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Joyce's doubling.

WHEN writing Dubliners, James Joyce created a potential dilemma for himself, as he fully intended these stories to wage a moral agenda. He made clear that his overt "intention" was to write "a chapter in the moral history of [his] country" (D, 269). (1) However, while he wanted to moralize, he would never have allowed himself even to use that term. It was important to him that his fictional work avoid blatant authorial intrusion. Before these stories were completed, Joyce was at work on Stephen Hero (Ellmann, 144, 148, 163-64), in which he first reveals theoretical considerations later articulated more tersely in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. The narrative artist, Joyce wrote, should remain "within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible ... indifferent" (P 215). As Richard Ellmann observes, "Joyce never insists" (88). Part of what resolved that dilemma for him is the tactic explored in this essay: he makes almost constant use of "doublings," that is, repetitions of character-types, of phrases and speech mannerisms, and of minute details, particularly visual icons. This paper will examine numerous such pairings and explore their thematic importance. For now, here is a brief sampler of such duplications, which become the more striking when one realizes that they are never repeated in other stories:
   The opening story is about a priest beset by paralysis; in what was
   originally the last story ("Grace"), a priest is seen "struggling
   up to the pulpit" (173). Each suffers from an additional
   "paralysis," one psychological and the other ideological.

   We see a butcher's son (Jimmy Doyle, in "After the Race") doing his
   best to squander his family's fortune; two stories later, we see a
   butcher's daughter (Mrs. Mooney, "The Boarding House") providing,
   not altogether scrupulously, for her family. No butcher is ever
   mentioned outside of these two stories.

   Harps--in a book, mind, about Ireland--are mentioned in only two
   stories ("Araby" 31; "Two Gallants" 54) and both become the centers
   of oddly erotic personifications.

   Consecutive stories have scriveners as protagonists ("A Little
   Cloud" and "Counterparts"), and in the stories' final moments, they
   behave similarly in similar situations. No scriveners appear in any
   other stories.

   Two and only two female characters (the eponymous Eveline Hill and
   the "slavey" in "Two Gallants"), both of them exploited by men.
   albeit in differing ways, bear "black leather" accessories, a purse
   (38) and a belt (55), respectively.


Before proceeding with the main argument here, it might be useful to put this essay into a context of critical history. Bernard Benstock initiated something like the present manner of reading these stories in "The Gnomonics of Dubliners" (1988), in which he examined Joyce's use of "mirroring" techniques. Mainly, Benstock concentrated on how mirroring aided unity in the collection. Zack Bowen took the device of repetitions somewhat further in "Dubliners and the Accretion Principle" (1998). The present essay, while it also pursues some "mirroring," looks at doubles not mentioned in these important predecessors and applies them in particular to the drawing of moral inferences. Further back in time, yet more relevant to the present essay is Florence Walzl's "Pattern of Paralysis" (1961), largely because it posits an "inner imagistic structure," in which both "the characters and the action ... are symbolic: The Dubliners themselves stand ultimately for the Irish ethnos and their physical situations in the story for the spiritual state of the nation" (122). Yet there is as much difference of method between this essay and Walzl's as there is similarity. For example, Walzl observes that "the personal quest for a spiritual credo in 'The Sisters' becomes a general agnostic materialism in 'Grace'" (227) --which was originally the final story. She does not contend, as does this essay, that the reader's attention is provoked to recognize the comparison because of (mainly visual) repetitions: before one reading "The Sisters" ever gets to see Father Flynn, the word "paralysis" has been emphasized in reference to him; the reader of "Grace" is shown a "powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was draped with a white surplice ... struggling up into the pulpit" (173), before that draped "figure" is identified as Father Purdon, whose "paralysis" will be even more relevant than Flynn's. Nor is there mention, in Walzl's article, of the presence in each story of elderly men gathered "at the fire" ("Sisters" 9; "Grace" 156) pontificating; or of the delivery, by a woman, of alcoholic beverage into a ritualistic gathering ("Sisters," 15; "Grace," 161-62); and so forth. Finally, a less obvious and more recent connection to this essay can be seen in Jill Shashaty's "Reading Dubliners Parabolically." Like Benstock and Bowen, she examines mirroring, or Joyce's "nicely polished looking-glass," and like this essay, she locates a "moral reflection process" (213). The critical methods here are quite different, however.

The themes in Dubliners, and--more prominently--the methods, are often Chaucerian. That should not be amazing, as Joyce frequently perceived the medieval era as the wellspring of modern literature. In the words of Declan Kiberd, "The medieval was the true spirit of Europe, [Joyce] maintained" (33). (2) Particularly the parallel will be clear if one adopts the "monographic" method of reading Chaucer advocated by D. W. Robertson, wherein one sees Chaucer employing visual symbols ("icons") much like those used in "illuminated" manuscripts. (3) As on the Canterbury pilgrimage, characters in these stories may or may not be faithful to their offices (4)--as clerics or clerks, as spouses, parents, employers. Even as servants or lovers, they are almost all parties to some kind of (generally, but not always, implicit) contract, to which they will prove loyal, or more frequently--given Joyce's view of Dublin--disloyal. As just about everyone knows, Joyce demanded loyalty in his private life, and in his works he consistently makes a virtue of it. Conversely, of course, he also frequently emphasizes betrayal; that is of particular relevance to Dubliners.

The many doublings among these stories do help to unify the collection, but that is neither their sole function, nor their most important. Almost every repetition of a character-type, of speeches, of visual icons, could cause a reader to recall the earlier instance, and thus inevitably make comparisons and/or contrasts. These analogies, in turn, subtly urge a reader toward moral inferences, even toward judgments, wherein a particular character is found to be more--or, obviously, less--culpable than another with whom the first is associated. One brief example, for now, is that the relatively minor wrongdoing of Little Chandler, at the end of "A Little Cloud," is put into a harsher context, whereby it is somewhat diminished, by the similar but more brutal offense of Farrington, at the end of "Counterparts," the story immediately following.

These repetitions of details form what memory researchers have called since the late 1960s the "encoding specificity principle," the idea that "the specific manner in which we encode an event determines what retrieval cues will later help us remember it" (Schacter 114). Encoding is consistently enhanced by visual clues. For example, researchers give test subjects a list of words; at a later time--varying from an hour to as much as a week--the subjects are given a list of word fragments. Those tested will be far more likely to recognize, say, "o-1--us" as "octopus" if that full word appeared on their previous list. This phenomenon is called "priming" (166), and its intriguing feature is that it "occur[s] even when" people do not remember having seen the word during the preparatory phase. That is to say, priming can occur "independent of conscious memory" (167). What appears to be the best initiator of encoding is a clue that is visual: "The oldest example of a memory-improvement strategy is visual imagery mnemonics, first developed by the Greek orator Simonides in 477 BC" (46). Almost all "memory-peg" systems devised since then at least partially imitate that of Simonides, who added to his method the placing of items-to-be-recalled in "familiar locations." In other words, to recall groups of persons, imagine them placed, say, before a fireplace. The "core cognitive act of visual imagery mnemonics ... is a form of deep, elaborative encoding" (47). Within that "act," it is virtually certain that "the visual format" of the device "enhances its usefulness as an aid to explicit remembering" (48).

Thus, the main function of Joyce's doubling habit is that the repetitions constitute "retrieval cues": he aids readers in the "priming" process by use of visual cues (often combined with a specific location) and verbal mannerisms, and a reader is then subliminally urged to recall another similar character, speech, action, mannerism, or associated object, and sometimes to draw moral judgments accordingly. This is mostly accomplished by a "compare-and-contrast" process. Additionally, there is an accrual effect: betrayals and hypocrisies (the main transgressions throughout) amass. By the time, e.g., that we get to "Grace," the hypocrites who betray their own ostensible principles are perceived by a reader as all the more culpable for their having been preceded by others of their type. This might be a conscious response, but it is not necessary, to Joyce's moral purposes, that it be a conscious process--the memory pegs will function regardless. One may well ask whether Joyce does the "recall" part deliberately, which would seemingly require his having intuited phenomena of memory that research would not document for another half-century. But if in fact the "man of genius makes no mistakes," and if in fact "His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery" (U 190), then surely there can be insight in those things he does accidentally. Besides, it is entirely possible that this essay is tracking the workings of Joyce's memory. That does not at all diminish the function of doublings. Joyce renders a reader--to use his term in Finnegans Wake--"reminiscensitive" (FW, 230,11. 26-27).

WHERE to begin tracking "doubles" in these stories is almost arbitrary, as such pairings are ubiquitous. A fairly logical choice is to start with the first story, "The Sisters," and trace the pairings by which it impresses itself upon a reader, then look at "Grace," originally the last story in the collection, and show how internal pairings with "The Sisters" help to develop meaning and impact in both stories.

"The Sisters" does not put the boy protagonist/narrator into the company of Father Flynn (by recollection) until mid-story and not into the presence of the eponymous sisters until the final scene. What begins the story, after an introductory paragraph, is a scene in the kitchen of the boy's aunt and uncle, his caretakers. Present is a family friend first identified as "Old Cotter," who has brought news of Father Flynn's death. After we have encountered Cotter "at the fire" (D 9) and seen him "puff at his pipe" (.D 10), we learn that the boy typically found Father Flynn "sitting in his armchair by the fire," and that the priest constantly indulged in snuff (D 12). When the boy and his aunt pay their respects to the deceased Flynn, Eliza thinks of him as she gazes "into the empty grate" (D 17). And all four mourners, at another moment, gaze meaningfully "at the empty fireplace" (D 15). Also, shortly after we have seen Cotter spit "rudely into the grate" (D 10) at the boy's home, we get our first picture of Flynn, in the boy's dream, where his lips are "moist with spittle" (D 11). All of this business with fireplaces, tobacco, and spitting will be relevant again later; here, each image that associates Cotter and Flynn reminds us that, while they are in many ways opposite, they stand in a similar (but very different) relationship to the boy--each seems to volunteer for the role of counselor, but the counsel differs, in substance and mode of delivery, and this difference is made more emphatic by the repetitions.

Cotter is the first of several Dubliners characters who holds forth with self-conferred certainty: "I'll tell you my opinion," "I have my own theory," "What I mean is ..." (D 10) are such typical utterances that even the boy recognizes a "Tiresome old fool!" Almost every time the old man speaks, he begins a pronouncement, but they end, invariably, in ellipses (punctuation becomes substance as well as style), with nothing having been stated. Cotter, far more than most people, has--almost literally--no idea what he is talking about. Perhaps the most representative instance is: "I have my own theory about it,.... I think it was one of those ... peculiar cases.... But it's hard to say ..." (D 10). The antecedents to his constant use of "it," "that," and "things" ("children see things like that," e.g. (D 11)) are never any clearer to the reader than to the boy, who "puzzle[s his] head to extract meaning from [Cotter's] unfinished sentences" (D 11). (5) Flynn, though he too is an ambiguous figure and is a puzzle to the boy in some ways, has been a somewhat better mentor. He has "taught" the boy a number of lessons, in Latin, in history, in liturgical distinctions. There were, to be sure, apart from these rather arcane matters, no answers forthcoming from the old priest. That may not, however, be an altogether bad thing: "His questions showed me how complex and mysterious were certain institutions of the church which I had always regarded as the simplest acts" (D 13). To prepare this bright young boy for the fact that life is complex and mysterious is to be a more sagacious mentor than to try--as Cotter does--to instill in him the notion that life is a sequence of simplicities. To learn how to question is not nothing; the office of counselor has been better served by Flynn, who has provided the boy more basis for learning than all of Cotter's elliptical certainties.

"The Sisters" sets some trends for other stories, not least in its use of ecclesiastical symbols. The very title suggests that we might see the supportive, subordinated Eliza and Nanny as nuns as well as siblings. The crackers and wine may or may not be a Eucharistic symbol. The priest's indulgence in "high toast" (his snuff) (6) certainly suggests the host, elevated in the Consecration of the Mass. A characterizing detail is in the boy's recollection of what "constant showers of snuff' did to the old man's "ancient priestly garments." They gave them a "green faded look [,] for the red handkerchief, blackened as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with which he tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious" (D 12). Again, such emblems are somewhat Chaucerian; significant here are the colors: Flynn's garments include green, red, and black, the colors of liturgical vestments that represent, respectively, hope (but notice that the green is "faded"), passion (or blood, or fire), and mourning. Prominently excluded, however, is white or gold, the vestment colors used to represent joy, glory, or triumph. (7) These details we shall recall later.

In this opening story, then, readers have been introduced to types of characters, and to methods and themes, that will be encountered again. In Cotter is an excellent example of a failed mentor, and in Flynn of a failed cleric, and they have been meaningfully, reinforcingly linked, by verbal and visual cues. Neither of them has succeeded in the role for which he volunteered, though we see Cotter's failure more vividly. More of this awaits us: failed parental figures, failed religious influences, failed counselors of several kinds; we are also going to see much more disloyalty and betrayal.

In Joyce's original plan for Dubliners, "Grace" was to have been the last story (Ellmann 208). Had it not been for the unexpected delay between composition and publication, it would have remained the last (23132, 328-38). Not surprisingly, it still bears many traces of having once been the climactic story. The themes that Joyce has been interweaving throughout are dwelt upon even more fully, and they are frequently carried by some of the same motifs. "Grace" replicates those dramatic issues and moral dilemmas of the two previous "public life" stories (Ellmann 208), "Ivy Day in the Committee Room" and "A Mother." No less consistently, it responds to and connects with "The Sisters." A reader might pick up the connections immediately, as the opening sentences of the two stories have arresting similarities:

"There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke." (D 9)

"Two gentlemen who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him up; but he was quite helpless." (D 150)

Not only is each opening catastrophic, but the unidentified "him" enforces the link between hopelessness and helplessness. Clearly, each not-yet-named character has reached a literal and figurative bottom. While Flynn's condition is life-threatening and Tom Kernan's is not, the lowliness of Kernan's status gets more blatant emphasis: "He [lies] curled up at the foot of the stairs"; his clothes (8) are "smeared with filth and ooze of the floor" on which he lies; three men carry him upstairs, and they "[lay] him down again on the floor of the bar" (D 150). All of this description is in the story's first ten lines. If "grace" is to elevate this (so far) unknown person, then it will have to be stronger than any accumulated by Father Flynn. Another stunning irony is building: Kernan and Flynn are both "fallen." Yet by the end of the later story, Kernan is found acceptable by the church (insofar as Father Purdon represents the church, which of course he does). Flynn, on the other hand, although a much more earnest seeker, has been deemed unacceptable--there is "something wrong with him" (D 18).

When we reach the central scene of "Grace," the gathering in Kernan's sick-room (itself comparable to the mourning scene in "The Sisters"), we discover that Uncle Jack and Old Cotter of the opening story have been doubled--in more than one sense of the word. Here we find four self-anointed judges of what is right and proper, no more well-informed than the earlier two, and perhaps even more insistently certain. And where we find them circled is "in chairs at the fire" (156), in exact duplication of Cotter and Uncle Jack. This counseling delegation gets started with questions to Kernan on what happened to him and how he is feeling, much in the manner of Father Flynn's "putting difficult questions" to the boy in "The Sisters" (13). Trying to avoid admitting that drunkenness led to his injuries, Kernan opines that he has "caught a cold." Mr. M'Coy is quick with a diagnosis: the problem is "the thorax." Lest he be contradicted on this, M'Coy looks at Martin Cunningham and Jack Power "with an air of challenge." Cunningham thereupon "nod[s] his head rapidly," and Power abruptly changes the subject (D 159). A tone is thus set for the rest of the rehab session: the longer they ramble on, the more inaccuracies they spout; and the more inaccurate any of them becomes, the more he is likely to insist that he is absolutely right. Martin Cunningham is the best example of this attitude. His explanation of the doctrine and the history of papal infallibility is hilarious, and his pronouncements on papal mottoes only slightly less so. Additionally, he informs everyone that "The General of the Jesuits stands next to the Pope" (D 163), though through most of ecclesiastical history, that might have made any pope (and certainly any Jesuit) visibly nervous. Yet, when someone suggests that "perhaps" Cunningham has his facts straight, he responds, "Of course I'm right.... I haven't been in the world all this time and seen most sides of it without being a judge of character" (D 164). He has a "deep raucous voice" that "thrill[s]" his listeners (D 170), as it reassures them that he must be right. To a reader, his analog is Old Cotter. Each of them, obdurately wrong-headed, provides toxic counsel, yet each creates some receptive audience. Joyce does not have to tell us this; the comparisons are persuasive, whether or not consciously articulated.

The main doubling by which "Grace" is linked to "The Sisters" is that a priest becomes the focal point of each story; priests are briefly mentioned in other stories, but they occupy center-stage only in these two. And, again, the comparisons between them cause us to see prominent contrasts. In the only Dubliners scene that takes place within a church, a reader sees Father Purdon for the first time. He is not immediately named, as Flynn was not at the start of "The Sisters": "A powerful-looking figure ... was observed to be struggling up into the pulpit" (D 173). This could well call to mind Father Flynn, victim of a "paralysis" (D 9), who clearly was not in control of muscles or nerves (D 12, 13, 16). As though to assure our making a connection, Joyce describes a "massive red face" on the "figure" in the pulpit (D 173), which recalls the face of Father Flynn, "gray and massive" (D 14). Yet again, some of these details are Chaucerian, (9) as is the manner in which Purdon performs his priestly office. He chooses for the text of his homily Luke 16: 8-9, the parable of the "unjust steward," and he completely misses (or ignores?) the irony, citing Jesus's advice to "make ... friends out of the Mammon of iniquity" (D 173) as evidence that "Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster" (D 174).

Consequently, Purdon has fulfilled the characterization of him made before the retreat by Martin Cunningham--though neither of them would recognize the irony in that either--when he informed Kernan that Purdon is "a man of the world like ourselves" (D 164). He is a man of the world, like Chaucer's Monk, (10) although he ought not to be. Moreover, he is "like" Kernan's friends, as Cunningham claims. He "develop[s] the text" from Luke "with resonant assurance" (D 173), precisely as Cunningham himself held forth in the Kernan bedroom the evening before. But Purdon is perfectly acceptable as a priest, at least to this group of the body faithful, because he is one of them, and he is a "[f]ine jolly fellow" who will not "be too hard on [them]" (D 164). Poor old Father Flynn, on the other hand, was apparently eased into retirement because he was not an acceptable priest, even though our glimpses of his interactions with the boy in "The Sisters" make clear that, intellectually at least, he is more genuine than Purdon. Probably Joyce's sharpest irony in this regard is seen in Purdon's being clothed in a "white surplice" (D 173)--the liturgical color of triumph, which was conspicuously absent from Flynn's "priestly garments" (D 12). Joyce does not insist, but by the contrast, Flynn is exonerated and Purdon indicted. And the several Dubliners who have chosen to perceive Purdon as a positive exemplum are indicted no less.

The details of any given story in Dubliners might link it to more than one other. For example, any number of details in "Grace" might suggest to a reader "Ivy Day in the Committee Room," just two stories previous. The "canvassers" in the latter seem no more organized or efficient than the delegation in Kernan's bedroom. The almost constant expostulating of each group is exacerbated by drink (stout, in both stories); each group is made up of none-too-astute but highly self-assured fellows; and each group assembles near a fire. That both delegations are inefficacious is reinforced from the start of "Ivy Day," when the first of the putative canvassers that we see (O'Connor) has, in fact, "spent a great part of the day sitting by the fire" (D 119). He and Old Jack (since no one else is encumbered with this modifier, one recalls "Old Cotter") continue "gazing into the fire" (D 120), and when a newcomer, Henchy, joins the group, he walks "over quickly to the fire" (D 122). All of this emphasis upon the clusters of counselors (Uncle Jack and Old Cotter, the group in Kernan's bedroom, these vote-getters) at the same location is almost certain to prod a reader's memory of earlier instances of betrayal and hypocrisy and to test further the limits of a reader's tolerance of them.

Potentially memory-jogging items abound throughout "Ivy Day." Its opening phrase is "Old Jack raked the cinders together" (D 118), which not only repeats a location (the fireplace) but also might recall the somewhat odd description in "Grace," wherein "the little colour in [Kernan's] puffy cheeks made them resemble warm cinders" (D 156). While that opening scene is still being set, Old Jack launches into what was apparently a subject of conversation before the reader "entered" the scene: "Ah, yes, he said, continuing, it's hard to know what way to bring up children" (.D 119). Despite his disclaimer, he seems to think that he does know the way (here is certainty again): "Only I'm an old man now I'd change his tune for him. I'd take the stick to his back and beat him ... as I done many a time before" (D 120). The reader recognizes a link, most prominently to "Grace"--where the thoughts of Mrs. Kernan inform us that her husband also used to indulge in domestic violence, but he has "never been violent since the boys [have] grown up" (D 156)--but also, as we shall see later, to "Eveline" and to "Counterparts."

Another arresting repetition connects these two stories: as we have seen, Father Purdon, before the reader sees him, is referred to as "a man of the world" (D 164). Once he appears, he refers to himself in that same way, "as a man of the world speaking to his fellow-men" (D 174). In "Ivy Day," the same phrase is used in the discussion of the visit to Ireland of King Edward VII. Even as Lyons is attempting to protest that "King Edward's life, you know, is not the very ..." he is shouted down by Mr. Henchy (another know-it-all), who insists that Edward is "a man of the world, and he means well by us" (D 132). It is surely a condemnation of a priest to be made comparable to the notorious playboy whose reputation was such that, in England, prior to his succession, there was renewed enthusiasm for abolishing the monarchy (Middlemas 46-48). The phrase "man of the world" appears nowhere else in Dubliners than in these two stories, nor does the word "cinders." More important, though, are the visual motifs in the two stories that link them to each other and tie both to the collection's first story. In all three stories, characters (all of them male) sit at or around a fire, and they moralize. In two of them, they smoke; in two, they drink stout; in two, a key character is always labelled "old"; in all three, there is a "Jack" present. And as they are linked by (mostly visual) reminders, so are the stories linked thematically: hypocrisy and betrayal abound in each of them, increasing the intensity of those themes overall. Far from belaboring these thematic connections, Joyce introduces them through cues that are almost subliminal.

In "Grace," the first blatant hypocrisy to emerge involves Mrs. Kernan's attitude(s) toward drinking. When her husband has been brought home both drunk and battered, she takes the role of aggrieved spouse and holds forth on the problem to Jack Power: "Such a sight! O, he'll do for himself one day and that's the holy alls of it. He's been drinking since Friday" (D 154). But a moment later she says to Power, "I'm so sorry ... that I've nothing in the house to offer you. But if you wait a minute I'll send round to Fogarty's at the corner" (D 155). That she does not mean to "send round" for hors d'oeuvres is made clearer by her bringing a "tray" of stout into Kernan's bedroom during the "reform" meeting there (D 161-62). The assembled reformers, who have accepted an ad hoc office, are no less hypocritical; they welcome the delivery of stout, and when Mr. Fogarty comes later with a bottle of "special whiskey" (D 166), the "new influence enliven[s] the conversation" (D 167). What began as a temperance meeting has taken a drastic turn. These preliminary hypocrisies prepare the reader for the more significant one that ends the story, as Father Purdon betrays the purpose of the "unjust steward" parable in giving it his "man of the world" spin.

Likewise, in "Ivy Day," hypocrisy makes an entrance in the company of "boosing," as Old Jack (D 119) complains of that activity by his son, but then protests that the son "takes th' upper hand of me whenever he sees I've a sup taken" (D 120). Later, the discrepancy between talk and behavior is furthered, when twelve bottles of stout--sent by Tierney, the politician for whom all these characters are supposedly campaigning--are brought by a delivery boy. Henchy asks him, "Would you like a drink, boy?" When he answers, politely, "If you please, sir," then Old Jack opens a bottle for him. Only as he hands it over does he ask the boy's age; it is seventeen. No sooner has the boy finished his bottle of stout and left, than Jack piously observes, "That's the way it begins," and Henchy agrees, "The thin edge of the wedge" (D 129). But the boy had displayed no interest in drinking the stout until one of this now-judgmental pair offered it to him, and the other then opened it for him. The very presence of the stout, and the interest it generates, opens other areas of hypocrisy, as it does in "Grace." Henchy, Hines, O'Connor, and Old Jack share a censorious attitude toward Tierney for his having, according to Henchy, learned political trickery from his father who "kept the hand-me-down shop in Mary's Lane," and "always had a tricky little black bottle up in a corner" to entice customers (D 123). They little mind how susceptible they are to the same lure. Indeed, they are put out with their candidate when they think he might not send them any "boose" (D 127). Each time that such hypocrisies are mirrored, the reader's recollection of earlier ones intensifies the offense.

The stories we have examined thus far are, as we have seen, linked by many repetitions of specific, mostly visual, details. They are also connected in larger thematic ways. We have seen how Joyce's paralysis theme began with a literal, physical example in "The Sisters," and we have perceived spiritual paralysis in "Grace" as somewhat equivalent to ideological paralysis in "Ivy Day." The story that best typifies another paralysis common to Joyce's Dublin is "Eveline," in which the title character is immobilized psychologically. That picture of Eveline Hill is in many ways prepared for by doublings to the preceding story, "Araby."

These two stories mark the first transition from one of Joyce's categories to the next; "Araby" is the last of his "childhood" stories, "Eveline" the first of the "stories of adolescence" (Ellmann 208). They are given remarkably similar beginnings. "Araby" opens with the presentation of a view--into "North Richmond Street," which is "blind" (i.e. a dead end). In that street are "houses" with "brown imperturbable faces" (D 29). When setting has been described and action begins, the boy narrator recollects that after "dusk fell," and "houses had grown somber," he and friends played outdoors until summoned to come in. Then they would hide until calls persisted (D 30). Eveline Hill's story opens with a view also, as she sits at a "window watching the evening invade the avenue." She too sees "brown houses," and she likewise recalls times when she, with siblings and friends, played outdoors until called in (D 36). To this point, similarity and difference are both stressed: street/avenue, view/blind, dusk/evening, dusty/somber, being invaded/being set free, and playing outdoors/being called indoors. The authoritative summoning inside is where stark contrast intrudes: the gentle firmness of "Mangan's sister" (D 30) is opposed to the threatened violence of Mr. Hill, who "used often to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick" (D 36). That threat is part of what has been a conditioning process that will make Eveline similar to many another Dubliners character but will also cause her to stand out. She will be linked to Thomas Chandler and James Duffy ("A Painful Case") as a model of self-betrayal. But in the meanwhile, a new pattern emerges in this story: the reader sees the first suggestions of parental violence, a betrayal of one's "office" as serious as any in Dubliners.

What does "Araby" or "Eveline" gain from these doublings? They help generate sequence and unity, of course, but, more importantly, the parallels create sympathy and, simultaneously, culpability; consequently, they form a good example of the complexity of Joyce's moralizing. We are in some ways more compassionate with Eveline than with the boy, for she is more surely (and probably permanently) trapped by circumstances than he is, and she has much more at stake than buying or not buying something at a flea-market. However, these doublings also nudge us into being more nearly judgmental of her; being significantly older than the boy (he is probably twelve, she twenty) and consequently more aware of her circumstances, she ought to be more capable of changing them. In her failure to do so, she is a most important and representative character in this book.

The boy in "Araby" is troubled by confusions. He consistently conflates romance and religion. Early in the story he cannot even determine whether or not he will "ever speak to" Mangan's sister, so lost is he in "confused adoration." When he attempts to speak (to himself, of course) words of love for her, they get mixed with "prayers and praises"; at one point he presses the "palms of [ his] hands together," the typical posture of prayer, and only then can he speak "love" to her (D 31). (11) Shortly, the boy cannot distinguish "the serious work of life" from "child's play" (D 32). Above all, he cannot tell fantasy from reality. It is that failure that humiliates him at the end, as he "linger[s]" at the bazaar, but, able "only with difficulty" to remember why he has come, he hears "a voice," but it barely registers, and he knows that his "stay is useless." Thus, in a stasis at the conclusion, he is beset by "anguish and anger" (D 35).

Eveline's confusions are similar, but not identical, to the boy's: mainly, she does not precisely separate "then" from "now." Her opening reverie puts her back into a time when "[h]er father was not so bad" (D 36-37); consequently, she does not give sufficient regard to her own awareness that, in the present, he is "usually fairly bad of a Saturday night" and "ha[s] begun to threaten her" now when "she ha[s] nobody to protect her" (D 30). When she works at convincing herself that "Sometimes he could be very nice," she is able to come up with only two minor examples, and one of those comes from back "when their mother was alive." Small wonder, then, that one of her prominent feelings toward Frank is that of being "pleasantly confused" (D 39). Miserable though the boy in "Araby" is at the end of his tale, he has experienced something epiphanic. He at least seems aware that he has been deluding himself; one would prefer that such a realization came early, and it probably is the boy's ticket out of childhood. Eveline, on the other hand, does not--as long as we are allowed to follow her--take leave of adolescence, or of her father, or of Joyce's dreary Dublin. As with past and present, she cannot make a distinction between fact and fancy. Is her longing for Frank and marriage (not to mention escape) mere fantasy? Since she cannot distinguish, she is unable to make a decision; and since not to decide is to decide, she is almost certainly doomed to spending the rest of her life in Dublin. In a manner similar to the boy's, at the climactic moment of her story she too hears a voice "saying something about the passage over and over again" (D 40), and "calling] her to follow." Instead, she stands, frozen, "passive like a helpless animal" (D 41), as Frank departs. Two key words that occur in the final lines of "Eveline" are "duty" and "anguish" (D 40, 41). The only other story in which either word occurs (and there they both do) is "Araby" (D 35).

Eveline Hill might be seen in the background of almost any of the other Dubliners stories, mostly because she is a "model" of paralysis. Aspects of her situation, however, are closely doubled in two others--"Counterparts" and "A Little Cloud"--albeit in very different ways. A reader who has read both "Eveline" and "Counterparts" will almost surely, consciously or unconsciously, relate Eveline to young Tom Farrington. Each fears, with good reason, a father's wrath, and the fathers are most dangerous under similar conditions. Mr. Hill, when "fairly bad" on a Saturday evening, will eventually, after terrorizing Eveline, "give her ... money and ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner" (D 38). Not getting a meal that he thinks he is entitled to is also what sets off the besotted Farrington (D 98). A reader in a metafictive mood could wish that Eveline had read "Counterparts" before going to the North Wall.

The North Wall is mentioned just twice in Dubliners, at the end of "Eveline" and in the opening sentence of "A Little Cloud," reminding us of how closely Eveline is doubled with Chandler. Each of them yearns for respectability, and each is restricted by notions of it. Each cares overly much about what un-named other people will think. When contemplating eloping with Frank, Eveline has a concern with "What would they say of her" where she works (D 37). Keeping an appointment with a friend, but on unfamiliar ground. Chandler feels that "people [are] observing him curiously," so he does his best to "make his errand appear serious" (D 74). More deeply, Eveline and Chandler both recognize the need to pursue genuine respectability somewhere other than in Dublin. He thinks to himself that there is "no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin" (D 73). In a moment of similar introspection--and similar fantasy--Eveline imagines that, "in her new home, in a distant, unknown country," she will be treated "with respect" (D 37). Both are miserable in Dublin; both, in direct contrast to Joyce himself, seem incapable of flight. We are more certain of that in Chandler's case than we might be were he not so comparable to Eveline.

Much of what makes "Counterparts" and "A Little Cloud" parallel stories is that single days in the lives of Farrington and Chandler so duplicate each other. No pair of characters in Dubliners--let alone in consecutive stories--share as many surface traits as these two; consequently, it is almost unavoidable to think of one while reading of the other. Both are employed as scriveners, the only two in the book. We follow each as he takes leave of work, headed for a public-house. By the time they arrive at home, both have had too much to drink (Farrington considerably more than Chandler), and each has experienced frustration--Farrington having been embarrassed at flirting, and at arm-wrestling, and Chandler having realized at last that he probably is not a poet. In each case, the wife is gone from the house (another source of irritation), each man is alone with a young son, and each son reacts in terror to a father's unjustified, misdirected wrath. "Home" in each case appears to represent entrapment.

Partly because they are consecutive stories, the doublings in these two are more consciously registered upon a reader than is the case elsewhere. Once again, however, it is when we find the differences within this doubling that significance and reflexivity both increase. One of the earliest points of difference is in the manner in which each leaves his copyist's job. Chandler responsibly stays at work "until his hour had struck," and then takes "leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously" (D 71). Farrington, by contrast, leaves his desk in mid-afternoon and sneaks away to a pub for a drink (D 88-89). Even when at his work, he is inattentive at best and more typically resentful and enraged. Chandler, on his way to the meeting with Gallaher, fancies that he is moving toward artistic development, a poetic career away from Dublin ("Every step brought him nearer to London" (D 73)). Farrington, making approximately the same physical journey, waxes much less imaginative but fancies himself no less exalted, "staring masterfully at the office-girls" (D 93). Each takes a departure from harsh realities, but one sees himself in command of his world, while the other is more nearly a pure visionary. If Chandler is a version of Farrington, he is the gentle, timid, and poetic version (12)--one of the few characters in these stories who blushes and the only one in regard to whom "childish[ly]" is part of the description (D 70, 79).

Farrington's is the only one of these stories in which we observe an evil or violent deed on-stage, as it were. The only comparable cases are distanced from us (Corley's exploitation in "Two Gallants" (D 59-60)), reported to us after the fact (Mr. Duffy's reading from a newspaper of Mrs. Sinico's death in "A Painful Case" (D 113-15)), or kept somewhat vague (such as what it is that the "queer old josser" does in "An Encounter" (D 26)). Farrington's brutality we see directly, the only such moment in the book. There may be some cowardice in the timidity of "Little Chandler," but Farrington is a swaggering bully and a coward--a type that Joyce often derogates. Betraying the spousal and parental offices so flagrantly, he is everything blatant and obstreperous that Chandler is not, and he thus represents an extreme, the clearest example of a "type" that Joyce draws here. From the start of his story, he has been displayed in that way: he more than once walks "heavily" (D 86, 88), he feels a "spasm of rage" (D 87), is of "great bulk" (D 86), and feels "savage" (D 92). But he is most noticeably contrasted with Little Chandler in the presence/absence of repentance. When we last see Chandler, there are "tears of remorse" in his eyes (D 85; a bit like the boy in "Araby"), and even though it is an ambiguous remorse--for having frightened the baby or for what all he has never become?--there are no such tears clouding the eyes of Farrington, a fellow seemingly incapable of repentance. Consequently, we are less judgmental of (and more sympathetic toward) Chandler to the extent that his actions differ from those of Farrington. And thus the method of doubling proceeds throughout Dubliners, its effect being to instill moral inferences in us without any necessity of authorial insistence.

From the moment of its conception, "The Dead" was to be the final story in this collection. Not surprisingly, then, it is a culmination in a number of ways: it caps some of the themes/motifs raised in the other stories while it simultaneously, as Joyce meant it to, touches upon aspects of Dublin life not addressed in the others (especially its "hospitality"; Letters 2: 164). Florence Walzl and Richard Ellmann have both written about the significance of this story's being the concluding one (Walzl, D 437; Ellmann 252). It is the book's capstone in one other important way--it is the story in which "doubling" most prominently becomes a trope of its own.

Duality works in several ways in "The Dead." As Ellmann has noted, it is a "presence-of-the-absent" story: Michael Furey is not, properly speaking, "in" the story at all, yet his "presence" at the story's end is dominant. So also with Gabriel's deceased mother, and his late grandfather (and that grandfather's horse), all of those past concert-hall performers discussed at the dinner table--in short, all of the memories (13) that dominate this story involve a presence of absent persons. It is a story, moreover, in which theme and structure are created by contrastive pairs: past/present, living/ dead, heat/cold (particularly demonstrated in inside and outside atmospheres), and ultimately Gabriel/Michael. Each of these pairs contributes to meaning, and each of them relates to the others. Taken as a whole, they help convey that recurrent Joycean theme of continuity found in unexpected sources, of the connectedness of things we might have thought disparate, a theme that would later be at the center of both Ulysses and Finnegans Wake.

There are other kinds of doubling within this story, some of them not as prominent as the pairings listed above, but no less functional. Central among them is a doubleness first seen in the general similarities but obvious contrasts between Gabriel Conroy and Freddy Malins. Freddy is said to be "about forty," and he is "of Gabriel's size and build" (184). When Gabriel is first mentioned in this story, in its third paragraph, he and Freddy are named in consecutive sentences. Quickly, however, the emphasis moves to difference: "Freddy Malins always came late but [the aunts] wondered what could be keeping Gabriel ..." (176). Shortly, Gabriel arrives, and soon thereafter so does Freddy. Immediately, Aunt Kate requests Gabriel to "Slip down ... and see if he's all right," and not to let him upstairs if he is intoxicated (182). Gabriel at once takes Malins under his wing and makes certain that he looks sufficiently presentable; he is next seen "piloting Feddy Malins across the landing" (184). Throughout this early portion of the story, Malins is depicted as somewhat childlike. Everyone refers to him as "Freddy," except for Mr. Browne, who uses the even more diminutive "Teddy." His "heavylidded eyes" make him look "sleepy," he laughs excessively and "in a high key," and he rubs "the knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye" (184). Everyone, Freddy included, seems to worry about how his mother will perceive his condition, and Browne patronizes him in the way one would a child, telling him "I'm going to fill you out a good glass of lemonade just to buck you up," while pouring himself more whiskey (185). Gabriel, meanwhile, in clear contrast, is discussed by his wife and his aunts as a parent, in which role he is as protective as he is strict. His "solicitude," indeed, is a "standing joke" within his family, a joke which, however, they are able to air in his presence (180). While Gabriel feels himself to be mocked by circumstances over the course of this evening ("He saw himself as a ludicrous figure"; 220), he is a more reliable adult than many of the "parents" seen in the other stories.

The contrasts between Gabriel and others help to make more prominent and more dramatic all the other contrasts that this story depends upon. As in the rest of Dubliners, however, the story's themes are also enhanced by the pairings with other stories in the book. Like Eveline Hill, Gabriel feels somewhat imprisoned and will never leave Ireland, though certainly she and perhaps he ought to. Like Little Chandler, Gabriel is a timid would-be poet who is embarrassed by public scrutiny (14) and is attracted to "the Continent." Each is associated with feeling "superior"--as with Joyce's diction elsewhere, the word is never used in Dubliners, except in these two stories--but it is just here that an important difference separates them: Gabriel genuinely worries that his speech will make him seem to be flaunting a "superior" education. He wants to appeal to his audience, not to offend them, and he feels that he will "fail with them just as he ha[s] failed with" Lily (179). No such qualms bother Thomas Chandler; he just "feels himself superior" to people he passes in the street (73), some of whom he perceives as "like mice" or "vermin-like" (71). As we have seen, Eveline Hill and Little Chandler are typical "doubles" in this collection: alike but also opposite. Each suffers from the "paralysis" that Joyce was intent upon portraying; each fantasizes an elsewhere and (in that place) a new identity. However, one is convinced that she would be complete, would be "respect[ed]" if married (37), while the other seems sure that he has been made "a prisoner for life" (84) by having married. On these terms, Gabriel Conroy is comparable to--but different from--both.

The two main doubles to Gabriel are Larrington in "Counterparts" and James Duffy in "A Painful Case." The first of these is highly ironic, to be sure, for there is much more difference between Gabriel and Larrington than there is likeness. Yet Joyce pairs them in a number of ways. Larrington is at the beck and call of others (especially Mr. Alleyne) as is Gabriel (especially of his aunts, to whom, late in the story, he thinks himself a "pennyboy" (220)). Larrington's profession, that of a scrivener, is a sort of parody of being a writer, as is Gabriel's of being a reviewer for the Daily Express', when at his workplace, Larrington almost constantly wishes himself elsewhere, as Gabriel does prior to--and even during--his task as a speech-maker (192, 202). Larrington's is also a story of one night's partying, although in a very different manner. Still, the ends of both evenings are similar, as Larrington has been embarrassed by "having been defeated ... by a mere boy" (97). At that point, and in their interactions with offspring, and in their overall traits of character, the emphasis falls much more upon profound differences between these two comparable figures. The contrast is (once again) underscored by blatant similarities of Joyce's diction, which nudges a reader toward recalling Farrington while concentrating on Gabriel. Once again, Joyce operates by hints rather than by insistence.

In "Counterparts," when Joyce is describing how Farrington's "body ache[s] to do something, to rush out and revel in violence" (90), he sums up the feeling in one of his most famous--and most appropriate--figures of speech: "The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot" (91). Nothing very close to that is said of anyone else, thus making it more noticeable when we are told of Gabriel: "The blood went bounding along his veins and the thoughts went rioting through his brain, proud, joyful, tender, valorous" (213). While there are other similarities to these two sentences, it is the use of "riot[ing]" in each that is arresting: no other story in Dubliners uses any form of that word. Yet contrast is even more present. The riot metaphor in Farrington's case re-emphasizes what is most prominent about him: he is a creature composed almost completely of sensations. But with Gabriel, it is "thoughts" that go rioting through him, of course. Then, almost as though to ensure that the contrast with Farrington not be missed, Joyce repeats the metaphor. In the final pages of "The Dead," as Gabriel attempts to sort out and categorize all the feeling that the evening has generated, he "wonder[s] at his riot of emotion of an hour before" (222). This time, the figure of speech is even more similar to that applied to Farrington, the tenor now being "emotions" not "thoughts." However, once again, contrast is dominant, for wonder is a part of Gabriel's response as it would never be of Farrington's.

Mr. James Duffy (15) is more easily compared to Gabriel Conroy than Farrington is, although differences will be crucial in this doubling also. The reader's introduction to Duffy describes his room in "an old somber house." In that room, which is "free from pictures," the furnishings are "black" and "white" and "square." Books on his "white wooden shelves" are "arranged from below upwards according to bulk" (107). Everything suggests order and sparsity, and nothing that follows in "A Painful Case" alters this first impression. "His room still," four years after the death of Mrs. Sinoco, "bore witness of the orderliness of his mind" (112). Duffy is all mind and all order. Indeed, he "abhor[s] disorder" (108). Most of this description suggests that Duffy is slightly similar to Gabriel Conroy, but the similarities are intensified as the story moves on. Duffy has lived his "spiritual life," we are told, "without any communion with others, visiting his relatives at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died" (109). Gabriel is not shut off from family as Duffy is, but his main visit to relatives is in the Christmas season, and both Gabriel and his story (as per the title) give as much attention to deceased persons as to those living: his mother, Grandfather Patrick Morkan, and, of course, Michael Furey. In the story's final pages, Gabriel imagines the death, "soon," of his Aunt Julia (222-23). After Mr. Duffy has read of Mrs. Sinoco's death, perhaps an accidental death but possibly suicide, he indulges in meditations that are similar to Gabriel's. Stopping in a "publichouse at Chapelizod Bridge," he drinks, and "realise[s] that she [is] dead, that she ha[s] ceased to exist, that she has become a memory." While this sounds quite a bit like language in "The Dead," such similarities grow stronger in the final paragraphs of "A Painful Case," where we see the fear occur to Duffy that "His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became a memory--if anyone remembered him" (116). This is a foreshadowing of "The Dead," for it is a reverie very much like Gabriel's internal monologue at the end of the final story, wherein he is troubled by the same issues. He also seems to feel, as is said about Duffy, that he has "been outcast from life's feast" (117), though he seems to most of us not so closed as is "Mr. Duffy." Although Gabriel is a much more complex character than Duffy, the similarities between these two enhance a reader's perceptions of Gabriel.

There is one aspect to all three characters that unites Farrington and Duffy as "co-doubles" to Gabriel. That is the matter of all three being not fully developed, not altogether psychologically mature. (16) The types--and especially the degrees--of incompleteness vary considerably. Farrington is, by a goodly measure, the least integrated, as we have seen. His physicality, his sensuality, is emphasized throughout "Counterparts." He is not at all given to reflection, let alone to anything resembling self-correction. Duffy does do some self-examining, but he typically finds a way of avoiding blame by foisting it off onto someone else. Thus Mrs. Sinoco's death --suicide or not--"revolt[s] him"; she has, he feels, "degraded him" (115). Gabriel, on the contrary, although he has never been sufficiently daring, never a risk-taker--and thus he becomes a version of a Joyce who has remained un-exiled (17)--is introspective, is capable of self-judgment, and is not given to certitude. Whatever shortcomings a reader perceives in him, they are balanced by these propensities. He could never be as self-absorbed as Duffy sometimes is, or nearly as brutal as Farrington. By these pairings, these contrasts, Joyce allows us to see his characters most clearly and to evaluate them ourselves--with no necessity of authorial intrusion. Without Joyce's insisting, we see that Gabriel will benefit from this night's experience and will move closer to full integration, perhaps part of the meaning of "The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward" (223).

Thus, over and again, Joyce compounds his promise to give the Irish people "one good look at themselves in [his] nicely polished looking glass" (Letters 2: 63-64). Reflection is an apt metaphor, as his characters and their actions (or words, or very demeanors) constantly put us in mind of other characters in the collection; and the retrieval cues are always thematically productive. Consequently, Joyce gets the responses he no doubt wanted, without ever having to "insist."

NOTES

(1) Because this essay will include many specific references to Joyce's texts, these abbreviations will be used: D = Dubliners (the "Viking Library" edition); P = A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man; U = Ulysses.

(2) See also Cooper's "Chaucer and Joyce."

(3) See Robertson. An example of the Robertsonian method can be seen in John V. Fleming's article on "The Summoner's Prologue."

(4) OED: 2a) "a position of trust ... or service under constituted authority"; 3a) "a duty attaching to a person's station, position, or employment." http://www.oed.com/view/Entry /130640?rskey=EuNcJB&result=2&isAdvanced=false.

(5) It is interesting to observe that Joyce added most of this business as he was putting the stories into book-form. In the original version of the story, published in The Irish Homestead (8/13/1904), Old Cotter does not hold forth with all of the certainties in the revised version, and there is but one ellipsis in any of his speeches. The boy does not puzzle over Cotter's meanings, nor does he call him a tiresome old fool. See the Gabler & Hettche edition of Dubliners, 212-17.

(6) The original version had "High Toast." Gabler & Hettche, 213.

(7) "Catholic Online": http://www.catholic.org/clife/lcolors.php.

(8) Compare the garments of the "fallen" Father Flynn.

(9) The Chaucerian influence is not only in the failed homily; Chaucer's Summoner has a "fiery red face."

(10) The Monk wonders aloud, "How shall the world be served?"

(11) In all these stories, the only characters ever seen to pray are the boy here, Eveline at the North Wall (D 40), and Father Purdon (D 173); in each case the "praying" seems a corruption of prayer.

(12) As we shall see shortly, he is thus a foreshadowing of Gabriel Conroy.

(13) Unlike some words or descriptions that appear only twice in Dubliners, the word "memory" appears seventeen times. However, it generally shows up just once in any given story, except for "A Painful Case" and "The Dead," in which it appears five times each.

(14) Little Chandler "blushe[s]" repeatedly (79-80), as does Gabriel when with Lily (178) and with Miss Ivors (187, 189).

(15) Joyce never refers to him merely as "Duffy," let alone as "James" (although Gabriel Conroy is generally "Gabriel" throughout). Instead, Duffy is always "he"/"him" or the title is used. It seems a deliberate mechanism to keep Duffy distanced, even from the reader.

(16) In Jungian terminology, not "individuated." See Symbols of Transformation and/ or Two Essays on Analytical Psychology (esp. 173-74 and 195-96).

(17) Ellmann presents a numbers of ways in which Joyce has patterned Gabriel after himself and used details of his own family life in so doing (243-53, esp. 246-47).

WORKS CITED

Benstock, Bernard. "The Gnomonics of Dubliners." Modern Fiction Studies 34:4 (Winter 1988): 519-39.

Bowen, Zack. "Dubliners and the Accretion Principle." A Collideorscape of Joyce: Festschrift for Fritz Zenn. Ed. R. Frehnerand U. Zeller. Dublin: Lilliput Press, 1998. 63-82.

Cooper, Helen. "Chaucer and Joyce." The Chaucer Review. 21:2 (Fall, 1986): 142-54.

Ellmann, Richard. James Joyce. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1982.

Fleming, John V. "The Summoner's Prologue: An Iconographic Adjustment." Chaucer Review 2 (1967): 95-107.

Joyce, James. Dubliners. 1914. Ed. Robert Scholes and A. Walton Litz. New York: Viking Critical Library, 1969.

--. Dubliners. Ed. Hans Walter Gabler and Walter Hettche. New York: Vintage. 1993

--. Finnegans Wake. 1939. New York: Viking P. 1958.

--. Letters. Ed. Richard Ellmann. Vols. 2 & 3. New York: Viking P, 1966.

--. Letters. Ed. Stuart Gilbert. Vol. 1. New York: Viking P, 1957, 1966.

--. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. 1915. Ed. Chester G. Anderson. New York: Viking Critical Library. 1964.

--. Stephen Hero. 1906? Ed. Theodore Spencer. New York: New Directions, 1963.

--. Ulysses. 1922. New York: Vintage, 1990.

Jung, Carl G. Symbols of Transformation. Vol. 2. Trans. R. F. C. Hull. New York: Harper, 1956.

--. Two Essays on Analytical Psychology. 2nd Ed. Trans. R. F. C. Hull. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP 1966.

Kiberd, Declan. Ulysses and Us. New York: Norton, 2009.

Middlemas, Keith. The Life and Times of Edward VII. London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 1972.

Robertson, D. W. A Preface to Chaucer: Studies in Medieval Perspective. Princeton UP, 1962.

Schacter, Daniel. Searching for Memory. New York: HarperCollins, 1996.

Shashaty, Jill. "Reading Dubliners Parabolically." James Joyce Quarterly 47:2 (Winter 2010): 213-29.

Walzl, Florence. "Gabriel and Michael: The Conclusion of 'The Dead'." Dubliners. Ed. Robert Scholes and Walton Litz. New York: Viking Critical Library, 1969. 423-43.

--. "Pattern of Paralysis in Joyce's Dubliners." College English 22:4 (Jan. 1961): 221-28.
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Title Annotation:James Joyce
Author:Pellow, C. Kenneth
Publication:Renascence: Essays on Values in Literature
Article Type:Critical essay
Date:Jan 1, 2016
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