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

Daily Book Excerpt: Adult fiction:

Dubliners – by James Joyce – excerpt from the third story in the collection: “Araby”. I read this story in high school – and I remember (weird what sticks in your brain) that during my first semester in college I had to write a paper for English about a short story I had already read – and I chose ‘Araby’ – Not sure why, but I did. And I also remember (I’m sure because I wrote about it in my journal at the time – that’s the only way I remember things) staying up all night in the fluorescent-lit common room of my horrible all-girls dorm and writing my paper. I remember it was one of the first times in my academic paper-writing experience where I felt that I actually had an IDEA, my own idea about the story – and I could back it up with textual proof. And the idea itself actually interested me – and so I felt that I could write about it interestingly. You know how so often in college you’re writing papers about something just because you have to? And there’s a kind of drudgery to that kind of writing – but I had some kind of breakthrough with my ‘Araby’ paper. It’s not that it wrote itself – but I felt like I was articulating something about the story that meant something to me … and I was able to do so without just rambling on aimlessly – because Mr. Crothers, my 10th grade English teacher, had taught me how to write a paper. I knew how to set it up. Anyway, I got an A on the paper – my first “A” in a college setting, and I remember being really proud of that.

My idea was all about blindness, and light and dark – as I recall – the main symbolic themes of the story. The theme of blindness comes up again and again – it’s even in the first sentence: “North Richmond Street, being blind …” But of course Joyce is referring to another kind of blindness.

One of my things with Araby, though, is that I so FEEL for that little kid (I was just talking with my dad about this yesterday) – you WANT him to succeed, and get to the fair, and buy a gift for the girl and all to be well. You don’t get the sense that he’s a little puff-puff snot, or an obnoxious vain personality … He seems kind of sweet and sensitive. So the last sentence of the story – with its rage and self-hatred – is almost painful for me to read. Like; no no no don’t feel bad about YOURSELF because you couldn’t get to the fair on time! I want to save that little boy from years of trouble!! No need to hate yourSELF! Maybe I’m thinking about Cashel hating himself, seeing Cashel in that setting – I don’t know – it’s just painful to think of that little kid in Araby turning his sights on himself with such contempt.

But I know I did such things as a child myself.

And events in childhood do have an effect, and sometimes leaves a groove that lasts forever. We are forever marked. It may not make much sense to the adult world … what we see as little problems, or things that should pass … are tremendously important to children. Like this story. I have to say – when I look back on that event, one of the things I remember is “white-hot shame” coursing through my veins. I felt duped, I felt that I had been stupid and naive. I was 9 years old. I did not forgive myself for being duped. I stuffed that shame far far down and pretended everything was okay – and I never looked back (until deciding to write about it a bazillion years later). I blamed mySELF for that failed “flying up” ceremony. I didn’t sit there philosophically and think, “Well, nobody told me we wouldn’t get real wings … it’s an honest mistake … no need to freak …” I internalized it ALL, and I looked around – and saw that nobody ELSE was disappointed, nobody else had thought the wings would be real – only I did – stupid little dope Sheila. Childhood is intense, man. Woah.

‘Araby’ is another 5 page story – simple, direct, powerful. A little boy lives with his aunt and uncle in Dublin. He has a good friend – another little boy – who has an older sister. She’s probably 15, 16 – and our narrator is always SUPER aware of her. Perhaps he’s not a little boy, maybe he’s on the verge of adolescence himself … it’s not made clear. Anyway, she walks by his house – and he goes to the window to watch (and enjoy) her movements. Does he have a crush? Maybe. It’s not made clear. It’s all in the senses – nothing intellectual or cerebral. Like he has an encounter with her on the stairway at the friend’s house – and all he is aware of is her bracelets, and her ankles, and the softness of her – She seems like the most beautiful creature who has ever lived.

There’s a fair in Dublin – or maybe it’s more a bazaar – it’s made to sound rather mystical and mysterious – it’s referred to as “Araby” – and narrator says to girl, casually, “I’ll bring you something from Araby.”

The casual tone he takes belies the fact that this is not an empty promise to him – it is his entire reason for living. It is the most important thing ever, like a sacrament. He will bring her something from Araby. I am just seeing, in my head right now, someone Cashel’s age making such a promise – and how important promises are to children. Adults promise things all the time, and never follow through. Children learn NOT to believe when someone says “I promise …” So it’s intense, it’s meaningful.

Then – through a series of mishaps and … well, basically realizing that his uncle didn’t MEAN it when he said, “I promise I’ll take you down to Araby after such and such …” and it gets too late, and his uncle hasn’t shown up – and there’s a quiet desperation here … He SAID he would bring her something from Araby! What if he doesnt succeed??

I’m writing about this haunting story very badly (where is that A paper from college??) – all I can say is, it’s amazing – one of the best parts of the collection. Painful. Symbolically rich. Gives the reader a feeling of being a helpless observer.

Oh, a funny thing from my conversation with my dad about Dubliners – we were chatting about the different stories (dad just re-read it last year) – and talking about how good it all is, how precise, and perfect each story is – the order of the stories, how one goes to the other, etc. How good Joyce is. But then, as dad said, you get to ‘The Dead’ – the last story in the collection – and it makes all the rest seem almost like bad stories. Like: where the hell did THAT come from?

That’s why I say: read the collection in order, if you want to pick it up and haven’t encountered it yet.

Okay, so here’s an excerpt from the painful perfect little story ‘Araby’:

EXCERPT FROM Dubliners by James Joyce – “Araby”.</b>

When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of 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. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gantlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan’s sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan’s steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung and she moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’ cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a <i>come-all-you</i> about O’Doovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.