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The Dead
He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of.
Often cited as the best work of short fiction ever written, Joyce's elegant story details a New Year's Eve gathering in Dublin that is so evocative and beautiful that it prompts the protagonist's wife to make a shocking revelation to her husband—closing the story with an emotionally powerful epiphany that is unsurpassed in modern literature.
The Art of The Novella Series
Too short to be a novel, too long to be a short story, the novella is generally unrecognized by academics and publishers. Nonetheless, it is a form beloved and practiced by literature's greatest writers. In the Art Of The Novella series, Melville House celebrates this renegade art form and its practitioners with titles that are, in many instances, presented in book form for the first time.
Often cited as the best work of short fiction ever written, Joyce's elegant story details a New Year's Eve gathering in Dublin that is so evocative and beautiful that it prompts the protagonist's wife to make a shocking revelation to her husband—closing the story with an emotionally powerful epiphany that is unsurpassed in modern literature.
The Art of The Novella Series
Too short to be a novel, too long to be a short story, the novella is generally unrecognized by academics and publishers. Nonetheless, it is a form beloved and practiced by literature's greatest writers. In the Art Of The Novella series, Melville House celebrates this renegade art form and its practitioners with titles that are, in many instances, presented in book form for the first time.
82 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1914
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About the author
James Joyce
1,715 books9,502 followersJames Joyce was an Irish novelist, poet, and a pivotal figure in 20th-century modernist literature, renowned for his highly experimental approach to language and narrative structure, particularly his pioneering mastery and popularization of the stream-of-consciousness technique. Born into a middle-class Catholic family in the Rathgar suburb of Dublin in 1882, Joyce spent the majority of his adult life in self-imposed exile across continental Europe—living in Trieste, Zurich, and Paris—yet his entire, meticulous body of work remained obsessively and comprehensively focused on the minutiae of his native city, making Dublin both the meticulously detailed setting and a central, inescapable character in his literary universe. His work is consistently characterized by its technical complexity, rich literary allusion, intricate symbolism, and an unflinching examination of the spectrum of human consciousness. Joyce began his published career with Dubliners (1914), a collection of fifteen short stories offering a naturalistic, often stark, depiction of middle-class Irish life and the moral and spiritual paralysis he observed in its inhabitants, concluding each story with a moment of crucial, sudden self-understanding he termed an "epiphany." This collection was followed by the highly autobiographical novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916), a Bildungsroman that meticulously chronicled the intellectual and artistic awakening of its protagonist, Stephen Dedalus, who would become Joyce's recurring alter ego and intellectual stand-in throughout his major works.
His magnum opus, Ulysses (1922), is universally regarded as a landmark work of fiction that fundamentally revolutionized the novel form. It compressed the events of a single, ordinary day—June 16, 1904, a date now globally celebrated by literary enthusiasts as "Bloomsday"—into a sprawling, epic narrative that structurally and symbolically paralleled Homer's Odyssey, using a dazzling array of distinct styles and linguistic invention across its eighteen episodes to explore the lives of Leopold Bloom, his wife Molly Bloom, and Stephen Dedalus in hyper-minute detail. The novel's explicit content and innovative, challenging structure led to its initial banning for obscenity in the United States and the United Kingdom, turning Joyce into a cause célèbre for artistic freedom and the boundaries of literary expression. His final, most challenging work, Finnegans Wake (1939), pushed the boundaries of language and conventional narrative even further, employing a dense, dream-like prose filled with multilingual puns, invented portmanteau words, and layered allusions that continues to divide and challenge readers and scholars to this day. A dedicated polyglot who reportedly learned several languages, including Norwegian simply to read Ibsen in the original, Joyce approached the English language not as a fixed entity with rigid rules, but as a malleable medium capable of infinite reinvention and expression. His personal life was marked by an unwavering dedication to his literary craft, a complex, devoted relationship with his wife Nora Barnacle, and chronic, debilitating eye problems that necessitated numerous painful surgeries throughout his life, sometimes forcing him to write with crayons on large white paper. Despite these severe physical ailments and financial struggles, his singular literary vision remained sharp, focused, and profoundly revolutionary. Joyce passed away in Zurich, Switzerland, in 1941, shortly after undergoing one of his many eye operations. Today, he is widely regarded as perhaps the most significant and challenging writer of the 20th century. His immense, complex legacy is robustly maintained by global academic study and institutions such as the James Joyce Centre in Dublin, which ensures his complex, demanding, and utterly brilliant work endures, inviting new generations of readers to explore the very essence of what it means to be hum
His magnum opus, Ulysses (1922), is universally regarded as a landmark work of fiction that fundamentally revolutionized the novel form. It compressed the events of a single, ordinary day—June 16, 1904, a date now globally celebrated by literary enthusiasts as "Bloomsday"—into a sprawling, epic narrative that structurally and symbolically paralleled Homer's Odyssey, using a dazzling array of distinct styles and linguistic invention across its eighteen episodes to explore the lives of Leopold Bloom, his wife Molly Bloom, and Stephen Dedalus in hyper-minute detail. The novel's explicit content and innovative, challenging structure led to its initial banning for obscenity in the United States and the United Kingdom, turning Joyce into a cause célèbre for artistic freedom and the boundaries of literary expression. His final, most challenging work, Finnegans Wake (1939), pushed the boundaries of language and conventional narrative even further, employing a dense, dream-like prose filled with multilingual puns, invented portmanteau words, and layered allusions that continues to divide and challenge readers and scholars to this day. A dedicated polyglot who reportedly learned several languages, including Norwegian simply to read Ibsen in the original, Joyce approached the English language not as a fixed entity with rigid rules, but as a malleable medium capable of infinite reinvention and expression. His personal life was marked by an unwavering dedication to his literary craft, a complex, devoted relationship with his wife Nora Barnacle, and chronic, debilitating eye problems that necessitated numerous painful surgeries throughout his life, sometimes forcing him to write with crayons on large white paper. Despite these severe physical ailments and financial struggles, his singular literary vision remained sharp, focused, and profoundly revolutionary. Joyce passed away in Zurich, Switzerland, in 1941, shortly after undergoing one of his many eye operations. Today, he is widely regarded as perhaps the most significant and challenging writer of the 20th century. His immense, complex legacy is robustly maintained by global academic study and institutions such as the James Joyce Centre in Dublin, which ensures his complex, demanding, and utterly brilliant work endures, inviting new generations of readers to explore the very essence of what it means to be hum
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,924 reviews
November 22, 2019
Can a story leave your heart aching like this after just a few short pages?! I’ve just learned that it can indeed. The beautiful, expressive prose delighted me. The nostalgic quality charmed me. The melancholic air indulged my current state of emotion while reading. I don’t know what I was expecting, but James Joyce exceeded whatever I could have possibly been looking for in this little novella.
"He was in a dark part of the hall gazing up the staircase. A woman was standing near the top of the first flight, in the shadow also. He could not see her face but he could see the terra-cotta and salmon-pink panels of her skirt which the shadow made appear black and white… He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter."
A holiday party hardly seems the place for a revelation, and I certainly didn’t anticipate what came next. A song, a painting, a word, anything can spark a memory. Are we living the life we should be – a life filled with beauty and passion? Or, are we wasting opportunities, and letting them slip through our fingers? I can’t say too much or I’ll spoil the perfection of the last few pages of this piece.
Why does my literary diet not include James Joyce? He’s Irish, for heaven’s sake! It’s no wonder his writing appealed to me so much.
"Like the tender fire of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy."
"He was in a dark part of the hall gazing up the staircase. A woman was standing near the top of the first flight, in the shadow also. He could not see her face but he could see the terra-cotta and salmon-pink panels of her skirt which the shadow made appear black and white… He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter."
A holiday party hardly seems the place for a revelation, and I certainly didn’t anticipate what came next. A song, a painting, a word, anything can spark a memory. Are we living the life we should be – a life filled with beauty and passion? Or, are we wasting opportunities, and letting them slip through our fingers? I can’t say too much or I’ll spoil the perfection of the last few pages of this piece.
Why does my literary diet not include James Joyce? He’s Irish, for heaven’s sake! It’s no wonder his writing appealed to me so much.
"Like the tender fire of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy."
May 19, 2022
"One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age."
James Joyce's The Dead is a deceptively brilliant story! While the dinner party where most of the action takes place isn't always riveting, everything is important. By the waning hours of the evening, you feel the full force of all the details from the party in Gretta Conroy's conversation with her husband, Gabriel. Gretta recounts the story of a former now dead boyfriend whose memory has been evoked by the party. In the space of a few minutes, Gabriel's world is turned upside down as he thinks about the dead who are now living as memories in all of us, and how we'll all pass into that territory.
James Joyce's The Dead is a deceptively brilliant story! While the dinner party where most of the action takes place isn't always riveting, everything is important. By the waning hours of the evening, you feel the full force of all the details from the party in Gretta Conroy's conversation with her husband, Gabriel. Gretta recounts the story of a former now dead boyfriend whose memory has been evoked by the party. In the space of a few minutes, Gabriel's world is turned upside down as he thinks about the dead who are now living as memories in all of us, and how we'll all pass into that territory.
March 2, 2023
MUSICA LONTANA
John Huston: The Dead, 1987.
C’era grazia e mistero nel suo atteggiamento, come se fosse simbolo di qualcosa.
È la moglie di Gabriel in cima alle scale, ferma in penombra, che ascolta le ultime note di una canzone, cantata e suonata da due ospiti attardatisi nella sala della festa ormai rimasta deserta.
Il marito, la guarda dal basso, nell’atrio, anche lui in zona d’ombra. Mentre tutti gli altri, ospiti e padrone di casa, sono sulla porta impegnati nei saluti o nel salire in carrozza.
Si domandò di che cosa potesse mai essere simbolo una donna in piedi sulle scale nell’ombra, in ascolto di una musica lontana. Se fosse stato un pittore l’avrebbe ritratta in quell’atteggiamento… “Musica lontana” avrebbe intitolato il quadro, se fosse stato un pittore.
La penombra, lo sguardo dal basso verso l’alto – prospettiva che echeggia quel continuo rapporto dentro-fuori - l’interno caldo, avvolgente e familiare, l’esterno innevato, freddo e frizzante – che a sua volta direi simbolizza il rapporto vivi-morti - la grazia e il mistero, che sono parte dell’essenza di questo racconto: ecco mi pare la sintesi perfetta di questo breve capolavoro, che rientra in quella splendida categoria che mi viene da definire letteratura della perfezione.
Siamo a un passo dal momento in cui avviandosi verso l’albergo dove passeranno la notte, a piedi in cerca di una vettura, Gabriel s’infiamma di desiderio per sua moglie Gretta: un’ eccitazione composta di passione e al contempo tenerezza, che lo spinge a pregustare i pochi momenti che lo separano da quando saranno soli.
Al punto che non solo è indifferente alla mancanza di luce elettrica – un guasto nella linea – ma rifiuta la candela che il vecchio concierge vorrebbe lasciargli. Al buio, nella penombra disegnata dalla luce lunare che arriva dalla finestra, solo con sua moglie.
Se non che…
Per chi non avesse ancora letto questo breve capolavoro, questa meraviglia tra le meraviglie (per me si tratta della terza o quarta volta), non voglio anticipare il finale raggelante che regala un’emozione intensa. E una vertigine da altezza.
Nell’ultima lunga scena la luce è solo quella lunare che entra dalla finestra.
Gabriel è palesemente lo stesso Joyce con la sua ansia di “andare a ovest”, la sua difficoltà a respirare nell’asfittica e provinciale Irlanda. Ogni pagina è piena di richiami, rimandi, simboli. La delizia inizia da subito, dagli arrivi alla festa nella casa delle sue anziane zie. E prosegue attraverso chiacchiere, danze, cibi e bevande.
Il desiderio, tanto più quando erotico, è segno di vitalità, di giovinezza: ci vuole poco però a impattare col mondo della delusione, della frustrazione, della mediocrità. Col mondo dei morti. I morti che con-vivono coi vivi.
E poi quel film così bello da un regista e da sua figlia protagonista, entrambi artisti sanguigni dai quali era difficile aspettarsi una vetta di simile grazia, misura e mistero.
Magnifica l’immagine scelta per il manifesto del film.
John Huston: The Dead, 1987.
C’era grazia e mistero nel suo atteggiamento, come se fosse simbolo di qualcosa.
È la moglie di Gabriel in cima alle scale, ferma in penombra, che ascolta le ultime note di una canzone, cantata e suonata da due ospiti attardatisi nella sala della festa ormai rimasta deserta.
Il marito, la guarda dal basso, nell’atrio, anche lui in zona d’ombra. Mentre tutti gli altri, ospiti e padrone di casa, sono sulla porta impegnati nei saluti o nel salire in carrozza.
Si domandò di che cosa potesse mai essere simbolo una donna in piedi sulle scale nell’ombra, in ascolto di una musica lontana. Se fosse stato un pittore l’avrebbe ritratta in quell’atteggiamento… “Musica lontana” avrebbe intitolato il quadro, se fosse stato un pittore.
La penombra, lo sguardo dal basso verso l’alto – prospettiva che echeggia quel continuo rapporto dentro-fuori - l’interno caldo, avvolgente e familiare, l’esterno innevato, freddo e frizzante – che a sua volta direi simbolizza il rapporto vivi-morti - la grazia e il mistero, che sono parte dell’essenza di questo racconto: ecco mi pare la sintesi perfetta di questo breve capolavoro, che rientra in quella splendida categoria che mi viene da definire letteratura della perfezione.
Siamo a un passo dal momento in cui avviandosi verso l’albergo dove passeranno la notte, a piedi in cerca di una vettura, Gabriel s’infiamma di desiderio per sua moglie Gretta: un’ eccitazione composta di passione e al contempo tenerezza, che lo spinge a pregustare i pochi momenti che lo separano da quando saranno soli.
Al punto che non solo è indifferente alla mancanza di luce elettrica – un guasto nella linea – ma rifiuta la candela che il vecchio concierge vorrebbe lasciargli. Al buio, nella penombra disegnata dalla luce lunare che arriva dalla finestra, solo con sua moglie.
Se non che…
Per chi non avesse ancora letto questo breve capolavoro, questa meraviglia tra le meraviglie (per me si tratta della terza o quarta volta), non voglio anticipare il finale raggelante che regala un’emozione intensa. E una vertigine da altezza.
Nell’ultima lunga scena la luce è solo quella lunare che entra dalla finestra.
Gabriel è palesemente lo stesso Joyce con la sua ansia di “andare a ovest”, la sua difficoltà a respirare nell’asfittica e provinciale Irlanda. Ogni pagina è piena di richiami, rimandi, simboli. La delizia inizia da subito, dagli arrivi alla festa nella casa delle sue anziane zie. E prosegue attraverso chiacchiere, danze, cibi e bevande.
Il desiderio, tanto più quando erotico, è segno di vitalità, di giovinezza: ci vuole poco però a impattare col mondo della delusione, della frustrazione, della mediocrità. Col mondo dei morti. I morti che con-vivono coi vivi.
E poi quel film così bello da un regista e da sua figlia protagonista, entrambi artisti sanguigni dai quali era difficile aspettarsi una vetta di simile grazia, misura e mistero.
Magnifica l’immagine scelta per il manifesto del film.
December 13, 2017
As with life, there are the small experiences so basic and common to most people that evokes a primal force from deep within. One of them of course is the family get-together, especially at Christmas time, a time where affecting memories are brought to the surface, of loved ones no longer here. Through all the chit-chat, artifices, tensions, jokes, warmth, laughter, and faithful hugs, however brief these moments are, there is a poignant notion stirred by the knowledge that we all come from somebody, and most of the somebodies we come from happen to be dead.
James Joyce has penned a beautifully crafted narrative which could be viewed as either a long short-story or a short Novella, dealing with themes of love and loss as well as raising questions about the nature of the Irish identity, something that is strongly pointed out here. Set during the festive period, it's the Morkans annual Christmas dinner party at their upstairs rooms in Dublin, an event Aunt Julia and Aunt Kate, and their niece Mary Jane, have hosted in sumptuous style for 30 years. Their regular guests for this sumptuous gathering include nephew Gabriel Conroy and his wife Gretta; Mr. Browne, a dear friend even if he is Protestant; the dependably inebriated Freddy Malins and his long-suffering mother, Mrs. Malins; and the more recent arrivals, the testy nationalist Miss Molly Ivors and the opera singer Bartell D’Arcy. All are here, in high spirits for what should be another splendid evening in each others company.
It may be 1904, but they do no different to what families everywhere have done since, they gather around feeling merry, sing and dance, tell jokes and stories. They reminisce, demur shyly from compliments, and share fluttering covert anxieties and brief bitter memories. Gabriel, who I guess could be seen as the main character, will rise at the end of the dinner table to make his annual florid speech. The main difference this year is that Julia’s weak spells are more pronounced, and Gretta is held in unusual reveries. Earlier, Miss Ivors rattles Gabriel on his Irish identity, as he publishes weekly a literary column in a newspaper with unionist sympathies. He becomes disaffected, and retreats into himself, and now is bothered by his impending speech. By the end of the evening, as guests filter out, and goodbyes are said, Gretta appears lost in thought with a deep sense of melancholy, whilst Gabriel is looking forward to some intimate time spent with his wife at a hotel. Gretta's lack of interest though during their stay is down a piece of music heard during the party, being reminded of a young man from her youth. And this is where in her mind, the dead come back to life.
Joyce’s crystalline prose, along with some wonderfully observed dialogue had me in awe, it was all the little subtleties that made the biggest differences making for a scintillating read which confronted the fragility of the human spirit, and our relationship with the souls and memories of the Dead. As short-stories go, it's damn near perfection.
James Joyce has penned a beautifully crafted narrative which could be viewed as either a long short-story or a short Novella, dealing with themes of love and loss as well as raising questions about the nature of the Irish identity, something that is strongly pointed out here. Set during the festive period, it's the Morkans annual Christmas dinner party at their upstairs rooms in Dublin, an event Aunt Julia and Aunt Kate, and their niece Mary Jane, have hosted in sumptuous style for 30 years. Their regular guests for this sumptuous gathering include nephew Gabriel Conroy and his wife Gretta; Mr. Browne, a dear friend even if he is Protestant; the dependably inebriated Freddy Malins and his long-suffering mother, Mrs. Malins; and the more recent arrivals, the testy nationalist Miss Molly Ivors and the opera singer Bartell D’Arcy. All are here, in high spirits for what should be another splendid evening in each others company.
It may be 1904, but they do no different to what families everywhere have done since, they gather around feeling merry, sing and dance, tell jokes and stories. They reminisce, demur shyly from compliments, and share fluttering covert anxieties and brief bitter memories. Gabriel, who I guess could be seen as the main character, will rise at the end of the dinner table to make his annual florid speech. The main difference this year is that Julia’s weak spells are more pronounced, and Gretta is held in unusual reveries. Earlier, Miss Ivors rattles Gabriel on his Irish identity, as he publishes weekly a literary column in a newspaper with unionist sympathies. He becomes disaffected, and retreats into himself, and now is bothered by his impending speech. By the end of the evening, as guests filter out, and goodbyes are said, Gretta appears lost in thought with a deep sense of melancholy, whilst Gabriel is looking forward to some intimate time spent with his wife at a hotel. Gretta's lack of interest though during their stay is down a piece of music heard during the party, being reminded of a young man from her youth. And this is where in her mind, the dead come back to life.
Joyce’s crystalline prose, along with some wonderfully observed dialogue had me in awe, it was all the little subtleties that made the biggest differences making for a scintillating read which confronted the fragility of the human spirit, and our relationship with the souls and memories of the Dead. As short-stories go, it's damn near perfection.
October 9, 2022
It’s snowy in Dublin as guests arrive for the Misses Morkan’s annual Christmas dinner dance. There’s bustle, busyness, confusion of names and relationships, comings and goings, greetings and gossip. It felt better suited to the stage (and I later found out it has been adapted for stage and screen). The hosts are musical and generous, but middle class and not affluent.
And so it continued for about 20 of about 30 pages, adding a little context for most of the characters. I found it rather dull (even though the central character, Gabriel, reviews books 😉). You need to know about Irish political and church history of the period, c1914, to appreciate it, as indicated by the number of footnotes in the anthology I read it in. Gabriel, like all but one of the people there, is a Catholic. But he likes travelling in Europe, rather than Ireland. He worries about the younger, “hypereducated”, generation full of new ideas in a sceptical and “thought-tormented age”. He fears they won’t uphold “the tradition of genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality”. But he’s offended to be called a West Briton.
Image: Gaelic League poster from 1913 (the year before this was published) contrasting a proud, independent Éire with a craven, dependent West Britain. (Source)
Transfiguration
Finally, the story elegantly and poignantly rises to new realms.
As they’re leaving his aunts’ party, Gabriel gazes up the stairs and sees his wife, Gretta, captivated by the sound of distant song.
“She was standing right under the dusty fanlight and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair… At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart.”
His passion rekindled, along with happy memories of their early courting (his family disapproved), they go to their hotel.
“He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers.”
Image: Gabriel watches Gretta (Anjelica Huston) transfixed by song in a scene from John Huston's 1987 film of The Dead (Source)
But the memories that whetted her eyes were not the ones Gabriel assumed. He wrestles with many feelings and ultimately confronts mortality: his aunts', his wife’s, and his own:
“One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age…
His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”
I’m glad I persisted with this story. If I hadn’t loved another piece from Dubliners immediately before, I might not have reached the exquisite ending.
Quotes
• “He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should finish, listening to the skirts that swept against it and to the shuffling of feet.”
• “Her hands racing along the keyboard or lifted from it at the pauses like those of a priestess in momentary imprecation.”
• “He loved to feel the covers and turn over the pages of newly printed books.”
• “The morning was still dark. A dull yellow light brooded over the houses and the river; and the sky seemed to be descending. It was slushy underfoot; and only streaks and patches of snow lay on the roofs, on the parapets of the quay and on the area railings. The lamps were still burning redly in the murky air and, across the river, the palace of the Four Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky.”
• “Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup and he was caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could not eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform and he was placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove.”
See also
• The vast and daunting reputation of Ulysses means I hadn’t read anything by Joyce until now. This is much the longest of fifteen short stories in Dubliners, and immediately before this, I read Araby, which is utterly brilliant, and which I reviewed HERE.
• The Irish folk song, The Lass of Aughrim, aka The Lass of Roch Royal features in the story. You can hear it HERE, in a scene from the film (see imdb HERE).
Short story club
I read this as one of the stories in The Art of the Short Story, by Dana Gioia, from which I'm aiming to read one story a week with The Short Story Club, starting 2 May 2022.
You can read this story here.
You can join the group here.
And so it continued for about 20 of about 30 pages, adding a little context for most of the characters. I found it rather dull (even though the central character, Gabriel, reviews books 😉). You need to know about Irish political and church history of the period, c1914, to appreciate it, as indicated by the number of footnotes in the anthology I read it in. Gabriel, like all but one of the people there, is a Catholic. But he likes travelling in Europe, rather than Ireland. He worries about the younger, “hypereducated”, generation full of new ideas in a sceptical and “thought-tormented age”. He fears they won’t uphold “the tradition of genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality”. But he’s offended to be called a West Briton.
Image: Gaelic League poster from 1913 (the year before this was published) contrasting a proud, independent Éire with a craven, dependent West Britain. (Source)
Transfiguration
Finally, the story elegantly and poignantly rises to new realms.
As they’re leaving his aunts’ party, Gabriel gazes up the stairs and sees his wife, Gretta, captivated by the sound of distant song.
“She was standing right under the dusty fanlight and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair… At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart.”
His passion rekindled, along with happy memories of their early courting (his family disapproved), they go to their hotel.
“He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers.”
Image: Gabriel watches Gretta (Anjelica Huston) transfixed by song in a scene from John Huston's 1987 film of The Dead (Source)
But the memories that whetted her eyes were not the ones Gabriel assumed. He wrestles with many feelings and ultimately confronts mortality: his aunts', his wife’s, and his own:
“One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age…
His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”
I’m glad I persisted with this story. If I hadn’t loved another piece from Dubliners immediately before, I might not have reached the exquisite ending.
Quotes
• “He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should finish, listening to the skirts that swept against it and to the shuffling of feet.”
• “Her hands racing along the keyboard or lifted from it at the pauses like those of a priestess in momentary imprecation.”
• “He loved to feel the covers and turn over the pages of newly printed books.”
• “The morning was still dark. A dull yellow light brooded over the houses and the river; and the sky seemed to be descending. It was slushy underfoot; and only streaks and patches of snow lay on the roofs, on the parapets of the quay and on the area railings. The lamps were still burning redly in the murky air and, across the river, the palace of the Four Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky.”
• “Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup and he was caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could not eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform and he was placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove.”
See also
• The vast and daunting reputation of Ulysses means I hadn’t read anything by Joyce until now. This is much the longest of fifteen short stories in Dubliners, and immediately before this, I read Araby, which is utterly brilliant, and which I reviewed HERE.
• The Irish folk song, The Lass of Aughrim, aka The Lass of Roch Royal features in the story. You can hear it HERE, in a scene from the film (see imdb HERE).
Short story club
I read this as one of the stories in The Art of the Short Story, by Dana Gioia, from which I'm aiming to read one story a week with The Short Story Club, starting 2 May 2022.
You can read this story here.
You can join the group here.
December 19, 2018
snow was general all over Ireland
I am in DFW airport on a layover eating an execrable meal from a forgettable restaurant, punch drunk from too much air travel over the past 24 hours and emotionally frayed at having dropped my daughter off with her mother after spending a fabulous week with her in San Francisco. I'm chewing tasteless food while looking into the restaurant with the glassy-eyed, 1000 yard stare of the weary traveler.
A family of four takes the table directly in my line of sight; the mother loops the arm of a book bag around the back of her chair. The canvas tote is loaded with short sentences from some of Western literature's most famous books. I read them in order, recognizing "The Scarlet Letter", "Wuthering Heights", "A Tale of Two Cities", etc. - I feel smug pride whilst masticating mashed potatoes. But there is one quote that is unrecognizable: "snow was general all over Ireland". I guess it is Joyce, or perhaps Beckett; I type the sentence into Google and find that it is a Joyce novella, not from his Big Two - a story from Dubliners, a collection I have read twice and liked neither time. I've been reading Proust for hours; I decide to give Marcel a break and try this Joyce story once more. Yes, the third time is the charm.
I don't want to spoil anything about the story by giving a plot synopsis (it is a fast read - 30 minutes, tops - and is available for free online); the resonance of the story, where Joyce finally spoke to me, occurs in the last 500 words. With a light touch, and a wonderful narrative twist, Joyce reminds the reader that we all live under the shadow of the dead. From the memory and legacy of our departed family to the meal we just ate, the ubiquity of death is what gives weight to life. Joyce uses a death in the story to bring clarity to one of the story's characters - and as readers we get to witness the unfurling of the blossom of knowledge, perhaps even some measure of wisdom, that occurs from grappling with The Dead.
Snow was general all over Ireland. Yes, snow, and by extension winter, are the symbols here for death - and their state of being generally all over is a reminder that we don't escape death, and that it is a necessity for life to exist. And so as I finished this novella at 36,000 feet somewhere over New Mexico, I went back and re-read the last pages a couple of times and realized that it isn't just that snow was generally all over Ireland, snow was General all over Ireland. Death marshals its forces, it leads in battle, it conquers. We may hate it but we all must come to terms with it sooner or later. Much as Gabriel was forced to do in this brilliant work.
I am in DFW airport on a layover eating an execrable meal from a forgettable restaurant, punch drunk from too much air travel over the past 24 hours and emotionally frayed at having dropped my daughter off with her mother after spending a fabulous week with her in San Francisco. I'm chewing tasteless food while looking into the restaurant with the glassy-eyed, 1000 yard stare of the weary traveler.
A family of four takes the table directly in my line of sight; the mother loops the arm of a book bag around the back of her chair. The canvas tote is loaded with short sentences from some of Western literature's most famous books. I read them in order, recognizing "The Scarlet Letter", "Wuthering Heights", "A Tale of Two Cities", etc. - I feel smug pride whilst masticating mashed potatoes. But there is one quote that is unrecognizable: "snow was general all over Ireland". I guess it is Joyce, or perhaps Beckett; I type the sentence into Google and find that it is a Joyce novella, not from his Big Two - a story from Dubliners, a collection I have read twice and liked neither time. I've been reading Proust for hours; I decide to give Marcel a break and try this Joyce story once more. Yes, the third time is the charm.
I don't want to spoil anything about the story by giving a plot synopsis (it is a fast read - 30 minutes, tops - and is available for free online); the resonance of the story, where Joyce finally spoke to me, occurs in the last 500 words. With a light touch, and a wonderful narrative twist, Joyce reminds the reader that we all live under the shadow of the dead. From the memory and legacy of our departed family to the meal we just ate, the ubiquity of death is what gives weight to life. Joyce uses a death in the story to bring clarity to one of the story's characters - and as readers we get to witness the unfurling of the blossom of knowledge, perhaps even some measure of wisdom, that occurs from grappling with The Dead.
Snow was general all over Ireland. Yes, snow, and by extension winter, are the symbols here for death - and their state of being generally all over is a reminder that we don't escape death, and that it is a necessity for life to exist. And so as I finished this novella at 36,000 feet somewhere over New Mexico, I went back and re-read the last pages a couple of times and realized that it isn't just that snow was generally all over Ireland, snow was General all over Ireland. Death marshals its forces, it leads in battle, it conquers. We may hate it but we all must come to terms with it sooner or later. Much as Gabriel was forced to do in this brilliant work.
August 16, 2018
"Su alma se derrumbaba lentamente mientras escuchaba caer la suave nieve a través del universo y caer leve como el descenso de su último ocaso, sobre todos los vivos y los muertos."
Demasiado corto para ser una novela y demasiado largo para ser un cuento, “The Dead” ocupa el decimoquinto y último lugar en el libro de James Joyce “Dublineses” y es el de mayor extensión, belleza narrativa, inspiración poética y calidad literaria de ese gran libro.
Escribo su título en inglés, porque al encontrarnos con el artículo “The”, el autor no establece claramente el significado, dado que si lo traducimos al castellano, podríamos titularlo "Los Muertos”, “El Muerto” o “Lo Muerto”. Tal vez todas las acepciones sean admitidas, aunque a mi entender el título “El Muerto” podría ajustarse más a la naturaleza de la historia.
“The Dead” se desdobla a su vez en dos partes: la más extensa del relato ocupa la comida que se desarrolla en el interior de una típica casa dublinesa en donde se cocina un pavo y en el que todos los comensales se relacionan entre sí a partir de los diálogos y pensamientos inteligentemente dispuestos por Joyce para que la trama de la historia se desarrolle normalmente (algo que después Virginia Woolf continuaría con tanta brillantez en sus novelas).
Posteriormente a esta comida, los invitados se van despidiendo e ingresamos a la segunda parte, momento en el que Gabriel Conroy y su esposa Gretta ingresan a la habitación del hotel y en ese íntimo ambiente cálido, al resguardo la intensa nieve que abarca todo el territorio irlandés, surge la rememoración de Gretta sobre un joven amante de sus años juveniles llamado Michael Furey.
Este contrapunto entre Gretta y Gabriel realza con excelencia la perfección del cuento y funciona como broche de oro para un libro tan hermoso como lo es Dublineses.
Es definitivamente el mejor relato corto de James Joyce y tanto este relato como el libro forma parte de mis lecturas preferidas. Siempre intento releer a Joyce, de hecho, "Dublineses" y "The Dead" son la parte más “entendible” de su obra mientras preparo todos mis sentidos para afrontar ese desafío que se llama “Finnegan’s Wake”.
Demasiado corto para ser una novela y demasiado largo para ser un cuento, “The Dead” ocupa el decimoquinto y último lugar en el libro de James Joyce “Dublineses” y es el de mayor extensión, belleza narrativa, inspiración poética y calidad literaria de ese gran libro.
Escribo su título en inglés, porque al encontrarnos con el artículo “The”, el autor no establece claramente el significado, dado que si lo traducimos al castellano, podríamos titularlo "Los Muertos”, “El Muerto” o “Lo Muerto”. Tal vez todas las acepciones sean admitidas, aunque a mi entender el título “El Muerto” podría ajustarse más a la naturaleza de la historia.
“The Dead” se desdobla a su vez en dos partes: la más extensa del relato ocupa la comida que se desarrolla en el interior de una típica casa dublinesa en donde se cocina un pavo y en el que todos los comensales se relacionan entre sí a partir de los diálogos y pensamientos inteligentemente dispuestos por Joyce para que la trama de la historia se desarrolle normalmente (algo que después Virginia Woolf continuaría con tanta brillantez en sus novelas).
Posteriormente a esta comida, los invitados se van despidiendo e ingresamos a la segunda parte, momento en el que Gabriel Conroy y su esposa Gretta ingresan a la habitación del hotel y en ese íntimo ambiente cálido, al resguardo la intensa nieve que abarca todo el territorio irlandés, surge la rememoración de Gretta sobre un joven amante de sus años juveniles llamado Michael Furey.
Este contrapunto entre Gretta y Gabriel realza con excelencia la perfección del cuento y funciona como broche de oro para un libro tan hermoso como lo es Dublineses.
Es definitivamente el mejor relato corto de James Joyce y tanto este relato como el libro forma parte de mis lecturas preferidas. Siempre intento releer a Joyce, de hecho, "Dublineses" y "The Dead" son la parte más “entendible” de su obra mientras preparo todos mis sentidos para afrontar ese desafío que se llama “Finnegan’s Wake”.
April 13, 2024
وصف بعض النقاد هذه القصة بإنها أفضل قصة كتبت بالإنجليزية علي الإطلاق..
بجد لا تعليق!
بجد لا تعليق!
March 27, 2020
My first James Joyce....Oh my.
It's Christmas in Dublin. The snow is falling. The guests have finally all arrived. There is wine, dancing and gossipy conversation. A huge meal is presented, followed by a speech. And then, it's time to go, but.......
Someone is singing, you can barely hear him. He sees a woman, his wife, in shadows at the top of the steps listening. He is surprised by her stillness, the mystery of her attitude.
The husband recalls memories of their early love, their honeymoon, longing to rekindle the flame of long ago.
Back at the hotel room, she kisses him lightly. He wonders if she feels his passion for her. He holds her head between his hands and asks softly: "Gretta dear, what are you thinking about?" And she tells him......
From editors notes: "A modern parable of the rivalry between the living and the dead."
March 26 - Update:
Well done movie! The setting and dress so atmospheric of a snowy 1904 Dublin, and wonderfully executed heartfelt end.
December 14, 2020
Written by James Joyce in 1907 (published in 1914 as part of his Dubliners collection), "The Dead" is a novella about a Christmas early January "Feast of the Epiphany" holiday party in Dublin, Ireland, focusing on the subtler interpersonal communications and relationships between the relatives and others at the party, especially between teacher Gabriel Conroy and his wife Gretta.
It's a melancholy but insightful novella about our disappointments in life and love and how we often don't really see other people or understand their feelings. Gabriel views himself as better than most other people around him but he's actually stuck in a rut, personally, romantically (in his marriage), and even in his political views (as are, arguably, most of the party guests). There may be a hopeful note to the ending, but not even the professional critics agree on that, so read it and decide for yourself. :)
I didn't much care for it when I read it in college as an English major, but now that I'm older and wiser (and took more time to look at the online critical analysis) it appealed to me more. Sparknotes and Cliffnotes websites were both insightful, but I felt like I really hit the jackpot with this annotated version of the story and its very detailed notes, especially about the very last paragraph of the story: http://www.mendele.com/WWD/WWDdead.no... Here's a link to the story itself, on the website with the linked annotations: http://www.mendele.com/WWD/WWDdead.html
I would rate this 3 1/2 stars based on my prior read, but 5 stars on reread. Now I want to read it again. :) Read it when you're in the mood for something thoughtful and deep.
December 2020 buddy read with the Retro Reads group.
It's a melancholy but insightful novella about our disappointments in life and love and how we often don't really see other people or understand their feelings. Gabriel views himself as better than most other people around him but he's actually stuck in a rut, personally, romantically (in his marriage), and even in his political views (as are, arguably, most of the party guests). There may be a hopeful note to the ending, but not even the professional critics agree on that, so read it and decide for yourself. :)
I didn't much care for it when I read it in college as an English major, but now that I'm older and wiser (and took more time to look at the online critical analysis) it appealed to me more. Sparknotes and Cliffnotes websites were both insightful, but I felt like I really hit the jackpot with this annotated version of the story and its very detailed notes, especially about the very last paragraph of the story: http://www.mendele.com/WWD/WWDdead.no... Here's a link to the story itself, on the website with the linked annotations: http://www.mendele.com/WWD/WWDdead.html
I would rate this 3 1/2 stars based on my prior read, but 5 stars on reread. Now I want to read it again. :) Read it when you're in the mood for something thoughtful and deep.
December 2020 buddy read with the Retro Reads group.
September 17, 2022
4/5
Esta obra es el último de los relatos que componen la colección de 15 relatos cortos "Dublineses", publicado en 1914, del que "Los muertos" es el más extenso.
Como he leído reiteradas veces en algunas reseñas, incluyendo algunas de GR, tal vez resulte demasiado largo para ser un relato y demasiado corto para ser una novela. En concreto, la edición que yo he leído es la traducida por María Isabel Butler de Foley, de la colección Alianza Cien. Sin embargo, me ha gustado el ambiente lleno de solemnidad que propone Joyce de la cena tradicional irlandesa y las conversaciones que allí se generan, con descripciones detallistas de la comida y los detalles. Por ejemplo, hablando del vals que se desarrolla en un momento dado, Gabriel, que no se decide sobre las citas literarias que incluir en su inminente discurso, nos dice:
"La forma descortés en que los hombres hacían ruido con los tacones de sus zapatos y arrastraban las suelas por el entarimado le hacía pensar una vez más que tenían un nivel de cultura diferente"
La cena transcurre durante las navidades y corresponde a una cita anual en la casa de la familia Morkan, integrada por dos tías de avanzada edad y su sobrina, y se nos presenta como típica de la sociedad dublinesa de finales del siglo XIX, que constituye el armazón de la trama. Sin embargo, en mi opinión, lo más reseñable ocurre cuando la trama se centra en la pareja formada por Gabriel y Gretta, una vez que abandonan la cena y marchan a su hotel, donde aparecerá de forma descarnada el influjo de los muertos sobre la vida actual, en forma de un enamorado de ella que falleció en su juventud, lo que lleva a Gabriel a pensar:
"Uno por uno todos se iban convirtiendo en sombras. Era mejor irse a ese otro mundo en plena gloria de una pasión, que desvanecerse y marchitarse con los años"
Finalmente, la reflexión toma un carácter más general abarcando a las personas de la fiesta, algunas ya de avanzada edad, y al mundo en general:
"Su alma se fue desvaneciendo poco a poco mientras oía el ruido de la nieve cayendo levemente sobre el universo y cayendo levemente también, como el descenso de su final postrero, sobre los vivos y los muertos"
Lo que nos puede llevar a plantearnos numerosas conjeturas sobre la obra, que naturalmente dejo al lector.
Esta obra es el último de los relatos que componen la colección de 15 relatos cortos "Dublineses", publicado en 1914, del que "Los muertos" es el más extenso.
Como he leído reiteradas veces en algunas reseñas, incluyendo algunas de GR, tal vez resulte demasiado largo para ser un relato y demasiado corto para ser una novela. En concreto, la edición que yo he leído es la traducida por María Isabel Butler de Foley, de la colección Alianza Cien. Sin embargo, me ha gustado el ambiente lleno de solemnidad que propone Joyce de la cena tradicional irlandesa y las conversaciones que allí se generan, con descripciones detallistas de la comida y los detalles. Por ejemplo, hablando del vals que se desarrolla en un momento dado, Gabriel, que no se decide sobre las citas literarias que incluir en su inminente discurso, nos dice:
"La forma descortés en que los hombres hacían ruido con los tacones de sus zapatos y arrastraban las suelas por el entarimado le hacía pensar una vez más que tenían un nivel de cultura diferente"
La cena transcurre durante las navidades y corresponde a una cita anual en la casa de la familia Morkan, integrada por dos tías de avanzada edad y su sobrina, y se nos presenta como típica de la sociedad dublinesa de finales del siglo XIX, que constituye el armazón de la trama. Sin embargo, en mi opinión, lo más reseñable ocurre cuando la trama se centra en la pareja formada por Gabriel y Gretta, una vez que abandonan la cena y marchan a su hotel, donde aparecerá de forma descarnada el influjo de los muertos sobre la vida actual, en forma de un enamorado de ella que falleció en su juventud, lo que lleva a Gabriel a pensar:
"Uno por uno todos se iban convirtiendo en sombras. Era mejor irse a ese otro mundo en plena gloria de una pasión, que desvanecerse y marchitarse con los años"
Finalmente, la reflexión toma un carácter más general abarcando a las personas de la fiesta, algunas ya de avanzada edad, y al mundo en general:
"Su alma se fue desvaneciendo poco a poco mientras oía el ruido de la nieve cayendo levemente sobre el universo y cayendo levemente también, como el descenso de su final postrero, sobre los vivos y los muertos"
Lo que nos puede llevar a plantearnos numerosas conjeturas sobre la obra, que naturalmente dejo al lector.
November 22, 2023
Joyce's prose is absolutely lovely. I mean, just look at this writing:
“His soul swooned softly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.”
I can't deny that this guy was a master of the English language. With that said, however, this story was mostly just dull. It picked up some speed in the last few minutes, but the dinner party bored me to tears, as I'm sure it would have anyone who actually attended the thing.
But, ooh, that prose. It's worth reading just for that reason alone, and the audiobook I listened to (the one with Bart Wolffe as narrator) made it all the more enchanting. His voice is exquisite.
Overall rating: Two stars on the entertainment scale and five stars for the beautiful prose, for an average of 3.5 stars (rounded up). It ain't exciting but it sure is pretty.
“His soul swooned softly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.”
I can't deny that this guy was a master of the English language. With that said, however, this story was mostly just dull. It picked up some speed in the last few minutes, but the dinner party bored me to tears, as I'm sure it would have anyone who actually attended the thing.
But, ooh, that prose. It's worth reading just for that reason alone, and the audiobook I listened to (the one with Bart Wolffe as narrator) made it all the more enchanting. His voice is exquisite.
Overall rating: Two stars on the entertainment scale and five stars for the beautiful prose, for an average of 3.5 stars (rounded up). It ain't exciting but it sure is pretty.
October 27, 2017
Drinking too much can turn you into an emotional hot mess.
Being in love can do that to you too.
Being in love and drinking...
Well you would probably rather wish you were dead.
Being in love can do that to you too.
Being in love and drinking...
Well you would probably rather wish you were dead.
Read
May 6, 2017HOW TO HAVE A LIT AF HOUSE PARTY
• make sure at least 1 of your guests arrives sloshed
• get someone to play the piano really badly
• serve goose
• sing a sad song that reminds one of your guests about how the love of her life tragically died
• get someone to make a speech with at least two (2) references to mythology. + repetition
• bitch about the Pope
• discuss your favourite underrated choir singers
• do an imitation of a horse ? for some reason ?
• question to holiday motives of your guest
• loudly announce you actually hate your country of origin !!!
• think about the snow, how it's falling, all the time. how it's falling on the graves of the dead
• think about how everyone you love will die soon. prepare your funeral outfit in your mind
• get super excited for some sex with your wife only to find out she's thinking about another man
• think about how all love in your life has been mediocre
• think more about snow.
• make sure at least 1 of your guests arrives sloshed
• get someone to play the piano really badly
• serve goose
• sing a sad song that reminds one of your guests about how the love of her life tragically died
• get someone to make a speech with at least two (2) references to mythology. + repetition
• bitch about the Pope
• discuss your favourite underrated choir singers
• do an imitation of a horse ? for some reason ?
• question to holiday motives of your guest
• loudly announce you actually hate your country of origin !!!
• think about the snow, how it's falling, all the time. how it's falling on the graves of the dead
• think about how everyone you love will die soon. prepare your funeral outfit in your mind
• get super excited for some sex with your wife only to find out she's thinking about another man
• think about how all love in your life has been mediocre
• think more about snow.
August 27, 2016
The Dead is considered by many to be Joyce's best short story. It is included in the short story collection, The Dubliners. It is the last in the collection and long, almost novella length. It's very different from Ulysses, very melancholic and introspective in nature.
August 16, 2020
ما أن تبدأ الحكاية ..و إذ بها تعلن النهاية ، أليس هذا مُحبطاً ؟؟.....
حفلٌ راقص يضم عدد من المعارف والأصدقاء يقام سنوياً في منزل الآنستان " موركان" ..حسناً أين هنالك الأموات ؟!!..
ما أن تنضم للحفل حتى يراودك الشك بأن جميع المدعوين أشباحاً....ولكن دعنا نُسلط بقعة من الضوء على أحد المدعويين وهو السيد " غابرييل" ..عذراً فيبدو أن الكاتب "جميس جويس" لن يدعك دون تحليل تلك الشخصية تحليلاُ تفصيلياً ودقيقاً ..لأنه شخص يمثل أشكالاً مختلفة وأطيافاً متنوعة للموت....
بالرغم من حفاوة الضيافة بذلك الحفل إلا إنه يشعر بالهزيمة أمام محادثة قصيرة لم يقل بها كل ما يريد قوله وعندئذٍ بغتة يشعر برغبة جارفة في الخروج من الحفل والتنزه وحيداُ في تلك الليلة الثلجية ..وسرعان ما تخمد تلك الرغبة وتخبو كما لم تكن... لقد شعر بالعزلة رغم حضوره وسط الجميع...ذاك صورة من الموت...
ألقى بخطبة قصيرة على مسامع الحضور يتبين لك منها اذا ما تأملنا أحزاننا وتقصينا جذورها بذاكرتنا ..ولم نتوقف عن استدعاءها سنسقط لامحالة في الهاوية ونفتقد القدرة على المواصلة ..يتراءى لي أننا نصبح قوالب جامدة باردة ..إنه الموت...
يأتي حديثه مغرقاً في المجاملات الباهتة المتحذلقة ..إنها محاولة لاثبات حضور من يؤمن بأنه ليس له وجود..اليس ذلك مرادفاً للموت ؟....
وأخيراً تكشف له زوجته ببراءة تامة عندما تسمع مقطوعة موسيقية لأغنية ما، عن ذكرى أحدهم أحبها يوماً وكان يرددها على مسامعها وقد مات شاباً..
عندئذٍ تقترب روح السيد " غابرييل" من المنطقة التي تقطنها حشوداً من الأموات ، باتت ذكرى الشاب طيفاً شبحياً يمثل أمامه واذ به يتلاشى وجوده من عالمه لينتقل هو الى عالم الأموات..
يختتم "جويس" الرواية بمشهد تساقط الثلج برفق ينقر النافذة ومن ثم كثيفاً يجثم على كل شيء....
الثلج هو الآخر سرعان ما يتضاءل..يذوب..يموت.....
جويس كاتب عظيم مذهل يدهشك بالتعرف على الأدب من زوايا جديدة ومختلفة لم تقع عيناك قبلاً عليها وهذا هو الإبداع....
حفلٌ راقص يضم عدد من المعارف والأصدقاء يقام سنوياً في منزل الآنستان " موركان" ..حسناً أين هنالك الأموات ؟!!..
ما أن تنضم للحفل حتى يراودك الشك بأن جميع المدعوين أشباحاً....ولكن دعنا نُسلط بقعة من الضوء على أحد المدعويين وهو السيد " غابرييل" ..عذراً فيبدو أن الكاتب "جميس جويس" لن يدعك دون تحليل تلك الشخصية تحليلاُ تفصيلياً ودقيقاً ..لأنه شخص يمثل أشكالاً مختلفة وأطيافاً متنوعة للموت....
بالرغم من حفاوة الضيافة بذلك الحفل إلا إنه يشعر بالهزيمة أمام محادثة قصيرة لم يقل بها كل ما يريد قوله وعندئذٍ بغتة يشعر برغبة جارفة في الخروج من الحفل والتنزه وحيداُ في تلك الليلة الثلجية ..وسرعان ما تخمد تلك الرغبة وتخبو كما لم تكن... لقد شعر بالعزلة رغم حضوره وسط الجميع...ذاك صورة من الموت...
ألقى بخطبة قصيرة على مسامع الحضور يتبين لك منها اذا ما تأملنا أحزاننا وتقصينا جذورها بذاكرتنا ..ولم نتوقف عن استدعاءها سنسقط لامحالة في الهاوية ونفتقد القدرة على المواصلة ..يتراءى لي أننا نصبح قوالب جامدة باردة ..إنه الموت...
يأتي حديثه مغرقاً في المجاملات الباهتة المتحذلقة ..إنها محاولة لاثبات حضور من يؤمن بأنه ليس له وجود..اليس ذلك مرادفاً للموت ؟....
وأخيراً تكشف له زوجته ببراءة تامة عندما تسمع مقطوعة موسيقية لأغنية ما، عن ذكرى أحدهم أحبها يوماً وكان يرددها على مسامعها وقد مات شاباً..
عندئذٍ تقترب روح السيد " غابرييل" من المنطقة التي تقطنها حشوداً من الأموات ، باتت ذكرى الشاب طيفاً شبحياً يمثل أمامه واذ به يتلاشى وجوده من عالمه لينتقل هو الى عالم الأموات..
يختتم "جويس" الرواية بمشهد تساقط الثلج برفق ينقر النافذة ومن ثم كثيفاً يجثم على كل شيء....
الثلج هو الآخر سرعان ما يتضاءل..يذوب..يموت.....
جويس كاتب عظيم مذهل يدهشك بالتعرف على الأدب من زوايا جديدة ومختلفة لم تقع عيناك قبلاً عليها وهذا هو الإبداع....
July 7, 2025
The Short Story Club
The Epiphany Night
This rather long short story is a description of one evening in the life of the protagonist, Gabriel Conroy. The relative and friends have gathered for the annual dance - usual faces, usual characters, usual conversations, usual jokes and in the middle of all this Gabriel suddenly makes an inward journey resulting in some astonishing revelations. The limits of his understanding of others (even the closest ones), of love, of life, of passage of time and of death have been challenged and expanded.
'The Dead' is a masterpiece in which Joyce, in simple words and with great emotional subtlety captures a poignant moment of the new wisdom and acceptance of the inevitable demise.
'His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.'
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'He had never felt like that himself towards any woman but he knew that such a feeling must be love.'
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'A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.'
The Epiphany Night
This rather long short story is a description of one evening in the life of the protagonist, Gabriel Conroy. The relative and friends have gathered for the annual dance - usual faces, usual characters, usual conversations, usual jokes and in the middle of all this Gabriel suddenly makes an inward journey resulting in some astonishing revelations. The limits of his understanding of others (even the closest ones), of love, of life, of passage of time and of death have been challenged and expanded.
'The Dead' is a masterpiece in which Joyce, in simple words and with great emotional subtlety captures a poignant moment of the new wisdom and acceptance of the inevitable demise.
'His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'He had never felt like that himself towards any woman but he knew that such a feeling must be love.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
'A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.'
October 7, 2007
goddamn is this good. it's those last two pages... you hit those two pages and WHAM! if it doesn't destroy you, then you just ain't human.
September 26, 2022
¿Saben cómo quedé una vez terminada mi lectura de Los muertos? Decir 'muerto' podría sonar muy cliché, pero la misma verdad ante todo, y es que no les miento si les digo que este es el libro más '3 estrellas' que he leído en mucho tiempo, por así decirlo. Después pensé, 'quizá este haya sido el objetivo del autor, quizá después de todo, sentir una gran indiferencia por la historia, por los personajes, y por todo lo que acabo de leer ha sido el plan original y por ello se ha cumplido con el propósito de la lectura', pero tal vez esto sea pensar demasiado acerca de algo que desconozco, y que tampoco pienso aventurarme a conocerlo.
La principal razón por la que decidí leer esta novella fue por un club de lectura donde se leen relatos periódicamente, y al ser este caso mi primera vez uniéndome, me dije '¿por qué no hacerlo con esta historia de Joyce?'. Si bien la prosa del autor es magnífica, literalmente de las mejores prosas que he encontrado últimamente, y cada palabra está ahí como encajando en el lugar preciso, dicha prosa, dicho estilo no logró transmitirme nada, me dejó completamente indiferente, más allá del hecho de que tanto el discurso del protagonista a la mesa como la historia del final fueron relevantes y con un sentido simbólico en mi punto de vista, no pude evitar quedarme frío ante tal exhibición de palabras.
Recuerdo que alguien a quien sigo en booktube alguna vez hizo una comparación entre una prosa distante y fría, y una que lograba trasmitir mucho al lector: es como si estuvieras escuchando a un cantante, quien a pesar de interpretar bien su canción, la pasión y el amor por lo que canta están totalmente ausentes. En pocas palabras, es una canción sin alma, y es tal el caso con Los muertos de Joyce, donde no pude encontrarle el alma por ningún lado.
Tampoco voy a culpar a nadie diciendo que me vendieron mal la obra en un principio, pero he visto esta historia en antologías como una historia navideña, y hay que hacer una distinción aquí: una cosa es que la trama suceda en la víspera de la Navidad y otra muy distinta a que el relato tenga que ver directamente con la Navidad. En este caso, aplica más bien para el primero y no para el segundo.
Por otro lado, y esto sí que fue una decepción en cierto modo, esperaba una historia diferente: si bien el inicio no es mi parte favorita, sí que pensé que Kate sería la protagonista de la historia o al menos se enfocaría en ella o en Julia y Mary Jane, pero cuando todo se empieza a enfocar en Gabriel, fue como algo que me cuentas y no me interesa, hasta el punto de dejarme completamente en la nada. Al final me pregunto, ¿quién es Gabriel? ¿Por qué debería sentir algo con la historia del final si en ningún momento se me pidió como lector que sintiera algo por sus personajes? De nuevo, las palabras bellamente plasmadas pero absolutamente vacías.
Me da un poco de temor el notar que Los muertos es supuestamente el mejor relato de Dublineses y que de aquí mi referencia será ver las demás historias como inferiores a algo que ya de por sí me pareció regular. Por otro lado, Eveline fue una lectura que hice el año pasado como parte de una antología de relatos de viajes y me terminó gustando mucho, así que supongo habrá tópicos para todos los gustos. Ya veré si me animo a leer la colección completa pronto, o mejor me arriesgo a leer algo más del autor, antes de inclinar mi balanza hacia lo negativo o lo positivo, según sea el caso.
“His soul swooned softly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”
La principal razón por la que decidí leer esta novella fue por un club de lectura donde se leen relatos periódicamente, y al ser este caso mi primera vez uniéndome, me dije '¿por qué no hacerlo con esta historia de Joyce?'. Si bien la prosa del autor es magnífica, literalmente de las mejores prosas que he encontrado últimamente, y cada palabra está ahí como encajando en el lugar preciso, dicha prosa, dicho estilo no logró transmitirme nada, me dejó completamente indiferente, más allá del hecho de que tanto el discurso del protagonista a la mesa como la historia del final fueron relevantes y con un sentido simbólico en mi punto de vista, no pude evitar quedarme frío ante tal exhibición de palabras.
Recuerdo que alguien a quien sigo en booktube alguna vez hizo una comparación entre una prosa distante y fría, y una que lograba trasmitir mucho al lector: es como si estuvieras escuchando a un cantante, quien a pesar de interpretar bien su canción, la pasión y el amor por lo que canta están totalmente ausentes. En pocas palabras, es una canción sin alma, y es tal el caso con Los muertos de Joyce, donde no pude encontrarle el alma por ningún lado.
Tampoco voy a culpar a nadie diciendo que me vendieron mal la obra en un principio, pero he visto esta historia en antologías como una historia navideña, y hay que hacer una distinción aquí: una cosa es que la trama suceda en la víspera de la Navidad y otra muy distinta a que el relato tenga que ver directamente con la Navidad. En este caso, aplica más bien para el primero y no para el segundo.
Por otro lado, y esto sí que fue una decepción en cierto modo, esperaba una historia diferente: si bien el inicio no es mi parte favorita, sí que pensé que Kate sería la protagonista de la historia o al menos se enfocaría en ella o en Julia y Mary Jane, pero cuando todo se empieza a enfocar en Gabriel, fue como algo que me cuentas y no me interesa, hasta el punto de dejarme completamente en la nada. Al final me pregunto, ¿quién es Gabriel? ¿Por qué debería sentir algo con la historia del final si en ningún momento se me pidió como lector que sintiera algo por sus personajes? De nuevo, las palabras bellamente plasmadas pero absolutamente vacías.
Me da un poco de temor el notar que Los muertos es supuestamente el mejor relato de Dublineses y que de aquí mi referencia será ver las demás historias como inferiores a algo que ya de por sí me pareció regular. Por otro lado, Eveline fue una lectura que hice el año pasado como parte de una antología de relatos de viajes y me terminó gustando mucho, así que supongo habrá tópicos para todos los gustos. Ya veré si me animo a leer la colección completa pronto, o mejor me arriesgo a leer algo más del autor, antes de inclinar mi balanza hacia lo negativo o lo positivo, según sea el caso.
“His soul swooned softly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”
December 31, 2017
It is just a short story… I’ve started to write my thoughts about it so many times. But it is so perfect, that by the time i reach the second paragraph, i hit the wall. My thoughts stick into each other and become an undistguishable whirlpool of awe.
So, you do not need to continue reading what follows; just read the story, and read it now when something is ending but something else is barely beginning just yet… Christmas and New Year, this time..
It starts with something very relatable, very traditional - two old ladies, the aunts of Gabriel, the main character, are hosting a Christmas party. They has been doing it for the last 30 years or so. The scenario is familiar, all usual faces of family and friends are there; everyone has got a predictable role naturally evolved during those years. Joyce describes the scene with absolutely delicious prose. A few words by him suffice when someone else would need five pages of the text. His language possess this musicality, totally unique to him. (From the writers I know, Nabokov comes close, but he sounds sometimes a little laboured):
“As the buttons of his overcoat slipped with a squeaking noise through the snow-stiffened frieze, a cold fragrant air from out-of-doors escaped from crevices and folds.”
But there are people who are not there, though we feel there presence.. I think, in Poland they’ve got this tradition of keeping an empty chair for the family members who passed away. And Joyce keeps this chair as well very subtly for now. Gabriel looks at the portrait of his mum who died sometimes ago. He also makes a joke about his grandad.
But the story really goes into the highest gear in the last few pages. By sheer coincidence, Gabriel finds out something tragic and beautiful which existed in the life of his wife a way before him. This revelation totally shocks him; he is in awe with the magnitude of her experience and feels diminished by it.
It also derailes his train of thoughts towards the finiteness of life, towards the transience of our existence, especially of the older people we love. When we are young, we think they will be there forever. They are not supposed to age and change, and eventually “become shades”…
“His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling.”
When i think about it, I see the huge limitless stage full of people and decorations with the single source of light. The light moves slowly beaming on a group for a time being and then moving towards another one, leaving everyone else there in shadow, never to come back…
And there is another layer there for me. He looks at his wife and realises that she now is not the same person who has had that experience. This young girl is a shade as well. Our old selfs are shades of us, the ones which do not exist any longer here, but the ones we still remember and miss and try to reach sometimes… And a familiar song, or drops of rain, or silent sound of snow could call upon and bring the one of these shades back for a fraction of a moment, and make it real again…
Happy New Year!
So, you do not need to continue reading what follows; just read the story, and read it now when something is ending but something else is barely beginning just yet… Christmas and New Year, this time..
It starts with something very relatable, very traditional - two old ladies, the aunts of Gabriel, the main character, are hosting a Christmas party. They has been doing it for the last 30 years or so. The scenario is familiar, all usual faces of family and friends are there; everyone has got a predictable role naturally evolved during those years. Joyce describes the scene with absolutely delicious prose. A few words by him suffice when someone else would need five pages of the text. His language possess this musicality, totally unique to him. (From the writers I know, Nabokov comes close, but he sounds sometimes a little laboured):
“As the buttons of his overcoat slipped with a squeaking noise through the snow-stiffened frieze, a cold fragrant air from out-of-doors escaped from crevices and folds.”
But there are people who are not there, though we feel there presence.. I think, in Poland they’ve got this tradition of keeping an empty chair for the family members who passed away. And Joyce keeps this chair as well very subtly for now. Gabriel looks at the portrait of his mum who died sometimes ago. He also makes a joke about his grandad.
But the story really goes into the highest gear in the last few pages. By sheer coincidence, Gabriel finds out something tragic and beautiful which existed in the life of his wife a way before him. This revelation totally shocks him; he is in awe with the magnitude of her experience and feels diminished by it.
It also derailes his train of thoughts towards the finiteness of life, towards the transience of our existence, especially of the older people we love. When we are young, we think they will be there forever. They are not supposed to age and change, and eventually “become shades”…
“His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling.”
When i think about it, I see the huge limitless stage full of people and decorations with the single source of light. The light moves slowly beaming on a group for a time being and then moving towards another one, leaving everyone else there in shadow, never to come back…
And there is another layer there for me. He looks at his wife and realises that she now is not the same person who has had that experience. This young girl is a shade as well. Our old selfs are shades of us, the ones which do not exist any longer here, but the ones we still remember and miss and try to reach sometimes… And a familiar song, or drops of rain, or silent sound of snow could call upon and bring the one of these shades back for a fraction of a moment, and make it real again…
Happy New Year!
January 14, 2020
هذه الرواية حزينة ، حزينة مثل ليالي الشتاء، ذلك الحزن الصمت الذي يتشكل بلا أحداث ضرورية، مكان واحد يجمع عدة أشخاص محبين للموسيقى والعزف، يتقابلون في جو كئيب، بينما الثلج يتساقط في الخارج، والكل يهرع نحو المدفأة، والعربات في الخارج تقرقع على ناصية الطريق والبخار يتصاعد وكأن المنزل الذي يتحدث عنه الكاتب هو المنزل الوحيد المتبقي في العالم ، قد تبدو مثل حكاية مبتورة أو نص يعثر على شخصياته في داخل الرواية، لا تعرف إن كانت الشخصيات نائمة أم ميتة، أم أشباح استيقظوا للتو مجبرين على أداء دورهم في رواية لم تكتب لهم، تكاد تستمع لصوت الموسيقى في الرواية، كل شيء يشعرك بأن شيئاً سيحدث، ولكن من دون جدوى، مثلما يفعل صامويل بيكيت مع قراءه، جميس جويس شخصياته تبدو أقرب للأشباح بل هي كذلك، ما أن تلمح أحد الشخصيات حتى تفتقده في ثواني، مثل وميض عابر ، أو شاشة تجري عليها الشخصيات كما في حلم عابر أو ذكريات ضالة، هناك غابرييل الذي لا يتمكن من فعل شيء، يبدو كمن يبحث دائماً عن حل، نصف ميت، نصف نائم، يقع ضمن دائرة من الممكن أن لا يكون له وجود، كآبة طاغية وسرد يوحي لك بأن غابرييل دائماً على وشك قول شيء ما، تنتابه الرغبات والشهوات، يريد أن يعثر على نفسه، مثل من يحاول أن يكون طيباً على الدوام، ثم تأتي قضية الحب والموت، هذه القضية التي تشطر الحياة شطرين، بين وجود صامت وآخر في يطرق بابه بلا أستاذان، تتسرب الحكاية هنا مثل مشهد ضبابي، لا تعرف ابداً ما إذا كانت قصة أموات أم أحياء، أم هي هذيانات متقلبة في لعنة كتابية تسبق المكوث في أي مكان في النص، أول قراءة لي ل جيمس جويس، قراءة مذهلة ، عميقة، يفكر القارئ في نهايات متعددة، كل شيء هنا قابل للاحتمالات، يشبه تماماً القراءة ل صامويل بيكيت، أبحث دائماً عن روايات مثل هذه، روايات لا تبدو واضحة تماماً، ولا تعثر فيها على أية إجابة..
May 26, 2020
3.5
“كل الرجال متملقون، هم يسعون فقط إلى ما يستطيعون الحصول عليه منك”.
.جيمس جويس
“كل الرجال متملقون، هم يسعون فقط إلى ما يستطيعون الحصول عليه منك”.
.جيمس جويس
October 14, 2022
5★
“Then he took from his waistcoat pocket a little paper and glanced at the headings he had made for his speech. He was undecided about the lines from Robert Browning for he feared they would be above the heads of his hearers.”
Gabriel Conroy and his wife, Gretta, have arrived late at his aunts’ annual dance and dinner on a snowy evening in Dublin around Christmastime. He is to give a speech at the dinner, and it seems clear he thinks he is a cut above the ordinary folk, his aunts’ music pupils and others.
He is their favourite nephew, and they seem relieved that he has finally arrived. This is ten o’clock at night and the dancing has begun, but it’s a long time before dinner is served.
He and his wife are spending the night in town, having left the children with “Bessie”. These were the days when people had help in the home and when visitors might have been expected to stay over for the night.
While he seems to enjoy being the centre of attention, he is nervous about his speech, and an awkward conversation with an old friend who questions his Irishness doesn’t help. [A West Briton is an admirer of the English.]
“Well, I’m ashamed of you, said Miss Ivors frankly. To say you’d write for a rag like that. I didn’t think you were a West Briton.
A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel’s face. It was true that he wrote a literary column every Wednesday in ‘The Daily Express’> , for which he was paid fifteen shillings. But that did not make him a West Briton surely.
. . .
He wanted to say that literature was above politics. But they were friends of many years’ standing and their careers had been parallel, first at the University and then as teachers: he could not risk a grandiose phrase with her.”
No, he couldn’t risk her, his intellectual equal, presumably, giving his self-confidence (smug air of superiority?) a knock. He throws himself into the dancing, but when he later asks his wife if she was dancing, she says “Of course I was. Didn’t you see me?” As the time nears for his speech, and although the weather outside is blizzard-like, he considers his situation.
“Gabriel's warm trembling fingers tapped the cold pane of the window. How cool it must be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk out alone, first along by the river and then through the park! The snow would be lying on the branches of the trees and forming a bright cap on the top of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant it would be there than at the supper-table!”
Escape! He's tried so hard to distract himself that he didn’t even notice his wife was dancing, and we know he’s in bad shape when all the delectable dishes that Joyce so mouth-wateringly presents aren’t as appealing as cooling off in the snow.
Joyce lets him brood and shows his mood moving through memories of his elderly aunts, his life, and his wife, everything as it pertains to him. Near the end, as his heart swells with pride – favourite nephew, speech done, lovely wife (night in a hotel with kids at home with Bessie!) – he is stopped in his tracks by the realisation that he is not the centre of the universe.
I enjoyed the over-the-top fussing by the aunts and the glorious feast, and I appreciated how much the music and dance meant in 1914. As for Gabriel Conroy, I feel Joyce has pinned him down well. I must read more Joyce!
This is the last of fifteen stories in The Dubliners, which is freely available in many forms. Thanks to the Short Story Club Group for selecting this one for discussion soon.
https://www.goodreads.com/group/show/...
5★ for the narration Andrew Scott is a well-known actor (whom I loved to hate as Moriarty in Sherlock). He is Irish himself and read this with such feeling - it was wonderful.
https://saysovoices.com/talent/andrew...
“Then he took from his waistcoat pocket a little paper and glanced at the headings he had made for his speech. He was undecided about the lines from Robert Browning for he feared they would be above the heads of his hearers.”
Gabriel Conroy and his wife, Gretta, have arrived late at his aunts’ annual dance and dinner on a snowy evening in Dublin around Christmastime. He is to give a speech at the dinner, and it seems clear he thinks he is a cut above the ordinary folk, his aunts’ music pupils and others.
He is their favourite nephew, and they seem relieved that he has finally arrived. This is ten o’clock at night and the dancing has begun, but it’s a long time before dinner is served.
He and his wife are spending the night in town, having left the children with “Bessie”. These were the days when people had help in the home and when visitors might have been expected to stay over for the night.
While he seems to enjoy being the centre of attention, he is nervous about his speech, and an awkward conversation with an old friend who questions his Irishness doesn’t help. [A West Briton is an admirer of the English.]
“Well, I’m ashamed of you, said Miss Ivors frankly. To say you’d write for a rag like that. I didn’t think you were a West Briton.
A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel’s face. It was true that he wrote a literary column every Wednesday in ‘The Daily Express’> , for which he was paid fifteen shillings. But that did not make him a West Briton surely.
. . .
He wanted to say that literature was above politics. But they were friends of many years’ standing and their careers had been parallel, first at the University and then as teachers: he could not risk a grandiose phrase with her.”
No, he couldn’t risk her, his intellectual equal, presumably, giving his self-confidence (smug air of superiority?) a knock. He throws himself into the dancing, but when he later asks his wife if she was dancing, she says “Of course I was. Didn’t you see me?” As the time nears for his speech, and although the weather outside is blizzard-like, he considers his situation.
“Gabriel's warm trembling fingers tapped the cold pane of the window. How cool it must be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk out alone, first along by the river and then through the park! The snow would be lying on the branches of the trees and forming a bright cap on the top of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant it would be there than at the supper-table!”
Escape! He's tried so hard to distract himself that he didn’t even notice his wife was dancing, and we know he’s in bad shape when all the delectable dishes that Joyce so mouth-wateringly presents aren’t as appealing as cooling off in the snow.
Joyce lets him brood and shows his mood moving through memories of his elderly aunts, his life, and his wife, everything as it pertains to him. Near the end, as his heart swells with pride – favourite nephew, speech done, lovely wife (night in a hotel with kids at home with Bessie!) – he is stopped in his tracks by the realisation that he is not the centre of the universe.
I enjoyed the over-the-top fussing by the aunts and the glorious feast, and I appreciated how much the music and dance meant in 1914. As for Gabriel Conroy, I feel Joyce has pinned him down well. I must read more Joyce!
This is the last of fifteen stories in The Dubliners, which is freely available in many forms. Thanks to the Short Story Club Group for selecting this one for discussion soon.
https://www.goodreads.com/group/show/...
5★ for the narration Andrew Scott is a well-known actor (whom I loved to hate as Moriarty in Sherlock). He is Irish himself and read this with such feeling - it was wonderful.
https://saysovoices.com/talent/andrew...
June 25, 2024
رواية قصيرة أكثر منها قصة قصيرة
في حفل يجمع الأسرة تعيش في دبلن وإنجلترا وأوروبا، لحظة سردية تجمع تاريخ العالم من سكان العاصمة الأيرلندية بمنازلها وشوارعها ومحالها لسكان جبال
الأوليمب بأساطير يستمد منها الناس نماذج التشخيص وتمثيل المواقف في دراما الحياة العصرية التي تكاد تخضع لسيطرة العلم
حضارة الغرب في نوفيلا حافلة بمفردات المائدة ومواضيع السياسة وأحلام الفن ومشكلة الزمن وحكايات التكوين والموسيقى والأيديولوجيا
حوار احتفالي بالحياة ومرجعية الموت في الأفق الممتد الذي تطرح فيه قضية الوجود نفسها
لوحات مرئية داخل الإدراك في مساحات فيزيائية محسوبة بدقة برجوازية محكمة
صوت يستنطق التاريخ القديم المتواري وصخب المشاعر غير المعلنة
هوامش المترجم مفيدة للغاية كأنها مختصر تاريخ الغرب من الإعريق إلى نهاية القرن التاسع عشر
في حفل يجمع الأسرة تعيش في دبلن وإنجلترا وأوروبا، لحظة سردية تجمع تاريخ العالم من سكان العاصمة الأيرلندية بمنازلها وشوارعها ومحالها لسكان جبال
الأوليمب بأساطير يستمد منها الناس نماذج التشخيص وتمثيل المواقف في دراما الحياة العصرية التي تكاد تخضع لسيطرة العلم
حضارة الغرب في نوفيلا حافلة بمفردات المائدة ومواضيع السياسة وأحلام الفن ومشكلة الزمن وحكايات التكوين والموسيقى والأيديولوجيا
حوار احتفالي بالحياة ومرجعية الموت في الأفق الممتد الذي تطرح فيه قضية الوجود نفسها
لوحات مرئية داخل الإدراك في مساحات فيزيائية محسوبة بدقة برجوازية محكمة
صوت يستنطق التاريخ القديم المتواري وصخب المشاعر غير المعلنة
هوامش المترجم مفيدة للغاية كأنها مختصر تاريخ الغرب من الإعريق إلى نهاية القرن التاسع عشر
July 15, 2022
Perfect introduction to Joyce for people who are afraid to try his work. Also, a good alternative for A Christmas Carol during holiday season.
November 16, 2016
I listened to a terrific audio recording, found here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQBq8..., alongside my Kindle edition of this and it truly brought the story to life.
This novella is the last to feature in Joyce's infamous collection, Dubliners, and is cited as his greatest masterpiece. The story develops during a New Year's Eve party, thrown by the Morkan sisters, where the frivolities and festivities of the night act as a catalyst for one of the attendants to make a shocking revelation to her husband.
The story progressed slowly and it wasn't until the last few hundred words that the utter genius was revealed. This is ultimately a very melancholic piece, where the end portion contained the entire illusory and introspective morality. This was sublime in its whimsical elegance and subtle revelation of truth. A true masterpiece.
This novella is the last to feature in Joyce's infamous collection, Dubliners, and is cited as his greatest masterpiece. The story develops during a New Year's Eve party, thrown by the Morkan sisters, where the frivolities and festivities of the night act as a catalyst for one of the attendants to make a shocking revelation to her husband.
The story progressed slowly and it wasn't until the last few hundred words that the utter genius was revealed. This is ultimately a very melancholic piece, where the end portion contained the entire illusory and introspective morality. This was sublime in its whimsical elegance and subtle revelation of truth. A true masterpiece.
February 2, 2019
Ότι και να χει γράψει είναι αριστούργημα!!! Αξεπέραστος!!! Προτείνεται ανεπιφύλακτα!!
March 12, 2011
The volumes of literary analysis of The Dead proclaim this as the perfect short story ever written. The instructor of a short-story writing workshop I attended recently made the same proclamtion. He admonished our gathering to read this at once and to reread it at least once a year, as an example of writing at its most sublime.
Hyperbole? I don't know that it matters. It moved me to tears.
I knew nothing of the story, nor have I read Joyce beyond an aborted attempt a dozen years ago at "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man." I expected to slog through complicated language and dry prose.
Instead I slipped quietly in the door of an early 20th century Dublin home, as an unseen guest at a party held by two aging aunts for their petite bourgeoisie friends and family. The scene unfolds gently, in the glow of the Epiphany and lantern light. There is dancing, drinking, feasting, a few social gaffes...It is the latter where Joyce balances on the razor's edge between social satire and devastatingly keen observation.
This seemingly innocuous setting has aching scenes of lust, love, and longing. In a few short paragraphs, Joyce shows a marriage laid bare, infected by disillusionment and disappointment; it is as honest a portrayal of modern love as any I have read. It is a moment of self-awareness and revelation of perception that we would do well to hope never happens to us. Ignorance is bliss.
Hyperbole? I don't know that it matters. It moved me to tears.
I knew nothing of the story, nor have I read Joyce beyond an aborted attempt a dozen years ago at "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man." I expected to slog through complicated language and dry prose.
Instead I slipped quietly in the door of an early 20th century Dublin home, as an unseen guest at a party held by two aging aunts for their petite bourgeoisie friends and family. The scene unfolds gently, in the glow of the Epiphany and lantern light. There is dancing, drinking, feasting, a few social gaffes...It is the latter where Joyce balances on the razor's edge between social satire and devastatingly keen observation.
This seemingly innocuous setting has aching scenes of lust, love, and longing. In a few short paragraphs, Joyce shows a marriage laid bare, infected by disillusionment and disappointment; it is as honest a portrayal of modern love as any I have read. It is a moment of self-awareness and revelation of perception that we would do well to hope never happens to us. Ignorance is bliss.
November 7, 2021
قصة صادمة..!!
أموات جيمس جويس الأحياء
ماذا يعني أن تكون حيًّا أو أن تكون ميّتًا؟
عالم الأموات هو العالم الغامض، هو نفسه العالم الذي رعاه هؤلاء الأموات ذات مرة وعاشوا فيه.
بإمكانك قراءة قصة "الأموات" بالطريقة التي تريد حتى تستوعبها، هناك طرق عديدة لقراءة هذه القصة، يعتمد ذلك على من يقرأ فعدد طرق القراءة يكون أحيانا بعدد القراء أنفسهم، كما أن النصوص قليلة لا يمكن أن تبني لك تصور واضح لأحداثها ولا حتى لنهايتها، لا في ما يتعلق بغرابة السرد بل في تأمل جمال وعمق النصوص، والدهشة التي ستشعر بها كقارئ أثناء وبعد القراءة.
"الحياة تتخلل الموت".
"الوجوه الغائبة التي نفتقدها هنا الليلة".
العبارتان السابقتان هما ما جعلاني أعيد القراءة من البداية كي أستوعبها أكثر، ليجرني فهمي واستيعابي إلى أن القصة حديث الأموات، وجميع الموجودات كانت شبحية.
تُذكرني شخصية "غابرييل" في هذه القصة بشخصية "بارتلبي" لهرمان ملڤل.. بارتلبي يبدو نائما أو ميتًا لن تعرف ذلك أبدًا، كذلك "غابرييل" الذي يتصوره بعض النقاد بأنه هو "جبريل" الملاك حارس بوابات الموت، وأيضًا "ليلي" وهو اسم فتاة يتكرر، تستقبل الضيوف عند باب الدير.. أهي فتاة فقط؟ "ليلي" وتعني زهور البنفسج التي يراها الناس في الجنائز وتوديع الأموات.
قصة مدهشة، وكتابة مراجعة لشرح أحداث هذا النوع من القصص صعب جدًا.. اقرؤوها
أموات جيمس جويس الأحياء
ماذا يعني أن تكون حيًّا أو أن تكون ميّتًا؟
عالم الأموات هو العالم الغامض، هو نفسه العالم الذي رعاه هؤلاء الأموات ذات مرة وعاشوا فيه.
بإمكانك قراءة قصة "الأموات" بالطريقة التي تريد حتى تستوعبها، هناك طرق عديدة لقراءة هذه القصة، يعتمد ذلك على من يقرأ فعدد طرق القراءة يكون أحيانا بعدد القراء أنفسهم، كما أن النصوص قليلة لا يمكن أن تبني لك تصور واضح لأحداثها ولا حتى لنهايتها، لا في ما يتعلق بغرابة السرد بل في تأمل جمال وعمق النصوص، والدهشة التي ستشعر بها كقارئ أثناء وبعد القراءة.
"الحياة تتخلل الموت".
"الوجوه الغائبة التي نفتقدها هنا الليلة".
العبارتان السابقتان هما ما جعلاني أعيد القراءة من البداية كي أستوعبها أكثر، ليجرني فهمي واستيعابي إلى أن القصة حديث الأموات، وجميع الموجودات كانت شبحية.
تُذكرني شخصية "غابرييل" في هذه القصة بشخصية "بارتلبي" لهرمان ملڤل.. بارتلبي يبدو نائما أو ميتًا لن تعرف ذلك أبدًا، كذلك "غابرييل" الذي يتصوره بعض النقاد بأنه هو "جبريل" الملاك حارس بوابات الموت، وأيضًا "ليلي" وهو اسم فتاة يتكرر، تستقبل الضيوف عند باب الدير.. أهي فتاة فقط؟ "ليلي" وتعني زهور البنفسج التي يراها الناس في الجنائز وتوديع الأموات.
قصة مدهشة، وكتابة مراجعة لشرح أحداث هذا النوع من القصص صعب جدًا.. اقرؤوها
November 22, 2025
Read it again today, watched the film again today... my holiday tradition. Things I loved and hated about the holidays and the family. It never fails to move me. Little things in the film... the scenes spying on shelves... the characters to put up with... and loved ones lost.
"My baby lies cold within my arms...but nothing let me in..."
"My baby lies cold within my arms...but nothing let me in..."
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