Ulysses is Joyce’s ambitious attempt to condense the universal range of human experience into one novel, but it’s also deeply rooted in the particular historical, cultural, and political context of a specific place and time: Dublin, the capital of colonized Ireland, at the turn of the 20th century. Joyce’s distinctive local dialects and wordplay, his meticulous attention to Dublin’s geography, and his constant references to Irish history and politics make Ulysses as much a distinctively Irish novel as it is a canonical work of Western literature in general. Joyce wrote and published Ulysses during the period when Ireland was securing its independence from Britain (the late 1910s and early 1920s). However, he chose to set the novel in 1904, when political life was overwhelmingly focused on the question of independence, but the path to it was not yet clear. As a result, Ireland’s predicament as a long-suffering colony constantly materializes in the background of Ulysses, most prominently in terms of the conflict between pro-British unionists and pro-independence nationalists. Joyce supports the cause of Irish independence in Ulysses by showing how British colonialism devastated Ireland. But he also viciously mocks Irish nationalists, whom he presents as absurdly narrow-minded and intolerant: in Ulysses, they’re so focused on praising Ireland’s greatness and getting back at the British that they reject everything foreign and never actually work to build a better society. Always suspicious of grand political dogmas and promises, Joyce supports Irish independence but argues that nationalism is self-defeating because it leads people to turn inward, limits their horizons to their own small group, and overlooks more meaningful political questions about how society and public life should be organized.
Ulysses is set against the backdrop of English colonialism in Ireland and the Irish nationalists’ struggle for independence. The novel repeatedly suggests that Dublin’s political tensions are coming to a boil. Almost every extended conversation in Ulysses eventually touches on politics—for instance, Stephen Dedalus can’t even pick up his paycheck without sitting through a political rant from his obnoxious unionist headmaster Mr. Deasy. Protestants and Catholics are at each other’s throats. The novel’s characters walk past Nelson’s Pillar, a giant monument to English colonialism in central Dublin, and then listen to Ben Dollard sing the patriotic nationalist song “The Croppy Boy” in the Ormond Hotel. In short, Dublin is split in two by politics.
On the one hand, Joyce thinks that the nationalists are right to blame British colonialism for Ireland’s problems. He shows that resentment, poverty, and despair plagued Dublin in 1904. The city was less industrialized than other comparable British cities, so its economy was based on trade, government, and services like the numerous prostitutes who serve British soldiers in nighttown. In fact, Joyce uses prostitution as a metaphor for Ireland’s situation: the island’s labor and resources have been prostituted off to the British. Bloom also sees the evidence of English colonialism firsthand: Irish cattle get herded onto ships to be slaughtered and eaten in England, for instance, while he can only afford to eat cheaper meat, like pork kidneys. Bloom’s parents’ generation also remembers the devastating potato famine of the 1840s-50s, which shows that historical wounds are still open in 1904. Similarly, Stephen Dedalus’s poverty was not by any means unusual. It’s no surprise that Bloom constantly thinks about business ideas to enrich the Irish economy, while Stephen imagines that his literature could help the Irish people build a new identity and a more promising future. At the end of “Circe,” his insults against the English win him the ire of Privates Compton and Carr, who go on to viciously attack him. In a nutshell, then, Stephen, Bloom, and virtually all of their acquaintances understand that colonialism is a bad deal for Ireland—the only people who actually support the English in this novel are pretentious dupes like Mr. Deasy.
However, Joyce is suspicious of both sides: while he agrees with the nationalists’ call for independence, he fundamentally rejects their view of Irish identity, culture, and art. Specifically, he thinks that many nationalists are attached to an outdated and backwards vision of Irish identity, in which “true” Irish people are poor rural peasants. Even Dublin’s literary scene is divided: one faction thinks Irish literature should focus on the traditional characters and concerns of the Irish countryside, while another group (which includes Joyce) thinks that Irish literature should speak to more universal concerns. Meanwhile, some of the more rigid nationalists, like the citizen, reject anyone who doesn’t fit their personal mold of an Irishman. This creates lots of problems for Bloom, whose father was a Hungarian Jewish immigrant and whose dark features stand out in Ireland. During the “Cyclops” episode, this leads him into a bar fight with the citizen, whose pride in Ireland is so excessive that he cannot stand to see the value in any other culture or country. He hates anything English, to the point of declaring that England has never produced any meaningful art and cursing the local paper for publishing Englishmen’s obituaries alongside native Irishmen’s. The citizen also hates Jews, science, and political tolerance, among other Bloomian values. Unsurprisingly, he absolutely despises Leopold Bloom and ends up attacking him. While Joyce certainly didn’t mean to suggest that all (or even most) Irish nationalists were as narrow-minded or violent as the citizen, he does make a strong case against the nationalists’ anti-modern, racist, and reactionary elements.
For Joyce, the key question is not whether Ireland ought to be independent from English rule, but rather what kind of independent country it ought to be. Although he could have scarcely avoided politics in Ulysses if he wanted to, he actively chose to make it central to the plot and make his hero a Jewish immigrant. So clearly, he was deeply concerned about Ireland’s ability to become the tolerant, peaceful, pluralistic, Bloomian nation of his dreams.
Irish Identity and Nationalism ThemeTracker
Irish Identity and Nationalism Quotes in Ulysses
I will not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.
A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek brown head, a seal’s, far out on the water, round.
Usurper.
—History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?
—The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.
Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:
—That is God.
Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!
—What? Mr Deasy asked.
—A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
—Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton censured, have yet to create a figure which the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare’s Hamlet though I admire him, as old Ben did, on this side idolatry.
The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower was that of a broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired freelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed longheaded deepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced sinewyarmed hero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and his rocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was likewise the rest of his body wherever visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair in hue and toughness similar to the mountain gorse (Ulex Europeus). The widewinged nostrils, from which bristles of the same tawny hue projected, were of such capaciousness that within their cavernous obscurity the fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. The eyes in which a tear and a smile strove ever for the mastery were of the dimensions of a goodsized cauliflower.
—I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.
—Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.
[…]
—But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it’s the very opposite of that that is really life.
—What? says Alf.
—Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred.
Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus.
Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit. Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit. Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit.
Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa!
Universally that person’s acumen is esteemed very little perceptive concerning whatsoever matters are being held as most profitably by mortals with sapience endowed to be studied who is ignorant of that which the most in doctrine erudite and certainly by reason of that in them high mind’s ornament deserving of veneration constantly maintain when by general consent they affirm that other circumstances being equal by no exterior splendour is the prosperity of a nation more efficaciously asserted than by the measure of how far forward may have progressed the tribute of its solicitude for that proliferent continuance which of evils the original if it be absent when fortunately present constitutes the certain sign of omnipollent nature’s incorrupted benefaction.