Dubliners

As we think about James Joyce and his Dubliners as part of this study in literature in culture or culture as literature, this Slate article is a lovely starting point for the ways in which Dubliners rather is the city and helps to shape the city rather than merely employing the city as a setting.  Take particular note of the famous letter that Joyce wrote to London publisher Grant Richards about his creative process.

"If you’re a person whose perception of the world is shaped by literature, Dublin can feel less like a place that James Joyce wrote about than a place that is about James Joyce’s writing."
http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/books/2014/05/james_joyce_s_dubliners_100th_anniversary_dublin_a_century_later.html

Mostafa:
The Physicality of Body and Location of Dublin in James Joyce’s Dubliners: An In-Depth Exploration of the Metaphors of Direction, Paralysis, and Story in “Araby”

Abstract:

This paper aims to discuss the details and dynamics of the remarkable story, “Araby,” from James Joyce’s famous novel, Dubliners, by taking an in-depth and poignant look at the many metaphors active within the story. These metaphors include those of motion and direction, the ultimate state of paralysis that resides at the heart, and the layered construction of the storyline, which acts as binaries containing both an autobiographical glimpse of Joyce’s life and religious context as a whole. Furthermore, connections to the Irish poet, James Clarence Mangan and his poem, “Dark Rosaleen,” will also be acknowledged to further depict another dimension to “Araby” that Joyce establishes. This paper will explore these different dynamics by utilizing the form of the body by breaking down different elements of discussion presented by Florence L. Walzl, Earl G. Ingersoll, Heyward Ehrlich, Harry Stone, and Ben L. Collins into body parts (arms, legs, head and heart), constructing a nexus of ideas, movement (or lack thereof), and creating a further metaphor to discuss the body of Dubliners—and more specifically, “Araby.”

“Modern Ireland is in a… situation, beset by England and in need of a hero.”

- Ben L. Collins

I.                   Introduction

At first glance, James Joyce’s timeless collection of short stories in Dubliners sets the stage as a symbolic novel for Ireland’s large paralyzed state of being—a state that includes the paralysis of the people living within Ireland, particularly Dublin; and, Ireland’s state of paralysis against the geo-political and -social control of England. However, when further analyzed, it becomes clear that there are a multitude of scenarios working within. To accomplish a closer exploration of these scenarios, the third short story in the collection, “Araby,” can be further examined to find the complicated details which add to the presentation and establishment of these existing scenarios. Firstly, there is the aforementioned state of paralysis inherent to Dublin’s characters and the country of Ireland. The narrator of “Araby,” the boy, albeit in a condition of wanting to move, ultimately doesn’t when he discovers the truth about himself. Secondly, there are strong directional motifs, which add a cleverly complex duality to the direction these people and the country are heading by symbolizing the different directions and what each direction represents. While the people in Dubliners seem to move, they ultimately return and tether back to the state of paralysis. Thirdly, there are strong inferences that “Araby” is closely modeled after Joyce’s own life experiences, having gone to a real bazaar by the same name as a young boy. Furthermore, the narrator himself is suggested to be akin to Joyce at a young age, yearning for and achieving self-discovery. Additionally, Joyce was influenced by the Irish poet, James Clarence Mangan, and his poem, “Dark Rosaleen,” which enhances the storyline of “Araby.” Finally, there is a connection to a religious undertone signifying the similarities to the Garden of Eden within the storyline as well. Altogether, these layers work in unison to piece together the body of Ireland by depicting the significance of where and how it wants to move, the reasons for its inability to move, and how that state of paralysis has religious connotation.

II.                Arms

To first begin our exploration of this metaphorical body, let’s take a closer glance at the inherent state of paralysis that exists within the text and the reasoning behind it. The people of Dublin, and by extension, Ireland, are depicted as being in a state of immobility. While they want to move, and perhaps do make small movements, they do not reach their ultimate goals or recycle to a homeostatic position, unable to perpetually progress. In her essay, “Pattern of Paralysis in Joyce’s Dubliners: A Study of the Original Framework,” Florence L. Walzl, discusses the groundwork of the novel and the reasons behind why it cannot escape this condition of immobility. She begins by stating:

Intensive study of Joyce’s Dubliners has shown that this collection, once regarded as a set of bare, episodic stories, is a tightly patterned work depending on symbolic details to clarify its meaning… [T]he basic pattern underlying all others is a paralytic process: Dubliners has a pathological unity more subtle than is immediately apparent. (Walzl 221)

Walzl unifies the collection of stories, stating how they are all connected and work together to achieve a comprehensive message. In order to achieve the reasoning behind this state of paralysis, Walzl revisits Joyce’s history and life to extend why Joyce thought this way of the Irish country and its people. She touches upon his background in medicine and the way he clinically “diagnosed” the condition of Dublin. She states:

At the time Joyce began this work, he was much interested in medicine. In 1902 he entered medical school in Dublin, later went to Paris intending to study medicine, and after his return in 1903 associated with medical students. During this period he tended to use medical terms in his conversation. Like most beginning medical students he was fascinated with diagnosis. Impatient at the restrictions of life in Dublin, he concluded that Ireland was sick, and diagnosed its psychological malady as hemiplegia, a partial, unilateral paralysis. He told his brother, “What’s the matter with you is that you’re afraid to live. You and people like you. This city is suffering from hemiplegia of the will.” When he had finished only the first story he stated, “I am writing a series of epicleti—ten—for a paper… I call the series Dubliners to betray the soul of that hemiplegia or paralysis which many consider a city.” (221)

            This “diagnosis” that Joyce depicted led him to perceive that the city of Dublin was in a place where its people needed to witness their condition. What did Joyce mean when he told his brother that the people “are afraid to live”? That is an interesting question to ponder. Walzl continues that Joyce was determined, after this “diagnosis,” to find a way for the people of Dublin to see themselves and witness this fear of propelling forward. Walzl asserts that Joyce wanted to focus on Dublin in particular because it was the epicenter of this state of immobility for the Irish people, “The structure of Dubliners reflects a therapeutic approach. Joyce informed his publisher that his aim was to “write a chapter of the moral history” of Ireland and that Dublin was the scene because it seemed ‘the centre of paralysis’” (221). Walzl continues, “The stories were to be presented ‘under four of its aspects: childhood, adolescence, maturity and public life.’ Implicit in this scheme is a personification of Ireland as a sick, even moribund individual” (221-222). Walzl mentions that Joyce wanted to construct a figurative mirror for the people to see themselves in, “In fact, he spoke of “the special odour of corruption” floating over his stories and insisted the book held up a ‘looking-glass’ in which Ireland could see itself” (222). As implied by Walzl, Joyce didn’t foresee an ending of this state of paralysis. He envisioned that this state would repeat over and over—that this cycle would not break for the Irish people. Walzl mentions, “Dubliners is an imagistic unit exemplifying the effects of a creeping paralysis in a progressive diminution of life, that each of Joyce’s groupings of stories marks a decisive stage in this deteriorative process” (222). Walzl continues, “The work originally was circular, showing a kind of vicious round in the relationships between man and society” (222).

            Each of the stories works individually; however, read together, they also work in unison to extend the intended meaning that Joyce was aiming for. Walzl discusses the difficulty to decipher the difference between plot and symbol within these stories because they are much more complicated than first seen, “It is difficult to draw a line between plot and symbol: they tend to fuse. Read individually, the stories can be analyzed conventionally, but in the framework, each is more than just a narrative: it is also an epiphany—a visible sign or manifestation—extending to the book as a whole” (221). Walzl continues to mention how each story contains the notions of paralysis yet also adds to the whole novel as well, “Each is a story complete in itself dealing with a psychologically paralyzed character or group, and also in the larger structure a symbol of a single stage in the paralytic process” (222).

            Dubliners can be further broken down into sections by categorizing them into groups. Walzl finds that there are four unique parts or stages: childhood, youth, maturity, and society:

This inner imagistic structure corresponds to Joyce’s four-part, largely chronological scheme. In each group of stories Joyce translates the major image of paralysis into a more specific one appropriate to the subject matter of the group and reflecting paralysis of the most vital function characteristic of that stage of life. In childhood this function is emotional and psychological development of self as preparation for life; in youth wise and free choice of the major goals in life; in maturity ability to achieve these goals; and in society as a whole, cultural achievements of high standard in various fields. (222)

Each of these four stages contain their own unique peculiarities. Childhood, for example, is, “A time of innocence when the world seems better than it is, destruction of a child’s sense of illusion can be a psychologically traumatic blow” (222). Moving further along into youth, Walzl outlines the setbacks therein, “In adolescence when, for normal development of the individual, proper choices of mate and vocation must be made, whatever hampers voluntary choice in these two vital decisions of life stultifies the individual and paralyzes his will” (222). Maturity, Walzl says, is, “Normally the period when a person establishes his family and works productively in a vocation, inability to act fruitfully frustrates the individual” (222). In the final stages, Walzl states, “In the stories of public life where it is presumed that healthy, functioning society must express itself in ethical and intellectual achievements of a high order, the failure or inability to do so is expressed by images of corruption” (222).

Finally, Walzl claims that, “Each story is then an image in itself, a symbol of the central paralytic theme. Both the characters and the action (or lack of it) are symbolic: the Dubliners themselves stand ultimately for the Irish ethnos and their physical situations in the story for the spiritual state of the nation” (222). This completes the mention of why the Irish people are in this state of immobility and how it affects Ireland as a whole. This state of country-wide paralysis stems from the psychological perspective of the people, namely those in Dublin, are in. They suffer from an inability to progress at a very young age, which follows them through youth into maturity and ultimately into societal life. Then, as this society is unable to enact change, their new youth is bound by the same cyclical movement, and their children will continue to follow this pattern all the way into society over and again.

III.             Legs

As we have seen, there is an ultimate condition of paralysis and inability to break the cycle. However, there are instances within each of the stories where there is some kind of movement. This is also true of “Araby,” where the narrator moves from direction to direction, even gathering enough movement to get to the bazaar only to enter into a moment of epiphany and leave. The next natural mode to concentrate on, then, is the direction these characters were aiming to move and what these directions represent. In his essay, “The Psychic Geography of Joyce’s ‘Dubliners,’” Earl G. Ingersoll discusses the symbolism behind direction. Ingersoll begins:

Spatially, the “world” of Dubliners is inherently contradictory. Although the characters frequently express desire to travel, and occasionally go so far as planning to leave Dublin, the city generally is hedged round with restrictions and inhibitions. However restricted “escape” may be, many of the characters direct their eyes toward deliverance in the East; at the same time,… freedom seems possible, if at all, by journeying westward through Ireland’s psychic geography. (Ingersoll 98)

Ingersoll begins by mentioning that the opening stories of “The Sisters,” “An Encounter,” and “Araby” are all aimed at moving eastbound, “In the first three stories, the journeys of the boy narrators are directed toward the East. The journey to ‘Araby,’ metaphorized as chivalric quest, extends the engendering of travel in the first two Dubliners stories” (98-99). He continues, “The boy in the first story journeys to the house of ‘[T]he [S]isters’ in an apparently eastward motion—‘the windowpanes of the houses that looked to the west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of cloud’” (99). For “Araby,” he says, “Similarly, the final destination of the boys in ‘An Encounter’ is Ringsend, about as far east as they could go in Dublin” (99). With respect to location and direction, Ingersoll mentions that a native of Dublin would be keen to notice the eastbound direction the narrator, “Finally, a Dubliner reading ‘Araby’ could not miss the trajectory of that boy’s movement as he walks from his home on North Richmond Street, south on Buckingham Street, to the station where he boards the special train” (99). This special train, he reiterates, “Takes him past Westmoreland Row Station and therefore eastward toward the Araby bazaar” (99).

            There is an inherent significance with the east. It isn’t just an empty direction, but is one that is loaded with symbolic meaning. Ingersoll emphasizes this when he mentions:

The East as metaphor, however, is even more important to the boy in the third story, since he remarks on the signifier “Araby” just after he has indicated how the image of Mangan’s sister intrudes upon his reading: “The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me.” (99)

What did the east mean to Joyce? What does the east mean in general? For Ingersoll, he imagines that it the east is significant due to its desirability, “Because he had thought the East would be the proper place in which his desire might be consummated, he is disillusioned, as readers of ‘Araby’ well know, by his encounter with the actuality of the ‘empty bazaar with its ‘magical name’” (99).

            Ingersoll draws upon references from other writers who also attempted at examining the infatuation with the east. These include Jackson Cope, Maria Tymoczko, and Coilin Owens. Ingersoll says, “Other writers, it might be noted, have also been interested in the East in ‘Araby.’ For example, in the context of his discussion of the waste land elements in Dubliners, Jackson Cope, focuses on the appropriateness of the ‘wintry darkness’ in ‘Araby,’” (99). In respect to Cope’s findings, Ingersoll notes, “Cope’s implication, however, is that the East is a locus of hope and renewal, but this boy has just failed to find the way toward that freeing of the spirit,” thus emphasizing a state of paralysis on the boy’s part to properly find this way (99). Ingersoll elaborately details Tymoczko’s wonderful extrapolation of the meaning of direction and its relevance to Irish culture, even noting an authentic native word, “siar.” In his mention of Tymoczko, Ingersoll writes:

Another and more recent writer on Dubliners, Maria Tymoczko, has studied the Irish roots of the words for the four directions as support for her argument that the references to direction are neither random nor coincidental. She points out that in Irish the words for the four directions indicate bodily orientation so that “east” literally means “in front of,” and “north” and “south” indicate “on the left” and “on the right,” respectively. She goes on to say: “Position, as well as motion to or from any direction, involves a fusion of the directional word with an amalgamated preposition or particle. Accordingly, the “westward” of “The Dead” seems a gesture to the Irish siar, with a similar combination of place and movement toward it. Even more, Tymoczko is extremely helpful in suggesting that, just as “east” signifies in front of, its binary opposite, siar, or “westward,” also means “behind,” “backward,” or even “toward the past,” temporally as well as spatially. (99-100)

Furthermore, Ingersoll mentions the significance of English power, control, and rule over Irish life. Since England resides towards the east of Ireland, it’s inferred that this is what is alluded to by Joyce as well, “The bazaar toward which the boy’s eastward travel has been directed offers him an encounter with an ironic “East”—not the exotic and erotic Araby, but the East of English power” (100). Ingersoll examines Owens’ contribution and says, “The accents of the ‘two young gentlemen’ with whom the ‘young lady was talking and laughing’ are unmistakably ‘English’” (100). He continues, “Much as the boy might have dreamed of being welcomed into an Araby commensurate with his erotic imagination, he clearly is not welcome in this Irish house where the English are in control” (100). Finally, Ingersoll connects this significance with the east to Ireland’s place in the shadow of England’s political control. Ingersoll draws upon the example of the Irish woman who was talking to the English men and how that represents England’s hold on Ireland, “Like the Irish ‘lady’ who is ‘feminized’ by her powerlessness in any potential relationship with the ‘two young gentlemen’ (or ‘two gallants’), the boy can perceive only his own exposure, or ‘lack,’ as a desiring (Irish) subject” (100). Ingersoll concludes by deciphering this connection to the narrator’s own views of Mangan’s sister:

It is easy to see that the boy has connected this Irish “lady” with Mangan’s sister whom he has gentrified as a leading figure in the extravaganza of his desire. Like the punch line of a joke, the boy has succeeded in his quest for “the East”—not Araby, but England. Power resides in the East, but its capital is London, and whatever power he ever gains will be lent to him at the price of deference to his masters in the East. (100)

IV.             Head

As extravagantly symbolic and metaphoric “Araby” is, there are many connections from the story to Joyce’s own personal life. When Joyce was younger, a traveling bazaar really did make its way to Ireland and Joyce went to see it. The boy as the narrator could be imagined to be Joyce himself. Additionally, the influence of the east is something Joyce also acknowledged. Similarly to Ingersoll, Heyward Ehrlich also explicates the significance of the east, among the autobiographical connection to Joyce’s life and the influence of the Irish poet, James Clarence Mangan upon Joyce, in his essay, “’Araby’ in Context: The ‘Splendid Bazaar,’ Irish Orientalism, and James Clarence Mangan.” Ehrlich begins by elegantly mentioning:

The story based on an actual incident in Joyce’s life, “Araby,” is often read on a single internal plane for its quest symbolism its allegory of creativity, or its richness of style. But “Araby” also draws significantly upon three external contexts, namely the historical, the literary, and the biographical. Although it may seem a work of independent invention, “Araby” refers directly to an actual bazaar that visited Dublin in 1894, which was not only a memorable local entertainment event but also one of a series of major local annual events. “Araby” also evokes the distinctive version of Irish Orientalism that looked to the East for the highest sources of national identity and the very origins of the Irish language, alphabet, and people. Writing both within and against the moment of the Celtic revival, Joyce defined his place within the tradition of Irish Orientalism by writing two biographical essays on the Irish poet and Orientalist James Clarence Mangan in 1902 and 1907, the composition of which closely bracketed and heavily shaped the writing of “Araby,” as Joyce acknowledges by naming an essential character in the story after Mangan. (Ehrlich 309)

Ehrlich mentions that Joyce’s immediate reader at the time of publication would have already been aware of the context around the story, “The local Dublin reader, to whom Joyce largely directed ‘Araby’ when he wrote in 1905, already knew a great deal about the several contexts of the story, the annual bazaars and fairs such as Araby, the long literary and even musical tradition of Irish Orientalism” (309). Ehrlich continues, “’Araby’ is the only story in Dubliners to be based on a famous public event” (309). However, Ehrlich suggests that there are contrasting differences between the actual bazaar itself and the depiction of it in Joyce’s iteration, “Yet as historical details come to light about the immense, sprawling, noisy Araby bazaar that actually visited Dublin in 1894, they seem paradoxically to contrast with the small, dark, quiet charity sale that the boy depicts in the story” (309). Ehrlich points out that his is may be a further avenue to explore, as many are wondering about the differences and Joyce’s deliberate reasoning behind altering the description of the bazaar, “The new historical evidence suggests… that… the deeper questions of why Joyce’s representational methodology in depicting the bazaar stands opposed to the shared social knowledge of his original Dublin readers” (310).

To connect the narrator and details of “Araby” to Joyce’s own personal life, Ehrlich discusses a person familiar with Joyce, “Joyce’s classmate William Fallon recalled seeing Joyce at the Araby bazaar not as the solitary figure in the text but rather as someone amidst the jam at the rail station” (311). Ehrlich cites that Fallon mentioned:

I had just got off the train at Lansdowne Road when I spied him. The train used to draw in on the main line and then go into a siding to let off visitors to the bazaar. It was a Saturday night. When we reached the bazaar it was just clearing up. It was very late. I lost Joyce in the crowd, but I could see that he was disheartened over something. I recall, too, that Joyce had had some difficulty for a week or so previously in extracting the money for the bazaar from his parent. (311)

Furthermore, there are elaborate details within the story that can be depicted as having hints at connections to Joyce. To this, Ehrlich says, “But the magic in “Araby” is not limited to words. One little puzzle in the story is why Joyce fixes the time of the boy’s arrival at the bazaar at exactly 9:50 P.M., even though other events in the story are only given approximate times” (326). He continues, “It is simply ‘after eight o’clock’ when Mrs. Mercer leaves and about ‘nine o’clock’ when the uncle returns but it is precisely ‘ten minutes to ten’ when the boy arrives at the bazaar” (326). This, he says is, “Emphasized by ‘the lighted dial of a clock’ on the large building displaying ‘the magical name.’ And why is Joyce’s expression ‘ten minutes to ten’ used here rather than 9:50 P.M.?” (326).

The answer to this question may be more cryptic than most would think, “Apparently, ‘Araby’ evokes magical numbers in the tradition of Arabic ciphers, which use letters of the alphabet and individual numbers as substitutes for each other, as in the systems of cabala and Pythagoras” (326). Ehrlich says, “If we regard ‘ten’ as a cipher in the Latin alphabet, we obtain the letter ‘J,’ and for two tens we get ‘JJ,’ Joyce’s initials” (326). Finally, he closes, “Furthermore, if we visualize the position of the hour and minute hands at exactly ‘ten minutes to ten’ on a large outdoor clock, we find them perfectly superimposed” (326). To this, he says, “At this moment, the two tens as words, the two tens as numbers, the two clock hands as visual indicators, and the two ‘J’’s as letters are all ciphers for the doubled mirrored signature of Joyce” (326). At the end of the story, the story highlights the narrator’s realization that he had been propelled by vanity all along, “The understandings of the boy and the narrator finally seem to be one, the several external and internal planes of context seem to coincide, and the Dublin reader can concur in the boy’s admission that vanity has been the cause of his youthful infatuation” (327).

            Much like Ehrlich, Harry Stone discusses the connections of “Araby” to Joyce’s own life. In his essay, “’Araby’ and the writings of James Joyce,” Stone says, “In his writings, Joyce was always meeting himself—in ways which must at times have been beyond his conscious ordinance—and the pages of “Araby” are witness to that fact” (Stone 376). He continues, “For ‘Araby’ preserves a central episode in Joyce’s life, an episode he will endlessly recapitulate. The boy in ‘Araby,’ like the youthful Joyce himself, must begin to free himself from the nets and trammels of society” (376). Stone infers that “Araby” is actually a precursor of Joyce’s perspective at a younger age. To elaborate on this, Stone draws upon another of Joyce’s texts, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Stone says:

That beginning involves painful farewells and disturbing dislocations. The boy must dream “no more enchanted days.” He must forego the shimmering mirage of childhood, begin to see things as they really are. But to see things as they really are is only a prelude. Far in the distance lies his appointed (but as yet unimagined) task: to encounter the reality of experience and forge the uncreated conscience of his race. The whole of that struggle, of course, is set forth in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. “Araby” is the identical struggle at an earlier stage; “Araby” is a portrait of the artist as a young boy. (376)

            Stone details how the story of “Araby” is closely modeled after Joyce’s own life, thus emphasizing the autobiographical connection, “The autobiographical nexus of “Araby” is not confined to the struggle raging in the boy’s mind, though that conflict—an epitome of Joyce’s first painful effort to see—is central and controls all else. Many of the details of the story are also rooted in Joyce’s life” (376). He continues, “The narrator of ‘Araby’…lived, like Joyce, on North Richmond Street. North Richmond Street is blind, with a detached two-story house at the blind end, and down the street, as the opening paragraph informs us, the Christian Brothers’ school” (376). Stone says that Joyce went to the same school and had a similar experience, “Like Joyce, the boy attended this school, and again like Joyce he found it dull and stultifying” (376). He also connects the peculiarities and characteristics of the aunt and uncle to Joyce’s own mother and father, “…His aunt and uncle, are a version of Joyce’s parents: the aunt, with her forbearance and her unexamined piety, is like his mother; the uncle, with his irregular hours, his irresponsibility, his love of recitation, and his drunkenness, is like his father” (376-377).

Stone meticulously asserts the ending of the story, breaking it down, “We know at the end of ‘Araby’ that something devastating has occurred, and we would like to know exactly what it is. Ultimately, the full radiance of sight, of meaning, is ours, not the boy’s” (409). He continues discussing the narrator, “He has caught a glimpse of reality, of himself as he really is; he can reject the old encumbering vision, he can decide to dream ‘no more of enchanted days,’ but he can not yet fashion a new life” (409). Stone mentions that this is a moment of self-discovery for the narrator. Could this also then be akin to Joyce’s realization and subsequent “diagnosis”? To expand on the end, Stone says, “As the story has it, the light is out; the boy must grapple in the dark. But like blind Oedipus, in the dark the boy finally sees: his moment of illumination is given to him as he gazes ‘up into the darkness’” (409). He continues, “That moment of blinding sight is also the moment of artistic vision, of the unfolding of “the capacities of [the] spirit”… The boy’s end is his beginning; he has walked through and met himself” (409-410). Perhaps, this is where Joyce met himself. Stone concludes:

“Araby” is the rendering of a quintessential moment (and for Joyce, the quintessential moment) in [A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Boy]. It is as though the boy of the story has come to the end of a well-lighted dead-end road. He now confronts a tangle of dark paths. Perhaps one of those paths will eventually lead him to a brighter road and to a wider, steadier vision of the surrounding countryside. The boy has not yet chosen the path he will follow; he may very well choose the wrong path. But at least he has seen that his own comfortable well-worn road, well-lighted and thronged with travelers though it is, as a dead end. That insight makes further travel possible; he can “welcome… now at the last the ways that [he] shall go upon.” North Richmond Street is blind, but Dublin perhaps has thoroughfares, and if not Dublin, then, as the conclusion of A Portrait tells us, the beckoning roads of all the world beyond Ireland: “white arms of roads” leading “beyond” the sleeping fields to what journey’s end?” (410)

V.                Heart

On top of these ideas of paralysis, symbolic direction, and autobiographical connections, there also exists a further dimension to the story of “Araby”—one of religious connotation, specifically to the Garden of Eden. This is something that may not be prevalent or clear at first glance or face value, but Ben L. Collins attempts to uncover this duality through his essay, “Joyce’s ‘Araby’ and the ‘Extended Simile.’” In it, Collins says, “’Araby,’ the third story in Dubliners, is the final tale of the phase of childhood… and, as such, rightfully sums up the whole of that phase of the moral paralysis the heart of which Joyce feels to lie in Dublin” (Collins 84). He continues, “It is a peculiarity of Dubliners that each main character introduced carries not only his own burden, but also the compounded burdens of those characters who have preceded him” (84). Further along, he touches upon this intangible complexity within the storyline, “Because of its seeming simplicity, “Araby” has been looked upon by commentators… as a so-called initiation story in which the protagonist moves from ignorance to knowledge, from innocence to the bring(sp) of maturity” (84). To expound on the religious significance, Collins states:

Near the beginning of “Araby” is a sentence seemingly innocent and inserted between others perhaps to belie its importance: “The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found the late tenant’s rusty bicycle pump.” The central apple tree and the rusty bicycle pump obviously are important to the story. They liken the yard to the Garden of Eden, but there seems no suggestion that the entire story is an allegory of man’s fall from grace—or is there? The rusty bicycle pump becomes only vaguely and temporarily the Serpent in the Garden. And yet the meaning of the story is foreshadowed by these objects. (85)

            Going back to the mention of North Richmond Street being “blind,” which other scholars and figures have mentioned means the street is a dead-end, Collins asserts that this is instead up for interpretation and the word “blind” may refer to the innocence of not knowing, “Let us go back briefly to the contention that “Araby” is an initiation story concerned primarily with appearance and reality. The word blind, then, is of course essential to an interpretation” (85). Collins continues to mention:

“North Richmond Street, being blind…” that is, a dead-end street; the window blind behind which the boy watches for Mangan’s sister; and the implication of previous blindness—much like the idea in Oedipus—at the end, “Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.” (85)

He continues that this is intentional foreshadowing by Joyce:

Certainly this is one of Joyce’s ways of introducing the obliquities to follow. The dead-end street tells that any quest in Dublin will lead to a dead-end, an impasse”. The idea of love’s being blind and that the blindness of the illusion leads to a view of darkness when the reality becomes apparent resolve the paradox of the final lines. (85)

Furthermore, this notion of “blindness” can be seen in different ways. Stone makes a connection of “blindness” to Eden, “Like Eden,… outside… ever-changing violet sky toward which the feeble rays of the lamps reach, surrounded by dripping gardens, ashpits, odorous stables as well as by shadows under whose protection the boy may hide from uncle and true love” (85-86). Collins emphasizes the mention of the apple tree and the significance of this tree to the tree of knowledge, “The central apple tree… is one of the important elements of the work, for in bringing to mind the Garden of Eden it introduces two of the story’s basic motifs—love and religion. The Garden is connotative both of man’s fall and women” (86). Collins connects this to Adam and Eve, “Adam through his love for Eve ate of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge and was cast from Paradise into the world of reality. This allusion or quasi-allegory describes what is yet to happen in ‘Araby’” (86).

            If we have the set-up of the tree and Adam and Eve, then we also have to acknowledge the other side of the story. Collins, in this case, infers to the similarity of the “rusty bicycle pump” to the “Serpent in the Garden” by mentioning, “The rusty bicycle pump, peeping out from under an adjacent bush like the Serpent in the Garden, suggests that like it love and religion could once inflate (raise and elate) are inoperative and relates directly to its late owner, the dead priest” (86). Since Collins suggests that many portions of the story may be interpreted, he continues to suggest that other dualities are also possible. One such dichotomy is that of Mangan’s sister to the Church, “But it is to Mangan’s sister that we must turn to find the focal image of the story. She is, after all, the object of the boy’s affection, and like him she is purposefully unnamed” (86). He suggests, “Through her Joyce can sum up and indicate the true breadth of the moral paralysis. She represents Church (in that she includes Christ, Mary, and the priest-hood), Ireland, and the betrayer Judas” (86).

            The name Mangan also has significant correlation to Joyce’s life. There was an Irish poet named James Clarence Mangan whose work Joyce was familiar with. This creates an interesting connection to the mention of the girl only as “Mangan’s sister.” Collins touches upon that in his essay as well. He says, “That she is Mangan’s sister, that she has no other name than Mangan, forces the reader to dwell upon that name. Those informed will be minded of the Irish poet James Clarence Mangan, said to be an inspiration to the Irish movement but nevertheless admired by Joyce” (86). He concludes:

To the world, Mangan is known, if at all, for his “The Dark Rosaleen,” a translation and adaptation of an old Irish poem. Though seemingly a poem of love, the work is an allegory in which a hero (Hugh the Red O’Donnell) is coming to save Ireland (the Dark Rosaleen) from the Saxons (the English) who are besetting her. The men of God (Church and Pope) are also on their way with help and gifts to raise Ireland from her inglorious position. By allusion to this poem, the themes of love and religion are re-enforced and the theme of nationality—about which Joyce has already concerned himself by mention of the come-all-you’s of O’Donovan Rossa and the ballads about the troubles of the country—is introduced. Modern Ireland is in a like situation, beset by England and in need of a hero. (86)

VI.             Closing Thoughts

After further analysis of the text and storyline of “Araby,” we can synthesize that there are many complex and complicated ideas present and working within the story. There are many metaphors present not just in “Araby” but in Dubliners overall. The true brilliance lies heavily upon Joyce’s clever and intelligent way of incorporating all the elements—including metaphors of direction, paralysis, autobiographical connections, and religious connotation—it’s fascinating to understand that there are so many factors working well within this short story. It is an exquisite model of the situation Joyce believed Ireland to be in and an intricate “looking glass” or mirror for Joyce to offer the Irish people. As Ben L. Collins says of Ireland, “Araby,” and Joyce:

We do learn along with the boy that there is nothing to hope for in his world, that there are nets flung at the soul of a man born in his country that keep him back from flight. But to read it only in this light, to leave a story as potentially great as this one with only the idea that “love” or the “romantic life” cannot be supported in paralytic Dublin and the sooner one knows it the better is to miss most of its richness and nearly all of the fun. For in doing so we disregard the quintessence of Joyce’s artistry—his ability to build layer upon layer of meaning without detriment to the literal level of the story. (84)

To that, I offer my closing thoughts that Ireland can transcend the “nets flung at the soul” and break the paralytic cycle Joyce asserts. By not being “afraid to live,” the Irish people can achieve anything they want. Whether they look east or west, they can gain knowledge if they only look inside.

Works Cited

Collins, Ben L. “Joyce’s ‘Araby’ and the ‘Extended Simile’.” James Joyce Quarterly 4.2 (1967):

84-90. Web.

Ehrlich, Heyward. “’Araby’ in Context: The ‘Splendid Bazaar,’ Irish Orientalism, and James

Clarence Mangan.” James Joyce Quarterly 35.2/3 (1998): 309-331. Web.

Ingersoll, Earl G. “The Psychic Geography of Joyce’s Dubliners.” New Hibernia Review 6.4

(2002): 98-107. Web.

Joyce, James. Dubliners. New York: Penguin Books, 1967. Print.

Joyce, James. Dubliners & A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. New York: Barnes & Noble

Books, 1992. Print.

Mandel, Jerome. “The Structure of ‘Araby’.” Modern Language Studies 15.4 (1985): 48-54.

Web.

Stone, Harry. “’Araby’ and the Writings of James Joyce.” The Antioch Review 25.3 (1965): 375-

410. Web.

Walzl, Florence L. “Pattern of Paralysis in Joyce’s Dubliners: A Study of the Original

Framework.” College English 22.4 (1961): 221-228. Web.

Walzl, Florence L. “The Life Chronology of Dubliners.” James Joyce Quarterly 14.4 (1977):

408-415. Web.

Randall:

The Dubliners – From Jonathan Swift and James Joyce to Damien Rice and Glen Hansard: Cynicism, Criticism, and a Nation’s Desire for Identity and Recognition

           

“Thus, we are zealous in Matters of small Moment, while we neglect those of the highest Importance” (“An Examination 52-3).

Introduction

            My wife and I have been married for almost five years. Our first date ended in watching the independent film Once. This film depicts two singer-songwriters living in Dublin, one of Irish decent and the other of Czechoslovakian decent, struggling in a country that has long experienced poverty and oppression. Though much of the film is filmed with budget cameras and sub-par audio equipment (as many indie films are), the heart captured within each frame is raw and compelling. When I first saw the film, I was barely in my twenties, and even then, I felt something, knew something was special about this city depicted and the people in it. My wife, however, may not have shared these feelings. Our first date was a disaster, and I pursued her for months before she finally saw promise of our future together.          

*                      *                      *

            Even before the Irish Potato Famine of the mid-1800s, the Irish people have long experienced bouts of drought, famine, and social and political unrest. Ireland is an unsettled country, and the Irish people are a hard people. Once and other cinematic representations show only the tree above ground. Sadly, the roots are deep. Desmond O’Grady wrote in 1981 that “Ireland’s past is a nightmare from which Irish poets are trying to awake” (171). Still, Dublin is a beautiful city. The people are intriguing, the culture is rich, and construction is both beautiful and heart-breaking. Before going to Ireland, I had a slight understanding of Irish literature, culture, and history. But having experienced the concrete that supports the city of Dublin, the hills that compose the trek from the Republic of Ireland to Northern Ireland, and the bodies, personalities, and heart that encapsulates the Irish people, I have realized the difference between studying about a country and people and experiencing a country and its people.

            Along the way, traveling from Atlanta, Georgia to Dublin, Ireland, I meet people from all around the country. At Hartsfield-Jackson airport in Atlanta, I meet Jason. He serves in the American Army Reserves. His flight leaves soon, carrying him to Norfolk, Virginia for a weekend of training. We share our travel plans, talk a little about our lives, shake hands, and part ways.  Claire and I sit next to one another on our flight from Atlanta to JFK in New York. She has a sweet disposition. We talk about her family and her travels, of which are mostly enjoyed alone. She is obviously tired from her multiple flights, so I allow her to rest once we get in the air. On the ground at JFK, I manage to find my way to the terminal of my designated flight, which was a feat in itself. At the terminal, there is a crowd of people waiting to board an aircraft headed over the ocean to Dublin, Ireland. The amount of bodies booked for the flight and the amount of room on the plane are at odds.

            The flight has been overbooked, and I am one of the passengers not assigned a seat. I fear that tonight might not be the night that I land on an Irish runway. The workers at the terminal offer me a generous package to lay-over in New York City for the night. With apprehension, I accept to their terms and wait for final seating and personal accommodations. Fortunately (or unfortunately), the plane indeed has room for me. But in the meantime, I meet Alyssa and Alfonso, best friends traveling to Ireland for Saint Patrick’s day. They are waiting for their welcomed and accommodated lay-over as well. As I am seated, I notice they, whether fortunately or unfortunately, were not awarded a night in NYC either. A week in Ireland is better than a night New York City. The flight from the JFK to Dublin is close to eight hours.

            Luckily, I am sitting next to the sweetest lady one could wish for during a flight. Her name is Jane. She is from Indiana and is a retired Latin teacher at her local high school of 35 years. She and her friends are traveling around the world for the next couple of weeks. She reminds me of my grandmother. We talk almost the entire time, between watching movies, dozing off, and reading, of course. After we land in Dublin, she is off with her friends, and I never see her again.

            Even on the bus-ride from the Dublin airport into the city center, I meet a fascinating and friendly man. Mike hails from West Palm Beach, Florida, and he tells me how he celebrates Saint Paddy’s day somewhere different all over the world every year. He often rides motorcycles in foreign countries. He rides a Harley-Davidson, as do I. He tells me of his trips around the world, how he’s lived in Zurich, Switzerland, and how he is able to travel as much as he does. In some ways, I start to envy him. This trip, this bus-ride, the journey that is ahead, is my first time experiencing anything outside of the United States of America. I anticipate this new experience, and I imagine how this country might feel in my lungs. This experience has long been a fantasy. Now, I’m on the cusp of Dublin concrete meeting my cowboy-boot heels. The whole idea is Romantic for me. Not in a pop-culture kind of a way but in a Transcendental kind of way. I want to experience what Jonathan Swift so lovingly describes in “An Examination of Certain Abuses, Corruptions, and Enormities, in the City of Dublin.” Swift states, “As I have been always watchful over the Good of mine own Country; and particularly for that of our renowned City [Dublin]; where,…I had the Honor to draw my first Breath” (32). The idea of experiencing the country of Swift’s first breath excites me.

            As the bus approaches city-center, I look at my watch (still on Eastern Standard Time). The travel time from my front porch in Atlanta, Georgia to Dublin City spans about twenty hours. That includes MARTA, airport security, runway taxiing, a reasonable layover and overbooked flight in NYC, an over-night flight, and a bus trip that ushers me into unfamiliar streets. Soon I will experience a disoriented and sluggish walk down Dublin sidewalk. I have travelled alone. I planned it this way. I wanted to breathe foreign air, plant my boots on Irish soil, and traverse Dublin landscape for the first time with little distractions. Along the way were people, people like Jason, Claire, Jane, and Mike. These people all told unique stories, similar stories but with different details. And now on this island are people, a people with a rich cultural heritage, a sad and troubled history, and an identity muddled by the paralysis of colonization, famine, and religious unrest, a people I know little about aside from words I’ve read in books.

            Jonathan Swift, the great Irish satirist, writes these sad and telling words in “A Short View of the State of Ireland”: “No strangers from other Countries, make this a Part of their Travels; where they can expect to see nothing, but Scenes of Misery and Desolation. Those who have the Misfortune to be born here, have the least Title to any considerable Employment; to which they are seldom preferred, but upon a political Consideration” (11). Though “Scenes of Misery and Desolation” have been glossed over by Imperialist Cosmopolitanism, the heartache of the Irish people speaks from the Republic Ireland’s Dublin and Northern Ireland’s Belfast. Today, Irish songwriters such as Glen Hansard, Kodaline, and Damien Rice communicate the despair of living in the wake of Ireland’s fight for true Independence and the Troubles experienced all throughout the entire Island. Lewis C. Daly, who wrote the introduction to A Modest Proposal and Other Prose, claims that “Jonathan Swift lived in a time of unprecedented political and intellectual change” (vii). That turmoil is also present throughout the writings of James Joyce and those of modern Irish songwriters. The cynicism of Swift influenced the criticism of Joyce, which led to the revolt of the 1916 Easter Rising. This revolution was led by poets of the early twentieth-century, all seemingly influenced by Joyce's call to national identification. As a result, modern-day Ireland is stuck between the need to revolt and the criticism and cynicism of the artists of their country's past. Furthermore, there is a desire for recognition that all three of these eras of artists exude.

I. Swift’s Cynicism

            In his “Introduction” to a collection of Jonathan Swift’s prose writings, Daly rightfully claims that Swift is “generally acknowledged as the finest satirical writer in the English language” (vii). Swift is entirely cynical of the state of Irish culture. Daly describes Swift’s response to his own social cynicism powerfully:

                        The surprising, sometimes perverse humor and stinging mockery, the complex                                stylistic interplay of rhetoric, argument, and meaning, and the superb ironic                                    control displayed throughout these pieces are the hallmarks not only of a master                             satirist, but of a skilled controversialist and public spirit, someone intensely                          concerned with engaging pressing issues and affecting his audience in certain                                 ways. The art of satire has rarely provoked more controversy and had such a                                    lasting effect. (vii)

In “A Modest Proposal” Swift proposes that the answer for the poor state of adults and children in Ireland is to sell Irish babies off to be eaten as a delicacy. He states, “And, it is exactly at one Year old, that I propose to provide for them in such a Manner, as, instead of being a Charge upon their Parents, or the Parish, or wanting Food and Raiment for the rest of their Lives; they shall, on the contrary, contribute to the Feeding, and partly to the Cloathing, of many Thousands” (19). It would work if humanity were stripped away. The government was taking the same approach with the Irish peoples, stripping them of humanity. Everything in Ireland has become a commodity. Swift attempts to offer the rational argument that babies are a commodity. He attacks this commodification of everything with public cynicism.

            The political corruption of Ireland has long been an issue addressed by its writers. Even in 1919, Arthur E. Clery states, “Irish history has been so much a battlefield for politicians” (654). For decades, he political climate has been in a state of unrest, those in power not making decisions based on the needs of Irish citizens. Swift likens man to a broom-stick, an inanimate object that is so quickly and easily discarded when no longer useful (“A Meditation” 1). He states in “A Meditation upon a Broom-Stick” that man’s “last Days are spent in Slavery to Women, and generally the least deserving; till worn to the Stumps, like his Brother Bezom, he is either kicked out of Doors, or made use of to kindle Flames for others to warm themselves by” (2). Here, he discusses the politically corrupt use of the Irish people by their own leaders and the imposing British.

            Mostafa and I meet Gabriel on our walk after dinner. He's from Northern Ireland. A prime example of the cynicism controlling Swift’s life, Gabriel refers to the Irish and Irish-Americans as “Paddy.” He says that Irish-Americans are the ones who fled Ireland during the famine, which he refers to as the ”Irish Holocaust.” He says that the ones who stayed in Ireland were the wealthy land-owners. He claims they have no idea of what the Irish have endured, and because of this, they have a much weaker sense of national unity. However, Irish-Americans have a strong sense of this unity. Gabriel displays vast knowledge of world politics. Much of what he says I have a hard time understanding, both because of his thick Northern Irish accent and my own political and national ignorance. I thought he may be homeless, but he is not. Gabriel says that Ireland is one of the only countries in the world that can sustain itself – six million people that can feed fifty million. He says that America should be feeding the world, but instead it is fed by the world. He has citizenship in America, Ireland, and Northern Ireland. He says this is illegal. He calls Americans "feathers." He expresses similar sentiments as Swift.

            Swift claims in “A Short View of the State of Ireland” that “One third Part of the Rents of Ireland is spent in England” and that “Even Ale and Potatoes are imported from England” (12). He also refers to the high rents of the Irish people later in the text: “The Rise of our Rents is squeezed out of the very Blood, and Vitals, and Cloaths, and Dwellings of the Tenants; who live worse than English Beggars” (14-5). The Irish people have long experienced the exporting of their resources for little return and the heavily taxed importing of goods from the British. Swift describes the general well-being of his people in these words: “The miserable Dress, and Dyet, and Dwelling of the People. The general Desolation in most Parts of the Kingdom” (14).

The misery and desolation of his people is a struggle close to his heart. His mode of social activism is by way of cynicism through the satirical writing. He thinks—If only I could get these writings inserted into the public eye, maybe Ireland can begin healing.

            Fresh off the bus, Aaron was the first Dubliner I met. With a map in hand and a lost stupor on my face, I stand on Dublin sidewalk for the first time. He stops and asks, “Are ya lost?” We look at the map together, I tell him where I’m trying to go, and he seems as lost as me. He goes inside of his workplace and comes back with vague directions about how the Charles Stewart Guesthouse is just straight ahead and around the corner. I trust him and soon find the guesthouse. Aaron embodies a hospitality common to the Irish people. Gabriel, Joyce’s famous character from “The Dead” includes these words in his toast: “I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country has no tradition which does it so much honor and which it should guard so jealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is unique as far as my experience goes (and I have visited not a few places abroad) among the modern nations” (204). Ireland reeks of a certain hospitality that is frank and endearing, one that does not seek apologies without reason and will help any stranger on their street find their way.

            The time change and night spent on the plane has me weary. I drop my bag off and walk to find breakfast. This city is beautiful. Across from my hotel is a theatre. Just up the street stands a church on the corner. Next to the church is the Dublin Writers Museum. Everything around me has history. I’ve only been in Dublin for an hour, and I can already see that this is surely a walking city. The people seem to walk fast. Everything moves fast. Cars and buses navigate narrow city streets, rarely regarding pedestrians in crosswalks. It’s mid-morning, and I assume the people on the street are locals. The women wear black tights under black skirts, a trend not yet absorbed into American culture. Conversations are precise and to the point, but efficient. As I walk, I notice how trash litters stairwells leading to hotel basements. I find breakfast at a place called Kingfisher. I order a full Irish breakfast complete with black and white pudding, beans, and two kinds of meat, all apparent staples of Ireland’s morning sustenance. I have coffee with my meal, strong coffee.

II. Joyce's Criticism

            Joyce criticizes the same culture that Swift satirized. Their issues with the culture are the same but their approach is different. In “A Little Cloud,” Joyce tells the story of Little Chandler, a working-class Dubliner. He longs to be a poet, but he, instead, allows the oppressive culture to paralyze him. His desire to be a poet in his world stretches back to his youth:

                        He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought                                them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the                          hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out                             something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books                                    had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this                           consoled him. (“A Little Cloud” 66)

Little Chandler’s friend, Gallaher, lives a luxurious life in London, the object of attention for most characters throughout The Dubliners. An idea also pervasive in the aforementioned Once and in the Irish songwriters to follow.

            If Swift’s attempts to bring about social change were through satirical and political epiphanies, Joyce’s attempts were to criticize his beloved country in order to offer avenue in which they could see themselves. Eimear McBride claims that “…the lovely window that is Dubliners retains a special position in the psyche of Irish writers and readers. It has become the most approachable face of the city and its literature” (McBride 55). I’ve seen the faint form of Dublin city through the lens of The Dubliners, but now I’m seeing that form in the city streets and on the face of every passerby.

            When I’m finally allowed into my room, I am exhausted. I take a nap that is far too long when considering there is an entire city to explore. I make myself get out of bed just as it is nearing nighttime. I read, shower, and get ready to welcome one of my roommates for the week. Mostafa arrives in Dublin around 9pm. He has been traveling for the last 24 hours. He is clearly tired but still agrees to go out for food and drink with me. We find a place called Murray’s, which would soon become our group’s favorite pub. Maggie serves us. She’s from China and has been in Dublin for six years. She has an interesting Chinese-Irish accent. She tells us about how crowded the streets get on St. Patrick’s Day and shows us photos. Kavish also serves at Murray's. He moved here twelve years ago when he was eighteen. He's from an island off the coast of South Africa. He says his country is multicultural, and he grew up speaking English and French. The food, drink, and traditional Irish music and dance at Murray’s are all perfect for our first night in Ireland.

            Dr. Caldwell and Andy arrive in Dublin the next morning. The four of us decide to make a pre-curriculum trip to the Old Jameson Distillery. We pay for the tour and order Jameson cocktails as we wait. We discuss our anticipation for the week. The tangible excitement we all feel is obvious. We spend these moments talking about our respective programs and our expectations of how this study of literature-in-culture will influence our personal and professional endeavors. Soon, the voice over the loudspeakers announces the start to our tour. Rob leads our time through the historic distillery. He is a tall and stout Irishman, his hair long and pulled back in a ponytail. His personality entertains us and the rest. We see every stage of the distilling process. Rob ends the tour with a whiskey tasting. I call Rob over after, and we all have the pleasure of colorful conversation. He tells us about tattoo shops, whiskey bars, and good places for food. We have experienced so much of what Joyce writes about as Irish hospitality. It is different but endearing.

            Aimee Mulligan at Colour Works is a stand-in for Joyce’s sort of criticism. She has this certain Irish hospitality about her. She tattoos a whaling vessel on my arm. Living outside of the city, she takes a bus in for work, and goes home straightaway after. She does not do much in Dublin. Her father still lives close by and they are really close. However, her brother has a strained relationship with him. She blames it on her father’s heavy drinking when they were young. Her dad was in the Irish army and navy and is now a fireman. She only has the one brother. Her grandmother was the ring leader for an Irish women's rights group. She claimed her great grandfather’s name was William Wallace. I ask about her bloodline, and she has no idea if she is a descendent of the great Scottish warrior. She claims Scottish heritage but cannot be sure. She says her mom’s parents were Pepars, a French family. Her family lived in a castle of which they were the hired hands. She seems to be slightly disconnected from the pervading Irish plight. Her experience told of one that goes to work, stays out of the country’s way, and assimilates herself to whatever country is leading the world at the time. However, she possesses a sort of criticism of Dublin city that feels similar to that of Joyce. She never stays for longer than she has to, and she never gets close enough to be hurt by its oppressing qualities. Her accent made for an authentic capstone to my stay in Ireland, not too sharp but sweet and real enough to still feel Irish. 

III. Irish Art

            Joyce’s The Dubliners was published in 1914. The poets of the Easter Rising took Dublin in 1916. Wayne K. Chapman describes the activists of the 1916 Easter Rising as a young “group of self-sacrificing requiem poets” (137). Could the call of Joyce's Dubliners have been misinterpreted by the poets of the 1916 Easter rising? And if so, in what ways did they misinterpret his message? These are questions about loss of national identity and how to reclaim that identity. Is Modern Ireland, specifically Dublin, riding the coattails of early twentieth-century social activism propagated by Joyce? In “A Little Cloud” Joyce depicts the need to leave Dublin and the Irishman’s need to express himself poetically:

                        There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You                           could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the                              river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to                                 him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks, their old coats                                  covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for                                    the first chill of night bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. He
                                   wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher
                                   might be able to get it into some London paper for him. Could he write                                                 something original?  He was not sure what idea he wished to express but the                                         thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an
                                  infant hope. He stepped  onward bravely. (Joyce 68)

Joyce claims that Little Chandler’s voice  wants to speak out from within “like an infant hope.” The final scenes of “A Little Cloud” show Little Chandler allowing this infant hope to be released from within, while he and his wife’s baby begins to cry uncontrollably in their apartment. Soon, his wife shows up to scold him and quiet the sounds of both their baby and his inner “infant hope.”

            Apart from the invaluable personal experience of physically traveling to Dublin, Ireland and Belfast, Northern Ireland, the next best representation of Irish culture comes through modern Irish art, specifically modern Irish songwriters. As one might imagine, just as people gather around tables to discuss dense literature or cultural criticism, the greatest specimens of the Irish psyche can be dissected through listening to many of Ireland’s songwriters. For brevity’s sake, I have only chosen three artists to discuss. Those artists are Kodaline, Glen Hansard, and Damien Rice. All three artists are wildly popular and just as talented. Irish art is obvious influenced and in some ways determined by the cultural norms of America and Britain. So many artists feel the need to leave Ireland, only to look back and cast their accomplishments on their homeland. How does this add or distract from Ireland’s national identity? Is this a tactic to better situate their beloved country within the modern world?

            Kodaline is a young Irish pop-rock band. Having just released their second full-length record this year, their body of work is not as extensive as one might desire. However, throughout both of their records, “Coming up For Air,” and “In a Perfect World,” the writers communicate the attitude of the oppressed Irishman. In “After the Fall” the writer paints a picture of the dire state of Dublin:

                        Sirens are screaming

                        But I can’t hear a single sound.

                        And I’m feeling uneasy,

                        And I wait, and I wait for a change to come around. (Kodaline) 

In “Love Will Set You Free,” Kodaline deals with the emptiness experience by many of those in Ireland. They write, “I took a long and lonely walk up to an empty house / That’s where I’ve come from / Where have you come from.”

            Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová play the two main characters in the aforementioned independent film, Once. Hansard has obvious affinities for England, especially London. His songs speak of personal and acknowledged failure. In “Leave” he states, “But you won’t disappoint me. I can do that myself.” He also exhibits the frank nature of the oppressed Irish people in the song’s angsty chorus:

                        Now, if you don’t mind, leave…leave.

                        Please yourself and at the same time leave…leave.

                        Let go of my hand—you’ve said what you have to.

                        Now leave. (“Leave”).

In Hansard and Irglová’s wildly successful single “Falling Slowly” they depicts the defeated perspective that is shared by so many residing in Dublin:

                        Take this sinking boat.

                        And point it home.

                        We’ve still got time.

                        Raise your hopeful voice.

                        You have a choice.

                        You’ve made it now.

                        You have suffered enough

                        And warred with yourself.

                        It’s time that you won. (“Falling Slowly”)

Similar to the sentiments described by the writers in Kodaline, the Irish write of a sense of emptiness and of sinking.

            Damien Rice is among Ireland’s most recognized songwriters. His music is mournful and reflective. Just as Hansard writes of his disappointment, Rice expresses his failure in “The Greatest Bastard.” He sings, “Some ruin and some regret it / I never meant to let you down.” He further explains the attitude of defeat:

                        We learned to wag and tuck our tails,

                        We learned to win and then to fail, didn’t we?

                        We learned that lovers love to sing

                        And that losers love to cling, didn’t we? (“The Greatest Bastard”)

In “Older Chests” Rice communicates the gaze of the Irish towards America and England and their need to leave their homeland:

                        Papa went to other lands

                        And he found someone who understands

                        The ticking, and the western man’s need to cry

                        He came back the other day, you know

                        Some things in life may change

                        And some things

                        They stay the same. (“Older Chests”)

The cynicism and criticism of Joyce has trickled into the emotional climate of those living in Dublin even in the present day. O’Grady states “that the literary upheaval of Yeats’ [and Joyce’s] time was accomplished by national political upheaval and that pattern has been repeated in the present generation, which shows a serious concern with Ireland in this century, with its history, its heritage and its place in the modern world” (170). Irish artists are looking for their place in the world today just as the Irish people during Swift and Joyce’s day.

IV. Desire for Recognition

            The Irish gaze both westward towards America and southeast towards London is obvious. This can be seen in Irish writers as well as first-hand experience of the country. While Mostafa and I are at Murray’s the first night, I meet a local named Stephen. He has, apparently, made friends with a woman named Denise and her friends. The ladies are originally from America but are now living in Switzerland. It is obvious that he has consumed a good amount of alcohol. I struggle to understand him, one because of the inebriation and two because of his thick accent. He says to me, "you're a cool dude.” Even the convenience stores stock their shelves with products from the west, especially the entertainment section. Tesco is the local supermarket. I peruse the music and film section to find the shelves overrun with American pop icons and actors. I make my way through store to look at their beer selection. One of the clerks points me to the spirits without me asking. Maybe I look like I need a more stout drink than beer or cider. The lady at the liquor counter helps me with my purchase, retrieving a bottle of Paddy’s Irish Whiskey and ringing up my pens, soap, and shaving cream. I watch some young Irish kids hover around the supermarket on the sidewalk and in the street. They seem to be up to no good. I watch them move from the sidewalk to a rail where bikes are locked away. There are six of them, four boys and two girls. One of them looks older; he is the obvious ring leader. Four of them walk off and leave two of the boys behind. The boys slowly make their way among a few bicycles, climb on the rail, and shimmy over one of the bikes. Whether they are sincerely in need or are kids acting out in need of attention and recognition, one cannot surely say. But the obvious impression of the Irish struggle is present in what small piece of their life I have seen.

            Because of their constant struggle, the Irish have a certain desire for recognition. Swift hints at this desire in “A Modest Proposal” stating, “whoever could find out a fair, cheap, and easy Method of making these Children sound and useful Members of the Commonwealth, would deserve so well of the Publick, as to have a Stature set up for a Preserver of the Nation” (19). Joyce echoes these sentiments in “A Little Cloud”:

                        There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in                         verse. He felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's                           soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it                          was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple                                    joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would                              listen. (Joyce 68)

At the James Joyce Lounge we meet Noel. He has the desire to drink and be recognized, and apparently he is a local character. He has a special interest in the lady that is with us, Raven. He says she has a pretty smile. He becomes overly fixated on her. Noel is a retired football player. He's so drunk that he’s hard to understand. He's a granddad with a daughter older than all of us. Noel appears to have a lot of money. He claims to have played professional Gaelic Football, maybe in the Royal Cup. 

Conclusion

            In “A Modest Proposal” Swift inserts small messages within his satire. He claims, “For, this kind of Commodity will not bear Exportation; the Flesh being of too tender a Consistence, to admit a long Continuance in Salt; although, perhaps, I could name a Country, which would be glad to eat up our whole Nation without it” (29-30). Swift has experienced his people being emotionally and even physically consumed (through famine) by England. The upheaval cause by the British has choked out the Irish people. Clery even discusses the issue with the Irish being stripped of their own language: “The Gaels, the predominant people in ancient Ireland, coming from Belgian territory, were a German people taught a Celtic tongue by the ancestors of the modern French, much as the Gaels have been untaught it by the modern English” (655).

Swift speaks of the wise and the foolish in a poignant way: “The Scripture tells us that oppression makes a wise man mad; therefore consequently speaking, the reason why some men are not mad, is because they are not wise: however it were to be wished, that oppression would in time teach a little wisdom to fools” (“A Proposal…Universal Use”). The Irish have experienced a cycling of negative demeanors towards the world around them. McBride speaks of this moral and political instability:

                        …the Irish political class have kept themselves on the same rails. They have                                    allowed their lassitude to re-create over and over, the same poisonous legacy of                             national paralysis in the face of a greater bad; leaving the quick to pick off the                                 weak while the brazen inherit the earth. Despite Dubliners hitting its century, and                           Joyce himself being long gone, the death masks he left behind should forbid all                                    the usual excuses for the blinkers that have been worn since. But, much as his                                    characters exist in an endless cycle of rising out of, then returning to, a state of                                    somnambulistic discontent, Ireland, too, threatens to revert to its own cycle of                               downing epiphany, followed by beatific denials, then a hopeless, amnesiac caving                                     in to the eternal way of things. (55)

            On Sunday, David narrates a bus tour to Northern Ireland. He is from England but displays extensive knowledge of Irish landscape, culture, and history. We travel to Belfast, passing through Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods as we make our way into the city. He takes us through Falls Road, which is predominantly Catholic, and the Protestant neighborhoods along Shankill Road. We travel back to Dublin by way of the Mourne Mountains. Irish history is ravaged with instability and struggle. The history of Belfast speaks of a city that has been particularly torn. David refers to much of the strife throughout Ireland and Northern Ireland as “the troubles.” He takes us to the Peace Wall that was created as a fissure between Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods. The wall is decorated and graffitied. There are monuments scattered throughout the city that tell of the Irish fight for freedom and peace. It all stands to remind the Irish people of their struggles: reminders of the signing of the 1921 peace treaty, monuments that honor those who lost their life during “the troubles,” paintings of Bobby Sands and other leaders who led their fight for freedom, paintings of American civil rights leaders such as Martin Luther King Jr. and Frederick Douglass, quotes from activists that state “…Our revenge will be the laughter of our children” and “Free us all…from the prison of mistrust…misunderstanding…and misdeeds.” There is even a monument erected in 2014 with an inscription that reads, “Marking 45 years of conflict in Northern Ireland – 1969-2014 – Let this be the year the conflict ends.” The people of Belfast have surely felt the weight of religious unrest. The peaceful ride through the Mourne Mountains offers mental rest, while the weight of Irish identity settles further into my mind.

            For me, the last day of our program would prove to be the most valuable study of Irish literature-in-culture of the week. Marty leads a walking tour around Dublin City while discussing the life and work of James Joyce. He is confident and well-versed in Joyce, Dublin, and the Irish struggle. His story-telling sits alongside stories from The Dubliners. He crafts an experience that takes us through streets mentioned in the novel and past apartments dedicated to some who were close to Joyce. Outside of the Gresham Hotel he discusses the final chapter of The Dubliners, “The Dead,” and the Joycean epiphany. Across the street stands Dublin’s General Post Office. His knowledge of it’s history and the events of the 1916 Easter Rising impresses and intrigues all of us. Above the building, the extension of cranes can be seen – seems to be a fitting nod to the rebuilding of Ireland. He mentions the significance of the huge spire erected in the center of Dublin City, an explanation that lacks the importance assumed of such a structure. Marty leads us all the way to the River Liffey. He points us west towards Grattan Bridge and reads from “A Little Cloud.” We listen to Marty, the passing busses, and the river below – all telling Ireland’s story.

            The experience of this trip will forever be a marker in my scholarly and personal journey. To learn about a culture by experiencing that culture cannot be matched. We learned about Irish past through monuments, statues, and relationships, and we experienced Ireland’s present through the work of contemporary playwright Owen McCafferty and his play Death of a Comedian. Along the way, new friendships were formed and old friendships were deepened. A group of relative strangers from Atlanta, brought together by the vision of someone passionate about intensive cultural study, experienced Ireland in an invaluable way and left connected by the entrenching nature of the Irish people and culture. Conversations that happened across a table, in a hotel room, or in the center of a ruined Irish castle cannot be recreated elsewhere. The inescapable reverence felt when gazing down at The Book of Kells at Trinity College or looking out at Irish expressions scribbled on city walls cannot be duplicated, and the long-standing plight of the Irish cannot be ignored. The writings of Joyce and modern Irish singers are birthed from the idea of Irish concern for Swift’s “Matters of small Moment.”

Works Cited

Chapman, Wayne K. “Joyce and Yeats: Easter 1916 and the Great War.” New Hibernia Review               10.4 (2006): 137-51. Project Muse. Web. Print.

Clery, Arthur E. “Irish History from Within.” An Irish Quarterly Review 8.32 (1919): 654-7.                     Jstor. Web. 5 May 2015.

Daly, Lewis C. “Introduction.” A Modest Proposal and Other Prose by Jonathan Swift. New                   York, NY: Barnes & Noble, 2004. vii-xvi. Print. Hansard, Glen. “Leave.” The Swell                Season. Overcoat Recordings, 2006. MP3.

Hansard, Glen, and Markéta Irglová. “Falling Slowly.” The Swell Season. Overcoat Recordings,               2006. MP3.

Kodaline. “After the Fall.” In a Perfect World. RCA Victor, 2013. MP3.

———. “Love Will Set You Free.” Coming Up for Air. Sony Music Entertainment, 2015. MP3.

McBride, Eimear. “The Heart of the City: A Hundred Years Ago, James Joyce’s Dubliners                       Announced the Arrival of the Urban Era.” New Statesman (2014): 52-5. Print.

O’Grady, Desmond. “The Burden of the past and Modern Irish Poetry.” Proceedings of the                      Harvard Celtic Colloquium (1981): 169-76. Jstor. Web. 5 May 2015.

Rice, Damien. “ Older Chests.” O. Vestor, 2001. MP3.

———. “The Greatest Bastard.” My Favourite Faded Fantasy. Warner Bros., 2014. MP3.

Swift, Jonathan. “Introduction.” A Modest Proposal and Other Prose. New York, NY: Barnes &                         Noble, 2004. vii-xvi. Print.

———. “A Meditation upon a Broom-Stick.” A Modest Proposal. London: Penguin                                 Group, n.d. 1-2. Print.

———. “A Modest Proposal.” A Modest Proposal. London: Penguin Group, n.d. 18-31.                           Print.

———. “An Examination of Certain Abuses, Corruptions, and Enormities, in the City of                                     Dublin.” A Modest Proposal. London: Penguin Group, n.d. 32-53. Print.

———. “A Proposal for the Universal Use of Irish Manufacture in Cloaths and Furniture                                     of Houses, Etc. Utterly Rejecting and Renouncing Every Thing Wearable That Comes                       from England.” Dublin: Printed and Sold by E. Waters. 1720. Print.

———. “A Short View of the State of Ireland.” A Modest Proposal. London: Penguin                             Group, n.d. 6-17. Print.