The Books: “Dubliners” – ‘Counterparts’ (James Joyce)

Daily Book Excerpt: Adult fiction:

DublinersJoyce.jpgDubliners – by James Joyce – excerpt from the ninth story in the collection: “Counterparts”.

Wow, this story makes me uncomfortable to read. The part of me that hates the thought that I am in “trouble”, that I have made a mistake, that someone doesn’t like me … all of that is stirred up when I read “Counterparts”. Farrington, the lead character, is not at all sympathetic – and the story ends with him beating his child, who screams in fear – so no, I don’t like Farrington … but still, his predicament, his problem is one that is quite human, one we all share. He has been blunted down by the disappointmens of life – which put him into a state of nearly-constant smouldering rage … and also, there’s the drink. Joyce is sooooo good at suggesting Farrington’s need for alcohol. Farrington’s “thirst”. It’s not just something Farrington likes to do, or wants to do. It’s something he cannot resist. And things go wrong because of it … he is messing up ROYALLY because of his “thirst” … but still, the thirst remains. Also where Joyce is wonderful is in suggesting that Farrington has turned drinking into this romantic undertaking – that has very little to do with reality. It’s like Farrington thinks of a drink – and he sees a warm pub, and loud voices, the clink of glasses, camaraderie … THAT is what he yearns for the most. Perhaps we could call it connection with his fellow man. But every time he does go and get an ACTUAL drink in the story – it is never like what he sees in his imagination. He has no money. He has already tapped out the bartenders, who have very little patience for him. And so he is perpetually disappointed in his search. He keeps looking for something … that glow, that warm glow he remembers … not realizing that it’s already gone too far for him to find that glow ever again.

Farrington works as a clerk, copying out documents. He is bad at his job. The story opens with him being in trouble with the boss. Farrington cannot set his nose to any task … because the spectre of that night’s drinking binge looms in his head, a fantastic and beckoning castle … and so he can never concentrate properly. You can tell that this is a theme, because everyone is already angry with him when the story begins.

He has to finish a certain document by 5. He only has an hour until 5 … but the need for a drink becomes so acute that he pops out of the office to the pub and has a quick drink. Which, naturally, doesn’t help at all – and only makes him even more behind in his work.

He goes out with a bunch of men after work – they drink – Farrington has money issues – he pawned his watch in order to have enough for drinks that night … there’s drunkenness … there’s an arm-wrestling match that Farrington loses, and he can’t let it go …

Farrington is a beaten dog. A growling beaten dog. He goes home to an empty cold house. Where is his wife? She stepped out to church. His son goes to warm up some dinner for him – and Farrington – already in a rage about EVERYTHING – goes after his son with his belt. The story ends with the son pleading with his father not to beat him, and that he will say a “Hail Mary” if only his father won’t beat him …

A violent and bleak story. Unlike the other stories leading up to this one, there is no possibility of escape for Farrington. He doesn’t dream of Argentina or America or London. He can’t. He can barely get through the day. His escape is in the bottle.

One other thing I noticed: All of the names of the people in the office – Farrington’s boss and higher-ups – Crosby, Higgins, Miss Parker – are all distinctly British. Farrington goes out to a pub, and a very fashionable lady whom he had been admiring from afar, brushes by his chair, and says “Pardon” in a noticeably “London” accent. Farrington’s drinking buddies – O’Halloran, Nosey Flynn, etc. – are almost caricatures of Irish names. As Farrington staggers drunkenly through Dublin, he passes by the British army barracks in the middle of the city. Joyce does not pull his punches – although the clues may be subtle, and noticeable only to those who are looking for them. Ireland, in this story, feels like an occupied country. Farrington’s boss is British. The lady he admires in the pub is British. The British are everywhere. Again, Joyce doesn’t ever made a big obvious deal over this. It’s all in the NAMES. Joyce puts the blame firmly on the shoulders of the British – of what has happened to Ireland and Irish men.

And let’s not forget the Catholic Church either which certainly does not escape the condemnation of James Joyce. Farrington comes home, drunk, angry. His wife is out at church. He beats his son, who offers up a Hail Mary in order to get the beating to stop. Joyce sure isn’t parroting the line, “Oh, look what a solace our faith is to us.” Faith is useless to that little boy. The church is useless to its people, who suffer under occupation, and have no way out. Joyce left the faith, obviously (and one of the ways Nora threatened him – when it seemed like he would never return to her in Trieste – was to tell him she was going to baptise their son Giorgio. Joyce came home right-quick. Don’t you DARE baptise our son!) – and Portrait of the Artist goes into this in a much more detailed manner – where Stephen Dedalus must shed the influences of country, religion, language, family – in order to become an artist. The whole Catholic chapter is one of my favorites in that extraordinary book, but I’ll get to that later.

Here’s an excerpt. I wanted to choose an excerpt that showed Farrington’s yearning for a drink and how Joyce writes about that. Here it is.


EXCERPT FROM Dubliners – by James Joyce – “Counterparts”.

The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. He stared intently at the incomplete phrase: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be … and thought how strange it was that the last three words began with the same letter. The chief clerk began to hurry Miss Parker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for post. The man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes and then set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear and his mind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It was a night for hot punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when the clock struck five he had still fourteen pages to write. Blast it! He couldn’t finish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist down on something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote Bernard Bernard instead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a clean sheet.

He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded. His body ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. All the indignities of his life enraged him … Could he ask the cashier privately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no damn good: he wouldn’t give an advance … He knew where he would meet the boys: Leonard and O’Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot.

His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice before he answered Mr. Alleyn and Miss Delacour were standing outside the counter and all the clerks had turned round in anticipation of something. The man got up from his desk. Mr. Alleyne began a tirade of abuse, saying that two letters were missing. The man answered that he knew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy. The tirade continued.. It was so bitter and violent that the man could hardly restrain his fist from descending upon the head of the manikin before him.

— I know nothing about any other two letters, he said stupidly.

You — know — nothing. Of course you know nothing, said Mr. Alleyne. Tell me, he added, glancing first for approval to the lady beside him, do you take me for a fool? Do you think me an utter fool?

The man glanced from the lady’s face to the little egg-shaped head and back again; and, almost before he was aware of it, his tongue had found a felicitous moment:

— I don’t think, sir, he said, that that’s a fair question to put to me.

There was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Everyone was astounded (the author of the witticism no less than his neighbours) and Miss Delacour, who was a stout amiable person, began to smile broadly. Mr. Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild rose and his mouth twitched with a dwarf’s passion. He shook his fist in the man’s face till it seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric machine:

— You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent ruffian! I’ll make short work of you! Wait till you see! You’ll apologise to me for your impertinence or you’ll quit the office instanter! You’ll quit this, I’m telling you, or you’ll apologise to me!

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10 Responses to The Books: “Dubliners” – ‘Counterparts’ (James Joyce)

  1. Nightfinch says:

    A piece of trivia: “The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot” was quoted in the novel The Lost Weekend, by Charles Jackson, also about drink. I thought “Counterparts” was the most painful story to read in the collection. You knew right from the beginning it was going to end badly. Is Farrington not an English name also?

  2. red says:

    That sentence you quoted is one of my favorites in the story. It just says it all! I love that it was quoted elsewhere – I’ve not read that book.

    Farrington is an English name. I’m trying to figure out now what Joyce was doing with that – because you know he was up to SOMEthing. Farrington’s resentment towards the British is – he wouldn’t even call it that, I think – he just has the rage of a dude who has no power, you know??

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  10. Luis Guillermo Jiménez says:

    Speaking of names, it’s brillaint that Farrington is never called by name by the narrator (he’s only “the man”, which sounds as small and sad here as Little Chandler did in “A Little Cloud”) until he’s with his friends in the pub and tells his “triumphant” anecdote with his boss. And then, he gets himself humilliated and is back to just being “the man” for the rest of the story. Tells you so much about masculinity, identity and ego and how toxic they can get.

    Joyce was working on so many levels here.

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