Leopold Bloom has been Odysseus’s analog throughout James Joyce’s Ulysses, but in “Emaeus” the wandering sailor D.B. Murphy—who, on the surface of it, has much more in common with the ancient hero (i.e., sailing)—challenges his symbolic role.  His is also usurped by Stephen’s father Simon, whom the sailor reports seeing “shoot two eggs off two bottles at fifty yards over his shoulder. The left-hand dead shot”—a clear allusion to the archery contest in which Odysseus proves his identity in “Ithica.” In addition to competing over the title of Odysseus, these three men (Bloom, Murphy, and Simon) compete (at least, from Bloom’s perspective) as paternal influencers over the young Stephen, or Telemachus.  Simon is certainly Stephen’s biological father, and thus he wins the marksmanship contest—a metaphor for conception: the bullets being the sperm, the eggs on bottles being the female ova. However, he is absent, both in the scene and, to a large degree, in Stephen’s affections. Thus, in this episode, it is primarily Bloom and Murphy who vie over the title of Odysseus, father of Telemachus: Bloom embodies (or tries to embody) a domestic “paterfamilias” (16.744) or Roman father of the house, whereas Murphy embodies (though with a few queer touches) a romantic image of free-roaming masculinity. 

The Homerian episode’s plot bears mention. Odysseus lands on Ithica, disguised by Athena as an old man, and encounters Eumaeus, his swineherd. Though he doubts the old man’s claim to be Odysseus, he nevertheless shelters him in his hut. Odysseus tries to prove his identity to Eumaeus, while Eumaeus condescendingly disbelieves him, (speaking what is believed to be the earliest still extant lines of literary sarcasm). Finally, Telemachus arrives and Father and son embrace. Eumaeus, in episode sixteen of Ulysses (according to Joyce’s schema at least) finds his analog in the keeper of the cabman’s shelter, rumored to be the infamous Skin-the-Goat Fitzharris.  This Eumaeus himself is a character to either be believed, and thus made mythical, or disbelieved, and thus made mundane. Thus, at the same time as he is Eumaeus listening to the Odyssean sailor, he is also another disguised Odysseus. Furthermore, he is not the only Eumaeus. From Bloom’s perspective, the foremost Eumaeus—from whom he seeks belief and trust—is Stephen. At the end of episode, however, as Bloom and Stephen head towards Bloom’s home, Stephen transforms into Telemachus. Bloom still wears his Odyssean disguise of age: a “strange kind of a flesh of a different man… sinewless and wobbly” (16.1723-4), Stephen observes. Nevertheless he is strong enough for half-drunk, half-hung-over, and half-starving Stephen to “lean on [him]” (16.1720), and in this way they walk “arm in arm”(16.1735), embracing in a certain way, off into the end of the episode.

Other such unstable identities, or disguises, are layered throughout “Eumaeus,” for instance: the speculation that Parnell might be alive living under another name, or Stephen’s mistaking half-crown coins for pennies. In both cases something valuable and important is taken for something negligible and worthless just as Odysseus is taken for a dotard. Also, names receive considerable attention. Just before Murphy’s entrance, Stephen remarks, “Shakespeares were as common as Murphies. What’s in a name?” (16.364). This seems to suggest perhaps that Murphy is like the Bard in his fanciful storytelling but also (along with Murphy’s postcard, addressed not to Murphy but to “A Boudin” [16.489]) that the name D.B. Murphy is a pseudonym, as generic as “J. Doe” might be to us. This lack of identity recalls Odysseus’s own clever pseudonym: Noman. Bloom matches (or tries to match) the Sailor in this regard. He responds to Stephen: “Yes, to be sure… Of course. Our name was changed too” (16.365-6), suggesting that his family name “Bloom” is fictitious. In addition to the Henry Flower pseudonym of episode four, Bloom receives a new name in a misprint in the newspaper article about Dignam’s funeral: “L. Boom” (16.1260).  Stephen, in contrast to Bloom and Murphy, and in alignment with the honest and god-fearing Eumaeus, stands by his god-given name in this episode.  After the redbearded sailor “boarded Stephen, whom he had singled out for attention in particular” (16.368) he asks:

—And what might your name be?

Just in the nick of time Mr Bloom touched his companion’s boot but Stephen, apparently disregarding the warm pressure from an unexpected quarter, answered:

—Dedalus. (16.370-379)

To learn someone’s name is to gain entrance into conversation, as Murphy does here with his story of Simon Dedalus, Stephen’s father. It also pins that person down, or makes him traceable. Bloom tries, but fails, to keep Stephen from spilling it. Stephen ignores him. Stephen, however, is defensive enough not to offer his further-defining first name and also to conceal his identity as Simon Dedalus’s son—not by being dishonest (as Murphy often is) but simply by not mentioning it.

       No matter how big a “boom” Bloom makes, none can compare in size to Murphy’s. Where Bloom has only been away from his Penelope since morning, Murphy has been away from his “little woman” (16.419) for a purported seven years.  Where Bloom’s Telemachus is Stephen (a replacement for Rudy), Murphy’s long lost son is still alive (around 18 years old) and, like his father, “run off to sea”(657). Even Bloom is taken by Murphy, and fantasizes about living his difficult but romantic life: “With a high ro! and a randy ro! and my galloping tearing tandy, O! … I remain with much love your brokenhearted husband D. B. Murphy” (438-440).  Nevertheless Bloom puts in an effort. The men, instead of describing islands of sorceresses, sirens, or monsters as they might in Ancient Greece, compete in knowledge about foreign and exotic cultures and races—especially the women. Murphy has seen “how the Russian prays” (16.463), judged the “black lads,” as “buggers” learning that they “suck your blood dry” (671-2), experienced the back-stabbing Italians (16.576-7), and survived “the maneaters in Perú” (16.470). For the man-eaters he provides a photograph on a postcard: “a group of savage women in striped loincloths, squatted, blinking, suckling, frowning, sleeping amid a swarm of infants” (475-7). These women, we should note, are described not as cannibals but more specifically “maneaters”—they are females outside of the control of western man, perhaps capable of castration. They are dangerous. Monstrous like Medusa, they are kept off by reflections, or “Glass. That boggles ‘em. Glass” (16.486).  Bloom tries in what ways he can to keep up with Murphy. He claims expertise on hot-blooded Spaniards, since his wife is a supposed Spaniard; on Jews, since he himself is a Jew, though he clumsily denies it; and on ancient Grecian women, whom he’s only seen in statue form at the Kildare Street Museum.  Like Murphy, he shows a photo to Stephen, comparable to Murphy’s in its exposure of the female body:

a large sized lady with her fleshy charms on evidence in an open fashion as she was in the full bloom of womanhood in evening dress cut ostentatiously low for the occasion to give a liberal display of her bosom, with more than vision of her breasts… (16.1428-31)

Bloom’s artfacts are attained within the confines of Dublin. What wordly expertise he may possess comes from his home-life: his wife’s Spainish heritage, his own Judaism. He is not only a modern Odysseus, but a mundane one too.  D.B. Murphy, on the other hand, manages to be both modern and mythical. We might wonder for just a second why Joyce didn’t choose this Odysseus as his novel’s protagonist.

But just for a second. The figure of D.B. Murphy is a fabricated identity, and the sailor is more or less a braggart and liar. In the schema he is connected to Odysseus, Pseudangelos, which could either mean “Odysseus disguised as a messenger” or “Odysseus false messenger.” Stories told by such a mendacious figure, lacking an anchor of truth, tend to fall apart rather quickly. Murphy’s facts don’t add up; they’re romantic and proven either false or impossible. There are no cannibals in Perú, there is no famous “Captain Dalton”(16.462) that Murphy references. Insofar as the name is psuedonym, there is no D.B. Murphy.

To draw a comparison, there is no L. Boom (Bloom’s accidental pseudonym), either. Also, both Bloom and Murphy are storytellers in this chapter, lying to tell the truth, either to Stephen, or to the audience of men in the cabmen’s shelter. Where Murphy lies by invention (as his name is invented), Bloom lies by alteration (as the name Boom is not invented but slightly altered). Bloom’s lies, like his misprinted name, are often mistakes, where Murphy’s are intentional. Where Murphy creates an impressive persona, Bloom merely modifies himself; where Murphy spins an epic tale, Bloom tries (though his listener’s attention often lags) to draw out something interesting from his banal reality. Even Bloom’s most bald-faced lie (that though he pretended to be a Jew to incense the Citizen he actually isn’t) is itself an only an matter of editing. He attends church, he doesn’t observe Jewish rituals, he eats pork. He’s uncircumcised, and his mother wasn’t Jewish, and his Jewish father converted. In many ways, he’s more Christian than Jew. Although to deny his Jewish heritage altogether is still a bit of a stretch.

“Stretched” also might be a good word to describe the narrative-style accompanying Bloom in this episode. In episodes 4,5, and 6, Bloom’s thoughts were reported in simple and often short sentences. In “Eumaeus,” the sentences run on and on, one of them 16 lines in length (16.1513-29). They are often unnecessarily complex and cluttered, “His (Stephen’s)”(16.4) is written where either “His” or “Stephen’s” would suffice. Sentences often sputter, ending on phrases such as “generally,” “so to speak,” and “all things considered.” The phrasing calls to mind Shylock, the Jew of The Merchant of Venice, a disorganized rhetorician often interrupting himself to deliver information that’s redundant or inessential. Where foreign phrases seem to bounce naturally out of Stephen’s mouth, Bloom and his narrator can’t help but use them ostentatiously: “sangfroid,” “hoi polloi,” “voglio,” “protégé,” and “a propos” (16.334-343) are all used in quick and clumsy succession. They also use half-crown words where penny words would do: “impecuniosity” (16.221) for poverty “antediluvian” for old. They use generalities and euphemisms, not saying that Bloom is older than Stephen but rather “more experienced” (16.777). “Old,” though, might be a good word to describe the narrative style. It is the word Joyce uses to describe it in his schema. Indeed, old age is the mask Odysseus wears in “Eumaes,” it is also quite like the guise covering Bloom and the narrator. They both seek to impress and advise either Stephen or the reader with their complex thoughts, their vocabularies, or their insights but lack the mental fortitude to do so properly. Like old men, they rattle on and repeat them-selves. They impose paternity. They have a meaning, but figuring out their meaning can be a frustrating process riddled with mistakes.

Murphy, on the other hand, though most of what he says is false, is easily accessible. He speaks simply, often adding to the ease of communication by performing:

I seen a crocodile bit the fluke of an anchor same as I chew a that quid.

He took out of his mouth the pulpy quid and, lodging it between his teeth, bit ferociously:

Khaaan! Like that. (16.466-70)

Especially in contrast to Bloom’s, his speech seems vivacious. It grabs you. Where Bloom both in narration and in speech, often adds too many words or information, Murphy does just enough to intrigue but not so much that he loses his mystery. Here Murphy performs in a striptease, both with his shirt and with his biography:

Seeing as they were all looking at his chest he accommod-atingly dragged his shirt more open so that on top of the timehonoured symbol of mariner’s hope and rest they had a full view of the figure 16 and a young man’s sideface looking frowningly rather.

—Tattoo, the exhibitor explained. That was done when we were lying becalmed off Odessa in the Black Sea under Captain Dalton. Fellow, the name of Antonio, done that. There he is himself, a Greek. (16.674-9)

After making Antonio’s face smile, and explaining offhandedly that he was “Ate by sharks after,” and after “loafer number two” asks him about the figure of 16 he “sighed again… more cheerily this time with some sort of half smile for a brief duration only in the direction of the questioner about the number,” and then returns to the question about the sharks, “Ate. A Greek he was” (16.697-9) He then “with rather gallowsbird humour” sings a child’s song about his Antonio’s death.

  The mystery of this display begs us to ask: what is behind the disguise? Through interpreting the symbols, an answer is, at the very least, evoked. The name Antonio is shared by Shakespeare’s possibly homosexual Antonio in Merchant of Venice. It is also decidedly not a Greek name, suggesting that Antonio’s “Greekness has to do with non-racial characteristics” (Lamos 162), i.e. his homosexuality. Also significant: “In European slang and numerology, the number sixteen meant homosexuality.” (Gifford 544) Its appearance on the sailor’s chest isn’t unequivocal proof of his homosexuality, nor is his mention of Antionio. It is all an equivocal “half smile” at the men in the shelter and at the reader. Both the reader and Bloom may try “sherlockholmsing him up,” but suspicions remain suspicions. He may be homosexual, soliciting sexual companionship from “the second loafer” who is aware of his code. He may be (as the invocation of Holmes suggests), a criminal or murderer. He may be wearing the tattoo to attract homosexuals with the intent to kill them. Speculation, yes, because all booth Bloom and the reader can do is speculate. All that we can know with certainty is that Murphy appears to know the secret signs of homosexuality and that he displays them evocatively.

  Within the narrator’s prose, and to a certain extent within Bloom’s thoughts, Colleen Lamos argues, there is a similar display (intentional or not) of potentially homosexual code:

“Eumaues” contains a startling number of off-the-cuff phrases with ambiguous connotations, such as “the genus homo” (U16.328), to “fag out” (U 16.251), “queer sights” and “queer things” (U 16.464, 465-66), “a gay sendoff” (U 16.1247), and the “queer suddenly things” that Stephen pops out with which “attracted the elder man” (U 16.1567-68). The uncertainty of grasping precisely what these words mean—whether they are just throwaway phrases or whether they are slips of the tongue that expose Bloom’s covert cognizance of sexual perversion, the overt awareness of which he avoids—reflects the epistemological instability of sexual knowledge in “Eumaeus” as a whole. (Lamos 159)

Since the homosexual meaning of these words has developed over time, a conscientious reader might doubt whether Joyce’s use of, say, “gay” might mean anything other than the un-encoded “lighthearted and carefree.” Homosexuality is first definitively pinned on to “gay” in psychological writings in the 1940s:

G. Legman Lang. Homosexuality in G. W. Henry Sex Variants II. 1167 Gay, an adjective used almost exclusively by homosexuals to denote homosexuality, sexual attractiveness, promiscuity or lack of restraint, in a person, place, or party. (Oxford English Dictionary)

Since gay would mean homosexual “almost exclusively” when used amongst homosexuals, that there is no record of its use before 1941 is far from proof that it wasn’t in use as secret code, the definition too taboo to be formally acknowledged. Whether this code was in use in Joyce’s Dublin and whether Joyce would have been smart to it is a question difficult if not impossible to answer definitively. But even without a homosexual connotation, “gay,” along with the other words were not without their secondary meanings. From 1703 until around 1940, gay could mean “With implied sense of deprecation: offhand, airy.” As far back as 1597 it could mean “dedicated to social pleasures; dissolute, promiscuous, frivolous, hedonistic” (Oxford English Dictionary).

  Understanding the evolution of these terms not only helps us assess whether Joyce uses them to connote homosexuality, but also helps us keep in mind the state of Western society’s concept of homosexuality during Joyce’s time. “Homosexuality” was first coined not as a sexual orientation, but as a disease—a “sexual variant.”  The figure 16 on the sailor’s chest, as well as “Eumaeus’s” position as the 16th episode, might encourage a revisionist reading (as one might read gay writers such as Tennessee Williams or Oscar Wild) in which Bloom is a latent homosexual, and in which he is scheming for a ménage á trois between himself, his wife and Stephen (Lamos 160-161). But this requires a little too much revising, since Bloom’s feelings toward Stephen in “Eumaeus” and elsewhere are on the whole paternal and platonic. Perhaps the figure 16 is meant not to signify “homosexual secrecy” particularly, but rather secret (and extreme) “sexual variance.”

  “Sexually variant” is a term intended to be scientific (perhaps betraying prejudice on the part of its originators), but ends up so general that it means very little. Might we co-opt it to describe Bloom and Murphy in a positive sense?  Vicki Mahaffey writes in “Ulysses and the End of Gender”:

In designing Ulysses, Joyce first identified what the socially conditioned reader is most likely to want and expect from male and female characters of different ages, and then he provides his readers with characters who frustrate and implicitly challenge that desire. The bewildering friction that results is designed to expose the gender system itself as an arbitrary and inadequate fiction, to measure its isolating mechanisms against the urgent complexity. (Mahaffey, 153)

Though Joyce’s prose is often steeped is gender essentialism, his characters are “sexually variant,” they stray from the norm—even the homosexual character is difficult to pin as homosexual. “Sexually variant” is term is broad enough to include Bloom’s indiscretions: writing dirty letters with a pen name, soliciting prostitutes, masturbating in public. Though Bloom is not a homosexual, common decent thought at the time would still likely consider his sexual misdeeds pathological or unlawful. And thus “sexual variance” becomes yet another race in which both Murphy and Bloom have a foot in. And since homosexuality is by far a greater taboo, once again Murphy dwarfs Bloom in his accomplishment. Once again Murphy is a Bloomier Bloom than Bloom.

  “Sexually variant” also includes Bloom’s dirty inner thoughts: his scatological fascination, his fascination with bloomers, the phantasmal carnival that occurs in his mind an episode ago in Circe. Schwaber remarks on the seeming absence of these elements in “Emaeus”:

[In “Eumaeus” Bloom doesn’t]…recall Bella, who became Bello; being tried, convicted, and burned to cinders; giving birth to eight yellow male children; or happening upon his disapproving father and frantic mother. Those striking phenomena have been repressed. (Schwaber 167)

Where Bloom’s thoughts usually overflow with unembarrassed sexual reference, here they seem relatively dry.  He reaches into his pocket “Carefully avoiding a book in his pocket Sweets of,…” (16.1421). Our attention is drawn to his avoidance of the book, and also the avoidance of the word “sin” in the books title. The object he pulls from his pocket is a picture of Molly. After showing it to Stephen, he views it himself. “…not to dwell on certain opulent curves of the. He dwelt,…” By omitting whatever body-part had the opulent curvues, he highlights it; by trying not dwell he dwells. Perhaps he is trying to fit into the role of responsible adult for Stephen’s sake, pressing back his more “unsavory” thoughts. Regardless of his motivation, the fact remains that he where his “sexually variant” tendencies are usually expressed, here they are repressed. Although, still, they seek expression: it is when Bloom’s variance is being repressed that it bubbles up into view. The “queer” language discussed above might be an example of such a bubbling.

    Consider too the phrase “orthodox Samaritan” used to describe Bloom helping Stephen to his feet in the beginning of the episode. It recalls Jesus’s story of the good Samaritan, in which the Samaritan’s helpfulness is contrasted to the negligence of orthodox Jews (Gifford 534).  In this oxymoron, the narrator tries to call attention to Bloom’s Christianly-ness, but accidentally calls attention to his Jewishness instead. Even though Judaism isn’t necessarily a “sexual variance,” it might viewed as such:

When James Joyce wrote Ulysses, he had read two pseudoscientific books about women and Jews. One according to Richard Ellman, was Otto Weininger’s Sex and Character, from which Joyce borrowed “a pet theory that Jews were by nature womanly men” (Ellman 1982, 463). (Rosenfeld, 215).

Conflating Bloom’s Jewishness with his womanliness and androgeny, it is possible to view it as an aspect of his sexual variance. But even disregarding this view, his Judaism is still counted among the things that Bloom tries to hide but bubble up anyway.

  Also, when we consider that Ulysses is a novel in which clouds appear due to a character’s melancholy mood, it is not too far-fetched to wonder if the character Murphy himself has appeared as one large bubbling of Bloom’s deviance. He is a Bloomier Bloom than Bloom because perhaps because he is Bloom, or rather an exaggerated version of everything Bloom is hiding from Stephen and the reader.  (As a side note, even though Bloom tries to hide his Jewishness, Murphy isn’t Jewish. In fact he has a redbeard, distinctly not Jewish but Irish. Although this red hair does similarly mark him as inferior, by British if not Irish standards. In fact, since redheads were believed to be of weaker morals, Shylock the Jew was originally played with fake bright red beard.) In many ways, he absorbs and amplifies what Bloom has tried to release. Where Bloom’s narrative sentences were once refreshingly short, now his are long. But the sailor’s are short and grabbing. Where Bloom’s narrative has stopped rewarding us with the juicy onomatopoeia, the sailor’s stories are abundant with them. Though Bloom is thirty eight, he usually seems a bit older. Perhaps this is a result of the increasing life-span in the twentieth century, and the subsequent rise of perceived “middle-age.” Regardless, Bloom certainly seems older than usual in this episode, as he tries to play father to Stephen. The age of Murphy’s son (18) seems to indicate that Murphy must be at least approximately Bloom’s age. And yet, once again Bloom’s counterweight, Murphy seems much livelier, less responsible, much younger.  Age might combine with both religion and gender: female, Jewish, and old on the Bloom side and male, Christian, and young on Murphy’s. To draw the associations: Judaism is an older religion than Christianity; girls are said become “mature” sooner than boys. And though I previously said Bloom begins to seem older when he fathers Stephen, I might make my point clearer by saying that when he repeatedly reminds Stephen to eat he is behaving like a (to borrow a phrase from my own vernacular) “Jewish mother.” And so, our perceptions of Bloom as old, as womanly, and as Jewish in character are not necessarily isolated but conflated phenomena. Likewise the single identifying feature of Murphy’s red beard represents his Irishness (and under it his Christianity), his youth (since red beards tend to grow grew or brown with age), and his masculinity (what, after all, is more manly than a beard?).

  Otto Weininger, a converted Jew writing in 1903 who likened the “moral inferiority” of women and Jews, used these words to describe the historical relationship of Judaism and Christianity: “Judaism is the abyss over which Christianity is erected” (Rosenfeld 215). If you squint, you might see here an image of birthing, of Christianity coming out of Judaism’s womb.  Might Bloom’s consciousness be seen as giving birth to Murphy’s? Perhaps. Might Bloom be the “abyss over which [Murphy] is erected”? Hardly. Though the births throughout Ulysses are many, its abysses are few. In other words, the novel doesn’t buy into the notion that anything can be created out of nothing, let alone anything living. The locations are related to actual locations, the songs are rarely if ever invented but are snippets of actual songs, and the characters are based either off of reading and research or Joyce’s personal experience. The plot isn’t straightforward, because this would suggest an abyss before and after its endpoints. Rather, it is a single day in continuing lives. There is always something. Which gives birth to more something, which births more. For an even more interesting image, we might imagine Bloom and Murphy birthing each other.

  With that image in mind, let’s reconsider Murphy’s role once again. Shwaber tells us of D.B Murphy’s name:

In earlier editions, the initials D. B. were W. B., no doubt a twitting allusion to Yeats and thus potentially to all authors, who by association with Murphy at any rate, are implied to be buffoons, morally suspect, liars, probably criminals, and irresponsible yarn-spinners. (Shwaber, 172)

It bears mention that Joyce is himself under the umbrella of “all authors.” He is further implicated when we consider the that the tattoo on his chest is a “A portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,” albeit a tattoo artist, and that the “greenish goggles” (16.1672) Murphy wears bear a striking resemblance to Joyce’s round glasses (Lamos 164). 

  But these parallels don’t necessarily make Murphy Joyce’s analog. Perhaps, instead, Murphy is in the same relation to Joyce as to Bloom; he is both the Bloom’s and the writer’s alter ego. In other words, just as he represents the side of Bloom that he would rather keep hidden from Stephen, he also represents the side of Joyce that he would rather keep hidden from the reader. Because he is a writer of fiction, Joyce is a liar. Trying to deny that, as Bloom denies his Jewishness, would likely lead to a book akin to the one Bloom plans to write about the night’s events: “My Experiences… in a Cabman’s Shelter” (16.1231). A story like this would likely be so obsessed with verisimilitude, with not being buffoonish, that it would fail to see where it was lying to itself.  Even though Ulysses seems similarly obsessed with not using language in tired ways, with not pretending that that life is more exciting, climactic, or simple than it is, and with not being like any other novel that came before it, it overcomes these “nots,” these potential abysses, by not “erecting” a disguise over them. There are no abysses for Joyce, only something yet to be birthed. Joyce allows the language of “Eumaeus” to sound tired, to sound like many other poorly written novels and to be full of errors, something he probably worked to avoid in other chapters. He even allows the larger-than-life Odysseus to pop in his redbearded head. He acknowledges that this figure was underneath Bloom, the narrative, and the author, hidden in disguise all along. Was the narrative of chapters 4,5, and 6, a bit too conventional? a bit too easy to read? and thus, a bit of a lie? Wasn’t Bloom’s public masturbation or dealings with prostitutes morally suspect? Is his desire for closeness with Stephen homosexual? From this cloud of doubt Joyce creates a homosexual, untrustworthy, “probable criminal” , but not to convict him. Even though he smells, he still came from Joyce’s own. He is, to borrow a scatological-nautical phrase, a “poop of a lovely” (11.580). He’s finally birthed, or perhaps expelled, in this Cabman’s Shelter, shipyard for cabmen shaped like an outhouse. And as our protagonists walk out, he is let to sail away on his own—another Odysseus wandering Dublin’s waters.

Works Cited

Gifford, Don, and Seidman Robert. Ulysses Anotated: Notes For James Joyce's Ulysses. Second Edition, Revised and Enlarged. Berkeley, Los Angeles, & London: U of California P, 1988. 533-64.

Joyce, James. Ulysses. New York: Random House, Inc., 1986. Print.

Lamos, Colleen. Deviant Modernism. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998. 155-65.

Mahaffey, Vicki, “Ulysses and the End of Gender,” in A Companion to James Joyce’s Ulysses, Margo Norris, ed. Boston: Bedford Books, 1998. 151-68.

Oxford English Dictionary. “fag, n.” “gay, adj.” “homosexual, n.” “homo, n” “queer, adj.” OED online. Jan 2010. Oxford UP. 29 May 2011 <http://dictionary.oed.com/>

Rosenfeld, Natania. “James Joyce’s Womanly Wandering Jew.” Jews and Gender. Philadelphia: Temple UP, 1995, 215-226.

Schwaber, Paul. The Cast of Characters. New Haven and London: Yale UP, 1999. 167-97.


One Disguises in Eumaeus: Sherlockholmsing the Sailor

Ben Lee