{"product_id":"ulysses-isbn-9780679600114","title":"Ulysses","description":"\u003cb\u003eSelected by the Modern Library as one of the 100 best novels of all time\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eUlysses\u003c\/i\u003e is one of the most influential novels of the twentieth century. It was not easy to find a publisher in America willing to take it on, and when Jane Jeap and Margaret Anderson started printing extracts from the book in their literary magazine \u003ci\u003eThe Little Review\u003c\/i\u003e in 1918, they were arrested and charged with publishing obscenity. They were fined $100, and even \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e expressed satisfaction with their conviction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eUlysses\u003c\/i\u003e was not published in book form until 1922, when another American woman, Sylvia Beach, published it in Paris her Shakespeare \u0026amp; Company. \u003ci\u003eUlysses\u003c\/i\u003e was not available legally in any English-speaking country until 1934, when Random House successfully defended Joyce against obscenity charges and published it in the Modern Library.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis edition follows the complete and unabridged text as corrected and reset in 1961. Judge John Woolsey’s decision lifting the ban against \u003ci\u003eUlysses\u003c\/i\u003e is reprinted, along with a letter from Joyce to Bennett Cerf, the publisher of Random House, and the original foreword to the book by Morris L. Ernst, who defended \u003ci\u003eUlysses\u003c\/i\u003e during the trial.\"Ulysses will immortalize its author with the same certainty that \u003ci\u003eGargantua\u003c\/i\u003e immortalized Rabelais, and \u003ci\u003eThe Brothers Karamazov\u003c\/i\u003e immortalized Dostoyevsky.... It comes nearer to being the perfect revelation of a personality than any book in existence.\"\u003cbr\u003e-\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"To my mind one of the most significant and beautiful books of our time.\"\u003cbr\u003e-Gilbert Seldes, in \u003ci\u003eThe Nation\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Talk about understanding \"feminine psychology\"-- I have never read anything to surpass it, and I doubt if I have ever read anything to equal it.\"\u003cbr\u003e-Arnold Bennett\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In the last pages of the book, Joyce soars to such rhapsodies of beauty as have probably never been equaled in English prose fiction.\"\u003cbr\u003e-Edmund Wilson, in \u003ci\u003eThe New Republic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJames Joyce\u003c\/b\u003e, the twentieth century’s most influential novelist, was born in Dublin on February 2, 1882. The oldest of ten children, he grew up in a family that went from prosperity to penury because of his father’s wastrel behavior. After receiving a rigorous Jesuit education, twenty-year-old Joyce renounced his Catholicism and left Dublin in 1902 to spend most of his life as a writer in exile in Paris, Trieste, Rome, and Zurich. On one trip back to Ireland, he fell in love with the now famous Nora Barnacle on June 16, the day he later chose as “Bloomsday” in his novel \u003ci\u003eUlysses. \u003c\/i\u003eNora was an uneducated Galway girl who became his lifelong companion and the mother of his two children. In debt and drinking heavily, Joyce lived for thirty-six years on the Continent, supporting himself first by teaching jobs, then through the patronage of Mrs. Harold McCormick (Edith Rockerfeller) and the English feminist and editor Harriet Shaw Weaver. His writings include \u003ci\u003eChamber Music \u003c\/i\u003e(1907), \u003ci\u003eDubliners \u003c\/i\u003e(1914), \u003ci\u003eA Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man \u003c\/i\u003e(1916), \u003ci\u003eExiles \u003c\/i\u003e(1918), \u003ci\u003eUlysses \u003c\/i\u003e(1922), \u003ci\u003ePomes Penyeach \u003c\/i\u003e(1927), \u003ci\u003eFinnegans Wake \u003c\/i\u003e(1939), and an early draft of \u003ci\u003eA Portrait of a Young Man, Stephan Hero \u003c\/i\u003e(1944). \u003ci\u003eUlysses \u003c\/i\u003erequired seven years to complete, and his masterpiece, \u003ci\u003eFinnegans Wake, \u003c\/i\u003etook seventeen. Both works revolutionized the form, structure, and content of the novel. Joyce died in Zurich in 1941.STATELY, PLUMP Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Introibo ad altare Dei. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHalted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Come up, Kinch. Come up, you fearful jesuit. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSolemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding country and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBuck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Back to barracks, he said sternly. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe added in a preacher's tone: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe peered sideways up and gave a long low whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--The mockery of it, he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBuck Mulligan's gay voice went on. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Will he come? The jejune jesuit. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCeasing, he began to shave with care. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Yes, my love? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--How long is Haines going to stay in this tower? Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English. Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus; you have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade. \u003cbr\u003eHe shaved warily over his chin. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--A woful lunatic, Mulligan said. Were you in a funk? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBuck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Scutter, he cried thickly. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--The bard's noserag. A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can't you?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.--\u003cbr\u003e---- \u003cbr\u003e--God, he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a grey sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks. I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbour mouth of Kingstown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Our mighty mother, Buck Mulligan said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe turned abruptly his great searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e--But a lovely mummer, he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown grave-clothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.","brand":"Modern Library","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300203319525,"sku":"NP9780679600114","price":32.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780679600114.jpg?v=1767743135","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/ulysses-isbn-9780679600114","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}