“Stephen Dedalus: Identity in His Name”

Corey Dressel
Dr. Buttram
English 605: James Joyce
November 13th, 2012

“Stephen Dedalus: Identity in His Name”

A close-up look at the complex web of thematics and styling’s that inform the reader’s understanding of Stephen Dedalus

In 1923, roughly one year after publication, T. S. Eliot responded to James Joyce’s controversial Ulysses, adorning his work with praise. In Eliot’s critique, entitled “Ulysses, Order and Myth,” Eliot proclaimed: “I hold this book to be the most important expression which the present age has found; it is a book to which we are all indebted, and from which none of us can escape.” This high form of praise, coming from a man, revered “not only as a great sorcerer of words but as the very key keeper of the language,” subsequently lends itself as a literary measuring stick by which we may appreciate Joyce’s brilliance within Ulysses (Stravinsky, qtd. in The Poetry Foundation). However, Joyce’s mastery control of language, style, and form, transcends a mere myopic vision of Ulysses as a unified and singular testimony of his mind’s craft and capability. The very thematic and stylistic techniques that make Ulysses worthy of such praise have their roots embedded in Joyce’s preceding novel, A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man (hereafter referred to as Portrait). Knowing that the protagonist of Portrait returns as a slightly older version of himself in Ulysses renders the two texts inseparable in the quest for a comprehensive understanding of the universal themes and stylings employed by Joyce in the creation of his character, Stephen Dedalus.

Bridging the two texts unveils Joyce’s complex and unique composition of Stephen’s character, who is in a continual stratifying state, searching for an identity. Mikhail Bakhtin, author of, The Dialogic Imagination, says, “Represented characters in a novel exist in order to find, reject, redefine a stratum of their own” (433). Though, by definition, stratification is the negation of unity, Bakhtin believes “to create new strata is the express purpose of art;” thus, a stratified condition was necessary for Joyce’s creation of Stephen and likewise necessary in Stephen’s journey to seek an identity destined for artisanship (Bakhtin 433).

A careful analysis of Stephen’s stratification exposes a parallax in his character caused by the heteroglot nature of Joyce’s prose, which presents a diversity of voices, styles of discourse, and points of view. Joyce’s maze of heteroglot linguistics is a function and consequence of language’s meaning as derived by the special set of circumstances that exist uniquely within a particular place and time, as well as the “set of conditions—social, historical, meteorological, physiological that will insure that a word uttered in that place and at that time will have a meaning different than it would have under any other conditions” (Bakhtin 428). Bakhtin asserts “heteroglossia is as close a conceptualization as is possible of that locus where centripetal and centrifugal forces collide” (428). Ergo, Joyce’s formation of a mosaic comprised of varying points of view through varying types of dialects—which continuously coexist and conflict with one another—causes the reader’s perception of Stephen’s character to be in a perpetual condition of parallax. The resulting parallax requires an analytical close-reading in order to navigate carefully through Stephen’s plight with a clear understanding of the various techniques subtly and overtly used by Joyce to convey his hero’s journey from childhood to young-adulthood.

Stephen’s journey does not just mirror his creator’s journey (as we know Stephen to be a semiautobiographical self-portrait of Joyce), it also encompasses a universal adolescent identity-crisis as recorded in coming-of-age, or Kunstlerroman, text. Kent Baxter adds:

Not only were the themes of psychological turmoil, disconnection, and rebellion against established authority of great interest to novelists such as Anderson, Conrad, Faulkner, Joyce, and Woolf—all of whom wrote about adolescent characters—but the notion of the adolescent “identity crisis” serves as an ideal vehicle for the self-conscious stylizations foregrounded by these authors. (203)

It is primarily through Stephen’s introspective lens that the reader becomes acquainted with his character in Portrait. And, it is through a conglomeration of lenses that the reader continues with Stephen on his journey of self-actualization in Ulysses. The reader obtains invaluable insights from the various scenes wherein Stephen’s stream of consciousness and inner monologue tell his story. This styling technique allows Joyce a unique opportunity to break down the “distinctions between internal thoughts and external events,” creating a story built upon the exposition of consciousness versus mere action (Baxter 203). This narrative style, according to Baxter, “is naturally fitted to adolescent characters whose supposedly charged emotional life significantly influences their perceptions of themselves and the outside world” (203). Stephen’s self-perception reveals a maze of mysteries that he must navigate in order to discover what his identity is and, then, how to acquiesce to the demands of society without losing his identity.
Stephen’s perceptions of self and struggles with identity begin in Portrait with the questioning of his name. The significance of his name precipitates in questions of paternity. Both of these themes are framed in a perpetual commentary on history as Stephen grapples with an understanding of, not just his place in history, but the relationship between time and life and the movements of both as they intersect and collide. Within this frame of historical-relevance and metempsychosis, and underlying the dichotomous implications of his name and paternity, Joyce supplies a convenient symbolic mirror through which the reader observes Stephen’s struggles between the polar threats of an ordered life (as represented by religion, through his biblical namesake, religious doctrine, and his consideration of joining the priesthood) and the temptations of the flesh (as represented by his biological father, his father’s house, and sex). Each incongruous threat causes grievous vexation to his soul and equally threaten to keep him from his destiny to carve out for the world a new consciousness as artisan. This destiny, the “call of life to his soul,” is brought to him in one of his epiphanies, which lends itself as a key turning point in his life and comes when he is called, “Stephaneforos,” the Greek winged-figure after which he is named. Subsequently, it is through the muse of myth that Stephen hears his calling and thus determines his identity as an artist. His artisan myth-identity came to him in an epiphany thereafter described by Stephen as a moment of esthetic emotion.  Hereafter, various moments wherein he experiences esthetic emotion are signified by language expressive in images of flight and images of flow.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Language is the foundation and structure of Stephen’s character as he moves from childhood to adulthood, no self-awareness to a conscious awareness of his soul, from Portrait to Ulysses. The meaning of language as sign and signifier of personal identity is introduced to the reader in Stephen’s first conversation with a classmate at Clongowes Wood College when he is approximately six years old, wherein student questions the meaning of his name, foreshadowing his identity-crisis:

And one day [Nasty Roche] had asked:

—What is your name?

Stephen had answered:

—Stephen Dedalus.

Then Nasty Rocke had said:

—What kind of a name is that?

…Stephen had not been able to answer… (Portrait 5)

Shortly thereafter, when Stephen is in the infirmary, a fellow student, by the name of Athy, proclaims: “you have a queer name, Dedalus” (Portrait 23). These incidents prefigure the magnitude of attention and concern attributed to Stephen’s name throughout both texts.

Stephen’s childhood is spent in contemplation over the significance of names—particularly his—in relation to identity. When he writes his name and location in the flyleaf of one of his school books, he is attempting to discern meaning from the relationship between his name and his physical location: “Stephen Dedalus / Class of Elements / Clongowes Wood College / Sallins / County Kildare / Ireland / Europe / The World / The Universe” (Portrait 12). Following his lead, his schoolmate Flemming had mockingly written on the opposite page: “Stephen Dedalus is my name. / Ireland is my nation. / Clongowes is my dwelling place / And heaven my expectation” (Portrait 13). A contemplation on his name within the schema of the consubstantial universe leads Stephen to see the differences some names (i.e. God and Dieu) have in association to their assigned entity or person in comparison to his own: “God was God’s name just as his name was Stephen. Dieu was the French for God and that was God’s name too… But though there were different names for God in all the different languages still God remained always the same God and God’s real name was God” (Portrait 13). God’s name always pointed to God; whereas, Stephen’s name was ambiguous.

Stephen’s adolescent struggle for self-awareness through the questioning of his name “serves as the central dynamic of Stephen’s adolescent development and motivates the plot of the novel by igniting its narrative desire” (Baxter 207-8). This is clearly exemplified when the prefect of studies has dropped by Stephen’s classroom apparently looking for naughty boys to punish. Just prior to punishing Stephen for having lost his glasses, the prefect of studies has to ask him twice, “What is this your name is?” (Portrait 51). Regardless of Stephen’s clear answer, “Dedalus, sir,” he proceeds to refer to him as a “lazy idle little loafer! …a  lazy little schemer,” and claims to see “schemer” in his face (Portrait 51). Despite knowing he is innocent of the accusations, the prefect’s incessant name-calling banter leads Stephen to wonder if he did, in fact, carry a “lazy…schemer” identity in his face. When Stephen resolves to report the prefect’s cruel and unjust reprimand, he reflects on the prefect’s inability to remember his name, wondering if he asked twice because he was “not listening the first time or … to make fun out of the name?” (Portrait 56). As such, Stephen’s name is the focal point within a significant developmental turning point wherein he begins to associate his name, thus identity, to outside entities: “The great men in history had names like that and nobody made fun of them” (Portrait 56-7).  Essentially, Stephen is trying to “make a name for himself,” which figuratively explains the effort to find one’s identity, but for Stephen, this becomes a literal translation, which implies “a relationship between identity and language exists at the root of the adolescent identity crisis and the adolescent’s movement into adulthood” (Baxter 204). Thus, it is a centripetal movement of meaning in the language of Stephen’s name that signifies his identity crisis and it is centrifugal movement of meaning in language that triggers the questions regarding his name from others, as well as the incessant branding Stephen endures, of nomenclature intended to represent his identity.

When the reader moves to Ulysses, the heteroglot nature and, therefore, implications of Stephen’s name reveal themselves within the first two pages of the first episode, “Telemachus.” Roughly 1-2 years older than the Stephen who took flight out of Portrait, Stephen has landed back in Dublin with a roommate, Mulligan, who repeatedly mocks his name:

—The mockery of it! He said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek! […]

—We must go to Athens. […]

—Will he come? The jejune Jesuit! […]

—O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knifeblade. (Ulysses p.4, 2.42-3, 2.45, & 2.54-55)

These few lines epitomize the significant connection between Stephen’s name, a father-figure, and his identity crisis throughout both texts.  Herein, Mulligan has identified three symbolic identities found within a paternal ideal that Stephen must wrestle with. Each of the names Mulligan uses has a corresponding identity in Stephen’s name: “ancient Greek” refers to the ancient artisan Daedalus (father time); “jejune Jesuit” refers to St. Steven or The Reverend Stephen Dedalus (father of the church); and finally, “Kinch” represents his biological father’s name: S.D. or Stephen Dedalus, son of Simon Dedalus (consubstantial father). The latter of which, according to Tindall derives its meaning “from kinchin, child,” which refers to Stephen’s Telemachus-identity (139). However, Ellmann offers a different reference, connecting the name to a fellow medical student, Gogarty, with whom Joyce had a unusually tumultuous relationship: “[Gogarty bestowed] on him the nickname of ‘Kinch’ in imitation of the cutting-sound of a knife.” Ellmann goes on to say  “Joyce repaid this ironic compliment by gravely asking Gogarty to lend him his .22 rifle for some fearsome, unspecified purpose and then pawning it” (131). In an article responding to Joyce’s publication of Ulysses, Gogarty links the name Kinch with the legendary Joyce’s of Galway, saying “Kinch calls me ‘Malachi Mulligan.’ … ‘Mulligan’ is stage Irish for me and the rest of us. It is meant to make me absurd. I don’t resent it, for he takes ‘Kinch’—‘Lynch’ with the Joyce’s of Galway, which is far worse” (qtd. in Gifford 13). Regardless of how it is defined, Kinch is the consubstantial representation of Stephen’s name and thus identity. Thusly, this association extends, if not originates, with Stephen’s biological father Simon Dedalus.
Stephen’s connection to his biological father very quickly dissolves, paralleling what he calls the “dull phenomenon of Dublin,” both of which, cause his soul to become disquieted and castdown” (Portrait 82). Hereafter, imagery assigned to either entity is symbolic of the temptations of the flesh and the corresponding repulsion that ensues in his soul. Stephen reflects upon his father’s home upon entering and observing his brothers and sisters: “He heard the choir of voices in the kitchen echoed and multiplied through an endless reverberation of the choirs of endless generations of children: and heard in all the echoes an echo also of the recurring note of weariness and pain. All seemed weary of life even before entering upon it” (Portrait 177). Stephen, body and soul, feels the exhaustion of all these generations of children suffering.

Again, while accompanying his father and his father’s companions through a drawn out reverie of his youthful exploits, Stephen feels a “faint sickness sigh[ing] in his heart” (Portrait 101). At this moment, Stephen is “wearied and dejected by his father’s voice,” and keenly aware of “an abyss of fortune or of temperament [that] sundered him from them” (Portrait 98, 101-2). Looking upon his father, he reflects upon his “own equivocal position in Belvedere,” where, unlike his father, he was “a free boy, a leader afraid of his own authority, proud and sensitive and suspicious, battling against the squalor of his life and against the riot of his mind” (Portrait 96). Herein, Stephen recognizes that he adamantly does not want to associate his identity with his biological father.

Should Stephen attempt to follow in his father’s footsteps, acquiring Simon Dedalus as his identity, his singular identity would fade, which he describes, not as a death, but as a fading “out like a film in the sun” (Portrait 99). He continues to speculate such a fate, musing in elegiac lament: “He had been lost or had wandered out of existence for he no longer existed. How strange to think of him passing out of existence in such a way, not by death but by fading out in the sun or by being lost and forgotten somewhere in the universe!” (Portrait 99). Thus, he knows that to acquire a sovereign self, a self without association to all of that which is symbolize by shameful drinking, financial failures, and “false smiles,” he must “sunder” himself from his consubstantial father, of which he decidedly does.

Mulligan’s repeated inference to Kinch generally falls in proximity to his branding Stephen with the name Jesuit.  On the first page of Ulysses, Mulligan yells down to Stephen, “Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful Jesuit!” (l.8). This conjoins with Mulligan’s previously mentioned appropriation of “The jejune Jesuit” as agnomen to Stephen (Ulysses l.45). According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the conative meaning of Jejune is: “(adj.) 1610s, ‘dull in the mind, flat, insipid,’” or, “’lacking matter; void of substance; juvenile.’”  Likewise, the word “Jesuit” stems from: “1540s, from Mod.L. Jesuita, member of the Society of Jesus, founded 1533 by Ignatius Loyola to combat Protestantism. Their enemies (in both Catholic and Protestant lands) accused them of belief that ends justify means, hence the sense ‘a dissembling person’ (1630s), and jesuitical ‘deceitful’ (1610s).”

Both of these textual passages, among all the other like references, are not merely Mulligan’s aphorisms, commentary on literal observances of Stephen’s character, nor are they simply representations of Mulligan’s caustic nature and, therefore, seer ridicule of what is blatantly not within Stephen’s character. These textual references allude to a number of literal and symbolic religious pressures, experiences, and emotions, which derived from Stephen’s family, society, and country, all of whom fasten a pair of spectacles through which Stephen is expected to see the world and his role in it. Through these lenses, Stephen was vehemently aware of his Christian namesake, St. Stephen of the first century, who “was the dominant figure in Christianity before Paul’s conversion” due to his eminent distinction as “the first Christian martyr” (Gifford 14).

Additionally, as Stephen comes-of-age in Dublin’s culture, searching for this illusive “name of his own,” he is astutely aware of the honored miracles of St. Patrick, namely his influence on Ireland. St. Patrick, Ireland’s patron saint, initiated Catholicism’s prevalent role in the history of Ireland and continued influence on the culture of Dublin during Stephen’s lifetime. Catholicism, therefore, was a constant force within daily living in Dublin, an especially conspicuous influence to Stephen who attended Catholic schools run and taught by men of the order. Stephen was smothered in a culture saturated with the historical and current-day pervasive omnipresence of the Catholic Church, which is described by Stephen as an odor that “assailed him of cheerless cellardamp and decay” (Portrait 192).

St. Patrick’s effect upon Ireland resulted in “a long succession of saints and scholars [who] had won for Ireland the proud title: insula sanctorum et doctorum [translated: The Isle of Saints and Scholars]” (Gilbert 69). Ireland’s historically embedded national-identity within the Catholic Church and the subsequent legacy of religion and scholarship influenced Stephen’s search for his own identity, leading him to consider an amalgamation of Christian identities. “Have you ever felt that you had a vocation? …I mean have you ever felt within yourself, in your soul, a desire to join the order,” a priest at Clongowes asks Stephen. “I have sometimes thought of it,” Stephen replies. Stephen considers the subsequent name he would be assigned within this vocation, “The Reverend Stephen Dedalus, S.J.,” as he ponders the images associated with his amended name, images that inundate his memories, memories of those affiliated with this ghostly marriage. “The chill and order of the life repelled him,” he admits in response to the images of himself within this identity; “His name in that new life leaped into characters before his eyes and to it there followed a mental sensation of an undefined face or colour of a face. … The face was eyeless and sourfavoured and devout, shot with pink tinges of suffocated anger” (Portrait 174-75). Stephen has realized that a union with the church’s order equated to a denial of individuality, singularity; in fact, it meant that he would fade into a colorless, eyeless, version of himself, living a “grave and ordered and passionless life” (Portrait 174). Shortly thereafter, he decides to obey “a wayward instinct” determining that his rightful destiny was “to be elusive of social or religious orders.” He knew “the wisdom of the priest’s appeal did not touch him to the quick,” but rather “he was destined to learn his own wisdom apart from others or to learn the wisdom of others himself wandering among the snares of the world” (Portrait 179, 175).

As much as the Catholic Church and its suffocating ordered religious doctrine turns Stephen’s soul to stone, so does his father and all that his father symbolizes. Stephen’s father is the embodiment of the disorderly life of his home, which subsequently transmutes into the literal and symbolic temptations of the flesh. Both of which are sources threatening the imprisonment of Stephen’s soul. But then, all at once:

He heard a confused music within him as of memories and names which he was almost conscious of but could not capture even for an instant; then the music seemed to recede, to recede, to recede: and from each receding trail of nebulous music there fell always one longdrawn calling note, piercing like a star the dusk of silence. Again! Again! Again! A voice from beyond the world was calling. (Portrait 181-82)

Stephen’s “batlike” soul awakens to “the consciousness of itself” (Portrait 239-40). Up the shore from the water’s edge, the music cried out the Greek version of his name: “Stephanos! Here comes The Dedalus! […] Come along, Dedalus! Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Stephaneforos!” (Portrait 182). Stephen recognizes the importance of the name as his soul hears it: “Now, as never before, his strange name seemed to him a prophecy. … This was the call of life to his soul” (Portrait 183). With visions of “a hawklike man flying sunward above the sea,” he sees “a prophecy of the end he had been born to serve and had been following through the mists of childhood and boyhood, a symbol of the artist forging anew in his workshop out of the sluggish matter of the earth a new soaring impalpable imperishable being” (Portrait 183).  And with his soul “soaring in an air beyond the World” he was “delivered of incertitude” (Portrait 183). For the first time he understands that his name bears a symbolic connection with an ancient artisan, a father also, but a father who permits him the singularity his soul so desires. He is the ancient Daedalus, and his prophecy is his myth-quest.

This event marks a major turning point in Stephen’s adolescent development is symbolized by images of birds. Images of birds circling over Stephen’s head cry out his destiny by means of myth-imagery tangled with notions of transmigration and prophecy. Standing on the steps of the library, he hears the cry of the birds: “Their cry was shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools” (Portrait 243). Life appears to Stephen in a tide of interwoven images and a maze of symbolic meanings twisting and soaring around him. He imagines his ashplant has become an augur, whereby an expanse of these images present themselves to him: “a sense of fear of the unknown [and] of the hawklike man whose name he bore soaring out of his captivity on osierwoven wings, of Thoth, the god of writers” (Portrait 244).

Flying over Stephen’s head the birds and the bird imagery symbolizes the flight element of his myth-quest. Having heard their call through the augers prophecy, he understands that he is “about to leave for ever the house of prayer and prudence into which he had been born and the order of life out of which he had come” (Portrait 244).    Stephen proclaims, “I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland or my church” (Portrait 268). As Stephen’s artistic convictions grow, so do the allusions and images of flight. The images entangle, weaving a middle-ground balanced between the rigid and controlled order of the Church and the gross temptations of the flesh fostered by this father’s image. Within the realm of this middle-ground exists the necessary “esthetic emotions” Stephen needs for his artistic creation, which are accessible to Stephen only if he takes to flight—like the birds, like his myth-namesake: The Daedalus. “I have to go,” Stephen explains, “to discover the mode of life or of art whereby [my] spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom. […] using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use—silence, exile, and cunning” (Portrait 267, 269). Stephen is determined to leave the repression of Dublin’s society and fly into exile as the only means of fostering his art.

With the rejection of an identity affiliation with his consubstantial-father, Simon Dedalus, as well as with the father of the church, Stephen desires a singular identity beyond their constraints, one he finds in his Greek namesake: Daedalus. Gifford says the Greek name, Daedalus, signifies a “cunning artificer” and “archetypical personification of the inventor-sculptor-architect.” Expounding, he explains the Greek myth behind the name:

Daedalus went to bull-worshiping Crete, where he was attached to the court of King Minos. There he constructed an artificial cow for Queen Pasiphae to satisfy her lust for a semidivine bull, and a labyrinth to house her half-bull—half-man offspring, the Minotaur. When Minos, angered by the discovery of Daedalus’s role as pander to the queen, confined him and his son, Icarus, in the labyrinth, Daedalus contrived their escape by fashioning wings of wax and feathers. Icarus, in the excitement of being able to fly, flew too near the sun; his wings melted, and he fell into the sea. (Gifford 14 [1.34])

The mythological story of Daedalus bears many similar themes to Stephen’s journey. Diane Fortuna says, “Joyce has named his character for a mythic figure fabled as the first artist of the Greek world in order to confer Daedalus’ authority on his portrait of a young Irish-man attempting to create a skillfully wrought modern aesthetic” (121). Daedalus is artisan of the very labyrinth he is later imprisoned. Daedalus must, therefore, escape by means of employing the very same skillful art that originally created his prison. Ultimately he does this, although it comes with loss. Daedalus’ skill creates, entraps, and frees.

Joyce crafts with masterly skill a labyrinth of language and society, which threatens to imprison Stephen. The ordered chaos of the labyrinth, with its never-ending interwoven maze, function as an analogy, the labyrinth is a representation of Dublin society, whereas Stephen’s art is supposed to be the metaphoric equivalent to the skilled art of Daedalus. Stephen’s quest is to depart at martyr so as to cultivate the art that will create a new consciousness for his kinsman, saving them from an entrapment in the “ignorance” of their current society.  Stephen’s journey parallels that of the Daedalus in that he is a destined artisan, suffers imprisonment, attempts to craft a means of escape, and suffers losses. Stephen proclaims, “To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life! This process parallels the Cretan rituals whose bull worship ceremonies strongly influenced the Eleusinian mysteries.

At the end of Portrait Stephen proclaims, “I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. … Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead” (275-76). His identity decidedly chosen, he proceeds into an unknown future securely following the myth-quest of a hero’s journey. However, at the opening of Ulysses, the reader learns that Stephen’s journey has been interrupted by his mother’s looming death causing him to prematurely return from his flight. Stephen’s wings have been clipped by this event, landing him back in the labyrinth he sought to escape; yet simultaneously, Stephen seems to have a vague understanding that, as it was for the ancient artificer, this loss of flight is an aspect of the martyr’s plight and as such a necessary part of his journey. A sacrifice must be made before rebirth can commence. In addition, Stephen returns to the reader’s perception without the excitement of his youth’s epiphany driving his passions and ambitions.

Within the confines of a well-designed labyrinth, Joyce’s mythopoeic focus reveals yet another causation of parallax while unraveling Stephen’s supposed myth-quest. Although the affiliation of his identity with the Greek artificer is not removed from his continued journey through Ulysses, he seems to have been transformed into a “modernist version of the savior, one who will, through his creative vision, save humankind from the paralysis and fragmentation of twentieth-century life” (Graf 53). Thus, in Ulysses, his myth-quest continues with analogies welding an understanding of Stephen’s character with his Greek namesake, namely the idea of the imprisonment in a labyrinth and the art that permits escape; only, this time the reader is exposed to a good deal of Stephen’s cynicism toward Christianity.

Works cited

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