Jonesy's Grok on Literature

The Dead

brettgjones — Sun, 29 Apr 2007 03:29:25 +0000

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

brettgjones — Sat, 28 Apr 2007 19:32:37 +0000

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

brettgjones — Wed, 25 Apr 2007 03:57:08 +0000

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

brettgjones — Wed, 25 Apr 2007 03:47:56 +0000

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

Ivy Day in the Committee Room

brettgjones — Tue, 03 Apr 2007 18:12:39 +0000

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

A Painful Case

brettgjones — Wed, 28 Mar 2007 21:13:32 +0000

I must say before I begin, I have not been posting regularly, I apologize . . . brother.

A Painful Case – this story hurts. You all know the saying, “Better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all.” Well Mr. James Duffy is one of the unfortunate people who had the chance to love, but turned it away. Paralysis. We see the hopeless relationship develop between our protagonist and Mrs. Sinico. True to his form, Joyce wrecks the world by walking you through the painful separation of the two potential love birds. Then Joyce wrenches your gut with another tender little morsel of depression found in the paper by Mr. Duffy four years later.

It is no wonder I no longer post regularly. These stories now paralyze me for weeks at a time.

I will get over it.

Clay

brettgjones — Mon, 19 Mar 2007 20:00:09 +0000

Why it is titled, Clay, I have not yet found. Even upon the second read. I am still perplexed about this story. I have no real understanding of what Maria really represents. She is a second-class woman working for the matron mentioned at the beginning; before this she was once a nanny. Apparently, others think she is a “veritable peace maker.” I imagine this has a bit to do with the story, although it feels like she is taken advantage of during a game involving a blindfold. She sees the boys she used to take care of and mixes up the words of a certain song at the end. That all is if I read the story proper. I will take a look at some reviews and blogs about the story, then remark again on this post after I have made sense of things. I have a hunch that the song will bring me to the source of the story.

Hiatus

brettgjones — Mon, 12 Mar 2007 17:50:26 +0000

Just finished spring break. New posts soon.

Counterparts

brettgjones — Mon, 26 Feb 2007 18:06:54 +0000

The American Heritage Dictionary states the second definition of counterparts being a “copy or duplicate of a legal paper.” Fitting considering the story spins off the mischief Farrington gets into for making incomplete legal contract copies. I am having a hard time finding the relation of the first definition for the word in the story titled by the same. “One that closely resembles another,” says the dictionary, but who does Farrington resemble? I don’t see him being like Mr. Alleyne at all. I suppose it is his mates that he resembles. A couple of them broke, sponging money off those that have a few schillings for whiskey. They are a bunch of child bludgeoning alcoholics. What a story. His boy Tom crying to say a Hail Mary for his pa at the end shook my emotions pretty hard. I know a few folk with Irish blood, they don’t seem all that bad. I hope the natives aren’t nearly as paralyzed and lost as Joyce makes them out to be.

A Little Cloud

brettgjones — Wed, 21 Feb 2007 18:07:30 +0000

A story of old friends catching up at a smoky pub. I relate to it in too many ways. Gallaher and Little Chandler are a couple of cronies who haven’t seen each other in eight years. Little Chandler has a wife of two years and a small child in his home in Dublin which he has hardly left at all. Gallaher is an extroverted journalist who has seized his days as a bit of a playboy and now resides in London. He takes a visit back home and catches up for a night with his old pal, relating stories of corruption abroad to Chandler. Chandler returns to his home remorsefully, thinking envious thoughts about his former friends adventurous spirit. He aspires to become a poet who can express his meloncholy as well as Lord Byron. His child starts cry uncontrolably, and we see Little Chandler loose his temper and his wit as he begins to smother his own flesh and blood against his chest.

Paralysis. Death.

Fortunately, his wife comes home before the child dies, but we see Little Chandler die as his dreams fall from him like the tears on his face. James Joyce really knows how to pack a punch. I am looking forward to finishing this book and putting it behind me. Seven more stories to go.