontent is caused by hostility towards modernity on the part of non-modernists, who do not want to see precisely what the "gods" for the time being "by their grace hide from his eyes ".

It is in the works of modernists that the first fully revealed then, which always defies any attempt to curb or tame oneself, that which in Nietzsche overflowed with Bacchic delight and took precedence over his intellect burdened with psychological research (which, we note, would be quite appropriate if Ancien Regime). Even the darkest passages from the second part of Faust, from Zarathustra, and from Esse Homoin one way or another testify their respect to the world. And only the modernists were able to create art with its back turned to the public, or, which is the same thing, to put on public display the reverse side of art, which neither loudly nor quietly testifies to any respect for the public and which, in general, in full voice talks about 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 miss Hölderlin!) to the destruction of the old ideals.

It seems quite impossible to understand the essence of the matter, limiting itself to only one side of it. After all, the main thing for us is not some separate impulse, even if its effect is successfully manifested somewhere, but those almost universal shifts in the life of modern man, which, apparently, mean his renunciation of the whole 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 know that from the point of view of the future, we are up to our ears in it. After all, only this circumstance could satisfactorily explain the appearance of such books and other works of art as Ulysses. They are all very effective as laxatives, and their cleansing action would be much wasted if it were not opposed by a sufficiently firm and stubborn resistance. All of them are such a purifying agent for the soul, the use of which is justified only if it is necessary to free it from the influences of the most stubborn and stable. In this they are no different from Freud's theory, which, with its typical fanaticism, also emasculates already declining values.

Although the author of Ulysses appears to be almost scientifically objective, and sometimes resorts to a "scientific" lexicon, his work is nonetheless truly unscientific one-sided; "Ulysses" is just a negation. Denial is, however, creative. "Ulysses" - it's creative destruction not Herostratus acting, but a serious act aimed at poking her contemporary with her nose into reality, as she too there is, and to do it not with malicious intent, but with the sinless naivete of an artist following objectivity. This book can, with a clear conscience, be called pessimistic, although at the very end of it, almost on the last page, one can assume that the light of deliverance breaks through the clouds. Yes, only for one page, about 734, you will know that you have left hell behind. In the stream of mud flowing in front of you, here and there, crystals radiating a magnificent radiance are striking, from which even a non-modernist can guess that Joyce is a real artist, that he “can” - and for a modern artist, this, of course, is not at all of course, even if he is a true master, because this master is guided by such higher goals that make him, with pious meekness, belittle his creative possibilities. However radical Joyce's renunciation was, it was not a conversion for him, and he was and remains a zealous 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 is denied by Joyce as inconsistent with Erin, characteristic of the high Middle Ages, entirely provincial and eo ipso Catholic, frantically trying to exult 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, not allowing his ship to perish in the abyss of surging his Irish memories and the bitter experiences associated with them. But as far as the world itself is concerned, at least in Ulysses it never got to Joyce, even in the form of a presupposition tacitly accepted by him. Ulysses does not aspire to his Ithaca, on the contrary, he is desperately trying to hide from the very fact of his birth in Ireland.

What, in fact, unfolds before us is so limited that it would seem that the rest of the world could not arouse any interest in itself! But this world, on the contrary, did not remain indifferent at all. Judging by the impact of "Ulysses" on contemporaries, it turns out that its limitations embody more or less universal features. So "Ulysses" came to his contemporaries, in general, on time. We must have a whole community of modernists, which is so numerous that since 1922 it has managed to absorb ten editions without a trace. This book certainly reveals to them something that they may not have known or felt before. They do not fall into hellish boredom from her, but, on the contrary, grow with her, feel renewed, advanced in knowledge, turned to the path of truth or ready to start everything from the beginning and, obviously, brought to a certain desirable state, without which only burning hatred could induce the reader to carefully, without fatally inevitable bouts of sleep, read all these 735 pages. I believe, therefore, that medieval Catholic Ireland has, apparently, an extent hitherto unknown to me and infinitely greater than is indicated on geographical maps familiar to us. This Catholic Middle Ages, through which Messrs. Daedalus and Bloom are pacing, seems to be, so to speak, a universal phenomenon or, in other words, there must be almost entire classes of the population whose place of residence, like "Ulysses", is determined by spiritual coordinates in to such an extent that the explosive power of Joyce's thought was necessary so that other people could also be convinced with their own eyes of their existence, previously hermetically sealed from them. I am convinced that the deep Middle Ages will never end in our life. And you can't write anything here. That is why such prophets of negativity as Joyce (or Freud) turned out to be needed to tell contemporaries who will in no way stop living by the standards of the Middle Ages that “that” reality is still with us.

The fulfillment of this gigantic task in its significance is incapable of meeting due understanding on the part of those who, being full of Christian goodwill, are inclined to turn their eyes away from everything dark that fills this world. For them, it would be such a "performance" that would leave them indifferent. But no, Joyce masterfully timed his revelations to the right mood. It is only in relation to him that the game of negative emotional forces that he sets comes into play. Ulysses provides an example of how Nietzsche's "blasphemous penetration into the past" should be carried out. He does it coolly, with skill and in such a "godless" way as Nietzsche never dreamed of. And all this - with a quiet, but completely correct assumption that the magical influence of the spiritual area should be sought not at all in the mind, but in the depths of the soul! Resist the temptation to believe that Joyce's book depicts an exceptionally bleak, godless, and spiritless world, and therefore it is inconceivable that anything life-affirming can be taken from it. Strange as it may sound, it is true that the world of "Ulysses" is better than the world of those who are hopelessly bound by the dullness of their spiritual origin. And even when evil and destruction take over in him, he still visibly differs from or even surpasses “good”, that very ancient “good”, in fact, turns out to be an implacable tyrant, which is a system of illusions, consisting of prejudices, which in the most cruel way does not allow the real wealth of life to reveal itself and dooms the thoughts and consciences of all who fall into its arms to unbearable torment. "An uprising of slaves in the sphere of morality" - this is how Nietzsche could define the guiding idea of ​​"Ulysses". For people bound by the dullness of their spiritual origin, deliverance consists in "knowledgeably" recognizing the existence of their world and their "true" being in it. Just as a representative of the Bolshevik guard is delighted with the fact that he is unshaven, so a person spiritually bound by dullness feels blessed from objective reasoning about what is happening in his world. It will be a boon for the blinded to exalt the darkness over the light, and the boundless desert will be a paradise for the prisoner. For a medieval person, absolute deliverance consists in depriving one's life of beauty, goodness and meaning, because for shadow people, ideals are not creative achievements, not light from fire on mountain tops, but teachers of obedience and bonds of imprisonment, this is a kind of metaphysical the police, originally invented by the tyrannical leader of the nomadic people Moses high in the Sinai, and then cunningly and deftly imposed on mankind.

If we apply a causal approach to Joyce, then he appears as a victim of Catholic authoritarianism, but teleologically he is a reformer who for the time being is satisfied with denial, he is a Protestant who, in anticipation of further progress, is enriched by 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 displayed by "Ulysses" suggests that we have too much sentimentality. The question, therefore, is, is this really so?

It's still one question best answered by a person 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 recall the downright catastrophic consequences of the expression of popular feelings during the war! How many cries about our so-called humanity! About how each of us is a helpless, albeit unworthy of pity, victim of our own experiences, the psychiatrist can probably tell best of all. Sentimentality is one of the external manifestations of cruelty. Atrophy of the senses is another manifestation of it, inevitably suffering from the same flaws. The success of Ulysses proves that, for all its apathy, it has positive influence; hence the conclusion suggests itself: the reader himself is so overburdened with sentiment that their absence seems beneficial to him. I am also deeply convinced that it is not only the Middle Ages, but also sentimentality that holds us tenaciously in its arms, and therefore we can fully understand the emergence of a prophet of compensating insensitivity of our culture. Prophets, on the other hand, are always unsympathetic, and their manners are usually bad. But they say that sometimes they fall not in the eyebrow, but in the eye. Prophets are, of course, great and small, 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" isdocumenthumanour time, and moreover, it is his secret. It may be given to him to release the spiritually bound, and the one who walks from For him, the cold freezes to the bone not only sentimentality, but in general any sensitivity. But its essence is not exhausted by these healing influences. Interesting as it is to remark that evil itself favored the birth of Ulysses, this does not tell the whole story. After all, there is life in it, and life is never only evil and destruction. It is true that all that we are at first able to extract from this book relates to denial and decay, but at the same time there is a premonition of something incomprehensible, as if some secret purpose gives it a positive meaning, and along with it - good. Is it correct to conclude that the words and pictures unfolding like a colorful carpet before our eyes should be understood, in the final analysis, “symbolically”? I'm talking, God have mercy, not about 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, then here and there mysterious sounds would sound that would echo with memories of other times and other spaces, and exquisite dreams would flash before our eyes, or the now forgotten peoples, sunk into the darkness of non-existence, would again appear. The probability of all this is, of course, possible to admit, but I do not know how to see it. Moreover, in my opinion, the consciousness of the author highlights all corners of the book; it is not a daydream or a revelation from the unconscious. The author's prudence and deliberate bias are even more pronounced in the book than in Nietzsche's Zarathustra or in the second part of Goethe's Faust. This, apparently, explains the shortcomings of "Ulysses" in terms of symbolism. One can, of course, admit the hidden presence of archetypes in it, assuming that Daedalus and Bloom personify the eternal figures of a spiritual and carnal person, in the intricacies of Mrs. Bloom's everyday life, the image of the soul appears ( anima), but Ulysses himself would then express the symbolism of the Hero, but the point is that not only the book does not in any 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 turned out that in some of its parts the book still carries a symbolic load, then this would mean that the unconscious played a trick on her in spite of all its precautions. For when we say “symbolic”, we point out that in an object, whether it is from the spirit or from the world, an essence immanent to it, incomprehensible and powerful, is hidden, while a person desperately tries to subdue the mystery that opposes him, catching the exact expression. To do this, he must rush with all his thoughts to this object, so that, having penetrated all the diversity of its shells, he can reach the real jewel, jealously hidden in an unknown depth, and bring it out to daylight.

In Ulysses, however, it can lead to despair that, penetrating further and further through countless shells, you do not find anything else besides them, and that, emitting a lunar cold, does not prevent the comedy of becoming, being and disappearing from running its course, following its course from some cosmic distance. I sincerely hope that "Ulysses" does not consist of symbolic constructions, otherwise it would diverge co its purpose. What could this timidly kept secret be, for the sake of which it was worth with such unparalleled zeal to finish as many as 735 pages, which are simply unbearable to read? So let the reader better not waste time or energy searching for non-existent treasures. We should not even allow the thought that they can be hidden somewhere inside, because, succumbing to it, our consciousness, once again drawn into the spiritual and material world of Mr. Daedalus and Mr. Bloom, would be doomed to endless wanderings among ten thousand its surfaces. This is not the intention of Ulysses. He wants, like the Moon, gazing lonely from the far beyond, to be a consciousness free from the object, not restrained by either gods or base desires, not driven by either love or hatred, not burdened by either beliefs or prejudices. "Ulysses" does not speak, but does it: he aspires to release of consciousness as a target, ghostly looming along its course. This is probably 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 their spirit through the eyes of Ulysses. This period of time carries a symbolic meaning - this is what happens "in the course of time, times and half a time", i.e. time is long enough, infinitely long so that the circulation in it is complete. Release of consciousness happens in Homeric style - the beautiful patient Odysseus, swimming in a 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 paper sheet that drives farther and farther "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 " ferry, and by the three-masted schooner Rosevean from Bridgewater with bricks » .

Is this release of consciousness, this depersonalization of the personality, and is it Ithaca of Joyce's Odyssey?

It can be understood that in a world where everything is completely nonentities, apparently only one survives. I, whose name is James Joyce. But is it possible to notice that among all the ill-fated, existing as their own shadows I would one real I stand out? Each character in Ulysses, of course, is in no way inferior to the others in his 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 sharply felt core, so inherent in a person, there is no that same island washed by hot blood I, which the - ax! - so small and yet so important to life. All these Daedalus, Blooms, Harrises, Lynches, Mulligans, and whatever their names are, speak and move as in one common sleep, which does not begin anywhere and does not end anywhere, which exists only because it is seen by "Someone", some invisible Odysseus. None of them knows anything about it, and for all that they all live, for some god calls them to life. Such is this life, and in it the images created by Joyce are so real - vitasomnium breve.But the same I, which by itself embraces them all, never appears by itself. It reveals itself to be nothing, no judgment, no participation in anything, no anthropomorphism. I as a result, the creator of all these images cannot be found. You might think that it has completely disappeared into the countless characters of Ulysses. And yet, more precisely, that is why everything and everything is here, even the absence of punctuation marks in the last chapter is myself Joyce. His liberated, contemplative consciousness, which one with an indifferent look covers the untimely combination of events on June 16, 1904, must say to everything that happens there: Tat twam asi - this is you - “you” in a high sense, that is, no I, but the Self addressing itself, for only the Self immediately encompasses I and not me, the underworld, the bowels of the earth, imaginesetlares» and sky.

When I read Ulysses, I always have before my eyes the Chinese picture of a yogi published by Wilhelm, with twenty-five figures coming out of his head. Before us is the state of mind of a yogi who directs 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 abiding disk of the Moon”, into the 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 paper sheet that drives farther and farther" floats to the East. This leaflet appears three times in Ulysses, each time being mysteriously associated with Elijah. Twice it is proclaimed: “Elijah! Or me!" And he actually appears in the scene where the brothel is depicted (rightly brought together by Middleton Murray with Walpurgis Night), and there he interprets the secret of the paper sheet 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?Flory 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. you got 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».

Clear, what happened here: the release of human consciousness and the associated approach him to consciousness of the "divine" - the basic principle of construction and the highest artistic achievement of "Ulysses" - is subjected to diabolical distortion in the drunken hell for fools of the brothel, when the thought of it is expressed in the shell of traditional verbal formulas. Ulysses, a tolerant wanderer who has wandered repeatedly, strives to get back to his native island, to find himself again, while resisting all the 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 him indifferently. He does 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 wanted. And, just as Faust finds himself in a merger with a high feminine principle, the action unfolds in Ulysses, where Mrs. Bloom, who, as Stuart Gilbert correctly believes, belongs to the role of the Earth returning to life, has the last word, uttered by her in the form of a monologue without punctuation marks, and grace descends on her to bring out, after all the devilishly screaming dissonances, a harmonious final chord.

Ulysses is a 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 his 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 home, overcoming the chaotic weaves of mundane interdependencies. After reading the whole 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 whole world, both spiritual and material. There is perhaps a deeper substantiation of the picture of the world presented in Ulysses. This is June 16, 1904, the most banal everyday life, during which small people, hardened in their own limitations, say and do vain, disorderly and stupid things, and you see a picture in front of you, vague, ghostly, reminiscent of hell, in which both irony and negativism, and hatred, and devilry, but all this really corresponds to a world that looks like a bad dream or a hangover after Shrovetide, or what the Creator should have felt approximately on August 1, 1914. After a surge of optimism on the seventh day of creation, the demiurge is hardly easy it was believed that 1914 was also his offspring. Ulysses was written from 1914 to 1921, when there was no reason to think about the world in any upbeat tone and there was no reason to embrace this world with love (and nothing has changed since then). Therefore, it is not surprising that the creator of the world, who lives in the artist, projects his world in a negative way, so negative, so blasphemously negative, that in the 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 forbidden without further ado! So the unknown demiurge turned into Odysseus, striving to regain his homeland.

In "Ulysses" we find very little feeling, which must certainly be very pleasing to any aesthete. But suppose Ulysses' consciousness were not moonlike, but some kind of I, able to reason and feel; in this case, his path through 18 chapters would not only be annoying, but would also bring genuine suffering, and by nightfall our wanderer, humiliated and driven to despair by both grief and nonsense that distinguish our world, would still collapse into the arms Great Mother, signifying the beginning and end of life. The cynicism of Ulysses covers up great compassion, enduring the existence of a world that is both not good and ugly, in which, worse than that, there is also no hope, since it consists of everyday routine once and for all, a buffoonish dance captivating people for hours, months and years. Ulysses ventured to break the relationship between his consciousness and the object that filled it. He freed himself from the fetters that forced him to show complicity, get involved in the intricacies of what was happening and forget about himself, and was therefore able to return to his homeland. And his thoughts are not for one busy person, limited by personal experiences, for a creative genius does not exist. 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 a single 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 for them he should be grateful. Carrying terrible boredom and ominous monotony, but at the same time, the extremely rich, million-sided language of the book, from which the episodes following each other are built by a long worm, is epicly magnificent, this is a genuine Mahabharata, which has absorbed the inferiority of the world of vegetation, and everything that takes place in human life, similar to the clownish tricks 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 swamp of blasphemous perversion - as in dreams. (The village cousin of Ulysses, set in a big city, is Alfred Kubin's The Other Side.)

I could also join this, because here what is, is. Moreover, the appearance of eschatology in scatology proves the truth of Tertullian: “ Animanaturaliter christiana». Ulysses demonstrates that he is a good Antichrist, and thus proves the strength of his Catholic Christianity. Before us is not just a Christian, but here are more honorary titles: Buddhist, Shaivite, Gnostic. "(With a voice of waves.)... White Yoghin 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 heritage of the human spirit, not lost even at the bottom of the sewage pit, is it not touching and is it not significant? There is no hole in the soul through which the spiritus divinus could eventually blow his life into a world of filth and stench. Correctly said the ancient Hermes, the parent of all detours for heretics: "As above, so below." Stephen Daedalus, the bird-like man of the air element, was stuck too tightly in the fetid mud that had accumulated on the earth to want to soar into the bright expanses of air towards the Higher Power, joining which he could return below. "And if I ran to the end of the world, then..." - what Ulysses says, continuing, is blasphemy that is valid evidence. Or even better: Bloom, this lustful pervert, impotent and spy, plunged up to his ears in mud, experiences something that has never happened to him before: a transfiguration that reveals in him the God-man. Good news: when the eternal signs disappeared from the vault of heaven, they are discovered in the earth by a pig rummaging in it in search of truffles, for they are forever and indestructibly imprinted both above and below, and they can never be found only in the God-cursed warm middle.

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 will not be mistaken. Ulysses himself is their meaning, life and reality, in 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 maybe 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 about world and counter-world, so that in your head there are objects through which your I acquired self-consciousness? I do not know what the venerable author would answer me. And, in the end, this should not concern me at all if I am going to solve the issues of metaphysics on my own. "Ulysses" is capable of giving rise to perplexed questions when you watch how its author carefully fishes the Dublin microcosm of June 16, 1904 from the macro-chaos-cosm of world history, places it in an isolated space and dissects, highlighting all its attractive and disgusting sides, and with amazing meticulously describes, speaking as a completely detached observer. Here, they say, 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 improbable if, on some corner of a Dublin street, Mr. Joyce himself came into view. Why not? After all, he is as genuine as Mr. Bloom, and therefore he could also 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 all that comes from bringing together, from bringing together all the individual characters of the whole Ulysses: Mr. Bloom, Steven, Mrs. Bloom, and, of course, Mr. James Joyce. Let us note that we have before us a being that contains not only a colorless collective soul and an indefinite number of absurd individual souls that do not get along with each other, but also houses, long streets, churches, Liffey, big number brothels and a crumpled piece of paper on the road to the sea - and yet a being endowed with consciousness, perceiving and reproducing the world. This unimaginability defies the tendency to speculation, especially because, anyway, nothing can be proved here and one has to limit oneself to assumptions. I must confess, it seems to me that Ulysses, as a larger Self, relates in one way or another to all the objects dissected by the author; it is a creature that behaves as if it were Mr. Bloom, or a printer, or some crumpled piece of paper, but in reality is the "father hidden in the dark" of these objects of its own. « I - bringingsacrificeandbroughtinsacrifice», whaton thelanguageinhabitantsbottommeans: "I am the light of the homestead, I am the dreamery creamery butter." turnshe, revealinglove­ nyeembrace, facetoeverythingthe world - andbloomallgardens: « Oand 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..."farther - labitur et labetur in omne volubilis acvum.

At first, in his vanity, the demiurge created the world, and it seemed to him perfect; 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 masculine creative power turned into feminine readiness, and he had to admit:

The goal is endless

Here in achievement. pieceglass, on thelyingdeepat the bottomIreland, inDublin, on theEccles- straight 7, intwohoursmorning 17 June 1904 G., lying downinbeds, spokemiss­ sisBloomsleepyvoice: « Oand 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-believer, object-cursing pale-faced man! You are a spiritual exercise, an austerity, a ritual full of inner tension, a magical act, eighteen alchemical retorts set one after another, in which, with the help of acids, poisonous vapors, cooling and heating, the homunculus of the new world consciousness is released!

You are silent, it is not known whether you want to say anything, O Ulysses, but you act. Penelope no longer needs to weave an endless cover, now she walks in the gardens of the earth, for after all the wanderings her husband has returned home. A certain world collapsed and rose again.

Addendum: The reading of Ulysses is now moving forward quite tolerably.

Application

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

1) In paragraph 171, Jung remarks in passing that he wrote this article because a publisher asked his opinion on Joyce and, accordingly, on Ulysses. We are talking about Dr. Daniel Brody, the 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 subject of "The Psychology of the Poet." (It was probably an early version of the work "Psychology and poetic creativity", which goes under number VII in this volume). When later Dr. Brody 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, saying, however, that he was really interested in Joyce and that he had read one part of Ulysses. To this, Dr. Brody remarked that " Rheinverlagis going to publish a literary magazine, and he I would be glad if Jung wrote an article about Joyce in its first issue. Jung accepted the offer and, about a month later, turned the paper over to Dr. Brody. The latter stated that Jung regards Joyce and "Ulysses" as in principle one and the same clinical case and, moreover, allegedly truly mercilessly. He sent the article to Joyce, who telegraphed back:

"Hang lower", that is, in figuratively: "Show me when it's printed" (Joyce quotes verbatim Frederick the Great, who ordered a poster criticizing him to be hung lower for everyone to see). Friends of Joyce, 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 " Rheinverlagdecided to stop publishing the journal, and Dr. Brody returned the paper to Jung. Jung later revised his essay (primarily by 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 hand, on the content of a letter from Professor Richard Ellman, which tells about similar information received by him 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 a preface to the third German edition (late 1930) of Ulysses. Patricia Hutchins in " James Joyce World" (1957, p. 182) quotes the following words of Jung, said by him in one 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 sides of Joyce's book, but by those that were relevant to my profession. And from this point of view, "Ulysses" was for me an extremely valuable document ... "

3) In a letter to Harriet Shaw Weaver dated September 27, 1930, Joyce wrote from Paris: “Rhein-Verlag has approached Jung to write a preface to the German edition of Gilbert's book. Jung wrote an article with a detailed analysis of the text and with sharp attacks on me ... they got 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",namingher « Das Rä tselUlysses" (1932).Stuart Gilbert wrote to publishers in this regard:

"I'm afraid my recollection of Jung's composition of Ulysses is inaccurate, nevertheless... I'm almost certain that Jung was asked to write his article for the riddle I propose, and not for some German edition of Ulysses." And finally , Professor Ellman remarks 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, whether proposed by Brody or Joyce, was taken into account."

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

“Your Ulysses has given the world such a difficult psychological task that I have been approached several times as a supposed authority in psychology.

"Ulysses" turned out to be a hard nut to crack and forced my soul not only to very unusual efforts, but also to rather extravagant wanderings (if we mean that we are talking about a scientist). On the whole, 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 place of the author. And yet I must tell you that I am extremely grateful both to you and to your titanic work, since I have gained a lot. It is true that I will never be able to say with sufficient certainty whether I enjoyed it, for it required a great deal of nervous and mental effort from me. I am just as not sure whether you liked what I wrote about Ulysses, for I cannot help telling the world how much I missed, how much I grumbled, how I swore and how I admired. And the last 40 pages, which I swallowed in one gulp, are a string of genuine pearls from psychology. I believe that only a damned grandmother understands so much in the real 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 accidentally and sinfully escaped from it in half. Anyway, reading my article. You can see what Ulysses did to a psychologist who has a reputation for being quiet.

With the expression of my highest appreciation, I remain, the honorable Mr. Joyce, devoted to you

C. G. Jung

On the title page of Jung's working copy of Ulysses, written in English in Joyce's handwriting: “To Dr. C. G. Jung with thanks for his help and advice. James Joyce, Christmas 1934, Zurich. This is obviously the same copy that Jung used in writing his article, as some of the excerpts from the text quoted by him are marked in pencil.]

TRANSLATED BY V. TERIN