Dubliners

By James Joyce

First published in 1914, Dubliners depicts middle-class Catholic life in Dublin at the start of the twentieth century. Themes within the stories include the disappointments of childhood, the frustrations of adolescence, and the importance of sexual awakening. James Joyce was twenty-five years old when he wrote this collection of short stories, among which 'The Dead' is probably the most famous. Considered at the time as a literary experiment, Dubliners contains moments of joy, fear, grief, love and loss, which combine to form one of the most complete depictions of a city ever written, and the stories remain as refreshingly original and surprising in this century as they did in the last.

This Macmillan Collector's Library edition of Dubliners features an afterword by dramatist Peter Harness.

Designed to appeal to the booklover, the Macmillan Collector's Library is a series of beautiful gift editions of much loved classic titles. Macmillan Collector's Library are books to love and treasure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pan Macmillan
• Release date: Oct 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781509831463

James Joyce

James Joyce (1882–1941) was an Irish poet, novelist, and short story writer, considered to be one of the most influential authors of the 20th century. His most famous works include Dubliners (1914), A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916), Ulysses (1922), and Finnegans Wake (1939).

Book preview

Biography

The Sisters

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

Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to some former remark of his: ‘No, I wouldn’t say he was exactly . . . but there was something queer . . . there was something uncanny about him. I’ll tell you my opinion . . . ’

He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery.

‘I have my own theory about it,’ he said. ‘I think it was one of those . . . peculiar cases . . . But it’s hard to say . . . ’

He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My uncle saw me staring and said to me: ‘Well, so your old friend is gone, you’ll be sorry to hear.’

‘Who?’ said I.

‘Father Flynn.’

‘Is he dead?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No, no, not for me,’ said old Cotter.

My aunt brought the dish from the safe and laid it on the table.

‘But why do you think it’s not good for children, Mr Cotter?’ she asked.

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

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

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

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

July 1st, 1895

The Revd James Flynn (formerly of St Catherine’s Church, Meath Street), aged sixty-five years.

R.I.P.

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

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

As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter’s words and tried to remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. I remembered that I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinging lamp of antique fashion. I felt that I had been very far away, in some land where the customs were strange – in Persia, I thought . . . But I could not remember the end of the dream.

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

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

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

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

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

Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt fingered the stem of her wine glass before sipping a little.

‘Did he . . . peacefully?’ she asked.

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

‘And everything . . . ?’

‘Father O’Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him and prepared him and all.’

‘He knew then?’

‘He was quite resigned.’

‘He looks quite resigned,’ said my aunt.

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

‘Yes, indeed,’ said my aunt.

She sipped a little more from her glass and said: ‘Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you to know that you did all you could for him. You were both very kind to him, I must say.’

Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees.

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

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

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

‘Wasn’t that good of him?’ said my aunt.

Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.

‘Ah, there’s no friends like the old friends,’ she said, ‘when all is said and done, no friends that a body can trust.’

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

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

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

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

She stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then said shrewdly: ‘Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over him latterly. Whenever I’d bring in his soup to him there I’d find him with his breviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his mouth open.’

She laid a finger against her nose and frowned: then she continued: ‘But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer was over he’d go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old house again where we were all born down in Irishtown and take me and Nannie with him. If we could only get one of them newfangled carriages that makes no noise that Father O’Rourke told him about, them with the rheumatic wheels, for the day cheap – he said, at Johnny Rush’s over the way there and drive out the three of us together of a Sunday evening. He had his mind set on that . . . Poor James!’

‘The Lord have mercy on his soul!’ said my aunt.

Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Then she put it back again in her pocket and gazed into the empty grate for some time without speaking.

‘He was too scrupulous always,’ she said. ‘The duties of the priesthood was too much for him. And then his life was, you might say, crossed.’

‘Yes,’ said my aunt. ‘He was a disappointed man. You could see that.’

A silence took possession of the little room and, under cover of it, I approached the table and tasted my sherry and then returned quietly to my chair in the corner. Eliza seemed to have fallen into a deep reverie. We waited respectfully for her to break the silence: and after a long pause she said slowly: ‘It was that chalice he broke . . . That was the beginning of it. Of course, they say it was all right, that it contained nothing, I mean. But still . . . They say it was the boy’s fault. But poor James was so nervous, God be merciful to him!’

‘And was that it?’ said my aunt. ‘I heard something . . . ’

Eliza nodded.

‘That affected his mind,’ she said. ‘After that he began to mope by himself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So one night he was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn’t find him anywhere. They looked high up and low down; and still they couldn’t see a sight of him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested to try the chapel. So then they got the keys and opened the chapel and the clerk and Father O’Rourke and another priest that was there brought in a light for to look for him . . . And what do you think but there he was, sitting up by himself in the dark in his confession-box, wide-awake and laughing-like softly to himself?’

She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was no sound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still in his coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an idle chalice on his breast.

Eliza resumed: ‘Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself . . . So then, of course, when they saw that, that made them think that there was something gone wrong with him . . . ’

An Encounter

It was Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a little library made up of old numbers of The Union Jack, Pluck and The Halfpenny Marvel. Every evening after school we met in his back garden and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo, the idler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to carry it by storm; or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well we fought, we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with Joe Dillon’s war dance of victory. His parents went to eight-o’clock mass every morning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs Dillon was prevalent in the hall of the house. But he played too fiercely for us who were younger and more timid. He looked like some kind of an Indian when he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his head, beating a tin with his fist and yelling: ‘Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!’

Everyone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a vocation for the priesthood. Nevertheless it was true.

A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its influence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We banded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost in fear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant Indians who were afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one. The adventures related in the literature of the Wild West were remote from my nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape. I liked better some American detective stories which were traversed from time to time by unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing wrong in these stories and though their intention was sometimes literary they were circulated secretly at school. One day when Father Butler was hearing the four pages of Roman History, clumsy Leo Dillon was discovered with a copy of The Halfpenny Marvel.

‘This page or this page? This page? Now, Dillon, up! "Hardly had the day . . . Go on! What day? Hardly had the day dawned" . . . Have you studied it? What have you there in your pocket?’

Everyone’s heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over

Reviews for Dubliners

[scriberpunk · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

My mother used to call me a Jackeen. I thought at first she was calling me a Dubliner, an Anglicised city boy, which is one of its meanings and insult enough from a Culchie like her. A Culchie is someone from the Irish countryside. Keep up at the back. It turns out Jackeen also means a drunken waster, which is more probably what she meant, but the two definitions are one and the same to her I reckon.Joyce, in The Dubliners, never uses the word but there are one or two of both types of Jackeen scattered throughout the collection of short stories.The book reminds me of an Ian Dury album. He makes the ordinary extraordinary. He takes the small and mundane moments of everyday life and turns them into celebrations of existence. The stories start with tales of childhood and convey the tension and detail that consume a child’s life perfectly and continue throughout lifetimes until the last story, The Dead, which finishes with the best piece of writing I have ever read.The perfect book to have in your pocket when waiting for someone in a pub. Preferably someone unreliable who wont turn up on time.

[jujunna · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I'm currently re-reading this book (the Norton edition) for perhaps the 8th time (or maybe more), in preparation for teaching it this fall semester. The wonderful thing about these short, pithy stories is that you CAN re-read them many times and get something more from them with every re-reading.

At first glance, they're pretty depressing, realistic portraits of life in turn-of-the-century Dublin. But a closer reading reveals rich underpinnings of symbol, allusion, even allegorical contexts. And the reader who persists, getting through all the stories to the last one, "The Dead," will be rewarded with a final vision of Irish hospitality and celebration, closing with a sense of equanimity (though not everyone reads the final passage this hopefully).

Joyce never fails to disappoint.

[chadmarsh · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Though it sounds cliche to say it, The Dead is probably the best short story I've ever read. I've rated the whole of Dubliners at four and a half stars instead of five only because some of the earlier stories read like beginning efforts on the young Joyce's part - which, granted, they are.

[daptolibrary · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It is surprising how easily our perception can be influenced. When it comes to classic literature, this is doubly so! How long have you had the idea that reading James Joyce is just too hard? Well this year our book club took the challenge and Joyce’s Dubliners has scored the highest yet. We were all in agreement that the writing was superb and that Joyce has that very Irish knack of telling a tale that is entertaining yet sorrowful. As we have said before … no one does it like the Irish!It was commented that the narration serves as an observer to what, in anyone else’s hands, would be ordinary, everyday stories. But Joyce has a way of bringing his characters to life with everything that makes us human. Clever turn of phrase and descriptive language all come together to weave a picture of Dublin at a time that it was truly Irish. Our discussion included an interesting look at Joyce himself and some of the challenges he faced getting published. As a group we also try to do a little background into authors. I helps to round out our discussions and also adds an extra dimension to what we learn from the literature we read.We shared real life experiences in Ireland and had plenty of opinions on the traditions and uniqueness of the Irish people. We also felt we were able to pin point the difficult position the country and its people were caught in at the time of Dubliners publication. Somewhere between the modern and traditional world. Something that only a writer of Joyce’s calibre would be able to deliver.

[maribs_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A book filled with 12 short stories about people. The Irish people in Dublin in the late 1800's. You get a glimpse into the lives of the young, the old, the poor and the well-to-do. No one is exempt from Joyce's words. Each story, whether it be about a boy's day spent skipping school, or a young girl trying to choose whether or not to sail away to Buenos Aires with her beau, is beautifully written and rich with atmosphere. Each character comes alive on the page and is given just enough words to make you want to know more about them when it is time to move on to the next story.I am so happy I picked up this book to read, finally, having purchased it back in March. It amazes me how simply language can be used perfectly to tell a story. I kept wondering to myself if these were actual people he knew or saw in the streets around him, making up stories about the men walking down the street, or the kids on the ferry during school hours, or the lady at the quay staring at a ship setting sail.

[bookomaniac-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Verzameling korte verhalen, nogal wisselend van niveau, geen meesterwerken maar wel gedegen vakmanschap. Gemeenschappelijk katholieke verwijzingen, band met Dublin. Telkens een schokkende gebeurtenis voor de betrokken persoon. Apart: langere essay The Dead, subliem-wervelend.

[jesperwestra · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Reading Joyce is like what reading was like when you were a kid - an almost physical experience. He is so good at creating an atmosphere, you can almost smell the air of turn-of-the century Dublin as you follow his characters through their quietly unsatisfied lives. 'Dubliners', in 15 sketches of hugely different people, gives you a very profound sense of what this city (and in fact the entire country) was like at the time, suspended in limbo; clinging to tradition in a sometimes mechanical way, yet yearning to be part of a bigger world. This is most pronounced in the story 'Eveline', where a girl is torn between duties to her family and the promise of a better, happier life abroad with her sweetheart. All in all, 'Dubliners' was a great read and something I'd recommend to anyone. I really like short stories and episodic novels (Dubliners falls somewhere in between I think, because the 15 stories add up to something bigger) because they allow you to catch your breath in between. I'm still a little anxious to touch 'Ulysses', its hugeness and impenetrability being rather legendary, so 'Dubliners' was my way to dip my toe in the water. I also think Irish history and culture are very interesting, and you get a lot of that (references, so keep wikipedia at hand) as well.

[chichikov_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

One of my favorite things about these stories is the Olympian view of mankind. Joyce makes no moral judgements. He gets up close and dispassionately lays out some of the most shameful behavior with the same detail he describes food, drink and clothing. Deeper reading is rewarded. The Sisters closely read transports the reader to the temples of ancient Egypt. And invites reflections on the varying position of religion in society through history.

[seriousgrace · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Dubliners is comprised of 15 short and simple stories all centered around the people of Dublin. To sum up the collection it is a portrait of a city as seen from the eyes of the people living there. The very first story, The Sisters, is nothing more than a family's reaction to a priest's death. While the characters are not connected, their stories are. Life and death, love and loss, youth and aging, poverty and wealth. Joyce does a remarkable job capturing the spirit of the Irish while revealing universal truths about mankind as a whole. It is as if we, as readers, get to peek into the character's lives and are witness to moments of our own circumstance.

[bat_29 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book was my 'A' level set book and I enjoyed it as narrative without understanding much of its significance. I got Bolt's preface to Joyce, as a prelude to another attempt at 'Ulysses' and re-read it. It's deep and experimental, but a good read at the same time. A great insight into Dublin just before WW1 and humanity in general, take what you want, it's here.

[pilgrimjess · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Despite not being a fan of short stories this is the third such set I have read on the bounce folllowing on from Conan Doyle's Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Hemingway's Snows of Kilimanjaro. I had hoped that this book would act as an easy introduction to Joyce and his works before tackling one of his novels. I was wrong.Now while I can sit back and admire the overall writing style the book just did not really grab me. Perhaps I am just unable to grasp the subtler symbolism of its message but with each story I felt that it had been just cut off in the middle just as I was finally getting into it.There is a common thread within the book as the main protagonists of each story move from childhood to middle aged to maturity and finally death but the disparate nature of the characters and their backgrounds only added to the confusion I felt.The descriptions of Dublin and its life were very evocative, the characterisation was good and I particularily enjoyed some of the banality of the dialogues although knowing that the book was written while the author was in self-imposedexile seems, to me at least, to bring into question some of its poignancy. That is on the plus side but on the negative was the heavy use of notes, something that I'm loathe to read anyway, throughout the book. Now I realise that this book was written over 100 years ago so some were neccessary. Some meanings I was able to guess without refering to the back while others were totally unnecessary but overall to me they just killed the flow of the story.I am not studying for some examination nor really interested in some in depth study of 19th Century Irish life but am merely reading for pleasure. So perhaps the real truth was that I just had to try to hard to get the message of this book and that is why it didn't really grab me. There is another Joyce book on my To Be Read pile and it may just sit there a good bit longer now.

[jimmychanga · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Unassuming stories of everyday life, and from every phase of life. Some are vignettes, some almost feel underwhelming... but intentionally so.I have to say, though, that 'The Dead' is a GREAT story. It is one of the best stories I've ever read, and touches on the themes of all the other stories for a powerful and resonating close. And it starts out so much like the other ones, like a vignette, but then it continues past that vignette and goes deep into the character's psyches.I also liked 'A Painful Case', where an unlikeable old man couldn't bring himself to love a woman due to his own hangups until she is dead, and 'Little Cloud', in which a man realizes the mundane-ness of his life in comparison to his famous friend who just came back to Dublin for a visit. However, the worst of these stories are rather boring. The weight of the everyday dialogue and references to obscure irish politicians of the day doesn't help a story like 'Ivy Day in the Committee Room' which takes many pages to go no-where and say nothing interesting in the process.

[booksfordinner · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

First read Dubliners in the early 90's... re-read it again in 2005 or so along with some critical essays. Probably in my top 50 of all time... will be making that list once I have all my titles uploaded and reviewed. I'm sure you're all waiting with baited breath for that.

[milti_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Joyce's simple stories keep one gripped. Wonderful collection and a great introduction to Joyce.

[varielle_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I once got robbed in Dublin. It doesn't seem that much has changed. This is the first Joyce that I successfully slogged through. Bleak. Despairing. Half the characters are drunk and beating their families and the other half are wallowing in misery. Not recommended unless you are suicidally depressed and are looking for something to push you over the edge.

[theidiot_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

excellent stories about everyday life in Dublin in early 1900's. kind of hard to read if not acquainted with irish slang.

[missbrandysue · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

James Joyce's collection of 15 stories relating to regular Irish citizens felt like a time machine taking me back into the turn of the century Dublin city. The characters and problems in the stories are all relevant and relatable as normal people you might meet on the street in the past. There was a dark gloom over most situations and characters but Joyce left you with just enough hope and anticipation to think maybe, possibly, it just might end up ok for the specific character you were currently with.I purchased this book as I was preparing for my trip to Ireland but found that I didn't have time to conquer until a year later. As I read it I constantly had flashbacks to my trip. It was wonderful. I can appreciate the realism of the characters and the lack of a happy ending. I think if every story ends with a happy ending then what point will there be in reading on and on. I look forward to reading my next Joyce novel!

[porian_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I don't see the big deal. The stories (what I've read) aren't worth writing home about.

[legalmove · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I give Dubliners only 4 1/2 because there seems to be more than a half point gap between this and Ulysses, Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man and Finnegan's Wake. I admit I am unfairly punishing Joyce by comparing him against himself. Joyce is one of the most brilliant authors to have ever worked with the English language.

[ostrom_2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I've always liked this book better than the novels.

[applemcg · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

a lesson in accessible joyce. some stories are easier to get into. others are in his own impenetrable style. i started this in paper, finished on an e-reader. a vote in their behalf, i'm cylcing four books while commuting; i typically get to three in a round trip. i looked forward to 'dubliners' (and the others as well).

[vinjii-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Dubliners was my attempt to get into Joyce's work. I'd like to read Ulysses one day, but so far I haven't quite dared to tackle it. This is a collection of short stories that I hoped would gently introduce me to Joyce's writing. The stories are easy to understand and I enjoyed the prose. I'm definitely keeping his other work on my tbr list and would recommend Dubliners to anyone who wants a taste of James Joyce.

[.monkey.-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

"When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of the sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street."James Joyce gives us 15 short stories about his old home of Dublin, from childhood to adolescence to mature life and public life. I can see and respect the skill in Joyce's writing. And the introduction provides a little further insight that sheds a slightly clearer light on the stories than I got from my unhappy reading. There are some slight feminist angles and he does well at portraying a certain kind of common life experienced there. And the last story—the "long" one at a whopping 40 pages—was certainly a positive demonstration of what Joyce was capable of producing. However. I did not enjoy this book. Most of the stories were dreadfully short, between a mere 5-10 pages; this is not enough time to flesh out a proper story, as far as I am concerned. Not enough can happen, or if something happens, there is not enough background to it to make it worth knowing that the something happened. It is quite difficult to feel much for a character you've only just been introduced to. Add to that, the stories are terribly bleak and melancholy. This is a common "feature" of the short story in general, for some reason it seems to lend itself to the style, but it is not something I appreciate in a bundle. Why must they all be that way? Surely not everyone in Ireland was living with/were rotten abusive drunken men!Now admittedly, I do not, as a rule, care for short stories. I mostly only read them from favored authors, or collections of genres or region or whathaveyou. But on occasion, some other author's short stories make their way into my hands, for some reason or other. I generally do not wind up enamored with them on such occasions, but one never knows. So, it should come as no surprise that I was not thrilled with this volume. Even so, I disliked reading this little book far more than any other collection I have read. "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."If you enjoy short stories, this is probably a good read for you. If you're not especially fond of them, run away!

[rbeffa_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

James Joyce is one of those classic authors on my "to-do" list. One of many who I should have read or only read lightly. Others include Joseph Conrad and William Faulkner. There is a rather large lot of them. Even some like Thomas Hardy and Hemingway who I liked a lot in my younger days is under-read by me. So finally some Joyce. Some thoughts:The Dubliners is a collection of 15 stories set in Dublin Ireland. Together they can be seen as a novel. The first story was published in 1904. The last in 1907. Some of these stories were apparently quite controversial at the the time. I read a little background material before tackling this. Doing so made me wonder if I could really appreciate this a century after they were written. I was ready for bleak. Stories I've read set in Ireland such as McCourt's [Angela's Ashes] have more than convinced me of the overwhelming crushing poverty and sadness for endless decades. Bleak is what I got, but not overwhelming; more just like a great melancholy laying over many stories. Some are frankly depressing, almost enought to make one cry. These are small snapshots of moments in ordinary people's lives. I thought most of them were quite good. The writing is beautiful. As for my trepidations of not being able to fully appreciate these in their time, I think it was a little true. I wasn't quite sure what was going on at times and with the dialogue between characters. Other stories were 100% understandable. Someone with a depth of knowledge of the times and Irish history would probably get more from these stories, but I had no major problems other than being unfamiliar with a word here and there and some sensibilities. The stories really grew into something bigger than the pieces and my appreciation got ever larger. Very fine stuff here. I'm glad to have finally tackled Joyce. He is without a doubt a storyteller. Quite a good read.

[larryking1-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Sure, this collection was written by none other than James Joyce, but let's be perfectly honest: this book encapsulates what Thoreu was talking about when he stated the obvious: "the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." After finishing this collection of failed lives, broken dreams, religious superstition, alcoholic excess, harsh memories, heartbreak, double-dealing, etc, I am going to need lots of ice cream to cleanse my palate of from the taste of a 'why even bother' mentality. And to think that my Irish grandmother was living in these very streets as this book was written! No wonder she left! Despair at its most relentless; as one character notes, "I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger." And he was one of the lucky ones!

[schmerguls · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

848 Dubliners, by James Joyce (read 17 Apr 1966) Some of this book was very good. They are short stories, and, of course the trouble with short story books is that one has to start over with each story. Probably the best in this volume was "The Dead," though only in its ending did I note a sudden sensation of feeling in myself. The ending: "Yes, the newspapers were right, snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling in every part of the dark neutral plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bay of Allen and, further westward, softly falling into the dark, mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lovely 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." If I were Irish, what an orgy of feeling would Ireland rouse in me!

[fuzzy_patters · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Dubliners is a collection of short stories about the Irish middle class. Each story is about a different person or group of people, and they are not really connected to each other in theme until you get to the last two pages of the book. At that point, you come to realize Joyce's purpose in writing this collection, and it all comes together for you.This is one of those books that I could not put down, had a profound affect on me emotionally at times, and yet, I doubt there is any one moment or character that will stick with me. In a way, that's the genius of it in that it perfectly captures the prosaic life of the middle class. In the end, one begins to lament the meaninglessness of his own life and the fact that most of our lives are not really worth telling stories about. Joyce celebrates this commonality in a moving way by telling it to us straight with little flourish, which would serve to make it maudlin. Come to think of it, I guess this book might just stick with me a little longer than I thought.

[thatotter-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Really liked The Dead. Some of the others had their moments, but I didn't like that most of them were more like vignettes than actual short stories.

[oreillynsf_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A collection of short stories, each depicting a "Dubliner," this is arguably the most accessible Joyce. But Joyce can be a tough read if you aren't prepared for it. That's why I think this collection of shorts format is a great place to begin to see if you like Joyce. Joyce did NOT write to be accessible, though. It's work reading Joyce. For some it's a labor of love. For others it's just work. For me, it's just work.

[figre · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The most interesting thing about this collection of James Joyce short stories is not that they are accessible (in contradiction to so much of what Joyce has written); but that they are the epitome of the old cliché “the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.” That is to say, few of these stories really stand out. Yes, there are a couple of exceptions. But the majority are just okay stories. However, taken as a whole, these provide a fascinating picture of the town where they all take place. As the stories unfold, the people become more and more real, and the town takes on a shape.The intent of these stories was two-fold. The first was to stand on their own. Not all that successful. The second is to paint an overall picture, and that they do with much better success.It is said that this collection is a good introduction to Joyce. Could well be. As I say, they are quite accessible. But I can say that there is an underlying enjoyment to reading the stories that sneaks up on the reader.