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- Name
- araby1720.txt
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- 12.13 KB
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North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at
the hour when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An
uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from
its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street,
conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown
imperturbable faces.
The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back
drawingroom. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all
the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old
useless papers. Among these I found a few papercovered books, the
pages of which were curled and damp: *The Abbot*, by Walter Scott, *The
Devout Communicant* and *The Memoirs of Vidocq*. I liked the last best
because its leaves were yellow. 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 bicyclepump. He had been a
very charitable . . .
- Name
- case1720.txt
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- 19.89 KB
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Mr James Duffy lived in Chapelizod because he wished to live as
far as possible from the city of which he was a citizen and because he
found all the other suburbs of Dublin mean, modern, and pretentious.
He lived in an old sombre house, and from his windows he could look
into the disused distillery or upwards along the shallow river on
which Dublin is built. The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room were
free from pictures. He had himself bought every article of furniture
in the room: a black iron bedstead, an iron washstand, four cane
chairs, a clothesrack, a coalscuttle, a fender and irons and a square
table on which lay a double desk. A bookcase had been made in an
alcove by means of shelves of white wood. The bed was clothed with
white bedclothes and a black and scarlet rug covered the foot. A
little handmirror hung above the washstand and during the day a
whiteshaded lamp stood as the sole ornament of the mantelpiece. The
books on the white wooden shelves were arranged from below . . .
- Name
- clay1720.txt
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- 13.56 KB
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The matron had given her leave to go out as soon as the women's
tea was over, and Maria looked forward to her evening out. The kitchen
was spick and span: the cook said you could see yourself in the big
copper boilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one of the
sidetables were four very big barmbracks. These barmbracks seemed
uncut; but if you went closer you would see that they had been cut
into long thick even slices and were ready to be handed round at tea.
Maria had cut them herself.
Maria was a very, very small person indeed, but she had a very
long nose and a very long chin. She talked a little through her nose,
always soothingly: '*Yes, my dear*' and '*No, my dear*.' She was always
sent for when the women quarrelled over their tubs and always
succeeded in making peace. One day the matron had said to her:
'Maria, you are a veritable peacemaker!'
And the submatron and two of the Board ladies had heard the
compliment. And Ginger Mooney was always saying what she . . .
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- cloud1720.txt
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- 27.03 KB
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Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall
and wished him Godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at
once by his travelled air, his wellcut tweed suit, and fearless
accent. Few fellows had talents like his, and fewer still could remain
unspoiled by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and
he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.
Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunchtime had been of his
meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation, and of the great city
London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because,
though he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the
idea of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame
was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took
the greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache, and used
perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The halfmoons of his nails
were perfect, and when he smiled you . . .
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- dead1720.txt
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- 85.32 KB
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Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet.
Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the
office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat, than
the wheezy halldoor bell clanged again and she had to scamper along
the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had
not to attend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and Miss Julia had
thought of that and had converted the bathroom upstairs into a ladies'
dressingroom. Miss Kate and Miss Julia were there, gossipping and
laughing and fussing, walking after each other to the head of the
stairs, peering down over the banisters and calling down to Lily to
ask her who had come.
It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's annual dance.
Everybody who knew them came to it, members of the family, old friends
of the family, the members of Julia's choir, any of Kate's pupils that
were grown up enough, and even some of Mary Jane's pupils too. Never
once had it fa . . .
- Name
- dubnote1720.txt
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- 4.92 KB
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DUBLINERS
As with *APOTAAAYM* and *Dubliners*, the edition I have used
is *The Essential James Joyce*, the 1973 Penguin reprint of Jonathan
Cape's edition of 1948 (JC).
I have tried to reduce the number of hyphens to a sensible
minimum - I'm sure Joyce would have liked me to strike out even more
of them. I seriously considered following the *Portrait* and *Ulysses*
style for conversations, but this would have meant making minor, but
frequent, changes in wording. In my more inflated moments I feel that
having typed more than half a million of Joyce's words I am reasonably
qualified to make this sort of change, but cooler counsels prevailed.
As well as correcting the usual (and numerous) 'obvious'
errors, I have made a few amendments which might or might not be
specific to JC:
An Encounter. In the final paragraph, JC has 'Now my heart beat as he
came running across the field to me!'. I have read this as 'How my
heart ....'.
Eveline . . .
- Name
- encount1720.txt
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- 16.89 KB
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It was Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a
little library made up of old numbers of *The Union Jack, Pluck*, and
*The Halfpenny Marvel*. Every evening after school we met in his back
garden and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo,
the idler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to carry it by
storm; or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well
we fought, we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with
Joe Dillon's war dance of victory. His parents went to eight-o'clock
mass every morning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs
Dillon was prevalent in the hall of the house. But he played too
fiercely for us who were younger and more timid. He looked like some
kind of an Indian when he capered round the garden, an old teacosy on
his head, beating a tin with his fist and yelling:
'Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!'
Everyone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a
vocation for the priesthood. Nev . . .
- Name
- eveline1720.txt
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- 9.51 KB
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She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her
head was leaned against the window curtains, and in her nostrils was
the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way
home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and
afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One
time there used to be a field there in which they used to play every
evening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought
the field and built houses in it - not like their little brown houses,
but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue
used to play together in that field - the Devines, the Waters, the
Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters.
Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used
often to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but
usually little Keogh used to keep *nix* and call out . . .
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- gallants1720.txt
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- 20.81 KB
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The grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city, and a
mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets. The
streets, shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed with a gaily
coloured crowd. Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits
of their tall poles upon the living texture below, which, changing
shape and hue unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an
unchanging, unceasing murmur.
Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. One of them
was just bringing a long monologue to a close. The other, who walked
on the verge of the path and was at times obliged to step on to the
road, owing to his companion's rudeness, wore an amused, listening
face. He was squat and ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from
his forehead, and the narrative to which he listened made constant
waves of expression break forth over his face from the corners of his
nose and eyes and mouth. Little jets of wheezing laughter followed one
another ou . . .
- Name
- grace1720.txt
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- 41.79 KB
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Two gentlemen who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift
him up: but he was quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the
stairs down which he had fallen. They succeeded in turning him over.
His hat had rolled a few yards away and his clothes were smeared with
the filth and ooze of the floor on which he had lain, face downwards.
His eyes were closed and he breathed with a grunting noise. A thin
stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
The two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up the stairs
and laid him down again on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he was
surrounded by a ring of men. The manager of the bar asked everyone who
he was and who was with him. No one knew who he was, but one of the
curates said he had served the gentleman with a small rum.
'Was he by himself?' asked the manager.
'No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him.'
'And where are they?'
No one knew: a voice said:
'Give him air. He's fainted.'
T . . .
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- house1720.txt
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- 14.84 KB
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Mrs Mooney was a butcher's daughter. She was a woman who was quite
able to keep things to herself: a determined woman. She had married
her father's foreman, and opened a butcher's shop near Spring
Gardens. But as soon as his father-in-law was dead Mr Mooney began to
go to the devil. He drank, plundered the till, ran headlong into debt.
It was no use making him take the pledge: he was sure to break out
again a few days after. By fighting his wife in the presence of
customers and by buying bad meat he ruined his business. One night he
went for his wife with the cleaver, and she had to sleep in a
neighbour's house.
After that they lived apart. She went to the priest and got a
separation from him, with care of the children. She would give him
neither money nor food nor houseroom; and so he was obliged to enlist
himself as a sheriff's man. He was a shabby stooped little drunkard
with a white face and a white moustache and white eyebrows, pencilled
above his little eyes, which were p . . .
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- ivy1720.txt
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- 28.9 KB
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Old Jack raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and
spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. When the
dome was thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as he set
himself to fan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended the
opposite wall and his face slowly re-emerged into light. It was an old
man's face, very bony and hairy. The moist blue eyes blinked at the
fire and the moist mouth fell open at times, munching once or twice
mechanically when it closed. When the cinders had caught he laid the
piece of cardboard against the wall, sighed and said:
'That's better now, Mr O'Connor.'
Mr O'Connor, a greyhaired young man, whose face was disfigured by
many blotches and pimples, had just brought the tobacco for a
cigarette into a shapely cylinder, but when spoken to he undid his
handiwork meditatively. Then he began to roll the tobacco again
meditatively and after a moment's thought decided to lick the paper.
'Did Mr Tierney say when . . .
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- mother1720.txt
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- 24.88 KB
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Mr Holohan, assistant secretary of the *Eire Abu* Society, had been
walking up and down Dublin for nearly a month, with his hands and
pockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging about the series of
concerts. He had a game leg, and for this his friends called him Hoppy
Holohan. He walked up and down constantly, stood by the hour at street
corners arguing the point and made notes; but in the end it was Mrs
Kearney who arranged everything.
Miss Devlin had become Mrs Kearney out of spite. She had been
educated in a highclass convent, where she had learned French and
music. As she was naturally pale and unbending in manner she made few
friends at school. When she came to the age of marriage she was sent
out to many houses, where her playing and ivory manners were much
admired. She sat amid the chilly circle of her accomplishments,
waiting for some suitor to brave it and offer her a brilliant life.
But the young men whom she met were ordinary and she gave them no
encouragement, . . .
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- parts1720.txt
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- 21.82 KB
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The bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a
furious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent:
'Send Farrington here!'
Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was
writing at a desk:
'Mr Alleyne wants you upstairs.'
The man muttered '*Blast* him!' under his breath and pushed back his
chair to stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He
had a hanging face, dark winecoloured, with fair eyebrows and
moustache: his eyes bulged forwards slightly and the whites of them
were dirty. He lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went
out of the office with a heavy step.
He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing,
where a door bore a brass plate with the inscription *Mr Alleyne*. Here
he halted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill
voice cried:
'Come in!'
The man entered Mr Alleyne's room. Simultaneously Mr Alleyne, a
little man wearing goldrimmed gla . . .
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- race1720.txt
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- 12.4 KB
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The cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like
pellets in the groove of the Naas Road. At the crest of the hill at
Inchicore sightseers had gathered in clumps to watch the cars
careering homeward, and through this channel of poverty and inaction
the Continent sped its wealth and industry. Now and again the clumps
of people raised the cheer of the gratefully oppressed. Their
sympathy, however, was for the blue cars - the cars of their friends,
the French.
The French, moreover, were virtual victors. Their team had
finished solidly; they had been placed second and third and the driver
of the winning German car was reported a Belgian. Each blue car,
therefore, received a double measure of welcome as it topped the crest
of the hill, and each cheer of welcome was acknowledged with smiles
and nods by those in the car. In one of these trimly built cars was a
party of four young men whose spirits seemed to be at present well
above the level of successful Gallicism: in fac . . .
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- sisters1720.txt
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- 16.36 KB
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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 ladl . . .
