For this reason, Ulysses is simultaneously a cosmic and a comic novel; especially in this chapter the fusion is evident, and often the comic spirit predominates. The very serious linguistic parodies are highly humorous. Bloom appears as a medieval knight during his visit to the hospital; we are told that on May 23, 1904, Bloom required help from Dr. Dixon to assist with a painful bee sting: "for he was sore wounded in his breast by a spear wherewith a horrible and dreadful dragon was smitten him . . . ."Bloom is also (knight-like) wearied from his travels; he is "sore of limb," having practiced (on the beach in "Nausicaa") "sometimes venery." Again, too, the obscene banter of the young men in this chapter is compared in stilted rhetorical terms to a Socratic discussion, and in the breakup of language at the chapter's close, American black slang is inserted in the pandemonium of voices — in this instance, extolling the virtues of Dignam: "Of all de darkies Massa Pat was verra best."
In "The Oxen of the Sun," though, in a few places Joyce breaks through the stage scrim filament of crafted language, and he provides stark, explicit information which is crucial to a full comprehension of Ulysses. For example, Stephen is truly terrified by the thunderstorm, and Bloom is unable to calm him. Stephen half-believes that the thunder is God's retort to his blasphemies (interestingly, Joyce himself was afraid of thunderstorms). Also, the cocksure Stephen of "Nestor" there defined God as a shout in the street; now, it seems as though retribution is at hand. In addition, thunder has always been associated with the Hammer of Thor, and Joyce does set this novel on "Thor's Day."
Finally, "The Oxen of the Sun" brings together Stephen and Bloom; this has been a meeting which Joyce has been working toward since the novel began and, even though their words do not lead to any clear communication here, the meeting does presage their discussions in subsequent chapters. Already, Joyce begins to fuse fragments of the two men's backgrounds. Bloom's memory of the 4- or 5-year-old Stephen, dressed in "linseywoolsey" at the get-together at Mat Dillon's (the occasion during which Bloom bested Menton at bowls) in May, 1887, is combined with sad thoughts of his own dead son, Rudy, and the "corselet of lamb's wool" that Molly knitted "for his burial." Bloom is indeed, clearly, on a search for a son, having "no manchild for an heir"; thus, he "looked upon him [Stephen] his friend's [Simon's] son . . . .
