Word: dublin
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...hailed as a classic by Edmund Wilson, an "epic prose poem;" and denigrated by others as belonging to the "cuttlefish school of writers," concealing its shortcomings behind an ejection of inky fluid. The novel, a 763-page description of a single day (June 16, 1904) in Dublin, breaks all of the rules of traditional narrative prose. Viewpoints shift suddenly from one character to the next; punctuation is abandoned; there is no coherent sequence of time and events. One of the most unique elements of the novel is the elaborate stream of consciousness Joyce infuses into Stephen Dedalus and Leopold...
...film, unable to cope with the expansive length of Joyce's tour de force, concentrates on three of its most important sections: the separate appearances of Dedalus and Bloom and their subsequent meeting; their romp through Nighttown, Dublin's Combat Zone; and the concluding soliloquy of Molly Bloom. Despite the fact that the film switches the novel's setting to Dublin in the mid-sixties, it remains tolerably faithful to the spirit of the original. But it lacks Joyce's intensity; it can go no further than the flat visual presentation of events (particularly inadequate) since Joyce--almost blind--evoked...
...night of June 16, 1904, Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus went on their epic crawl through Dublin's Nighttown whorehouse district-the cuckold Bloom in his extravagant hallucinations of sexual heroism and abasement, the church-dazed intellectual Stephen in a nihilistic trance of guilt. Although James Joyce wrote the Nighttown section of Ulysses in the form of drama, his triple-bottomed language does not translate easily to the stage. It may need the stability of the written page to hold...
...least Nighttown has more frank eroticism than before. Molly, played by Fionnuala Flanagan, lies nude in bed as she delivers the famous "Yes" soliloquy with which Ulysses ends. The slatterns, more lissome than Dublin whores ever were, swagger bare-chested about the stage...
...Manhattan literary saloon, this way: "Without himself, who has been in the ground and as one with the heather on the heath these many unstylish years, Tim's was never again as it was when he was there softly singing John Anderson, My Jo or discussing the Dublin of Joyce...