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Since last Thursday I have been reading posts prompted by the Literary Blog Hop about how people found their way to literary fiction. You can read my own answer here. All those posts have a lot to do with memories from when we were kids. Each new post I read brings back some more memories.
One of these memories is about the time I wrote a story with my dad. As I have said in a comment, my dad would not read books to me before going to bed, but would invent a story for me. It could go on for many days. My favourite one was the one with Tintin (I was a big fan at the time), who would confront a villain called Zedoboy. This was the English version of my dad’s associate, Le Double – The Double, rendered with my dad’s wonderful (not!) English accent.
One day, we decided to write a story together. I still have it and will share it with you, but you have to promise not to laugh! As you will see, I was a wonderful artist; one would wonder why I did not choose this as a career! There is no date on the story, but the mention of “Les Seychelles” would make me think that it must have been after my dad and stepmum went there on holidays, so I must have been seven at the time.
Now, story time!
A Journey by Washing Machine
The washing machine was making “boom boom” noises on the tiles.
Seating problems on the tile.
Not very serious and promptly repaired.
New cycle on the program n° 10. We went for a stroll to the market, but when we came back, what a surprise!
Water was running down the stairs.
When we walked into the kitchen, our surprise was no lesser. There was one and a half metre of water on the floor, but what was most astonishing was that the washing machine had a chimney.
The drum had transformed into a propeller and the lid into a sail.
The occasion was too good not to try this boat of a revolutionary type.
Emilie and Béatrice went on board and set the program on 11.
FULL STEAM AHEAD.
In a cloud of smoke, the washing machine went out through the window et flew over the little building of Renardieres Street.
Heading South. Fortunately Béatrice hadn’t forgotten her Nautamine [medicine for seasickness] because north of Sicily, the crew ran into a fresh gale.
Once the good weather came back, the washing machine was able to settle on the Red Sea and to continue by using the sail.
Off Djibouti, the first spin enabled to avoid the mines set by terrorists.
Finally, the first turtles appeared.
Like dolphins, they showed, by playing around the machine, the way to follow.
Manifestly, the direction indicated was south-east.
Out of fuel and in the absence of wind, the improvised boat was pulled by two turtles.
Offshore, our sailors finally saw some land appearing, in the form of magnificent islands scattered on a smooth and clear sea.
The sun being out, Béatrice was able to hang out her washing in the Seychelles.
La fin.
I had planned to write this review on Thursday as it was the day of the Epiphany and I thought it would be appropriate, but unfortunately I did not have the energy to do so.
This is the second time I read Dubliners and I have appreciated it more this time. I think this is partly due to the fact that I have now lived longer in Ireland and am more aware of certain Irish issues. Dubliners is a difficult collection because of all its references to Irish politics and culture, religion in particular. And because these are short stories written in a style of “scrupulous meanness” (a term coined by Joyce), those references are sometimes quite obscure, thus the amount of footnotes to explain them, which make the reading process more difficult (for instance, some will tell you that such a street is part of an upper-class area). To be honest, I did not read them all and have probably missed on some levels of meaning and interpretation. I am not feeling guilty about it because, at least, I enjoyed reading the stories, most of them anyway.
The collection is divided into four sections: childhood, youth, maturity and public life. The last story, “The Dead”, is usually excluded from this division and is often seen as Joyce’s step towards longer works of wider scope. All stories are about people living in Dublin and their misery (in one way of another); yet, if I am not mistaken, Dublin is not named once but referred to by the names of street and landmarks.
One of the themes I enjoy most is the relation the characters have with their native country. Many of the characters dream of escape (from the mundanity of the Dublin life), but are tied to their country for various reasons. I enjoyed discussing this with my students. It is something still prominent in Ireland: Irish people tend to moan about life in Ireland and want to leave, but as soon as they have set foot on foreign ground, they go looking for the nearest Irish pub; their heart is still in their native country and quite often they return home. This tension is palpable in Dubliners and is probably mostly felt in those moments of epiphany (moments of realisation), a term that has become associated with this collection.
For instance, in the story “A Little Cloud”, Little Chandler meets an old friend of his. They use to study in the same place and would have thus had the same opportunities in life. They did not follow the same path: Little Chandler remained in Ireland while Gallaher escaped and went to live a life of adventures in London and other fashionable places in Europe. During their encounter, it is obvious that Little Chandler looks up to Gallaher and envies his life of adventures and freedom; however, he soon realises that Gallaher is showing off and tries to bring to the fore the fact that his own life is a success: he has a job, a wife and a kid. When going back home, it is a harsh return to reality. His wife is annoyed with him because he did not bring back tea (the nagging wife?), she goes to the shop and leaves him with their sleeping baby. He sees a picture of her:
“He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. But he found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and lady-like? The composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled him and defied him: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of what Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing! . . . Why had he married the eyes in the photograph?”
He then considers the rest of his house with negativity and wonders if it is too late for him to escape. The child wakes up and starts crying, his shouting at him to stop increases the screaming, until his wife comes home. She blames him for making the child cry, thus making Little Chandler feel even worse about himself:
“Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child’s sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes.”
This is how the story ends. I found this story painfully sad. It was actually physical and, at times, I was reticent about starting another story as I was dreading what I would read in it. These are not light-hearted stories.
Melody at Fingers & Prose recently reviewed this collection and was disappointed. She came to the conclusion that she did not feel connected to the stories. I can understand that and I think this might be because they revolve so much around Dublin life at the beginning of the century and focus on types from the “submerged populations” as Frank O’Connor would say. On the other hand, most of my students liked them and felt connected. As for me, I enjoyed many for them for the reasons I have mentioned. I think they are well-written, but they are hard work and this can be off-putting at times.
I also discussed “The Sisters” and “An Encounter” in a previous post.
