The Aesthetics of Phenomena Joyce's Epiphanies PDF
The Aesthetics of Phenomena Joyce's Epiphanies PDF
The Aesthetics of Phenomena Joyce's Epiphanies PDF
Jūratė Levina
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The Aesthetics of Phenomena
Joyce’s Epiphanies
.
J Ū R AT E L E V I N A
PHILOSOPHICAL PRELIMINARIES
only. Kant himself in his early work uses the term “aesthetic” in the Greek
sense of the word—meaning sensuality as such, as opposed to intellect—
and defines the aesthetic in the way we know it only in the third Critique
against the work of his contemporary, Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten.6
Edmund Husserl revives the original sense of the term by returning it
into its original dichotomy: The aesthetic here does not belong to the
domain of the artistic, as opposed to the other domains of experienced
reality, but denotes the sphere of the sensuous as opposed to the realm of
intellectual apprehension. This opposition grounds the operative logic of
Husserl’s phenomenological project and enables the hermeneutic concep-
tion of aesthetic experience developed by Martin Heidegger and Hans-
Georg Gadamer after Husserl in contrast to Baumgarten and Kant, as
well as the phenomenology of aesthetic experience developed by Mikel
Dufrenne.7
The phenomenological-hermeneutic return to the classical notion of
aesthetics takes place as a shift of analytic attention away from the work
of art as an object-in-itself, the central focus in neo-Kantian descriptions
of art, toward the conditions that mediate our perceptual apprehension
of the work and thus enable its self-manifestation to us in all possible
ways, including but not limited to its Kantian conception. To put it in
less abstract terms, a phenomenological examination does not quite try to
determine whether or not, say, a work of art indeed is what one claims it
to be but, rather, is guided by the question of what makes it possible for
a work to be perceived in a given way. To assume this perspective effec-
tively means to acknowledge the fact that all reality we know is perceived
reality by definition and, by consequence, to (re-)consider the object’s
constitution strictly within the framework of perceptual apprehension.
This qualifies the ontological examination of things crucially because per-
ceptual framework itself is endowed with a constitutive force: Not only
does perception mediate the manner in which things are manifest to us
but it also shapes their objective identities, as every given thing manifests
itself to us for what we understand it to be in the given conditions of its
self-manifestation. This reframing of ontology, performed in an insistence
on its embeddedness in perception and demanding an account of the
implications of this embeddedness, is the constitutive move of phenome-
nology itself, and it is referred to as the phenomenological reduction. To
assume and sustain this perspective means to approach all things of reality
we know as, irreducibly, perceived objects—or phenomena—rather than
objects-in-themselves.
thing, and to conflate the spiritual with the divine and thus the true.
Twentieth-century critical thought has exposed the operative mechanism
of these conflations extensively, questioning their ontological validity and
dismantling them in order to show that metaphysical idealities do not
necessarily have the value of eternal truths, and that truth, instead, is
grounded in the material, physically manifest and lived reality as it shows
itself to ordinary people in the routine circumstances of their daily lives.
Such critique of the metaphysical is the bread and butter of post-
structuralist readings of Joyce as a rebellious proponent of this turn of
Western thought, entangled in an ongoing self-critical effort to dismantle
symbolic structures that inform our thinking and to expose ungrounded
metaphysical assumptions that embed it.
This turn in Joyce’s intellectual development has been noted well before
post-structuralist self-awareness came to dominate Joyce studies. “A rejec-
tion of idealism leads ultimately to a rejection of esthetics itself, which
deals not with things but with ideas,”24 Scholes generalizes back in 1964,
while observing that Joyce shows interest in both epiphany and theoretical
aesthetics only in early years. Indeed, even then Joyce defines epiphany in
the voice of his fictional alter ego in a novel he left unfinished (SH 211–13),
removes the term from the published version of Stephen’s theory (P 204–
16), and has the Stephen of “Proteus” mock himself for ever believing that
he had been creating art of eternal value in the form of epiphanies (U
3.141–44). Joyce’s intention to publish his own epiphanies faded away (LII
28, 35), though he used most—but not all—of them in his published
fiction with more or less substantial revisions.25 He does not seem to have
cared for their survival even in manuscripts.26 With all these gestures of
self-dismissal in place, Joyce himself seems to undermine the significance
of epiphany for both his conception of art and his practice of creating it.
This helps to account for the neglect of epiphany in contemporary criti-
cism. Quite simply, epiphany seems to belong to the kind of discourse
that by now has been fully discredited for its metaphysical assumptions,
and that Joyce cast aside in the course of his artistic development.
However, there is another story to tell, if only the ideal “spiritual” is
not conflated with the sacred so readily but is considered instead as a
necessary, constitutive condition of all human perception. In this alterna-
tive story, Joyce turns out to be a consistent thinker and practitioner of
art as a medium that enables and intensifies the experience of apprehend-
ing lived reality. Epiphany proves to be central in his thought on aesthet-
ics, while his epiphanies appear to be instrumental in developing his own,
Phenomenology does not contrast the body and the mind but, instead,
approaches consciousness as both sense-giving and embodied. Conscious-
ness is inseparably grounded in the sensuous body, for apprehension, by
definition, is sensuous experience as well as the work of the sense-giving
mind. From this point of view, every objectivity that constitutes itself in
perception is an intelligible ideality that manifests itself as a sensible iden-
tity. Hence, the constitution of an object does not quite refer to knowing
a Kantian noumenon—a pure ideality—by pure intellect but, rather, des-
ignates an event of grasping an object in the composite mode of both
intellectual understanding and sensible apprehension. Even Kant himself
concludes his analysis of the phenomena-noumena dichotomy with a
statement that, in reality, neither of these modes ever functions without
the other.27
In Husserl far more explicitly, the sensible and the intelligible consti-
tute two aspects of every perceptual act. A perceptual act is directed by an
ideality, or an eidos, which is the condition for anything to manifest itself
as an objectivity to the perceiving consciousness. Yet this act can only be
performed by a living consciousness: a consciousness that lives in the
sensing body and thus is grounded in the sensuous—that is, matter (or,
in the Husserlian Greek terms, hyle), which is organized into the percep-
tion of things.28 Considered in this perceptual framework, all things
appear to be perceived objectivities, or intentional objects. And because
intentional perception itself is the given condition of the human grasp of
all things, there is no “true” object as opposed to the intentional one: an
object must manifest itself somehow, and it manifests itself by way of
appearing to a perceiver. Thereby every object is also a phenomenon—
“that which appears” in the original, Greek meaning. It is only for Kant
that, as Heidegger puts it, “everything present has already become the
object of our representation” and has thus been torn away from its pre-
sumably true nature, while for the Greeks this distinction does not exist;
they think of “phainomena as phenomena”:
phainestai means to them that being assumes its radiance, and in that
radiance it appears. Thus appearance is still the basic trait of the
presence of all present beings, as they rise into unconcealment.29
That is, reality shows in appearance, rather than being veiled or deformed
by it. The real manifests itself by appearing to human apprehension in a
moment of simultaneous self-manifestation and grasp of truth.
This moment is named an epiphany in Joyce. The word derives from
the Greek epiphaneia, and the semantic content Joyce gives it in Stephen
Hero makes it a synonym of the phenomenon.30 Here, Stephen defines
and describes epiphany as a phenomenal appearance of a thing, rather
than a symbolic structure of signification as it has been commonly under-
stood. To see that this is the case, it is crucial to keep in mind that Ste-
phen, explaining the concept to Cranly, is not describing a particular,
aesthetic object or experience, as opposed to other, non-aesthetic objects
or experiences, but is trying to understand “the mechanism of esthetic
apprehension” (SH 212). He points to an object that happens to be
there—the Ballast Office clock or a basket (SH 211, P 212)—in order to
show how any object is necessarily a perceptually apprehended object,
and he does this through theoretical reflection, trying to figure out what
exactly is going on when we are apprehending anything at all. In effect,
by asking himself this particular question in this particular way, Stephen
performs the phenomenological reduction and carries out a phenomeno-
logical analysis of perceptual experience.
In his ostensibly Thomistic description, Stephen indeed considers the
general conditions in which an object manifests itself in perceptual appre-
hension. To start with, he notes that perceiving an object is necessarily
grounded in the grasp of a certain perceptual field as potentially a “self-
bounded and selfcontained” entity against the background of what it is
not (P 212). Such a grasp is the originary condition for anything to mani-
fest itself as “one thing,” or “a thing” (SH 212, P 212)—that is, as a certain
wholeness, with a characteristic integrity to it. This also means that, on
examination, an object reveals itself as a consistent and internally cohesive
identity: It does not turn into something else if looked at from a different
perspective, nor does it disintegrate in the course of manifesting itself as
“multiple, divisible, separable, made up of its parts, the result of its parts
and their sum” as the perceiver moves from “point to point” while observ-
ing it. On the contrary, these multiple appearances organize themselves
into an integrity—which Stephen associates with harmony and rhythm—
By 1906, two years after Joyce jotted down his scholastic sketches on
aesthetic apprehension, this demand for both precision and truthfulness
in artistic expression grows into a fully developed position on what literary
writing must be. Herbert Gorman summarizes Joyce’s response to the
Irish and English literature he had been reading extensively at the time:
“fuzziness of conception, disregard for exactitude of expression, sentimen-
talism, compromise of any sort with one’s literary integrity, the failure to
intelligently circumscribe an idea”—these were flaws that Joyce refused to
forgive.35 As a reader, he wanted to see the writer expressing something
he had understood, while, Gorman adds, “by understanding he meant to
see the thing, the situation, the emotional resolution exactly and wholly
for what it was . . . and so convey it to the reader.”36 It is this aim of
getting a clear sense of a reality and finding an exact expression for it that
Joyce pursues as a writer committed to the paramount imperative of
truth-telling. It is an aim he refuses to renounce even in the direst circum-
stances. In May 1906, defending his right to publish Dubliners in the
form he wrote it, Joyce answered endless demands for revisions, proposed
aiming to make the collection more palatable to the Irish public: He
refused to modify his work, explaining, “he is a very bold man who dares
to alter in the presentment, still more to deform, whatever he has seen
and heard . . . I cannot alter what I have written” (LII 134).
In the 1902 essay on Mangan, Joyce makes it clear that truth is an
essential, constitutive condition of beauty:
have earned them the names of “prose sketches”38 and “prose poems.”39
They have been placed among Joyce’s “minor works” for their formal
indeterminacy making it difficult to see them as “successful, original, or
even finished compositions.”40 Scholars have even doubted whether they
deserve to be referred to as “form” at all, given that Stephen, in the event
of the inaugural epiphany, speaks of an artist’s duty “to record” (SH 211)
epiphanies, as opposed to creatively composing them as ostensibly literary
pieces (Workshop 3).
All these assessments are enabled by the underlying distinction between
literary form (as manifested in the major generic modes of poetry, narra-
tive and drama) and other—non-literary—writing (such as a record of
one’s experiences or a chronicle of historical events).41 This distinction
proves ineffective in describing epiphanies because their operative mecha-
nism is grounded in the general structure of perceptual apprehension,
rather than any conventional literary form. To animate the sensuous—as
Joyce expects a work of art to do—an expression does not have to con-
form to a conventional literary form but must, instead, direct sensuous
experience toward the grasp of the phenomenon it brings to self-
manifestation in perception. Hence, to record one’s experience of such a
grasp in lived reality already means to give it an aesthetic form, but only
if the recording satisfies the condition of reinvoking the direct—
sensuous—re-experience of what has been recorded. The form of the
recording itself—as writing that achieves the required effect of mediating
a (re-)grasp of the phenomenon—may or may not manifest literary
“form” in the received sense of the word.
Joyce’s epiphanies are precisely such recordings. The variety of formal
patterns they expose and the evident absence of a common formal struc-
ture among them suggest that, as a textual corpus, they are a testing
ground where Joyce plays with the writing techniques and representa-
tional modes made available by the literary tradition, trying to find a form
that will satisfy his demand for a work of art to mediate the manifestation
of things in aesthetic perception. In terms of traditional genres, epiphanies
are a transitional form: a bridge for Joyce’s passage from what might be
called the First Text—the text that registers direct experience—into a
generically literary form of expression, extended fictional narrative.
The narrative of A Portrait enacts this passage in the plot, which tells
us that Stephen “chronicled with patience what he saw” and stages the
process for the reader, presenting us with a sequence of scenes Stephen is
recording, including two of Joyce’s epiphanies—namely, epiphanies 3 and
5—into this sequence (P 67–69, cf. Workshop 15, 13). Epiphany 3 recurs,
along with epiphany 26, further in the novel, in another extended narra-
tive passage, which stages the process of artistic creation: Stephen, half-
asleep at dawn, relives his experiences while writing a villanelle. His
recollections and the poem’s lines intertwine until the villanelle emerges
complete (P 217–24; 219, 222 cf. Workshop 36, 13). This scene immediately
follows Stephen’s conversation about his aesthetic theory with Lynch,
which ends with a revised version of another epiphany, 25 (P 216; cf.
Workshop 35).
All these epiphanies appear as Stephen’s re-experiences rather than
transformed pieces he wrote to chronicle the events of his surrounding
reality. Yet they are written pieces nonetheless: Joyce certainly had to write
them, shaping them formally in a certain way to stage them for the reader
of his narrative. While writing them, Joyce was in fact recording his own
lived experiences: the surviving epiphanies do not manifest any intertex-
tual references or structural models,42 yet their action is easy to locate in
the specific contexts of his individual biography. It seems that here Joyce
himself “chronicled with patience what he saw” (P 67–69), as if a note-
book of epiphanies were his diary. There are no diaries in the extant
corpus of Joyce’s biographical documents. If that means he never wrote
one, it seems that Joyce—as an artist to the core of his being—chose
instead to record his lived experience in a way that would lead him toward
a fully developed form of irreducibly aesthetic literary expression.
The most immediate problem Joyce faced in undertaking the task of
merely recording what one sees was choosing the best form to represent
this directly perceived reality on the page. It seems that Joyce, at this
stage, opted for the model deployed in representing drama. Hans Walter
Gabler has proposed that Joyce must have written dramatic epiphanies
first, as the simpler form, and then moved to narrative, gradually increas-
ing the complexity of the narrative structure, although the textual and
contextual evidence for this claim remains inconclusive.43 To complicate
it further, Joyce also appears to have started working on his first long
fiction, Stephen Hero, while still writing epiphanies,44 which means that,
for some period, he might have been trying his hand in all three forms,
including dramatic and narrative miniatures along with extended narra-
tive fiction. Within this generic paradigm, the line of logical progression
from dramatic scenes through narrative epiphanies toward extended fic-
tion is quite clear, whether or not this was also the factual chronology of
Joyce’s move from form to form. This is, indeed, a progression from the
The children who have stayed latest are getting on their things to go
home for the party is over. This is the last tram. The lank brown
horses know it and shake their bells to the clear night, in admonition.
The conductor talks with the driver; both nod often in the green
light of the lamp. There is nobody near. We seem to listen, I on the
upper step and she on the lower. She comes up to my step many
times and goes down again, between our phrases, and once or twice
remains beside me, forgetting to go down, and then goes down . . . . .
Let be; let be . . . . And now she does not urge her vanities—her fine
dress and sash and long black stockings—for now (wisdom of chil-
dren) we seem to know that this end will please us better than any
end we have laboured for. (Workshop 13)
The narrative begins with the spatiotemporal preamble setting the stage
for the event. The children are getting dressed to go home in a hall after
a party. It is late, and everybody is focused on getting home. To enact
their impatience, the narrative leaps into another spatiotemporal location
without warning, into “the last tram” that is pulled by the horses who,
too, are impatient to finish the last trip of the day. The tram is itself an
enclosed space in relation to rest of the city; and it is also perceived as a
vacant space: “The conductor talks with the driver” out there, “in the
green light of the lamp,” while “[t]here is nobody near,” over here.
Nobody is intruding into the space where the event is about to take place,
and now the narration locates the participants of this event in a way that
also ascribes to them an intention to isolate their space from the rest of
the environment: They “seem to listen” to the conversation out there and,
as it turns out, to one another, while actually focusing on themselves, he
“on the upper step and she on the lower.” They speak, but we learn
nothing about the content of this conversation: It is the fact of conversa-
tion itself that matters, the dance-like link and the choreography in which
this link holds their minds and bodies tied to one another. Their attention
is focused on each other’s bodily movements—or gestures—that express
their immersion in this experience of the connection, their bodies moving
in a conversational harmony, while the content of this conversation, inevi-
tably communicated in the words they must be saying, is completely dis-
regarded. He only watches her coming up and down the steps and relishes
the moments she stays near him as the conversation pauses, wishing to
hold it for a little longer: “Let be; let be. . . .” No spontaneous distractions
interrupt this shared moment of bliss: “now she does not urge her vani-
ties,” and he—while noting “her fine dress and sash and long black
stockings”—cares for the fact of her unawareness rather than the “vani-
ties” themselves. They both “seem to know that this end will please
[them] better than any end [they] have laboured for.” “This end” is not
specified: It refers to the interaction just staged, returning the reading eye
to something it has just observed while reading. Thus, the epiphany closes
in a fully circular, self-referential structure.
Early in A Portrait, Joyce expands the epiphany textually into a narra-
tive passage that is four times longer (68–70). He uses almost all of the
epiphany’s text , omitting just a few words and introducing some stylistic
and semantic changes. Stylistically, Joyce consistently repositions gram-
matical deictic references to the time of action and the actors. He narrates
in the past tense rather than in the dramatic present that, in the epiphany,
placed the reader in the midst of action and sustained a sense of the scene
as unfolding in the here-and-now of the narration-and-reading act. The
first-person narration also contributed to this effect of immediacy in the
epiphany: The first person placed the reader in the position of the experi-
encing “I,” whereby experience unfolded in the course of narration as
“mine,” and the “we” of it united “myself” with “her” in a single action
and experience. In A Portrait, the episode is narrated in the third person:
Here the narrator—and, by consequence, the reader—observes the action
rather than acting it, and then “we” must be transformed into “them,”
marking the two actors as “him” and “her.” These simple grammatical
shifts have the overall effect of distancing the action from narration,
which also involves splitting the acting subjectivity from the observing-
and-narrating “I.”
Splitting subjective spaces takes place on the semantic level of the narra-
tive as well: In A Portrait, the tram episode no longer enacts the intersub-
jective bond staged in the epiphany. The preamble to the narrative action
here does not demarcate the space of intimacy between the couple over
against the outside space of the tram and the city, as it did in the epiph-
any, but instead presents us with a two-paragraph description of Stephen’s
solitude over against the mirth of the party. The girl here is given the
specific role of Muse. She excites him so he must put some effort into
“hiding from the other eyes the feverish agitation of his blood” while
trying to catch her eyes, as “through the circling of the dancers and amid
the music and laughter her glance travelled to his corner” (P 68–69); the
following day he will try to write poetry, feeding on this excitement (P
70). The narrative here does not leap from the hall right into the tram
but, with Stephen, watches the girl’s movements as they leave the house
and walk together: her gesture as she wraps herself in her shawl, “sprays
of her fresh warm breath [that] flew gaily above her cowled head,” and
her steps as “her shoes tapped blithely on the glassy road” (P 69).
Such close attention to detail characterizes Stephen’s gaze around the
entire space of action. Focus on details and separate objects fragments this
space into a sequence of separate perceptions instead of concentrating
attention on an undisturbed, self-enclosed spot that was marked as a scene
for potential intimacy in the epiphany. Joyce performs this fragmentation
in revision, by splitting semantic units—which are also perceptual
images—into their constituents: The concentrated expression of an
empty, undisturbed space, encapsulated in the straightforward sentence
“There is nobody near” in the epiphany, here breaks into the composite
image of “the empty seats of the tram” and “no sound” around (P 69).
Using the same technique of splitting a continuity into its constituent
images, Joyce distinguishes two independent subjectivities from the origi-
nal unity of the single inter-subjective act. He breaks the single flow of
the harmonious conversational movement of the original epiphanic act
into a complex of reflections by duplicating images and, ultimately, by
making the narrative enact for us a self-reflective consciousness—and thus
a fully constituted subjectivity—involved in an effort of communication.
To achieve this ultimate effect, Joyce must separate the participating
body from the perceiving consciousness. The harmony, in the epiphany
played out as the couple’s dance-like interaction, here is encapsulated in
the metaphorical image of Stephen’s heart that “danced upon her move-
ments like a cork upon a tide” (P 69), up and down to mirror the rhythm
of the girl’s physical movements. This is also an image of subjective self-
reflection: It focuses our view on Stephen’s sense of himself, as opposed
to their commonly performed act. And it is complemented by the self-
awareness of the girl, too: Stephen sees “her urge her vanities” (P 69),
which she emphatically did not do in the epiphany. Once the narrative
enters the realm of conscious self-reflective perception, memory and imag-
ination open a whole world of possible associations, so Stephen finds
himself reflecting on an experience that mirrors the one he is living in the
present. He remembers a day in the past, when he and another girl (Eileen
rather than E– C–,with whom he is on the tram) were looking at a “fox
terrier scampering to and fro on the sunny lawn” of a hotel, another
image of an oscillating movement. Stephen’s recollection is brought about
by finding himself in the same position, as he stands “listlessly in his
place, seemingly a tranquil watcher of the scene before him” (P 69). This
complex multiplication of reflections and splits, narrated in the past tense
and thus enacted as a memory rather than an action in the here-and-
now, is itself placed at a distance from another pair of seemingly tranquil
observers, the narrator and the reader.
With such a divide between Stephen and the girl in place, there is no
sense of the “we” that enabled the narrator to know what they both
wished for in the moment. In A Portrait, the girl’s attraction to him is an
object of Stephen’s ongoing speculation until he decides that “She too
wants [him] to catch hold of her. That’s why she came with [him] to the
tram.” The ending has another crucial split of reference: The unspecified
“end,” with which the epiphany enclosed its narrative in a self-referential
structure, here turns into Stephen’s calculation of what he might do in
accepting her “gift”: “catch hold of her” and “kiss her.” He does neither
of those things, and thus finishes his tram journey alone, staring “gloomily
at the corrugated footboard.” Instead of the bliss of being together, we
are presented with a faint implication of dissatisfaction about a missed
opportunity. This is also a moment that constitutes subjectivity as self-
enclosed consciousness striving for but not achieving connection with
another being. This appears to be the pathos of the scene, quite the oppo-
site to its epiphanic original that celebrated one’s unity with the other in
a common act.
To make it even more anticlimactic, Joyce provides an epilogue in Ste-
phen’s failed attempt to write poetry the following day, trying to draw on
the inspiration from his muse (P 70). He performs all preparatory rituals
for writing: sets a writing scene, with a new pen, a fresh ink bottle, and a
new exercise book laid on the desk, and puts down a dedication to his
muse for the poem’s title, just as Lord Byron did. But an inspiration does
not come. Instead of poetic lines, Stephen automatically writes down a
list of names and addresses of his classmates, as if his writing hand simply
extended the gesture of scribbling the same kind of language he started
with, putting down a sequence of names after the first one because his
brain had “refused to grapple with the theme” and bring anything at all
to his mind.
The epiphanic sense of the bliss returns in the second revision of the
epiphany in A Portrait many pages later, in Stephen’s memory of the
tram:
He had written verses for her again after ten years. Ten years before
she had worn her shawl cowlwise about her head, sending sprays of
her warm breath into the night air, tapping her foot upon the glassy
road. It was the last tram; the lank brown horses knew it and shook
their bells to the clear night in admonition. The conductor talked
with the driver, both nodding often in the green light of the lamp.
They stood on the steps of the tram, he on the upper, she on the
lower. She came up to his step many times between their phrases and
went down again and once or twice remained beside him forgetting
to go down and then went down. Let be! Let be!
Ten years from that wisdom of children to his folly. If he sent her
the verses? They would be read out at breakfast amid the tapping of
egg-shells. Folly indeed! . . . (222)
Ten years later Stephen appreciates his inaction as the “wisdom of chil-
dren” and cherishes the moment for what it was. There is no party setting
at all; the setting here is Stephen’s look at her shawl about her head and
his feel of “sprays of her warm breath into the night air,” whereby the
narrative directly states his attraction to her and their connection. Com-
pared to the epiphany, let alone its expansion in the first instance of its use
in A Portrait, the narrative here speeds up. Joyce combines the epiphany’s
sentence “This was the last tram” and the description of the horses into
one sentence. He also omits the statements that “[t]here is nobody near”
and that the couple “seem to listen” while actually busy with one another,
as well as the details about her vanities. The narrative presents their
CODA
The very fact that Joyce integrates the tram epiphany into a larger narra-
tive and the ways in which he does it also testifies to the fact that Joyce
never left epiphany behind but, rather, wove a narrative that stages and
NOTES
F. Tucker, “Epiphany and Browning: Character Made Manifest,” PMLA 107, no. 5
(October 1992): 1208–21.
10. Wim Tigges, ed., Moments of Moment: Aspects of the Literary Epiphany
(Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1999).
11. Morris Beja’s account of criticism on epiphany and related issues in Joyce
studies remains most concise and useful; see his “Epiphany and Epiphanies,” in A
Companion to Joyce Studies, ed. Zack Bowen and James F. Carens (Westport, London:
Greenwood, 1984), 707–25, esp. 716–21.
12. Don Gifford, “Ulysses” Annotated: Notes for James Joyce’s “Ulysses” (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1988), 51 (3.141).
13. David Hayman, “The Purpose and Permanence of the Joycean Epiphany,” JJQ
35, no. 4 (Summer-Fall 1998): 633–55, 638.
14. David Weir, “Epiphanoumenon,” JJQ 31, no. 2 (Winter 1994): 55–64, esp.
57–58.
15. Harry Levin, James Joyce: A Critical Introduction (New York: New Directions,
1960 [1941]), 28–29; further references will be cited parenthetically in the text.
16. James Joyce, Stephen Hero, ed. Theodore Spencer, John J. Slocum, and Her-
bert Cahoon (New York: New Directions, 1963 [1944]), 211–13; further references will
be cited parenthetically in the text as SH.
17. Irene Hendry, “Joyce’s Epiphanies,” The Sewanee Review 54, no. 3 (July–
September 1946): 449–67.
18. James Joyce, Stephen Hero, edited with an introduction by Theodore Spencer
(London: Jonathan Cape, 1944).
19. Robert Scholes, “Joyce and the Epiphany: The Key to the Labyrinth?” The
Sewanee Review 72, no. 1 (Winter 1964): 65–77, 65–67.
20. James Joyce, Epiphanies, with an Introduction and notes by Oscar Ansell Sil-
verman ([Buffalo]: Lockwood Memorial Library, University of Buffalo, 1956).
21. James Joyce, “The Epiphanies,” with the editors’ “Introductory Note,” in The
Workshop of Daedalus: James Joyce and the Materials for “A Portrait of the Artist as a
Young Man”, ed. Robert Scholes and Richard Morgan Kain (Evanston: Northwestern
University Press, 1965), 3–51; further references will be cited as Workshop parentheti-
cally in the text.
22. Jacques Aubert, The Aesthetics of James Joyce (Baltimore: John Hopkins Univer-
sity Press, 1992 [1973]).
23. Umberto Eco, The Aesthetics of Chaosmos: The Middle Ages of James Joyce, trans.
Ellen Esrock (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1989), 7, cf. 24–27.
24. Robert Scholes, “Joyce and the Epiphany,” 70.
25. Morris Beja provides a full documentation of Joyce’s re-use of the epiphanies;
see “Epiphany and the Epiphanies,” in A Companion to Joyce Studies, ed. Zack Bowen
and James F. Carens (Westport, Conn., London: Greenwood, 1984), 712–13.
26. This is witnessed by the fact that only forty epiphanies, out of at least seventy
Joyce must have written, have reached us, with seventeen of them surviving in his
brother’s hand rather than Joyce’s own; see Hans Walter Gabler, “Preface,” in Portrait
of the Artist as a Young Man: A Facsimile of Epiphanies, Notes, Manuscripts and Type-
scripts, gen. ed. Michael Groden ([New York, London]: Garland, 1978), xxiii–xxv.
27. Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, 364.
28. See esp. Edmund Husserl, Ideas Pertaining to a Pure Phenomenology and to a
Phenomenological Philosophy. First Book: General Introduction to a Pure Phenomenol-
ogy, trans. F. Kersten (The Hague, Boston, Lancaster: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers,
1983), 203–7 (§85).
29. Martin Heidegger, “A Dialogue on Language,” in On the Way to Language,
trans. Peter D. Hertz (San Francisco: Harper Collins Publishers, 1971), 37–38.
30. Cf. Kim, Literary Epiphany in the Novel, 1850–1950, 7–12, 23.
31. Umberto Eco, The Aesthetics of Chaosmos: The Middle Ages of James Joyce, trans.
Ellen Esrock (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1989), 6, 10.
32. Sverdiolas, Aiškinimo ratas, 13.
33. Aubert, 105. Drawing on William T. Noon, Joyce and Aquinas: A study of the
Religious Elements in the Writing of James Joyce (New Haven: Yale University Press;
London: Oxford University Press, 1957). Aubert also notes that Joyce did not have a
systematic training in scholastics (4–6, 100), which must have been the enabling
condition for his re-interpretation of these notions.
34. James Joyce, Occasional, Critical, and Political Writing, ed. Kevin Barry
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 104; further references will appear paren-
thetically in the text by the title of the piece when relevant and the abbreviation OW
followed by the page reference.
35. Herbert Gorman, James Joyce: A Definitive Biography (London: John Lane, The
Bodley Head, 1949 [1941]), 182.
36. Gorman, James Joyce, 182.
37. Thomas Kettle made the comparison (JJ 261), and Arthur Symons is the
author of the description, qt. in Gorman, James Joyce, 192. Gorman (59) and Ellmann
after him (JJ 76fn) quote from Joyce’s translation of Verlaine.
38. Vicki Mahaffey, “Joyce’s shorter works,” in The Cambridge Companion to
James Joyce, ed. Derek Attridge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 172–
95, 179; Gabler, “Preface,” xxiii.
39. Gabler, “Preface,” xxiii.
40. Mahaffey, 172.
41. Hans Walter Gabler assumes the same distinction when he qualifies Stephen
Hero as “the ‘perception text’ ” rather than fictional narrative as literary, aesthetically
organized form; see “ ‘He chronicled with patience:’ Early Joycean Progressions
between Non-Fictionality and Fiction,” in Outside His Jurisfiction: Joyce’s Non-Fiction
Writings, ed. Katherine Ebury and James Frazer (London: Palgrave, forthcoming
2017), originally presented at the International Conference “ ‘Outside his jurisfiction:’
Joyce’s Non-fiction,” University of York, UK, March 23–25, 2012.
42. I am grateful to Kevin Barry for drawing my attention to this rather obvious
shared characteristic of the epiphanies, which he did in response to the first version
of this study I presented at the University of York in March 2012, pointing to its
potential significance to my reading of Joyce.