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thatswhereyourewrong 's review for:
Dubliners
by James Joyce
Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascent to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable lonliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own.
One of my favourite aspects in this collection was how Joyce stripped the Dubliners in his stories of the rose-tinted sentimentality that plagued the other Irish writers of his time. Of course, it's tempting to relieve any guilt from your country, especially when it's already under colonial siege by false ideas and stereotypes, but that causes a great disservice to the true lives of your people. Dublin and her inhabitants are paralyzed, and the smog of disillusionment and desperation that has descended upon the ground leaves them blind to see their misgivings. I loved how the characters were often, stuck even during the resolution, as we can see that same pattern in our own lives. That is most likely why, even as a work so specific to Ireland, this collection speaks for the entire world. It adheres to our universal reservations about our own cultures and countries, and it doesn't sugarcoat things or try to shift them to further an agenda. The stories were rife with allusive remarks and Ireland-specific inneundos, though I think that just added to the layers and layers of meaning this book had rather than making it elusive or difficult. Joyce set out, I think, to showcases a truth about the place he lived in, without filtering it or rationalizing it, and whether you choose to accept it or not is up to you.
There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy.
One of my favourite aspects in this collection was how Joyce stripped the Dubliners in his stories of the rose-tinted sentimentality that plagued the other Irish writers of his time. Of course, it's tempting to relieve any guilt from your country, especially when it's already under colonial siege by false ideas and stereotypes, but that causes a great disservice to the true lives of your people. Dublin and her inhabitants are paralyzed, and the smog of disillusionment and desperation that has descended upon the ground leaves them blind to see their misgivings. I loved how the characters were often, stuck even during the resolution, as we can see that same pattern in our own lives. That is most likely why, even as a work so specific to Ireland, this collection speaks for the entire world. It adheres to our universal reservations about our own cultures and countries, and it doesn't sugarcoat things or try to shift them to further an agenda. The stories were rife with allusive remarks and Ireland-specific inneundos, though I think that just added to the layers and layers of meaning this book had rather than making it elusive or difficult. Joyce set out, I think, to showcases a truth about the place he lived in, without filtering it or rationalizing it, and whether you choose to accept it or not is up to you.
There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy.