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Pythagoras, in this eighteenth-century fossil city, is only just out of Mr. Bloom's reach: Dublin lower-middle-class conversation is strikingly aware, as it picks its words, of a cultural heritage. That is why the clichés he listened to it picks its words, of a cultural heritage. That is why the clichés he listened to didn't drive Joyce to despair as those of Rouen and Paris drove -11- Flaubert. In Dublin words, even dead words, are consciously used. Parasites and travelling salesmen drop polysyllables into place with an air. A tea-taster in Ulysses produces "trenchant" and "retrospective", U90/83, at every opportunity, U237/228. "That takes the solitary, unique, and if I may so call it, recherché+00E9 biscuit", cries a barfly to a lecher, D59/53. "Very cool and mollifying", says Uncle Charles of his outrageous tobacco, conceding that to smoke it in the outhouse will be "more salubrious", P65/67. Joyce was hardly more word-conscious than his characters were. So the usual criterion of style, that it disappear like glass before the reality of the subject, doesn't apply to his pages. The language of Dublin is the subject; his books are about words, the complexity is there, in the way people talk, and Joyce copes with it by making it impossible for us to ignore the word on the page. The distinction and falseness of Dublin are alike comprehended in its musty concern for the simulacrum, the metaphor, the word "hung with pleasing wraiths of former masteries", 1 the thing not seen but refracted "through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied", P194/190. So Joyce embalms in cadences what Dublin embalms in music, and entraps in the amber of learned multiple puns the futile vigour which the Dubliner, gazing into his peat-coloured Guinness, must generate in language because its counterpart has slipped out of life
From Hugh Kenner's Dublin's Joyce