Erin
Hollis
Gorgonzola Sandwiches and Yellow Crayons: James Joyce, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the
Aesthetics of Minutiae
(1) At
the end of season six of Buffy the
Vampire Slayer, after having dealt for several years with all kinds of
fantastic and strange monsters, the difficulty of connection between people in
a supernatural world, and an increasingly shady boundary between good and evil,[1]
we are faced with a dark, pained Willow who is out of control with grief. Contrary to previous seasons where the big
bad must be killed to save the world, even if he is Buffy’s boyfriend, Willow
is someone we care about in a unique way, someone we need to save without
damaging her beyond repair, so we are bound to know that this season’s finale
is going to be slightly different.
Usually, a viewer might think that this season’s world-saving antics
would involve the usual gearing up for a big fight, and it does in some
ways. However almost everyone gets stuck
somewhere along the way to the big dance, and we are left with Xander who must
stop
(2)
Throughout Joyce’s Ulysses, we see
Leopold Bloom’s daily life, and how every tiny event, every tiny word
matters. Readers who approach Joyce
often do so cautiously. He has a
reputation, you see, of being difficult; some would even say elitist. While, as Robert Alter argues, “Joyce, like
many other high modernists, retained a vivid if intermittent interest in
addressing the common reader, for all the aggressive elitisms of his literary
undertaking,” his complex, legendary style often outweighs what is actually
going on in his texts (19). But what is
actually going on? Is his obfuscatory style, much like the fantastic world of Buffy, all that we should really pay
attention to? Is the point to be frustrated
and realize, wow, this book isn’t written like other books, I’m going to have
to find a different way of reading it just like Buffy isn’t like other television shows, I’m going to have to find
a different way of watching it and, I would say, reading it? What impresses, for me at least, about
Joyce’s work, is not his difficult style or his constant allusions, impressive
and intriguing though they are, but his attention to the little details—to the
quotidian—to the minutiae. As Richard Ellman argues in his biography of Joyce, “Joyce’s
discovery, so humanistic that he would have been embarrassed to disclose it out
of context, was that the ordinary is the extraordinary” (5). In the world Joyce has created in Ulysses, there are no
mythical monsters, even though myth is a background to the story. Cyclops isn’t really Cyclops, just as
vampires in Buffy aren’t really
vampires—they are both so much more and less than that all at once. What matters, simply put, is Bloom’s
experience of his uneventful day. That
he eats a gorgonzola sandwich in response to a chapter’s worth of pontification
about vegetarians and digestion is potentially life-changing. The trajectory of his day is constantly
changing because of choices such as this—choices we usually don’t recognize in
our daily lives. Bloom’s day is peppered
with the yellow crayons of Buffy—that
is, potentially life-saving, world-saving, yet seemingly inconsequential,
moments. Both Xander and Bloom find
their appeal, not in myth, but in an embracing of the everyday. In two texts that are obviously difficult to
crack, for significantly different reasons, this privileging of the everyday is
a siren’s call to the reader to recognize that even though these works are dabbling
in difficulty, what really matters, what we should pay attention to and be good
readers about (which is exactly what Bloom and Xander are—excellent readers) is
the minutiae. Editors’ note: Orwell’s well-known praise of Dickens for his
inclusion of the “unnecessary detail” is comparable (as so much of Whedon and
Dickens is comparable).
(3)
Paying attention to minutiae, of course, can be painful. Living a life as minutiae is even more
painful, but I would argue that more than any other characters in their
disparate worlds, Xander and Bloom are living in the world, living every
experience because they aesthetically embrace the daily importance of both
their own lives and the lives of others.
It would be difficult, it seems, for someone like Buffy to revel in
these things, even though she often tries to (she wants to be a normal girl who
experiences normal girl things, but try as she might, she will always be a
supernatural, “prophecy” girl fated to experience supernatural things and
relationships). Of course, sometimes the
very fact of Bloom and Xander’s ordinary nature may get them down. This is especially the case with Xander, who
often feels like he doesn’t have an important place in the Scooby gang. At the beginning of “The Zeppo” (3013), for
example, Xander is constantly pushed aside and even ridiculed (by Cordelia, of
course) because of his ordinary nature.
In fact, throughout the beginning of the episode, Xander’s ordinariness
is often equated with uselessness by both himself and other characters. Starting from the first scene, where Xander
does not appear until after the fighting is over, and it is revealed that he
got pummeled by the demon they were fighting, Xander is continually pushed
aside. As Xander jumps out of the
wreckage, both
Xander:
I’m good. We’re fine. Just a little bit dirty. Good show, everyone. Just great.
I think we have a hit.
Xander: Tip-top, really. If anyone sees my spine laying around, just
try not to step on it.
Buffy: Xander, one of these days you’re going to get
yourself hurt.
Faith:
Or killed.
Buffy: Or both.
And you know, with the pain and the death, maybe you shouldn’t be
leaping into the fray like that. Maybe
you should be . . . fray-adjacent. (3.13)
And in fact, Xander does seem “fray-adjacent” to
the gang for the entire episode. No one
ever knows how much his life was at risk in the episode. A few moments later, Giles adds his concern
to those of Buffy,
Giles: Uh, Xander, I think in the future perhaps it
would be best if you, you, uh, hung back to the rear of the battle, you know,
for your own sake.
Xander:
But, gee, Mr. White, if Clark and Lois get all the good stories, I’ll never be
a good reporter.
Giles:
Hmm?
Xander: Jimmy Olsen joke, sir. Pretty much going to be lost on you, huh?
Giles:
Sorry.
Xander:
Hey, it’s ok. (3.13)
Here Xander tries to use humor to cover the pain
that the recognition of his ordinary nature is causing. This pain is further aggravated in the next
scene, when after an encounter with a school bully, Cordelia taunts him,
repeating the Jimmy Olsen reference and highlighting his less-than-supernatural
nature:
Cordelia: It must be really hard when all your friends
have, like, superpowers—Slayer, werewolf, witches, vampires—and you’re like,
this little nothing. You must feel like
Jimmy Olsen.
Xander: I was just talking to . . . Hey, mind your own business.
Cordelia: Ooh, I struck a nerve. The boy that had no cool.
Xander: I happen to be an integral part of that
group. I happen to have a lot to offer.
Cordelia: Oh, please.
Xander:
I do!
Cordelia: “Integral part” of the group? Xander, you’re the “useless” part of the
group. You’re the Zeppo. “Cool.”
Look it up. It’s something that a
sub-literate that’s repeated twelfth grade three times has, and you don’t. (3.13)
In Why Buffy
Matters in the chapter titled “For Those of Us in Our Audience Who Are
Me: Xander, Laughter, and ‘The Zeppo,’”
Rhonda Wilcox points out just how many forms of humor are used in this episode:
“the varieties of types of humor in “The Zeppo” are staggering—puns, slapstick,
bathos, irony, parody, to name a few” (132).
In fact, throughout the series, it would be easy to dismiss Xander as
mere comic relief. He’s not the Slayer,
he’s not the Watcher, and he’s not a witch.
Of the core group of Buffy,
Xander never changes supernaturally; he remains Xander. As Wilcox points out, in “The Zeppo,”
Xander’s role as comic relief even comes into question as he repeatedly fails in
his jokes: “Xander is unsuccessful even
with humor in the early part of ‘The Zeppo.’
As the opening scene ends, he makes a joke based on an allusion which
Giles fails to understand” (133). But what “The Zeppo” demonstrates and what
becomes increasingly clear as the series comes to a close is that Xander’s
ordinariness and his ability to let others shine while he remains a constant
presence in the background can prove to be a power, albeit not a supernatural
power. Although this fading into the
background can, as Jes Battis
argues, “draw our attention to Xander’s invisibility
as a character,” it also draws our attention to his ordinariness, his
similarity to us (45).
(4) In
season three, however, Xander has yet to fully recognize this power, and in
“The Zeppo,” he talks with Oz about finding his “thing”:
Xander: But it’s just that it’s bugging me, this
“cool” thing. I mean, what is it? How do you get it? Who doesn’t have it? And who decides who doesn’t have it? What is the essence of cool?
Oz: Not sure.
Xander: I mean, you yourself, Oz, are considered more
or less cool. Why is that?
Oz: Am
I?
Xander: Is it about the talking? You know, the way you tend to express
yourself in short, noncommittal phrases?
Oz:
Could be.
Xander: I know!
You’re in a band! That’s like a
business-class ticket to cool with complementary mojo
after takeoff. I gotta
learn an instrument. Is it hard to play
guitar?
Oz: Not the way I play it.
Xander: Ok, but on the other hand: eighth grade. I’m taking the flugelhorn and getting zero
trim. So the whole instrument thing
could be a mislead. But you need a
thing, one thing nobody else has. What
do I have?
Oz: An exciting new obsession, which I feel makes
you very special.
Xander: Now with the mocking. Which I can handle because I know I’m right
about this. I’m on the track. I just need to find my thing.
Oz: It seems like you’re over-thinking it. I mean, you got some identity issues. It’s not
. . . (3.13)
Xander comes up with a fancy vintage car as his
“thing” in this episode, but as the episode unfolds, what he comes to learn is
that he doesn’t need “something” to make him special, he already is special
because of who he is and what he sees.
He keeps doubting himself as the episode progresses, trying to get help
from Giles, Willow, and even Buffy and Angel (interrupting quite the dramatic
scene, I might add), but, in the end, he solves the problem on his own. And although the events of his day are not
apocalyptic (as are the events of the rest of the gang’s day), he does prevent
catastrophe, not with any supernatural ability, but with words, with seeing
Jack O’Toole’s true nature (i.e., that O’Toole would be more worried about his
own survival than about completing his plan to blow up the school). This ability foreshadows Xander’s later
saving of the world in season six. At
the end of “The Zeppo,” Giles, Oz, Buffy, and
As shall
become clear by its end, Xander’s dream concerns itself with the continuing
sense of failure and frustration that he feels.
Unlike his friends, he has not gone to the university, he has little
sense of purpose, no obvious future and still lives in his parents’ basement.,
a basement to which he returns throughout his dream in a nightmare vision of
repetition, entrapment and stasis. It is
then, a sort of emotional echo of “The Zeppo” (3.13), where he feels redundant,
undervalued and lost. (146-7)
Although he doubts himself a lot throughout the
series, “The Zeppo” signals the beginning of a valuation of his recognition of
his own and others minutiae.
(5)
The structure of quite a few episodes in Ulysses
mirrors the structure of “The Zeppo,” placing Bloom in a similar position to
Xander—a constant background presence who causes seemingly slight, yet
important, changes in the world around him.
Perhaps one of the most famous influences Bloom has on the day is the
“accidental” tip that he gives on a horse, Throwaway (70). In a conversation with Bantam Lyons, Bloom
offers
--I’m
just running round to Bachelor’s Walk, Mr Bloom said,
about this ad of Keyes’s. Want to fix it
up. They tell me he’s round there in
Dillon’s.
He
looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The editor who, leaning against the
mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm
amply.
--Begone! He
said. The world is before you.
Back in
no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out. (106-107)
Bloom’s desire to please here mirrors Xander’s
willingness to please the gang by getting snacks. Unlike Xander, however, Bloom’s efforts are
not even appreciated as he gets abused upon his return to the newspaper office:
Just
this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the
steps, puffing and taking the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr
Keyes just now. He’ll give a renewal for
two months, he says. After he’ll
see. But he wants a par to call
attention in the Telegraph too, the
Saturday pink. And he wants it copied if
it’s not too late I told councilor Nannetti from the Kilkenny People.
I can have access to it in the national library. House of keys, don’t you see? His names is Keyes. It’s a play on the name. But he practically promised he’d give the
renewal. But he wants just a little
puff. What will I tell him, Mr Crawford? (120)
Bloom’s memory
here of the conversation is impressive as is his knowledge of where past ads
have been places (i.e. Kilkenny People). It would seem, then, that Bloom has done
well, has succeeded in selling an ad, which should please the editor, but the
editor’s response is anything but pleased:
K.M.A.
--Will
you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said throwing out his arm for
emphasis. Tell him that straight from
the stable.
A bit
nervy. Look our for squalls. All off for a drink. Armr in arm. Lenehan’s yachting
cap on the cadge beyond. Usual
blarney. Wonder is that young Dedalus the moving spirit.
Had a good pair of boots on him today.
Last time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in muck somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?
Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design
I suppose it’s worth a short par. He’d
give the ad, I think. I’ll tell him . .
.
K.M.R.I.A.
--He can
kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly
over his shoulder. Any time he likes,
tell him.
While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he
strode on jerkily. (120-121)
Myles Crawford takes Bloom’s work for granted and
shows a lack of appreciation for Bloom’s abilities. Notice, too, in the above quotation how Bloom
pays such close attention to the minutiae of others. He remembers Stephen Dedalus’
boots, which demonstrates a concern for Stephen’s welfare, since his previous
boots were so worn one could see his heels.
Also, the reader here is encouraged to pay attention to the minutiae of
the headlines as each of the headlines in the excerpt can be figured out by
paying close attention to the following line (i.e. “K.M.A.” means “kiss my arse,”
and “K.M.R.I.A.” means “kiss me royal Irish arse”). Bloom, then, demonstrates for the reader how
to read the novel—pay attention to every small thing. This is quite often what Xander does, even
though most of the other characters fail to notice. Much like Xander in “The Zeppo,” Bloom is treated as extraneous and
unimportant, but Bloom persists in going about his day and does not allow the
treatment of him as insignificant to make him bitter.
(6) But
what exactly does placing importance on everyday life do to these
characters? And is putting meaning in
every event, every word always a good thing?
In other words, are there points at which we just want something to mean
nothing? I would not argue that Xander
or Bloom always benefit from their constant attention to minutiae—in fact,
making every single tiny thing important can often result in pain. Bloom is certainly in pain throughout his
day, worrying about his wife’s imminent adultery. He constantly tries to cover up that worry by
focusing on other things, by wallowing in the minutiae of his day, but he is
ultimately unsuccessful, as thoughts of Molly and Blazes Boylan
sneak up on him wherever he goes.
Minutiae, thus, can be seen as a means of escape, as a way of not really
facing up to things. But Bloom, more
than anything, would like for some of the little things in his day to mean
nothing, like the letter Molly gets in the morning from Boylan
arranging their assignation, but what Bloom realizes is that almost nothing is
empty of meaning. This realization
creates a fraught world where at any moment he may be confronted by even more
evidence of Molly’s adultery—nowhere is safe.
Indeed, everywhere he goes he is confronted with reminders of the event,
from seeing Boylan walking around Dublin to hearing
numerous Dubliners gossip about Molly.
In “Hades,” for example, Bloom’s carriage passes Blazes Boylan and the other occupants note his presence:
--How do
you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising
his palm to his brow in salute.
--He
doesn’t see us, Mr. Power said. Yes, he
does. How do you do?
--Who? Mr Dedalus asked.
--Blazes
Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quaff
Just that moment I was thinking.
Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the white disc
of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed.
Mr Bloom reviewed
the nails of his left hand, then those of his right hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him that they she
sees? Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes feel what a person is. Instinct.
But a type like that. My
nails. I am just looking at them: well
pared. And after: thinking alone. Body getting a bit soft. I would notice that: from remembering. What cause that? I suppose they can’t contract quickly enough
when the flesh falls off. But the shape
is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders.
Hips. Plump. Night of the dance dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind. (76)
The coincidence of encountering Boylan
throws Bloom and he focuses on his nails, tries to forget everything else, and
remains silent. He focuses on his nails
both to seem nonchalant to the other Dubliners in the carriage and to stop
himself from thinking about Molly and Boylan, but the
minutiae of his life with her creeps back in—no matter how hard we try to focus
on something else, these kinds of thoughts are difficult to escape. These repetitive recollections of Molly and
her minutiae (i.e. shift stuck between
the cheeks behind) occupy Bloom throughout the day, making it clear that not
all minutiae should be wallowed in.
(7)
Xander, too, is confronted by an unsafe world, where minutiae can lead to death
or to saving someone’s life, but he also often tries to use his daily small
stuff to escape his difficult world or at least make his world more bearable,
mostly through the use of humor. Quite
often, when things are getting a bit too serious or too dangerous, Xander is
ready with a joke or some light-hearted wit.
Nearing the end of season seven, for example, in “First Date” (7014),
Xander goes out on a date with yet another demon (Ashanti of all people!), and
she tries to use him to open the Hellmouth and let out some ubervamps. After being rescued by Buffy, when it has
become increasingly clearer that the gang is in for some major trouble, Xander
breaks the tension with a joke about his propensity for being attracted to
demons:
Willow: What happened?
Xander: What do you think happened? Another demon woman was attracted to me. I’m going gay. I’ve decided I’m turning gay. Willow, gay me up. Come on, let’s gay.
Willow:
What?
Xander:
You heard me, just tell me what to do.
I’m mentally undressing Scott Bakula right
now. That’s a start, isn’t it?
Andrew:
Captain Archer . . .
Xander: Come on, let’s get this gay show on the gay
road. Help me out here.
Buffy: What if you just start attracting male
demons?
Dawn: Clem always liked you.
Anya: It would serve you right.
Giles: Children, enough!
Xander: I’d need some new stylish clothes.
Giles: Enough!
Have you learned nothing from tonight’s assorted chaos? There isn’t time for fun and games and quips
about orientation. These—these aren’t a
joke. This—this happens. Girls are going to die. We may die.
It’s time to get serious. (7014)
Although Giles protests Xander’s use of humor at
this moment, I would argue that this humor is precisely what the group needs as
the mounting tension of season seven needed to be diffused somehow. By making fun of himself and his penchant for
attracting demons (some of his own minutiae), Xander creates a space for
everyone, except Giles, to relax. Notice
how most of the main characters share in the fun here, and the viewer, as well,
can join in with the fun. What Xander
sees is that sometimes humor about the little things can be the most helpful in
moments of crisis. Giles, who must
always pay attention to the big picture, does not recognize the necessity of
such moments. Both Xander and Bloom
recognize the sometimes silly, but important, nature of their own minutiae, but
even more they recognize other’s minutiae, which is ultimately what makes them
both kind.
(8) We
need to embrace each other’s minutiae, which is what Xander ultimately teaches
us and something Bloom learns as he goes about his day. The quotidian is perhaps where human
connection lies. Both characters could
be described as truly kind, and is this because they understand just how
important these tiny, seemingly insignificant events can be? We want people to recognize and validate our
minutiae—and what both Bloom and Xander see
is that that is really important. That
is what saves the world, not the big events, but a recognition of the pain, the
wonder, the joy in the everyday. We
survive on this recognition—each minute has meaning, without that why even gear
up for the big fight?
(9)
In “Lestrygonians,” Bloom wanders throughout Dublin
noticing other people and their minutiae, ultimately resulting in small acts of
kindness towards several characters. At
the beginning of the episode, Bloom notices some sea-gulls, recognizing even
their minutiae:
Wait. Those poor birds. He halted again and bought
from the old applewoman two Banbury
cakes for a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into
the Liffey.
See
that? The gulls swooped silently, two,
then all from their heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.
Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his
hands. They never expected that. (126-7)
That Bloom both recognizes the bird’s need for food
and their “greed and cunning” demonstrates his willingness to accept others for
what they are. Not only does his gift to
the birds help the gulls, it also helps the applewoman,
for whom a purchase might make a difference.
As Bloom continues to walk, he meets Mrs. Breen, and again, he
demonstrates a willingness to notice other’s minutiae as he listens to Mrs.
Breen, giving her sympathy:
--There
must be a new moon out, she said. He’s
always bad then. Do you know what he did
last night?
Her hand
ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed
themselves on him, wide in alarm, yet smiling.
--What? Mr Bloom asked.
Let her
speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.
--Woke
me up in the night, she said. Dream he
had, a nightmare.
Indiges
--Said
the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.
--The
ace of spades! Mr
Bloom said.
She took
a folded postcard from her handbag.
--Read
that, she said. He got it this morning.
--What
is it? Mr
Bloom asked, taking the card. U.P.?
--U.p.: up, she said.
Someone taking a rise out of him.
It’s a great shame for them whoever he is.
--Indeed
it is, Mr Bloom said.
She took
back the card, sighing.
--And
now he’s going round to Mr Menton’s
office. He’s going to take an action for
ten thousand pounds, he says. (129-130)
Bloom pays attention to what Mrs. Breen is saying,
making her feel important—making her feel like she has something to say, even
though she is talking about something that seems so insignificant. The postcard in this section is a famous Joycean moment. “U.p.: up” has been the object of quite a bit of critical
speculation. That something so small can
lead to such attention indicates how both Joyce’s style and content focus on
the little things. That solving this
might open up new vistas in Joycean studies is
intriguing, but perhaps the fact that this puzzle is ultimately unsolveable says even more—sometimes the minutiae of our
lives make no sense until we apply our own interpretive model to it. That is, we each give our own minutiae its
meaning. (After all, to me an egg means
nausea, whereas to most people in means a tasty meal.) One final small act of Bloom’s demonstrates
his recognition of others and their minutiae.
As he is walking to the library, Bloom encounters a blind stripling who
is trying to find his way across the street.
Bloom’s reaction is, well, Bloomian:
A blind
stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No tram in sight. Wants to cross.
--Do you
want to cross? Mr
Bloom asked.
The
blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly.
He moved his head uncertainly.
You’re
in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street
is opposite. Do you want to cross? There’s nothing in the way.
The cane
moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom’s eye followed its line and saw again the dyeworks’ van drawn up before Drago’s. Where I saw his brillantined
hair just when I was. Horse
drooping. Driver in John Long’s. Slaking his drouth.
--There’s
a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it’s not moving. I’ll see you across. Do you want to go to Molesworth
street?
Yes, the
stripling answered. South Frederick
street.
--Come, Mr Bloom said.
He
touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to guide it
forward.
Say
something to him. Better not do the
condescending. They mistrust what you
tell them. Pass a common remark.
--The
rain kept off.
No
answer. (148)
Here again, Bloom tries to empathize, tries to
imagine what it would be like to be blind, and tries to treat the stripling
with care and recognize what the stripling needs. A simple act like helping the stripling to
cross the street demonstrates Bloom’s kindness and his ability to alter the
world, no matter how slightly, with his philosophy of recognizing other’s
minutiae.
(10)
In “Grave” (6022), Xander has perhaps
his most life-altering moment of recognizing another’s minutiae—a world-saving
moment in which he remembers Willow’s reaction to breaking a crayon in
kindergarten. This well-known moment
marks the only series finale in which Buffy is not involved firsthand with the
actual saving of the world. Although
Giles does help by giving Willow a dose of pure magic, Xander is the one who
turns the tide here by recognizing and remembering Willow’s minutiae:
Willow: You can’t stop this.
Xander: Yeah, I get that. It’s just, where else am I gonna go? You’ve
been my best friend for my whole life.
World gonna end . . . where else would I want
to be?
Willow: Is this the master plan? You’re going to stop me by telling me you
love me?
Xander:
Well, I was gonna walk you off a cliff and hand you
an anvil, but . . . it seemed kind of cartoony.
Willow: Still making jokes.
Xander:
I’m not joking. I know you’re in
pain. I can’t imagine the pain you’re
in. And I know you’re about to do something
apocalyptically evil and stupid, and hey.
I still want to hang. You’re
Willow.
Willow: Don’t call me that.
Xander: First day of kindergarten. You cried because you broke the yellow
crayon, and you were too afraid to tell anyone.
You’ve come pretty far, ending the world, not a terrific notion. But the thing is? Yeah, I love you. I loved crayon-breaky
Willow and I love scary, veiny Willow. So if I’m going out, it’s here. If you wanna kill
the world? Well, then, start with
me. I’ve earned that.
Willow: You think I won’t.
Xander:
It doesn’t matter. I’ll still love you.
Willow: Shut up.
(6022)
As any Buffy
viewer knows, Xander does save the world, and he does so not only by knowing
Willow, but by loving and knowing her minutiae.
He recognizes how a tiny event, like breaking a crayon, can be important
to her, can demonstrate why Willow is the way she is—this recognition signals
kindness, a kindness that Xander shares with Bloom and ultimately with James
Joyce as well. What both Joyce and the
writers of Buffy demonstrate through this attention to the small things
is a recognition that each person’s space matters and each person’s experience
of their individual daily life is significant.
Too often, we are encouraged to discount the yellow crayons and
gorgonzola sandwiches of our lives, but doing so belittles both our own
experiences and our actions towards others.
(11)
It is no mistake then, that in the final season of Buffy, Dawn recognizes Xander for his attention to detail, for his ability
to see. Xander, again, recognizes Dawn’s
pain as others are intent on the bigger picture:
Xander: They’ll never know how tough it is, Dawnie, to be the one who isn’t chosen. To live so near to the spotlight and never
step in it. But I know. I see more than anybody realizes because
nobody’s watching me. I saw you last
night. I see you working here
today. You’re not special. You’re extraordinary.
Dawn: Maybe that’s your power.
Xander: What?
Dawn: Seeing.
Knowing. (“Potential,” 7012)
What Xander sees is minutiae—he sympathizes with
people and their everyday plights because he is so able to, finally, embrace
his own ordinary nature. Bloom, too,
recognizes this as he sympathizes with people throughout his painful day. Both Bloom and Xander help other people by
making them realize how extraordinary an everyday thing can be. I end with a quotation from one of Joyce’s
less-known works, Giacomo Joyce, that sums up this attention to
detail, this aesthetic of minutiae: “Love me, love my umbrella” (16). As Marian Eide
notes in Ethical Joyce, this final
envoy is a message to the reader that “Joyce’s ethic is one of sympathy—feeling
beside, never usurping, never assuming, never taking up my place” (144)—this
ethic extends to Buffy the Vampire Slayer
as the writers recognize the need for sympathetic understanding that allows
each person their place. Eide goes on to argue that “the messenger or envoy leaves
behind this last message, a direct address to the reader or patron of the poem:
love me, love my weapons, these defensive implements I use to shield me from
harm, an umbrella to protect me from rain, a hat under which to hide my
vulnerable face and hair” (145). Xander
and Bloom are both umbrella-lovers who recognize how fragile each person is and
the need for “weapons” whether they be magic or not to defend us from the
almost constant pain of life. A Joyce/Buffy aesthetic of minutiae, then, says
to the reader/viewer: “love me, love my minutiae,” encouraging an active
participation by the reader that reproduces the ethic of kindness created by
characters like Xander and Bloom.
Works
Cited
Alter,
Robert. “Joyce’s Ulysses and the Common Reader.”
Modernism/Modernity 5 (1998):
19-31.
Battis, Jes. Chosen
Families in Buffy the Vampire Slayer and
Angel. Jefferson, NC: McFarland,
2005.
Eide, Marian. Ethical
Joyce. Cambridge: Cambridge UP,
2002.
Ellman, Richard. James
Joyce. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1959.
Joyce,
James. Giacomo Joyce. London: Faber and
Faber, 1959.
---. Ulysses. New York: Vintage, 1986.
Pateman,
Matthew. The Aesthetics of Culture in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2006.
Wilcox,
Rhonda. Why Buffy Matters: The Art of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. London: I.B. Tauris, 2005.