If you've ever had a rather extraordinary dream in which you have been presented with a mixture of banal and fantastic images, and then upon waking were left with the unmistakable (yet tenuous) feeling that something poignant had just occurred but the exact meaning had eluded you, then you'll have no trouble relating to the experience of delving into the mercurial world of Circe. The relationship it shares with the world of dreams is twofold, in that both act as a staircase between the cavernous basement that is our unconscious and the upper levels of our everyday consciousness, and both occur at night. Joyce has worked arduously to construct perhaps the most comprehensive chapter in the entire saga of 'Ulysses' next to Oxen of the Sun. It's laden with so much meaning that it's a virtual goldmine for academics, a headache for the average reader and a shivering, 'wake-in-the-night-in-a-pool-of-sweat' nightmare for the modest student of the literary arts.

However, it's not only the experience of reading Circe itself that provides an interesting analysis, but the disclosure of it's inspiration and construction that also provides some stimulating research. Just as dreams are fascinating in themselves, there's often a greater pursuit in trying to discover the source of the fantasy. Reading about how Circe was written and conceived by Joyce is as interesting as reading of the genesis of Ulysses as a whole. Mr. Joyce drew inspiration for the chapter from a variety of sources , one of the more salient being Goethe's 'Faust'. Actually, Joyce refers to the entire episode as a 'Walpurgisnacht' (which, according to German legend, is the Witches Sabbath taking place on the eve of May 1st). Mephistopheles takes Faust to this fete in the first part of Goethe's work. Harmonizing with a similar format to the one Goethe used in Faust, Joyce has the freedom not only to use an array of characters, but to use stage directions and give voices to many inanimate or intangible objects. He also uses the opportunity "..to make Circe a costume episode" . Bloom changes his appearance something like six times; transforming into the likeness of historical figures; five of which are Jewish and one the Hungarian patriot Kossuth.

This chapter of Ulysses comes together as a climax or critical juncture, not only due to its psychological subplots, but for the fact that if we omit Penelope, which has been regarded as a postscript to the novel, it has been said that Joyce began to write Ulysses from both ends at once, meeting at Circe where all subject matter is drawn together and remade . He also later repeated this process of writing from both ends with Finnegan's Wake. In a conversation with his friend August Suter, Joyce says "I am boring through a mountain from two sides...(t)he question is how to meet in the middle". A question which Joyce must have faced when first approaching Circe (as it took him nine attempts to finally complete to his satisfaction). How to bring it all together?

The phantasmagoric spectacle that resulted must have been quite an effort to write, and Joyce stayed in Paris for three months wrestling with both it, and the first chapter of the last section - Eumaeus. The simultaneous construction of Eumaeus being his relief from the complexity of the 'Nighttown' episode .

One question we have already considered surrounds the extent to which James Joyce relied upon the Homeric parallel when writing each chapter of 'Ulysses'. That is, whether or not he was stringent in trying to reproduce a specific modern version of Odysseus' epic journey. The mysticism of the tale appealed to him, but rather than specifically providing a plot, it acts as a guide. In respect to Circe, I was intrigued by one aspect of the parallel. That being the magic antidote given to him by the god Hermes as an antidote to Circe's charms, the herb known as 'moly'. Yes, before you jump out of your chair screaming "Eureka", the antidote has the same name as Bloom's enigmatic wife, the voice of the third and final section of 'Ulysses' - Nostos. It's this titbit that reminds us that their are interesting connections between the two tales.

Almost all of the action takes place in 'Nighttown' (Joyce's name for the prostitution district of Dublin) or, more specifically, in Bella Cohen's Brothel. It is laden with the usual parody, including a stab at political chinwagging and ecclesiastical lingo, as well as presenting the reader with the sort of action one would expect within the walls of a brothel around midnight. Most of the imagery and speech within Circe is almost guaranteed to remain salient mainly due to the sharp and sometimes shocking goings-on. One rather disturbing image has Bella/Bello Cohen baring his/her arm and thrusting it elbow deep into the female Bloom's vulva. The character of Bella/Bello is just one example of the chapter's fluid nature, or rather, the difficulty with which this section is approached in a conventional, rational manner. As pointed out by Daniel Ferrer in his essay 'Circe, regret and regression', "nothing in the apparatus of the drama allows us objectively to distinguish between the characters and events we might wish to assign to fantasy and those we might seek to call 'real'." Or, as is said in the explanatory notes prepared by Jeri Johnson in the Oxford University Press edition, "...the 'normal' and the 'phantasmagoric' become indistinguishable in Circe." Nothing seems to be altogether certain, and the search for clues or indications of what the devil is going on and what it means is fruitless.

The similarities between our own experiences with surreal dreamscapes and the landscape that Joyce has woven in this section of Ulysses is more than the confusing feeling we are left with afterwards. We have been shown something both complex and intimate in a language that makes its externalization, or 'reality', easier to digest. Bloom and Stephen finally face themselves - their fears, delights, regrets and motivations - in a manner that is akin to our own nocturnal explorations of deeper instincts and repressed convictions. And in both cases, although we may originally be perplexed by the cacophony with which we are presented, we are left feeling that our own search for meaning in this disarray will reap rich rewards.

A comprehensive list of which is provided on pgs. 922-23 of the explanatory notes provided by Jeri Johnson in the Oxford University Press edition. Taken from a letter to Budgen, cited in J. Johnson's explanatory notes (LI 147-8; Michaelmas 1920). A. Walton Litz - 'The Design of Ulysses', p. 31 of 'Critical Essays on James Joyce's Ulysses'. A. Walton Litz seems to have drawn most of the conclusions I have adapted in these two paragraphs from examinations of Joyce's letters, primarily to Frank Budgen. A quote cited in the notes accompanying the irrepressible Oxford edition.