Dubliners (Dover Thrift Editions)

In a traitorous reversal of my usual approach, I give this edition of Dubliners five stars, and the stories themselves two. Jeri Johnson has produced more or less an academic edition at an outrageously cheap price; her introduction is excellent--providing background to the writing and publishing of the work, and solid readings of a few stories; her notes are *extremely* extensive (to the point that she annotates words I'm pretty sure I knew in middle school). So, excellent job there.

On the other hand, I couldn't help feeling that this edition was a distant descendent of The Dunciad. Not only because so much effort had been put into annotating words that more or less anyone reading this book should know, but because there seemed to be show more little point to the process of annotation. Sure, I appreciate being told that all of the landmarks and streets and shops are 'real,' and that occasionally they have some meaning that would otherwise have escaped me. But even with that meaning in my mind, very few of these stories are at all gripping. Without the stylistic hijinks of Ulysses, you're left with the bare fact that Joyce has no imagination, no ability to create plot, and not much of a mind for ideas. That doesn't matter when you're writing Ulysses. It matters a great deal when you're asking me to trawl through nearly 200 pages of dull, romanticized anecdotes about how x loves y but y betrays her; how w, x, y and z sit around drinking; and how people sometimes drive fast cars.

In short, most of these pieces are dreadfully boring, at all levels of boredom: stylistically tepid, intellectually dull*, emotionally uninteresting.**

There are, of course, exceptions. The Dead is fine. Eveline is fine melodrama. The Sisters towers above the rest of the collection. But at the end of the day, why would you read these things when you could read Henry James stories, which are better written, more intelligent, and not so obviously transcriptions of something that, you know, happened to me the other day on my way to the Liffey?

If this book had been written by, say, James Giffon, not only would it not get the hundred pages of notation treatment. It wouldn't even be in print.

*: the annotation tries to persuade you that these stories are not dull, and that Joyce is very cunningly using references to Dublin landmarks to place his characters. No doubt that seems very impressive when you don't know the landmarks, but consider that this is the early 20th century equivalent of putting your character in Toms and having her carry a Coach purse. It's not interesting in the slightest.
**: I recognize that it was very hard for Joyce to publish a book with the word 'bloody' in it, and that he took a risk writing a story involving a kiddy fiddler, and so on. These facts should be noted by historians of censorship; they are not reasons for reading the stories. show less

This is my first reading of Joyce’s “Dubliners.” I know, shocking, everyone else read it in high school or collegiate undergraduate literature courses and were forced to author papers on Joyce’s themes and symbolism. I read it for pleasure and for background on a project I’m working on. It’s considered one of Joyce’s more accessible works, certainly when compared with “Ulysses” which has a reputation for everyone claiming to have read it, but no one actually does. Anyways, I did find it readable, even with it being over a hundred years old and full of references to cultural and colloquial phrases which are beyond me. Anyway, I’ll try my hand at a short analysis of this collection of fifteen short stories.

The first show more thing that strikes me is how pedestrian and mundane the characters and even the plots of these tales are. This is the dreary, everyday life of Dublin commoners. It’s also largely filled with horrible people – thieves, drunks, and abusers to name a few. Most of the tales either end tragically (e.g., suicide) or at best – an unresolved melancholy stalemate. As I was reading it, I wasn��t sure if Joyce was going for a realistic expose of Dublin (sort of a 107-year-old version of a modern reality show) or something else. But when you step back and look at the whole of the book, it shows a stunted Dublin filled with people going nowhere and unable to break out of their gloomy routines and lives. And knowing a little of the history of Ireland, it makes me wonder if this was a delicate cut on the impact of English colonialism and maybe even to a lesser extent the restraints of the Catholic Church. About the only positive you’ll take away from 1914 Dublin is the pride in Irish hospitality.

Still, despite the dismal subject matter, Joyce writes with beauty. His ability to rapidly create complex characters with realistic needs and desires is extraordinary. He describes everyday life, but with such a fine blend of place, dialog, and narration, it feels all too real. Character’s display little notions, quirks, and thoughts that feel authentic, like Joyce is reporting on what’s going on around him, but able to jump in everyone’s head. The last story is particularly beautifully told, about an annual dance, that spins characters and motivations and songs, food, and drink until you’re dizzy. The prose is lush and vivid, but still with the same underlying sadness and cold themes. Although I probably don’t have the proper context of 1914 Ireland and Joyce’s intentions, I was still able to appreciate this impressive classic. show less

Sure, this collection was written by none other than James Joyce, but let's be perfectly honest: this book encapsulates what Thoreu was talking about when he stated the obvious: "the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." After finishing this collection of failed lives, broken dreams, religious superstition, alcoholic excess, harsh memories, heartbreak, double-dealing, etc, I am going to need lots of ice cream to cleanse my palate of from the taste of a 'why even bother' mentality. And to think that my Irish grandmother was living in these very streets as this book was written! No wonder she left! Despair at its most relentless; as one character notes, "I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned show more with anguish and anger." And he was one of the lucky ones! show less

La vita e il caos

Un nulla fatto di vita e di caos. Quando uscirono ormai quasi cento anni fa, nel 1914, i "Dubliners" di James Joyce, quindici scene di vita cittadina, il grande Erzra Pound scrisse che non poteva esserci prosa più "flaubertiana". Pound aveva ragione: come Flaubert, anche Joyce vede la realtà da un punto di vista impersonale e perciò rappresenta le persone, i sentimenti e le vicende delle persone, come se fossero cose, fissando il fluire della vita nel disegno di un'immobile rievocazione.

La vita, in se stessa, indistinta e mutevole, è inafferrabile e può essere rappresentata soltanto a patto di essere precisata e mortificata. Così la rappresentazione, apparentemente oggettiva e realistica, diventa allusiva e show more negativa: la realtà è bensì rappresenta, ma si tratta di una realtà asfissiata, ridotta al museo di se stessa, che vale per quello che essa non è. Il narratore, in apparenza impassibile, si ritrae con angoscia e disgusto. Su questa linea Joyce raggiunge una perfezione estrema. In Flaubert, un oggetto, una cosa, possono essere ancora equivalenti indiretti di un’emozione interiore: anche se molto a malapena, la vita respira ancora. In Joyce, che dipinge situazioni morte prima di nascere, tutto è indurito e nello stesso tempo tutto è cenere. Ma i “Dubliners” segnano una svolta ancora più clamorosa. Più la rappresentazione è oggettiva, più la vita si rivela assente, ma infinita. Un puro alone, un indefinibile nulla. Ma in quel nulla c’è tutto, in quel nulla c’è il caos. show less

La vita e il caos

Un nulla fatto di vita e di caos. Quando uscirono ormai quasi cento anni fa, nel 1914, i "Dubliners" di James Joyce, quindici scene di vita cittadina, il grande Erzra Pound scrisse che non poteva esserci prosa più "flaubertiana". Pound aveva ragione: come Flaubert, anche Joyce vede la realtà da un punto di vista impersonale e perciò rappresenta le persone, i sentimenti e le vicende delle persone, come se fossero cose, fissando il fluire della vita nel disegno di un'immobile rievocazione.

La vita, in se stessa, indistinta e mutevole, è inafferrabile e può essere rappresentata soltanto a patto di essere precisata e mortificata. Così la rappresentazione, apparentemente oggettiva e realistica, diventa allusiva e show more negativa: la realtà è bensì rappresenta, ma si tratta di una realtà asfissiata, ridotta al museo di se stessa, che vale per quello che essa non è. Il narratore, in apparenza impassibile, si ritrae con angoscia e disgusto. Su questa linea Joyce raggiunge una perfezione estrema. In Flaubert, un oggetto, una cosa, possono essere ancora equivalenti indiretti di un’emozione interiore: anche se molto a malapena, la vita respira ancora. In Joyce, che dipinge situazioni morte prima di nascere, tutto è indurito e nello stesso tempo tutto è cenere. Ma i “Dubliners” segnano una svolta ancora più clamorosa. Più la rappresentazione è oggettiva, più la vita si rivela assente, ma infinita. Un puro alone, un indefinibile nulla. Ma in quel nulla c’è tutto, in quel nulla c’è il caos. show less

I began reading my lovely new Folio edition right out of the wrapper, and at first I couldn't quite see what the point of it all was. The first few stories, despite the clear brilliance of the writing---characters fully drawn in a couple sentences, images so sharp the smells of theriverthepubthesickroom come off the page--seemed to be all middle. The end of a story felt like the end of a chapter and I looked to pick up the scrap of thread that surely must be found in the pages to follow, but it never appeared. As so often happens with collections of short fiction, I connected with some of the pieces and not so much (or not at all) with others. I skipped one entirely after two paragraphs (that almost always happens too). But, and this show more will be no surprise to anyone who has read ANYTHING by Joyce (because it will have been "The Dead", 9 times out of 10), the final selection, "The Dead" just dropped me on my keister. It's perfectly made; the words are all Right-- there's never a lightning bolt when a lightning bug is what's wanted. It begins, it proceeds, it ends--in fact it ends with a paragraph so exquisite that, had I a drop of Irish blood in me, I would have been wailing. As it was, a tear was enough. My beloved cadre of 30-something current and former English professors (@lycomayflower, @geatland and others) have sung the praises of this story in my hearing over the last 10 years or so, and they don't exaggerate.
Review written in August 2014 show less

At the end of my course on British literature 1890-1950, I polled my students on the best and worst of the readings they had done. I lost those notes, unfortunately, but I did write down one of them for posterity: "Dubliners cut across all the necessary themes literature may demand. It helped me understand life better." She's not wrong.

I first read "The Dead" as a high school senior, and liked it so much that it inspired me to pick up all of Dubliners in college, and of course I had to reread it to teach it. On each iteration, I like it more, and I understand it more. The whole book is excellent, but "The Dead" is a masterpiece, and you could probably argue that Joyce singlehandedly changed the direction of the short story in English. show more So much that's meaningful comes together in "The Dead": it's all about connection, imagining the other, projecting desire, recognizing the self, and experiencing epiphany. It's sort of uplifting and sad at the same time. Joyce captures humanity as it is in a way few others do. I look forward to reading Dubliners again and again. Hopefully it will allow me too to understand life better. show less