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Dubliners (DF Modern Classics) by [James Joyce, Digital Fire]

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James Joyce

Frank McCourt

Dubliners (DF Modern Classics) Kindle Edition

by James Joyce (Author), Digital Fire (Editor) Format: Kindle Edition

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First published in June 1914, ‘Dubliners’ depicts Dublin’s middle class at the turn of the 20th century in 15 short stories by James Joyce, an Irish novelist, short story writer, poet, and literary critic. It is Joyce’s literary debut, which he struggled to publish in the face of multiple rejections from multiple publishers.
The stories are organized by the age of their subjects, in ascending order from youngest to oldest. Each story—amid trickery, courtship, religion, family, and death- pinnacles in a character’s epiphany or moment of self-understanding. The forerunner of Joyce’s masterwork Ulysses, it features characters who make cameo appearances in the later novel, as well as stylistic choices that came to define Joyce’s style. And while each story can be read individually as a stellar sample of Joyce’s work, together they form a novel in stories—one of the first of its kind—by one of the 20th century’s most important writers.

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Editorial Reviews

From Publishers Weekly

Starred Review. Frank and Malachy McCourt and 13 Irish actors bring Joyce's short stories to life in this well-produced audiobook. None of the readers employ a thick accent in the narrative portions, but for dialogue they let their imitative talents shine and their Irish lilts bloom. Brendan Coyle and Charles Keating, reading "A Little Cloud" and "Grace" respectively, give such wonderful expression to the idiosyncrasies of every individual voice that the listener is never confused even when numerous men are talking. Joyce wrote only sparingly in actual dialect, but most of the readers interpret his intentions freely and successfully. Fionnula Flanagan is perfect reading "A Mother," her voice shifting easily between prim and proper tones and fiery indignation punctuated with little sighs. It helps that Joyce's writing is so masterful that when Flanagan and the two other actresses read the three stories that revolve around women, their words sound utterly natural. Not all the performances are on the same level—Stephen Rea's cold, somber voice is apt for the meditative beginning and ending sections of the collection's most famous story, "The Dead," but too flat for the central description of a lively party. This audiobook creates the atmosphere of a fireside storytelling session that will hold any listener in rapt attention. (May)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

From AudioFile

James Joyce's only book of short stories, DUBLINERS, provides snap-shots of turn-of-the-century Ireland and epiphanies of youth and adult-hood. Along with the fiction of Chekhov, these episodes pioneered the modern story of inaction, anticlimax, and personal discovery. Many of them number among short fiction's most admired works: "Araby," "Clay," "A Little Cloud," and especially the concluding story, "The Dead." As with the unabridged ULYSSES from Naxos, director Roger Marsh here effectively uses various Irish songs as evocative musical transitions between the stories. Jim Norton's reading is quietly dramatic, dignified, and effective at main-taining the melancholy, meditative tone of the book. He provides a rich, enjoyable listening experience. G.H. © AudioFile 2005, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

THE SISTERS

There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said to me: "I am not long for this world," and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.

Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to some former remark of his: "No, I wouldn't say he was exactly . . . but there was something queer . . . there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion. . . ." He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery.

"I have my own theory about it," he said. "I think it was one of those . . . peculiar cases. . . . But it's hard to say. . . ." He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My uncle saw me staring and said to me: "Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear."

"Who?" said I.

"Father Flynn."

"Is he dead?"

"Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house."

I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if the news had not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter.

"The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him a great deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him."

"God have mercy on his soul," said my aunt piously.

Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady black eyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him by looking up from my plate. He returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely into the grate.

"I wouldn't like children of mine," he said, "to have too much to say to a man like that."

"How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?" asked my aunt.

"What I mean is," said old Cotter, "it's bad for children. My idea is: let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age and not be . . . Am I right, Jack?"

"That's my principle, too," said my uncle. "Let him learn to box his corner. That's what I'm always saying to that Rosicrucian there: take exercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had a cold bath, winter and summer. And that's what stands to me now. Education is all very fine and large. . . . Mr. Cotter
might take a pick of that leg of mutton," he added to my aunt.

"No, no, not for me," said old Cotter.

My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table. "But why do you think it's not good for children, Mr. Cotter?" she asked.

"It's bad for children," said old Cotter, "because their minds are so impressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it has an effect..."

I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to my anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!

It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotter for alluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaning from his unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imagined that I saw again the heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over my head and tried to think of Christmas. But the grey face still followed me. It murmured; and I understood that it desired to confess something. I felt my soul receding into some pleasant and vicious region; and there again I found it waiting for me. It began to confess to me in a murmuring voice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were so moist with spittle. But then I remembered that it had died of paralysis and I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve the simoniac of his sin.

The next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little house in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop, registered under the vague name of Drapery. The drapery consisted mainly of children's bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used to hang in the window, saying: Umbrellas Re-covered. No notice was visible now for the shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the door-knocker with ribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned on the crape. I also approached and read:

July 1st, 1895
The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's Church,
Meath Street), aged sixty-five years.
R. I. P.

The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I was disturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I would have gone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him sitting in his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his great-coat. Perhaps my aunt would have given me a packet of High Toast for him and this present would have roused him from his stupefied doze. It was always I who emptied the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembled too much to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuff about the floor. Even as he raised his large trembling hand to his nose little clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers over the front of his coat. It may have been these constant showers of snuff which gave his ancient priestly garments their green faded look for the red handkerchief, blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with which he tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious.

I wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage to knock. I walked away slowly along the sunny side of the street, reading all the theatrical advertisements in the shop-windows as I went. I found it strange that neither I nor the day seemed in a mourning mood and I felt even annoyed at discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if I had been freed from something by his death. I wondered at this for, as my uncle had said the night before, he had taught me a great deal. He had studied in the Irish college in Rome and he had taught me to pronounce Latin properly. He had told me stories about the catacombs and about Napoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning of the different ceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestments worn by the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself by putting difficult questions to me, asking me what one should do in certain circumstances or whether such and such sins were mortal or venial or only imperfections. His questions showed me how complex and mysterious were certain institutions of the Church which I had always regarded as the simplest acts. The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist and towards the secrecy of the confessional seemed so grave to me that I wondered how anybody had ever found in himself the courage to undertake them; and I was not surprised when he told me that the fathers of the Church had written books as thick as the Post Office Directory and as closely printed as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating all these intricate questions. Often when I thought of this I could make no answer or only a very foolish and halting one upon which he used to smile and nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to put me through the responses of the Mass which he had made me learn by heart; and, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively and nod his head, now and then pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alternately. When he smiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let his tongue lie upon his lower lip--a habit which had made me feel uneasy in the beginning of our acquaintance before I knew him well.
As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter's words and tried to remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. I remembered that I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinging lamp of antique fashion. I felt that I had been very far away, in some land where the customs were strange--in Persia, I thought. . . . But I could not remember the end of the dream.

In the evening my aunt took me with her to visit the house of mourning. It was after sunset; but the window-panes of the houses that looked to the west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of clouds. Nannie received us in the hall; and, as it would have been unseemly to have shouted at her, my aunt shook hands with her for all. The old woman pointed upwards interrogatively and, on my aunt's nodding, proceeded to toil up the narrow staircase before us, her bowed head being scarcely above the level of the banister-rail. At the first landing she stopped and beckoned us forward encouragingly towards the open door of the dead-room. My aunt went in and the old woman, seeing that I hesitated to enter, began to beckon to me again repeatedly with her hand.

I went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace end of the blind was suffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles looked like pale thin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead and we three knelt down at the foot of the bed. I pretended to pray but I could not gather my thoughts because the old woman's mutterings distracted me. I noticed how clumsily her skirt was hooked at the back and how the heels of her cloth boots were trodden down all to one side. The fancy came to me that the old priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin.

But no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I saw that he was not smiling. There he lay, solemn and copious, vested as for the altar, his large hands loosely retaining a chalice. His face was very truculent, grey and massive, with black cavernous nostrils and circled by a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odour in the room--the flowers.

We crossed ourselves and came away. In the little room downstairs we found Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state. I groped my way towards my usual chair in the corner while Nannie went to the sideboard and brought out a decanter of sherry and some wine-glasses. She set these on the table and invited us to take a little glass of wine. Then, at her sister's bidding, she filled out the sherry into the glasses and passed them to us. She pressed me to take some cream crackers also but I declined because I thought I would make too much noise eating them. She seemed to be somewhat disappointed at my refusal and went over quietly to the sofa where she sat down behind her sister. No one spoke: we all gazed at the empty fireplace.

My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said: "Ah, well, he's gone to a better world."

Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt fingered the stem of her wine-glass before sipping a little. "Did he . . . peacefully?" she asked.

"Oh, quite peacefully, ma'am," said Eliza. "You couldn't tell when the breath went out of him. He had a beautiful death, God be praised."

"And everything . . . ?"

"Father O'Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him and prepared him and all."

"He knew then?"

"He was quite resigned."

"He looks quite resigned," said my aunt.

"That's what the woman we had in to wash him said. She said he just looked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful and resigned. No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse."

"Yes, indeed," said my aunt.

She sipped a little more from her glass and said:

"Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you to know that you did all you could for him. You were both very kind to him, I must say."
Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees.

"Ah, poor James!" she said. "God knows we done all we could, as poor as we are--we wouldn't see him want anything while he was in it."

Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed about to fall asleep.

"There's poor Nannie," said Eliza, looking at her, "she's wore out. All the work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to wash him and then laying him out and then the coffin and then arranging about the Mass in the chapel. Only for Father O'Rourke I don't know what we'd done at all. It was him brought us all them flowers and them two candlesticks out of the chapel and wrote out the notice for the Freeman's General and took charge of all the papers for the cemetery and poor James's insurance."

"Wasn't that gooda of him?" said my aunt.

Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. "Ah, there's no friends like the old friends," she said, "when all is said and done, no friends that a body can trust."

"Indeed, that's true," said my aunt. "And I'm sure now that he's gone to his eternal reward he won't forget you and all your kindness to him."

"Ah, poor James!" said Eliza. "He was no great trouble to us. You wouldn't hear him in the house any more than now. Still, I know he's gone and all to that. . . ."

"It's when it's all over that you'll miss him," said my aunt.

"I know that," said Eliza. "I won't be bringing him in his cup of beef-tea any more, nor you, ma'am, sending him his snuff. Ah, poor James!"

She stopped, as if she were communing with the past, and then said shrewdly:

"Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over him latterly. Whenever I'd bring in his soup to him there I'd find him with his breviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his mouth open." --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

From the Inside Flap

"Don't you think there is a certain resemblance between the mystery of the Mass and what I am trying to do?...To give people some kind of intellectual pleasure or spiritual enjoyment by converting the bread of everyday life into something that has a permanent artistic life of its own."

-- James Joyce, in a letter to his brother

With these fifteen stories James Joyce reinvented the art of fiction, using a scrupulous, deadpan realism to convey truths that were at once blasphemous and sacramental. Whether writing about the death of a fallen priest ("The Sisters"), the petty sexual and fiscal machinations of "Two Gallants," or of the Christmas party at which an uprooted intellectual discovers just how little he really knows about his wife ("The Dead"), Joyce takes narrative places it had never been before.

The text of this edition has been newly edited by Hans Walter Gabler and Walter Hettche and is followed by a new afterword, chronology, and bibliography by John S. Kelly. Also included in a special appendix are the original versions of three stories as well as Joyce's long-suppressed Preface to Dubliners. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

About the Author

Sooner or later, most undergraduates encounter him, and some scholars devote their careers to his exuberantly eloquent prose. James Joyce (1882-1941) led the vanguard of 20th-century fiction, and his experimental use of language and stream-of-consciousness technique continue to captivate, intrigue, and influence modern readers and writers. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

From Library Journal

Joyce's classic has been recorded before, of course, but in this new version, each of the 15 stories will be read by a different person, including writers Frank McCourt, Malachy McCourt, and Patrick McCabe, and actors Ciaran Hinds and Colm Meaney.
Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

From the Publisher

8 1-hour cassettes --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

From the Back Cover

Although James Joyce began these stories of Dublin life in 1904, when he was 22, and had completed them by the end of 1907, they remained unpublished until 1914—victims of Edwardian squeamishness. Their vivid, tightly focused observations of the life of Dublin's poorer classes, their unconventional themes, coarse language, and mention of actual people and places made publishers of the day reluctant to undertake sponsorship.
Today, however, the stories are admired for their intense and masterly dissection of "dear dirty Dublin," and for the economy and grace with which Joyce invested this youthful fiction. From "The Sisters," the first story, illuminating a young boy's initial encounter with death, through the final piece, "The Dead," considered a masterpiece of the form, these tales represent, as Joyce himself explained, a chapter in the moral history of Ireland that would give the Irish "one good look at themselves." But in the end the stories are not just about the Irish; they represent moments of revelation common to all people.
Now readers can enjoy all 15 stories in this inexpensive collection, which also functions as an excellent, accessible introduction to the work of one of the 20th century's most influential writers. Dubliners is reprinted here, complete and unabridged, from a standard edition.

--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Book Description

Cambridge Literature is a series of literary texts edited for study by students aged 14-18 in English-speaking classrooms. It will include novels, poetry, short stories, essays, travel-writing and other non-fiction. The series will be extensive and open-ended and will provide school students with a range of edited texts taken from a wide geographical spread. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Review

"This is a classic collection, beautifully read to keep and return to forever" —The Guardian

--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Review

"Cold is the heart that can resist a warm Irish accent like Gerard Doyle's, especially when that voice is offering splendid material like this Joyce classic.…Heartbreaking epiphanies abound, and Doyle artfully walks the vocal line between empathy and cool efficiency with his performance." ---AudioFile --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Book Description

Cambridge Literature is a series of literary texts edited for study in English-speaking classrooms. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Product details

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0B12RXD44
Publisher ‏ : ‎ DIGITAL FIRE; 1st edition (May 10, 2022)
Publication date ‏ : ‎ May 10, 2022
Language ‏ : ‎ English
File size ‏ : ‎ 1558 KB
Text-to-Speech ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supported
Enhanced typesetting ‏ : ‎ Enabled
X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Not Enabled
Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Enabled
Sticky notes ‏ : ‎ On Kindle Scribe
Print length ‏ : ‎ 175 pages
Page numbers source ISBN ‏ : ‎ B09GC992K6

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James Joyce
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James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941) was an Irish novelist and poet. He contributed to the modernist avant-garde and is regarded as one of the most influential and important authors of the 20th century.
Joyce is best known for Ulysses (1922), a landmark work in which the episodes of Homer's Odyssey are paralleled in an array of contrasting literary styles, perhaps most prominent among these the stream of consciousness technique he utilised. Other well-known works are the short-story collection Dubliners (1914), and the novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and Finnegans Wake (1939). His other writings include three books of poetry, a play, occasional journalism and his published letters.
Joyce was born in 41 Brighton Square, Rathgar, Dublin—about half a mile from his mother's birthplace in Terenure—into a middle-class family on the way down. A brilliant student, he excelled at the Jesuit schools Clongowes and Belvedere, despite the chaotic family life imposed by his father's alcoholism and unpredictable finances. He went on to attend University College Dublin.
In 1904, in his early twenties, Joyce emigrated permanently to continental Europe with his partner (and later wife) Nora Barnacle. They lived in Trieste, Paris and Zurich. Though most of his adult life was spent abroad, Joyce's fictional universe centres on Dublin, and is populated largely by characters who closely resemble family members, enemies and friends from his time there. Ulysses in particular is set with precision in the streets and alleyways of the city. Shortly after the publication of Ulysses, he elucidated this preoccupation somewhat, saying, "For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal."
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Frank McCourt
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Frank McCourt (1930-2009) was born in Brooklyn, New York, to Irish immigrant parents, grew up in Limerick, Ireland, and returned to America in 1949. For thirty years he taught in New York City high schools. His first book, "Angela's Ashes," won the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award and the L.A. Times Book Award. In 2006, he won the prestigious Ellis Island Family Heritage Award for Exemplary Service in the Field of the Arts and the United Federation of Teachers John Dewey Award for Excellence in Education.
***************
Frank McCourt (1930-2009) nació en Brooklyn, Nueva York, de padres inmigrantes irlandeses, creció en Limerick, Irlanda, y regresó a Estados Unidos en 1949. Durante treinta años enseñó en escuelas secundarias de la ciudad de Nueva York. Su primer libro, "Las cenizas de Angela", ganó el Premio Pulitzer, el Premio del Círculo Nacional de Críticos de Libros y el Premio L.A. Times Book. En 2006, ganó el prestigioso Premio Ellis Island Family Heritage por el Servicio ejemplar en el campo de las artes y el Premio de la Unión de Maestros John Dewey por la excelencia en la educación.
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MARCO PEDULLA
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DAVID DENNINGTON

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Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on August 21, 2018

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Just finished The Dubliners by James Joyce. I hadn’t read any of his works. This is a good start for anyone thinking of reading real literature. It’s astonishing to think he was 22 years old when he’d completed these stories. But I guess true genius shows up early. I see why he is so revered. I would like to learn the art of short story writing and Joyce is the master.

This book is a series of vignettes, snapshots or sketches. Just the ticket for those who want a brief read before turning out the light, perhaps. But all the stories have a streak of sadness and harsh reality of those years before World War I, so your dreams may not be so sweet. There are fifteen stories but I will refer to just three.

I loved THE BOARDING HOUSE. This covers the life of the boarding house owner, Mrs. Mooney and her daughter Polly. Polly starts a dalliance with one of the boarders—thirty-five-year-old, Mr. Doran—a man with a fairly good job—a decent catch. Madam will deal with matters of emotion ‘like a cleaver to meat’, as Joyce delicately puts it, especially where her daughter’s honor is at stake. No man would be allowed to abuse her hospitality and get away with it under her own roof. Like Polly, now sullied, Mr. Doran stands to lose everything.

ARABY is one of my favorites and tells the story of a boy who falls for the girl across the street, the sister of a friend. He is obsessed with her and she fills his thoughts for every moment, at school, at home. He sits by the parlor window staring at her door across the street. Love is painful. This story is relevant to all of us at that age as boys and girls who become smitten. Puppy love. Eventually the girl speaks to him under the lamp light. He notices every detail about her. Joyce describes the light on her body and her petticoat. She tells him she would love to go the Araby market on Saturday, but she has to go to a church meeting. Thrilled, the boy tells her he is going and will bring her something back. He now has a mission and a reason to get closer to her. He counts the hours until he can go after getting permission from his aunt and promise of money from his uncle. Frustratingly, his uncle comes home late that Saturday evening and has forgotten about his promise. His aunt persuades him to give him the money and let him go. Joyce describes the lonely train journey to the bazaar. He’s been given a florin (two shillings—about twenty-five cents in today’s money) and spends most of it on the train fare and a shilling to get in. Once inside, most of the stalls are now closed. Deflated, he stares at a stall with jars and things and the girl who he’d heard talking with two men asks him if he wants to buy something. He tells her ‘no’. Most of his money is gone now. He notices the accents of the girl and two men are English. Why? It just is. And it makes it all the more real. He storms out feeling angry with himself for what he realizes is a fool’s errand, for his stupidity and pride—one of those coming-of-age moments in a young man’s life.

Joyce makes the complex look simple. He does not explain anything and leaves somethings as a mystery. Why does he mention that they live in a house where a priest had died? Why does the boy live with his uncle and aunt? Where are his mother and father? We must presume they are dead. That is how things are in the boy’s life. And that’s how the best writing is. Things left unexplained.

These are stories like beautifully prepared simple meals. Every bite, every word, delicious. Of course, simple meals aren’t always so simple. Often preparation is complex, resulting in exquisite, memorable taste.

THE DEAD is reckoned to be one of Joyce’s masterpieces and John Huston filmed it beautifully and showed his own genius. The main character, Gabriel, takes his wife to a Christmas celebration at the house of his two aunts with many in attendance. Later that night, he takes his wife home by carriage in the snow and all the while he is feels his love for her, as he’d done all evening, and looks forward to making love to her at their hotel room. Once there, and after chatting with her, he realizes she is distraught. He learns of a previous love she had had for a boy she’d known when she was young and who had died, or willed himself to die when she left to live in another town. Gabriel’s own sadness and crushed spirit are evident as, with tears in his eyes, he looks out into the gently falling snow that must be falling on his wife’s sweetheart’s grave and across all of Ireland. The last paragraphs are said to be some of the greatest writing in English literature. John Huston’s excellent film maybe viewed on Youtube.

On looking back over The Dubliners, I have to ask myself: are these stories and Joyce’s writing so impactful that they could change how you think? Yes, I think so. I’ll read them again and again. The more one delves, the more one sees. It’s not really so much about the dreary lives of people Joyce writes about, but about the writing itself that conjures up emotional experience.

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Robert R. Clarke

DUBLINERS

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on April 17, 2023

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I HAD A SHAKE DOWN OF SORTS READING THE NOVEL DUBLINERS BY JAMES JOYCE. IT WASN'T THAT I DIDN'T FIGURE THE BEGINNING CONCLUDED THE REST. I READ IT, AND I UNDERSTOOD THE POINT OF THIS READING. EVERYTHING STARTS WHEN THE CHURCH LEAVES.

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Steven M. Anthony

A Collection of 14 VERY Short, and One Excellent Short Story

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on December 3, 2012

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While shopping for books recently on Amazon, I was trying to upgrade my reading list through the addition of some "classics" that I'd avoided in the past. In doing so, I discovered a couple of relatively short works by authors that were somewhat intimidating by reputation. Having done a little research, I was pretty sure that authors such as Camus, Sartre, Joyce and Faulkner would probably not be to my liking. Nevertheless, I picked up Camus' The Plague and Dubliners by James Joyce, emboldened by their brevity. In hindsight, I'm glad I did, though I'm unlikely to delve much deeper.

This short (140 relatively dense pages) work is a compilation of short stories centered upon the Irish city of Dublin near the turn of the 20th century. These short stories are VERY short, most in the range of 5-10 pages long. I don't necessarily dislike short stories, however I like for my short stories to be at least long enough to actually tell a story and this collection fails in that regard. Many of the offerings merely paint a tapestry, albeit in beautiful prose, but fall short of actually engaging the reader. In truth, there are no "stories" as much as vignettes. They were very reminiscent of many of the short Hemingway stories I'd read; beautifully written, but too short to capture my interest.

I was quite disappointed after having read the first three or four very short vignettes, but it soon became apparent that the short stories were coalescing into a larger picture and the reader begins to get a more complete picture of the city, its people and their culture. Then, the final story, The Dead, proves a fitting capstone to the collection. Far longer than the other stories, at about 30 pages, it is by far the most powerful and memorable of the stories.

Bottom line: This is a very short book containing very short stories, most of which are TOO short for my taste. Taken as a collection, however, they serve the purpose of making the reader familiar with the city, its people and their period in history. The final work makes the entire effort worthwhile. It was a two star effort through the first half, becoming three star as the stories coalesced, vaulted to four star by the final story.

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Satisfied Customer

The kid knows how to write.

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on February 10, 2023

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He described the citizens of Dublin very accurately and he does it in a very interesting manner. He has a voice.

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Amazon Customer

Simple stories for different people

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on August 22, 2022

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If you want to read something that does not create any conscious emotions in you, this book is a good one. It is not a book that I just can't put down, to feel a need to continue reading.
It is not a book that will actually learn you something new. I don't find the described persons any different from those living in any city or village all over the world. The personages are just too flat for me.

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guitarlover

Dublin itself is the main protagonist

Reviewed in Australia 🇦🇺 on November 21, 2022

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The stories are beautifully written and full of symbolism and meaning. The end notes throughout each story are essential to understand the deeper meanings, the unique features of Dublin, and especially the many Irish and slang words. If one intends to read the great work Ulysses, it would be a good idea to read the Dubliners first in order to get acquainted with James Joyce's style.

Hannah Donovan

Four Stars

Reviewed in Australia 🇦🇺 on March 31, 2015

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Easy to read. Slice of life and insite into characters of Dublin at turn of twentieth century.

Jaime Lerner

Joyce antes de Ulysses

Reviewed in Brazil 🇧🇷 on December 11, 2018

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Livro de contos do escritor irlandês, cujo conjunto traça um perfil dos moradores de Dublin no início do século XX. A narrativa é linear, sem as charadas e invenciones de Ulisses, porém já demonstrando uma aguda força de observação e a vontade de penetrar na consciência e alma de seus personagens.

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Flavia Paiani

Beautiful and Touching

Reviewed in Brazil 🇧🇷 on March 3, 2018

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It is the first time I read Joyce. His stories have led me to Dublin and its people. Even when you are not acquainted with Irish history and culture, you can understand most of Joyce's stories. Besides that, the author constructs interesting characters (so human, indeed). The last story, The Dead, is an example of what I am telling you. Its end is really beautiful, powerful, and touching.

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ecnrb

Dubliners

Reviewed in Brazil 🇧🇷 on November 25, 2019

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James Joyce para ser apreciado. Detalhe para o conto "The Dead", mote para último grande filme de Jonh Huston, com sua filha Anjelica, em 1987.

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