The Dead

I know a band from Scotland called Mogwai. Their latest release Mr. Beast has a track called, Glasgow Mega Snake. I read a review about that song on Pandora. They referenced the name as being B.A. I wonder if it has anything to do with the town mentioned in The Dead.

Glasgow or no, the speech given by Gabriel in the middle of this story gave me insight to the lyric, “Unless he tells a lie,” in the for they are jolly gay fellows song. I have not heard that line inserted before. It gives it a different perspective.

I would like to hear The Lass of Aughrim played and sung by an old Irish man and a guitar.

As the snow fell upon the living and the dead in the last passage of this collection, I ache. The pain is something unbearable, but natural. I know it as my own. I have no reason to know it, my life has been sheltered, blessed, and I am fortunate to be in my circumstance. Joyce has given me a window to pains I hope I will never know.

“His soul had approached that region where dwell the fast hosts of the dead.”(182)

As I Prepare

My journey through Dubliners is coming to a close. I sit and ponder the days I spent, floored by Joyce and his portrayal of his folk and country. Those days were dark, as were his words. I felt dark with the book in my hands. Although the pages were few, the weight was heavy; I never knew such a weary world.

I aspire to read Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man next. Where after I will let the fates decide. I never had any qualms with those three ladies. Nor have I argument with the nine muses. Let them show me a world of woe, passions, suffering, and all the goings on of days gone by.

Grace

Joyce really has come around. His writing, as the stories mature, impresses me more and more. On page 141 of this Bantam-classic, Father Purdon spoke of the business like relationship he would have with his members. As a jack myself, I feel Purdon’s words as echoes from my former religious figures. The business men; with their pockets full, and their bellies fat. I recall they shook hands with the strength of Jesus.

I enjoyed reading the stories perspective about men who are of the world, because it is in their nature. Keep your tallies safe, and accounted for. If all is well, and the measures check, you stand right with d’Jesus.

*

A Mother

Being a man, I had a difficult time with this story. It did not settle with me well.

Ivy Day in the Committee Room

Ah, the committee. What a thing. A few men, a dozen or so bottles of port, a fire, and some business. Patriotism, politics, work ethics, and mortality. The words, the words. The Irish. Joyce and his writing resonate with me today. I feel the preceding stories only made this one more rich and meaningful. The poem at the end made a profound impact upon me.

“He is dead. Our uncrowned king is dead.”

Paralysis