“The Dead” is where you know, okay – this Joyce fellow is somethin’ ELSE.
The fact that he was so young when he wrote the thing is astonishing in and of itself – and that’s another part of “The Dead” that interests me: where Joyce was at in his development when he wrote it. He wanted to rub his fellow countrymen’s noses in it. It’s like he draws back the veil over his own heart, and love pours out of it.
He carves the goose gallantly, he dances with Miss Ivors – he works hard on his speech that he wants to give at the party … We don’t get the sense that something is MISSING in Gabriel Conroy – until the end. For me, that last paragraph feels like a swoon – with its uncanny repetition of words (“falling”) – it takes on the tone of a prayer, a mantra.
Then we realize that what he was missing was consciousness. The story of his wife’s failed love back in Galway (same story as Nora’s) – has launched him into life. Ellmann writes in his biography of Joyce: In its lyrical, melancholy acceptance of all that life and death offer, ‘The Dead’ is a linchpin in Joyce’s work.
Daily Book Excerpt: Adult fiction: Dubliners – by James Joyce – excerpt from the final story in the collection: “The Dead”.
Still from John Huston’s film adaptation of “The Dead“, the snow is general all over Ireland The story never loses its power.
I have not reproduced its ingenuous insularity and its hospitality. suggests ‘in another sense’ (where the hell does he get the meaningless phrases he uses) I am sure I should find again what you call the Holy Ghost sitting in the ink-bottle and the perverse devil of my literary conscience sitting on the hump of my pen.
The latter ‘virtue’ so far as I can see does not exist elsewhere in Europe. And after all Two Gallants – with the Sunday crowds and the harp in Kildare Street and Lenehan – is an Irish landscape.
Richard Ellmann, in his biography of Joyce, devotes an entire chapter to “The Dead” – and the background thereof, how all of these different strands came together to make Joyce write it the way he did.
Joyce said, much later in life, that every woman in his stories was Nora – he didn’t know any other women, basically – and could only write about her.