Celtic Dawn: A Portrait of the Irish Literary Renaissance by Ulick O’Connor (1984)

We will show that Ireland is not the home of buffoonery and easy sentiment, as it has been represented, but the home of ancient idealism.
(Prospectus for the Irish Literary Theatre drafted by Lady Gregory, 1897; page 188)

This is a much more substantial work than O’Connor’s 1975 history of the Easter Rising. That was a slender pocket-sized 180 pages, this is a bigger format 416-page book complete with hefty index, 17-page bibliography and all. But like the earlier book, it’s still very much a personal account, and based on biography and anecdote rather than more scholarly history.

O’Connor (1928 to 2019) wrote a lot but he was neither a professional historian nor literary critic. He was more an erudite and impassioned amateur. And so this isn’t a scholarly or historically profound account, more an attempt, in his own words, ‘to convey the energy and elation of an era on Europe’s last island, perhaps the last in a series of renaissances which flourished in different countries since the Italian one in the fourteenth century’.

As with the earlier book, O’Connor is not shy about describing his own connections with the various settings and people involved, which makes for sweet anecdotes which, however, tend to bring out its rather home-made feel.

I was led to believe it’s a group biography of the key figures of the Celtic renaissance but, as you can see from my summary (below), it’s more like an interlocking series of biographies of all the Irish writers of the time, plus a fair few political figures.

One by one O’Connor introduces them to us and gives pen portraits. (I double checked I was using this phrase correctly. A pen portrait is ‘a brief, vivid and written description of a person, providing a “snapshot” of their character, lifestyle, and key traits, rather than just objective data’, which seems accurate enough.)

First of all we’re introduced to the key figures in chronological order and then, as they begin to work together, write for each other’s magazines or theatres, introduce each other to new ideas etc, the stories overlap and intertwine to build up a mosaic portrait of a major literary movement. At key moments when the central players, Griffiths, Yeats, Lady Gregory, AE, Edward Martyn, see their vision for a mature national Irish literature come to fruition, it can be very moving. And the figure of George Moore, the mocking dandy novelist, weaves in and out of the story like Puck, helping, mocking and memoiring.

The key players are:

Standish O’Grady (1846 to 1928)

Son of a Church of Ireland minister, O’Grady retained his aristocratic Unionist beliefs till the end of his life, but he played a pivotal role in the Celtic Renaissance by researching, writing, publishing and publicising the ancient legends of Ireland. His academic works – ‘History of Ireland: Heroic Period’ (1878–81) and ‘Early Bardic Literature of Ireland’ (1879) – didn’t sell so he realised he needed to dramatise them and romanticise Irish legends in a series of historical novels including ‘Finn and his Companions’ (1891), ‘The Coming of Cuculain’ (1894), ‘The Chain of Gold’ (1895), ‘Ulrick the Ready’ (1896) and ‘The Flight of the Eagle’ (1897). His insistence that the ancient Irish legends ranked with the tales of Homer inspired Yeats and others, leading to the title ‘Father of the Celtic Revival’. A lot later Yeats wrote: ‘whatever is Irish in me he kindled to life’ (p.25).

Douglas Hyde (1860 to 1949)

Son of a Church of Ireland rector, Hyde was home schooled among gillies and labourers, where he heard Gaelic spoken and started to study it. He began transcribing folk songs and discovered the people of Connacht remembered courtly songs and poems, which he translated and published. It was his poems published between 1890 and 1894 that inspired Yeats and Lady Gregory to realise the folk culture could be the basis for a national revival.

Around 1880 Hyde joined the Society for the Preservation of the Irish Language. Between 1879 and 1884 he published more than a hundred pieces of Irish verse under the pen name An Craoibhín Aoibhinn.

In 1886 Hyde met and became close friends with W.B. Yeats (then 21). They often met and discussed each other’s poetry.

In 1892 Hyde helped establish the Gaelic Journal, and wrote a manifesto called ‘The necessity for de-anglicising the Irish nation’ arguing that Ireland should follow its own traditions in language, literature, and dress. O’Connor sees it as a pivotal moment (p.165) because it led to…

In 1893 he helped found Conradh na Gaeilge (the Gaelic League) to encourage the preservation of Irish culture, music, dance and language. Ten years later there were 600 branches with a membership of 50,000. The next generation of Irish republicans (including Pádraig Pearse, Éamon de Valera, Michael Collins) became politicised through their involvement in Conradh na Gaeilge.

In the same year he published ‘Love Songs of Connacht’. The book had Gaelic poems on one page and prose and verse translations on the other. O’Connor thinks it ‘set the style of the literary renaissance’ (p.170).

Charles Stewart Parnell (1846 to 1891)

1875: Charles Stewart Parnell elected MP for Meath. O’Connor thinks the crucial fact of his life was that his other was American, from a family of heroes who fought against the British. By 1880 Parnell had succeeded Isaac Butt as leader of the Irish Party. In 1888 he was vindicated by an enquiry into his role in the Phoenix Park Murders (which Skin-the-Goat in James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ was meant to be the getaway driver for). Here and in his Easter Rising book, O’Connor thinks Parnell’s achievement was to bring together land reformers, constitutionalists and physical force advocates into one party to win the electoral success which gave them 70 or so seats in the London House of Commons and so made them the decisive force in British politics during the 1880s.

Parnell generated an energy which fuelled the elation unleashed in the national being.

Parnell had been having an affair with Katherine ‘Kitty’ O’Shea, a married woman, lived with her and fathered two children by her, when her husband, Captain O’Shea, brought a divorce suit against her, citing Parnell as co-respondent. The case came to court in November 1890 causing a scandal. The Catholic hierarchy turned against him, Gladstone was forced to criticise him. His closest associates in his own party deserted him to form the Irish National federation. The alliance of nationalist forces he had carefully assembled fragmented, and Irish nationalism was set back by a generation.

The following year he died of tuberculosis in Hove, aged just 45. His body was brought back to Dublin and given the biggest funeral procession ever seen. Yeats wrote several poems about it. So did the 9-year-old James Joyce, who went on to dramatise the bitterness surrounding his fall in the famous Christmas dinner scene in ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’.

O’Connor thinks Parnell united the Anglo-Irish and the Gaelic Irish into the new identity of the nationalist Irish. (O’Connor nowhere really tackles the more obvious divide between Protestant and Catholic.)

Yeats believed part of the inspiration for the Irish Literary Renaissance was that the people’s creative energies were turned away from politics by Parnell’s fall and sought alternative outlets: folk stories, pagan religion, poetry and drama.

Lady Gregory (1852 to 1932)

Isabelle Augusta Persse, Lady Gregory was the 14th of 18 children! From a Protestant low church background but had a Catholic nanny who told her rebel stories. Met and married Sir William Gregory, recently retired as governor of Ceylon, 62 to her 28. Engaged in political campaigns. Affair with Wilfrid Blunt, the explorer, adventurer, poet and anti-imperialist. Jailed for chairing an anti-eviction meeting in Galway. Husband Sir William died in 1892 aged 74, leaving Augusta aged 40, mistress of Coole Park. She needed income so set about writing, and turning the Park into a venue for Irish nationalist writers. Her momentous meeting with 31 year-old Years was in 1896.

Agreed to create an Irish Literary Theatre for him, to be funded by Edward Martyn.

Studied Gaelic and collected folktales in west of Ireland, heading towards ‘Visions and Beliefs in the West of Ireland’, published in 1920 with notes and two essays by W.B. Yeats.

Memorably wrote: ‘I defy anyone to study Irish history without getting a dislike and distrust of England’ (p.201).

By the later 1890s Coole Park was recognised as a meeting place for writers, with Yeats often there, and AE, Douglas Hyde, Martin. George Bernard Shaw visited and John Masefield. When she heard Irish literature being condemned by Trinity College academics it inspired her to devote two years to retelling the stories from O’Grady’s History of Ireland but in her own style which she had developed over years of translating. The result was ‘Cuchulainn of Muirthemne: The Story Of The Men of the Red Branch Of Ulster arranged and put into English by Lady Gregory, with a preface by W. B. Yeats’, published in 1902. The book is a centrepiece of the literary renaissance. It was well reviewed, and Yeats later used stories in it as the basis for no fewer than five plays, and Synge based his last play, Deirdre, on it.

George Moore (1852 to 1933)

Irish novelist, short-story writer, poet, art critic, memoirist and dramatist. Moore came from a landed family of Catholics who lived at Moore Hall in Carra, County Mayo. The estate had 12,000 acres and his father had not only a stables but a full scale racecourse built on the model of Aintree racecourse in Liverpool.

Moore’s father wanted him to go into the Army but young George wanted to be a painter and so went to Paris in 1873 to study art. There, he befriended many of the leading French artists such as Manet (who painted his portrait) and Degas, and writers such as Villiers de l’Isle-Adam and Mallarmé. Failing as a painter he had a go at poetry but was bad at that, too. At which point he commenced writing prose fiction which turned out to be his metier. He wrote in the naturalist style pioneered by Émile Zola. According to Richard Ellmann, his writings influenced the early James Joyce.

In 1880 he heard his estate was in trouble and so returned. The 1879 harvest had been as bad as the potato famine years and tenants were refusing to pay rents. Moore toured the estate and was shocked at their abject poverty. Having sorted out new, lower rents in order to maintain the estate, he moved to London and started writing at a prodigious rate:

  • A Modern Lover, 1883
  • A Mummer’s Wife, 1885 – Kate Ede, bored housewife in the Potteries, runs away to join a troupe of travelling actors
  • A Drama in Muslin, 1886 – satire on the annual season at Dublin Castle
  • A Mere Accident, 1887
  • Parnell and His Island, 1887 – factual often scathing essays and portraits
  • Confessions of a Young Man, 1888
  • Modern Painting, 1893 – factual book introducing the French Impressionists
  • Esther Waters, 1894 – portrait of a serving girl
  • Celibates, 1895 – three characters explore love, sex and social conventions
  • Evelyn Innes, 1898

He had a love-hate relationship with his country, writing in the factual book ‘Parnell and His People‘ that Ireland was ‘a primitive country and barbarous people’, and:

Ireland is a bog, and the aborigines are a degenerate race — short, squat little men — with low foreheads and wide jaws.

Fifteen years later he would write about the British Empire and its administrators in much the same terms. O’Connor quotes Martyn saying Moore observed himself, his actions and beliefs with the detached attitude of a scientist.

Edward Martyn (1859 to 1923)

Another landlord of a large estate and urban property except that Martyn’s family was Catholic. He was cousin and boyhood friend with George Moore: George the sensualist and Edward the ascetic. They visited Bayreuth together.

Tulira Castle Martyn was eccentric. He comprehensively renovated the family property, the Gothic Tulira Castle, but chose to live in a spartan bedroom. He was a connoisseur of church music. Tulira was and is only 4 or so miles from Coole Park, home of Lady Gregory.

Music He was a fine musician in his own right, giving memorable performances for guests on an organ he had installed at Tullira.

Cultural sponsor Martyn used his wealth to benefit Irish culture. His activities and sponsorships included:

  • 1897: co-founder and endowing of the Feis Ceoil
  • 1903: foundation of the Palestrina Choir (the resident choir at the St Mary’s Pro-Cathedral, Dublin)
  • funding and direction of St. Brendan’s Cathedral, Loughrea
  • president of Na hAisteoirí, the Irish-language drama group
  • sponsored and guided An Túr Gloine, Ireland’s first stained-glass workshop
  • sponsored the Irish Theatre

Martyn was reportedly pivotal in introducing William Butler Yeats and Lady Gregory to each other in 1896. The three founded the Irish Literary Theatre, for whom Martyn wrote his best and most popular plays ‘The Heather Field’ and ‘A Tale of a Town’. He covered the costs of the company’s first three seasons, which proved crucial to establishing the company and the future of the Abbey Theatre.

Irish republicanism He became involved with the political work of Maud Gonne and Arthur Griffith. He was a vocal opponent of the visit of Queen Victoria to Ireland in 1897 and of Edward VII in 1903, this time as chairman of the People’s Protection Committee.

He became close friends with Griffith and funded the publication of his tract ‘The Resurrection of Hungary in 1904’ which publicised Griffith’s abstentionist strategy i.e. non-cooperation with every aspect of the British administration.

From 1905 to 1908 he was the first president of Sinn Féin (the party only taking that name in the latter year). In 1908, he resigned from the party and politics in general to concentrate on writing and his other activities.

He was on close personal terms with Thomas MacDonagh, Joseph Mary Plunkett and Patrick Pearse and mourned their executions in the aftermath of the Easter Rising. A parish hall and church that he founded at Labane, near Tullira, were burned by the Black and Tans. In ‘A Terrible Beauty’ O’Connor quotes the letter Yeats wrote to the Times protesting this.

John Butler Yeats (1839 to 1922)

From an Anglo-Irish = Protestant family, he studied at Trinity College, briefly pursued the law before switching to painting. He became a prolific portrait painter but was not a good businessman, so he and his family were always hard up and regularly moved. ‘In a material sense he had been a hopeless parent’ (p.110).

In 1863 he married Susan Pollexfen (1841 to 1900) daughter of a Sligo merchant and shipowner. She was dismayed when he abandoned the law. They had six children: three sons and three daughters, the oldest son being the Nobel Prize winning poet and dramatist William Butler Yeats. The two daughters most mentioned are Lily and Elizabeth, known as Lolly. Apparently, Susan went slowly mad.

Surprisingly, in 1907 at the age of 68, he travelled to New York aboard the RMS Campania with his daughter Lily and never returned to Ireland, dying in a boarding house in New York.

William Butler (W.B.) Yeats

J.B. was an atheist materialist, a follower of Comte and Darwin. His son, Willie, reacted against this into his Celtic Dawn love of fairies and spiritualism, describing himself as ‘a voice of the revolt of the soul against the intellect’ (p.150). In reaction against his Victorian materialist father, from his teenage years onwards Yeats subscribed to every spiritualist fad available, setting up the Hermetic Society with a friend, meeting Madame Blavatsky and getting into Theosophy, studying ancient Indian texts etc.

In the 1880s father John moved the family to London, to Bedford Park, introducing young Willie to Oscar Wilde among others. One day in June 1889, Maud Gonne turned up on their doorstep. She was already a legend and said to be the most beautiful women in Europe.

Yeats joined the Order of the Golden Dawn led by Mcgregor Mathers. He took to Rosicrucianism as an ideal synthesis of Christianity and paganism. In 1889 he had published his first book of poems, ‘The Wanderings of Oisin and other poems’, supported by the Fenian John O’Leary.

In 1890 Yeats along with Welsh poet Ernest Rhys founded The Rhymers’ Club which met at the London pub ‘Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese’ in Fleet Street.

Later Yeats and others glamorised members of the club as the ‘doomed generation’ because so many died of poverty, alcoholism or disease. Hmm. This is a typical example of literary types’ self-mythologisation. Compare the peace and plenty they enjoyed with the experience of the generation who reached manhood as the First World War broke out; who were the real doomed generation?

The most notable of the Rhymesters was Arthur Symons who wrote an excellent book ‘The Symbolist Movement in Literature’; read to Yeats from French and Latin poetry; and gave Yeats introductions to key literary figures in Paris (Verlaine, d’Adam) when he went to visit the French capital.

1894 production of his first play, ‘The Land of Heart’s Desire’ in London. In it a young woman about to be married is lured into the otherworld by a fairy. George Moore attended and was put off Yeats by his posing in a big black cloak and walking up and down the back of the dress circle wearing a ridiculous sombrero. He had a pathological dislike of Ibsen and issue-led theatre, thus profoundly disliked Shaw’s plays.

Hard up, in autumn 1894 Yeats went to stay out in Sligo with his uncle George Pollexfen. Although a successful merchant, George was also into mysticism and a member of the Hermetic Dawn. He was single, living alone apart from a serving girl he was convinced had second sight.

In 1896 Yeats, aged 30, moved to rented rooms at 18 Woburn Buildings in London where he would live for the next 15 years.

In August the same year, Edward Martyn invited Yeats and Arthur Symons to visit him at Tulira. The visitors asked if they could take a boat to the Isles of Aran, the most remote and unspoiled part of Ireland, which they did for five days. During the visit Lady Gregory invited them to nearby Coole Park. This was the decisive visit which began their collaboration. Amusingly, Symons witnessed their conversation and instantly realised that she would seduce Yeats away from lyric poetry. He ever afterwards referred to her as ‘the witch’ (p.182).

In 1897 Yeats went for another stay with Martyn. While Martyn was elsewhere Yeats was left with Lady Gregory, lamenting that there was nowhere for him to get his plays produced in a Dublin dominated by plays and entertainments imported from England. Within an hour she had mapped out a scheme to set up an Irish national theatre. She would call on her connections via her dead husband with establishment figures and ask them all to cough up £25 for three years to fund the thing. When Martyn rejoined them and heard the plan, he immediately signed up.

In 1898 Yeats, exhausted by his unrequited love for Gonne, came back to Coole. Lady Gregory let him rest in bed, created a daily timetable, had his food sent up, let him walk through the grounds and round the lake where he got to know the wild swans. For the next 20 years she was to be his rock and support until he married in 1917, and she had a hand in arranging that.

George Russell (A.E.) (1867 to 1935)

Met Yeats at art school. The Russell and Yeats families lived near each other. Professional seer of visions which he depicted in his drawings, sacred mountains, druids, the Hindu and Irish gods were related. He did a painting of a divine being and, wondering what to call it, heard the word ‘aeon’ being whispered to him, a few weeks later opening a book about the Gnostics and discovering ‘aeon’ was the name they gave to the first order of beings created by the Divine Mind. From that moment till his dying day he signed his works AE and the brand stuck. He used to go to the esplanade at Bray and hold forth to passersby about the glories of the ancient religion of mankind. Standish O’Grady heard him and was impressed.

In the late 1880s he gave up painting and got a job as a draper’s assistant during the day, so as to be free to practice mystical mind exercises at night.

Despite all this he had a practical side: at Yeats’s suggestion, Horace Plunkett appointed Russell assistant secretary of the Irish Agricultural Organisation Society (IAOS), an agricultural co-operative society Plunkett founded in 1894. He was responsible for developing the credit societies and establishing Co-operative Banks in the south and west of the country.

From 1905 to 1923 he was editor of the influential Irish Homestead, the journal of the IAOS.

O’Connor quotes a good thing A.E. said to a Catholic friend who was twitting him about his mystical beliefs: ‘Like all Irish Catholics you are an atheist at heart’ (quoted page 157).

Sir William Wilde (1815 to 1876)

From a Protestant family, Wilde was an ophthalmologic surgeon and the author of significant works on medicine, archaeology and folklore, particularly concerning his native Ireland. Also, the father of Oscar Wilde.

Wilde was a founder member of the Irish nationalist Home Government Association, established by his Trinity College Dublin colleague Isaac Butt as the precursor to the Irish Parliamentary Party.

In 1851 Wilde married the poet Jane Francesca Agnes Elgee, who wrote and published under the name of Speranza. The couple had two sons, William (Willie) and Oscar, and a daughter, Isola Francesca, who died in childhood.

He was knighted in 1864, mostly for his help conducting a census in Ireland.

Wilde was promiscuous (‘Sir William had a name as a lecher’, p.101). He fathered three children by two women before he married Jane. In 1864 his reputation was damaged by the Travers libel trial. There’s a good summary in the Irish Times:

Wilde is important for O’Connor because he a) spoke Irish like a native and b) collected folklore from his estate in the west of Ireland.

Jane Francesca Agnes Elgee Wilde (Speranza) (1821 to 1896)

From a prosperous Protestant family in Dublin. The plaque on the grave of her husband describes her as ‘Speranza of The Nation, writer, translator, poet and nationalist, author of works on Irish folklore, early advocate of equality for women, and founder of a leading literary salon’.

Speranza As a young woman in the 1840s, Elgee wrote for the Young Ireland movement, publishing patriotic ballads in The Nation under the pseudonym of Speranza, calling for Irish independence and anti-British. Charles Gavan Duffy was the editor when ‘Speranza’ wrote commentary calling for armed revolution in Ireland as a result of which the authorities at Dublin Castle shut down the paper and brought Charles Duffy to court but he refused to name the person who had written the offending article.

Marriage In 1851 Elgee married the successful society doctor and ophthalmologist, William Wilde, thus becoming Jane Wilde. When he was knighted in 1864, she became Lady Wilde.

Folklore When Wilde died in 1876, the family discovered that he was virtually bankrupt. Lady Wilde joined her sons in London in 1879, living with Willie in poverty, supplementing their meagre income by writing for fashionable magazines. She wrote several books based on the research of her late husband into Irish folklore, notably ‘Ancient legends, mystic charms, and superstitions of Ireland’ (1887). O’Connor thinks it ‘contains some of the most beautiful folk tales in existence’ (p.100), although he tells us that the expert, Douglas Hyde, was sceptical about them, given that Jane didn’t actually speak Gaelic. Yeats on the other hand thought they were so good he didn’t care if Lady Jane had embellished them or not (p.115). There’s an obvious study to be done comparing Jane’s folk stories and her son Oscar’s fairy stories…

Feminist Jane was an early advocate of women’s rights, and campaigned for better education for women. She invited the suffragist Millicent Fawcett to her home to speak on female liberty. She praised the passing of the Married Women’s Property Act of 1882, which prevented a woman from having to enter marriage ‘as a bond slave, disenfranchised of all rights over her fortune’.

Oscar Wilde (1854 to 1900)

Yeats’s father moved the family to London and introduced young Willie to Oscar, who he knew through his parents. Wilde was ten years older than Willie and tried to help the young poet. Willie was impressed by Oscar’s attempt to make every aspect of his life beautiful but he deprecated the older man’s sloth. O’Connor points out that when Oscar toured the USA for almost the whole of 1882, he was feted among Irish audiences as much for being the son of the nationalist Speranza as for being a London aesthete. George Bernard Shaw, 2 years older than Oscar, thought him ‘a very Irish Irishman’.

John O’Leary (1830 to 1907)

An Irish separatist and a leading Fenian. He studied both law and medicine but did not take a degree. For his involvement in the Irish Republican Brotherhood, he was imprisoned for five years in England. He spent time in Paris among other political exiles and developed a strong sense of the importance of having a national culture in order to promote independence. He’s important to this narrative because he got to see W.B. Yeats debate and orate and came to believe he was the national poet Ireland was waiting for.

O’Leary was on the Supreme Council of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and inducted Yeats into it. Yeats was to remain involved for the rest of his life. The IRB would regard Yeats as ‘their man’ in the literary movement. Later Yeats would say ‘to him I owe everything I set my hand to’. O’Leary arranged for the publication of Yeats’s first volume, and introduced him to folklorists who supplied the material for his books ‘

Maud Gonne MacBride (1866 to 1953)

Born of an English mother and father in the army, brought up in the barracks, lived with the family in Austria and the south of France, attended the 1886 season at Dublin Castle, attended balls and was presented to the Prince of Wales. But Maud rebelled against her upbringing to become a firebrand Irish nationalist and suffragette.

In 1889 she was introduced to W.B. Yeats who was driven mad with love for her, but she refused to become his lover a) because she was already having an affair with a Frenchman Lucien Millevoye, later b) because she later fell in love with and married (in 1903) the nationalist activist John MacBride (one of the leaders of the Easter Rising, executed by the British in 1916).

William Morris (1834 to 1896)

English textile designer, poet, artist, writer, and socialist activist associated with the British Arts and Crafts movement. In the late 1880s and 90s he was for a while an idol of Yeats’s (‘one of the few men he ever really worshipped’, p.138), who visited him at Kelmscott House and attended meetings of his Socialist League. When Yeats’s collection of essays, ‘the Celtic Twilight’ was published in 1893, the Morris group hailed it as the Irish equivalent of their own pre-Raphaelite movement. What they had in common was a rejection of Victorian pragmatism, mercantilism and science in favour of romantic worlds of faerie. But O’Connor suggests the difference was that the pre-Raphaelites were nostalgic for a vanished English past whereas Yeats was trying to instil the folk culture of Ireland in the here and now.

Eventually they split after Yeats sat through a socialist meeting consisting of attacks on religion before getting to his feet and insisting that only through religion and imagination could the revolution come, before being told to desist and sit down. He never attended another meeting.

George Bernard Shaw (1856 to 1950)

Of Protestant Anglo-Irish descent, Bernard Shaw was a playwright, critic, polemicist and political activist. His father was an alcoholic corn merchant, but his mother, Lucinda, was a noted opera singer, she sang at the Castle and was congratulated by the Lord Lieutenant. Shaw grew up in a household saturated with classical music which is why he was able to become a music critic when he moved to London in 1876. This was encouraged by the mentorship of George Lee who formed a sort of menage with the Shaw household and organised classical concerts. He was also a Catholic who introduced young George to Irish nationalism.

He wrote more than sixty plays, including major works such as Man and Superman (1902), Pygmalion (1913) and Saint Joan (1923). He worshipped Ibsen for confronting the middle classes with truths they’d prefer to ignore.

His first success was Arms and The Man, first staged in 1894. It was funded by Shaw’s lover, Florence Farr and staged alongside Yeats’s first play ‘The Land of Heart’s Desire’. Wilde wrote to congratulate Shaw.

John Millington Synge (1871 to 1909)

Another protestant, from a wealthy Anglo-Irish background, Synge went to Paris to study music. Realising he was not going to become a composer, he met Yeats on a visit to the capital, who advised him to go to the Aran Islands (which Yeats had visited only months before) to learn from the peasants. Two years later, in May 1898, Synge did just that. He made five visits over the next few years. By the end he was fluent in Gaelic. It helped that he was a fine violinist and picked up many airs and tunes which he played for the locals.

(In between these trips he spent five successive summers at Coole Park, collecting stories and folklore, perfecting his Irish, but living in Paris for most of the rest of each year.)

Then he set about writing the half a dozen plays that he is remembered as a key figure of the Irish Literary Revival.

Horace Plunkett (1854 to 1932)

Phenomenally posh, Plunkett was born in Sherborne, Gloucestershire, the third son of Admiral Edward Plunkett, the 16th Baron of Dunsany, of Dunsany Castle, Dunsany, near Dunshaughlin, County Meath, and the Honourable Anne Constance Dutton (daughter of John Dutton, 2nd Baron Sherborne).

Raised in County Meath, Plunkett was Anglo-Irish, raised in the Church of Ireland, educated at Eton College and University College, Oxford.

However, he appears in this story because he went to Wyoming in America to try and cure his incipient tuberculosis, spending ten years there and turning out to have a talent for running ranches at a profit. And when he returned to Ireland, in 1891, he ended up, through a series of initiatives, becoming a pioneer of agricultural cooperatives. In 1894 he set up the Irish Agricultural Organisation Society (IAOS).

Among many other appointments, he heard about Lady Gregory’s good works in Galway and went down to visit. Here he met Yeats who he initially thought an ass until he heard him address a meeting of local farmers and realised there was more to him than first appeared. Plunkett needed an organiser to tour the west of Ireland. Yeats recommended his friend AE who had developed practical experience working for his draper’s company. After years on the road, in 1901 he became editor of the co-op’s magazine, The Irish Homestead.

Irish Literary Theatre

The first plays staged in the theatre’s first season, in 1899, were:

  1. Yeats’s The Countess Cathleen, first published in 1892: is set during a famine in Ireland, where the noblewoman Countess Cathleen sells her soul to demons to save the starving peasantry.
  2. Edward Martyn’s The Heather Field: Carden Tyrrell, a visionary landowner, becomes obsessed with reclaiming a barren, heather-covered field and transforming it into fertile pasture, mortgaging his estate and ignoring his family’s needs, causing conflict with his practical wife, Grace; as the project fails, Tyrrell withdraws into madness.

O’Connor gives a humorous account of the runup to the productions, which Yeats got George Moore to help with, and he was a tyrant who enraged everyone, writing a letter to Martyn so offensive that the latter threatened to withdraw his play.

The famous thing is that the Catholic hierarchy and traditional nationalists got wind of the plot and decided it was a libel on Irish peasantry and Irish womanhood etc. A claque of students attended the first night to yell abuse and boo, but they were combated with cheers. George Moore had played a vital role in securing appropriate actors and directing them. He now sent London critics over to Dublin who loved it. So he had a big hand in launching the theatre.

A celebration dinner was held for all involved at the Shelborne Hotel. Moore described it in his Autobiography:

Yeats rose, and a beautiful commanding figure he seemed at the end of the table, pale and in profile, with long nervous hands and a voice resonant and clear as a silver trumpet. He drew himself up and spoke against Trinity College, saying that it had always taught the ideas of the stranger, and the songs of the stranger, and the literature of the stranger, and that was why Ireland had never listened and Trinity College had been a sterile influence. The influences that had moved Ireland deeply were the old influences that had come down from generation to generation, handed on by the story-tellers that collected in the evenings round the fire, creating for learned and unlearned a communion of heroes.

The second season was staged in 1900 at the Gaiety Theatre and featured two plays by Edward Martyn – Maeve, The Tale of a Town – and The Last of the Fianna by Alice Milligan. The mere fact that these were successfully staged at the 1,200 seat Gaiety and not the 500-seat Antient Common Rooms, showed how the theatre was becoming a commercial as well as cultural success.

Arthur Griffith (1871 to 1922)

Griffith was a key but complicated figure. He was an Irish writer, newspaper editor and politician who founded the political party Sinn Féin. He led the Irish delegation at the negotiations that produced the 1921 Anglo-Irish Treaty, and served as the president of Dáil Éireann from January 1922 until his death that August.

But back in the period O’Connor is covering Griffith is important because he articulated an entirely new strategy for achieving independence. Parnell thought he could do it in the English Parliament; physical force revolutionaries thought they could do it through targeted assassinations and taking on the British Army of occupation. Griffith suggested a third way which was for the Irish to retire entirely from British politics – the policy of ‘abstentionism’ – and instead set up their own administration entirely separate from the British: for the MPs elected in the (British defined) constituencies to not only not go to London, but to set up their own Parliament (the Dail), giving everything Irish Gaelic names, to create their own laws, their own budget, their own courts and system of justice, to create a parallel and independently Irish administration at all levels. Hence the name of his organisation, Sinn Fein which means ‘ourselves alone’.

This was a compelling new idea which caught everyone’s imagination (it’s even mentioned several times in James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’).

Yeats’s anti-Britishness

1898 – elected president of the committee to celebrate the centenary of the 1798 uprising.

1899 – October, second Boer War broke out and Yeats, Gonne and Martyn became members of the Transvaal Committee protesting Britain’s treatment of the Boers.

1900 – April, the same group plus others formed a committee to protest a planned visit of Queen Victoria to Dublin. (The old queen was 81). (Here as in his Easter rising book, O’Connor tells us that Maud Gonne’s future husband, John Macbride, was in South Africa leading a brigade of Boers against the British.)

O’Connor quotes a letter by Yeats to the Daily Express on 3 April 1900 which gives you a real feeling of his anti-British republicanism. Speaking of Victoria, he writes:

She is the official head and symbol of an empire that is robbing the South African republics of their liberty, as it robbed Ireland of hers. Whoever stands by the roadway cheering for Queen Victoria cheers for that empire, dishonours Ireland, and condones a crime. But whoever goes tomorrow night to the meeting of the people and protests within the law against the welcome of that Unionists and time-servers will have given this English Queen, honours Ireland and condemns a crime.

Moore moves back to Dublin

The Boer War prompted George Moore to revise his opinions of England and Ireland. He began to hate the former and romanticise the latter, forgetting all about his amusingly insulting opinions of 15 years earlier. Strikingly, he is quoted saying he has come to hate the English language and wants to flee the English country and English people (p.282).

He moved back to Dublin in 1901. He’s in this account a) because he was an important novelist in his own right but b) because of his close relationship with the founders of the Literary Theatre, which extended, as O’Connor shows, to a major rewrite of one of Edward Martyn’s plays, which infuriated his old friend. It must be said, his droll insouciance and wit make him one of the most attractive characters in the book. O’Connor devotes quite a few pages to just comic anecdotes from his own autobiography and other people’s reminiscences.

O’Connor gives a comic account of Moore and Yeats struggling to collaborate on a play based on the legend of Diarmuid and Grania, Moore’s attitude is priceless. He was then chosen to direct a production of Douglas Hyde’s play ‘The Twisting of the Rope’ but resigns after 3 weeks. Hyde himself played the lead role of Hanrahan the poet and turned out to be sprightly and antic onstage, completely the opposite of his sober, scholarly everyday persona. The two plays were performed in October 1901. Grania wasn’t a success whereas ‘The Twisting of the Rope’ was the first play to be performed in Irish and was joyously received by nationalists. The audience sang patriotic songs. The audience mobbed Yeats at the stage door. In the audience was John Millington Synge, who saw the language and imagery he had been collecting on the Aran Isles come to life onstage. Within a few months he’d written his first play and within a year the first of his five masterpieces.

Joyce

Joyce loathed these productions and wrote a savage indictment of their success titled ‘The Day of the Rabblement’. He thought Yeats and Co were catering to the low, debased tastes of the Irish people by sinking themselves deeper into the mire of illiterate peasant superstition, whereas Joyce wanted to join and become a star in the great European tradition. Which is why he had to leave Ireland altogether.

Joyce walked across Dublin one night to AE’s house and waited till the established writer returned at midnight. They talked till 4 in the morning. Easy-going AE was impressed and wrote to Lady Gregory warning him about this ‘spectre of fastidiousness’ (p.296). When Joyce left Ireland for Paris in 1904, Lady Gregory gave him money.

The Fays and the Abbey Theatre

The origins of the famous Abbey Theatre in the work of two brothers, William and Frank Fay. In the 1890s, William had worked with a touring company in Ireland, Scotland and Wales while Frank was heavily involved in amateur dramatics in Dublin. After William returned, the brothers began to stage productions in halls around the city. O’Connor gives his usual pen portrait and explains how Frank asked AE permission to use a play which he, AE, had written solely for literary interest, ‘Deirdre’. Discovering it wouldn’t fill a whole evening they approached Yeats for a short filler and he gave them ‘Cathleen Ni Houlihan’ and suggested Maud Gonne play the lead role. Amazingly, she agreed. The brothers hired the cramped St Theresa’s Hall on Clarendon Street for the production. Opening night was 2 April 1902. Deirdre was well received but the Yeats play is about the allegorical figure of Ireland depicted as a long-suffering old crone, who is transformed into a beautiful queen by the sacrifice of a young man. There were cheers throughout and, at the end, a standing ovation. Partisans like Arthur Griffith saw it as the start of a national revival. I’ll now quote from Wikipedia because the events surrounding the foundation of the Abbey Theatre are a bit convoluted and not fully explained by O’Connor:

Encouraged by the St Theresa’s Hall success, Yeats, Lady Gregory, Æ, Martyn, and John Millington Synge founded the Irish National Theatre Society in 1903 with funding from Annie Horniman. Horniman was a middle-class Englishwoman with previous experience in theatre production, having been involved in the presentation of George Bernard Shaw’s Arms and the Man in London in 1894. An acquaintance of Yeats from London circles, including the Order of the Golden Dawn, she came to Dublin in 1903 to act as Yeats’ unpaid secretary and to make costumes for a production of his play ‘The King’s Threshold’. They were joined by actors and playwrights from Fay’s company.

At first, they staged performances in the Molesworth Hall. When the Mechanics’ Theatre in Lower Abbey Street and an adjacent building in Marlborough Street became available after fire safety authorities closed it, Horniman and William Fay agreed to buy and refit the space to meet the society’s needs.

On 11 May 1904, the Society formally accepted Horniman’s offer of the use of the building. As Horniman did not usually reside in Ireland, the royal letters patent required were granted in the name of Lady Gregory, although paid for by Horniman. The founders appointed William Fay theatre manager, responsible for training the actors in the newly established repertory company. They commissioned Yeats’ brother Jack to paint portraits of all the leading figures in the society for the foyer, and hired Sarah Purser to design stained glass for the same space.

On 27 December 1904, the curtains went up on opening night. The bill consisted of three one-act plays, ‘On Baile’s Strand’ and ‘Cathleen Ní Houlihan’ by Yeats, and ‘Spreading the News’ by Lady Gregory. On the second night, ‘In the Shadow of the Glen’ by Synge replaced the second Yeats play. These two bills alternated over a five-night run.

In addition to providing funding, Horniman’s chief role with the Abbey over the coming years was to organise publicity and bookings for their touring productions in London and provincial England.

‘The Shadow of the Glen’ caused a furor. I have written a separate blog post about it.

Codas

Towards the end of the book, O’Connor deals increasingly briskly with his charges.

Joyce He portrays Joyce leaving for the continent, helped with cash from Lady Gregory, and even Yeats who met him at Euston station, bought him breakfast and helped him catch the boat train to Paris. In O’Connor’s portrait Joyce comes over as fiercely arrogant, angry, bitter and determined. In Paris he met Synge but the two didn’t get on at all. He’d only been there a few months when his father telegraphed him to return to Dublin because his mother was dying. It was then that occurred the famous occasion when Joyce refused to kneel and pray for his mother, letting her die distraught that her son was an atheist, leaving him gnawed with guilt which provides a central thread to ‘Ulysses’, where he grandly renames it ‘agenbite of inwit’. It was on 16 June 1904 that he had a second date with an uninhibited Galway girl who kissed him and touched his willy through his trousers, thus persuading the highly sexed Joyce that she was the girl for him, and indeed they spent the rest of their lives together, and she was the rock which enabled him to write his masterpieces.

Lady Gregory Having been midwife to numerous plays, Lady Gregory now started writing her own. Amazingly, she ended up writing about 100, and many were very popular. Her best works are probably ‘The Rising of the Moon’ and ‘The Workhouse Ward’. It was seeing plays like these on the Abbey Theatre’s first tour of America, which apparently inspired American playwright Eugene O’Neill to write his first plays. In the 1920s, when finances were tight, she persuaded the new Free State government to give the Abbey Theatre a stipend, making it the first state-sponsored theatre in the world.

Climax and aftermath

It turns out that those 1904 productions are the climax of O’Connor’s book. The precursor to the Abbey Theatre had been created and Yeats, Gregory, AE had seen their vision of a native Irish theatre based on native Irish legends and themes come true. From left-field came J.M. Synge whose Aran Island-inspired plays would expand and consolidate the genre.

So instead of continuing to take things forward at the slow incremental pace he’d used up till now, rather surprisingly O’Connor leaps forward to the first night of Sean O’Casey’s ‘The Plough and the Stars’ in 1926. After a vivid description of the protests and catcalling which forced Yeats to call in the police, again, O’Connor relaxes on the final pages of his book and turns into lists. The renaissance was underway and he lists the next generation of playwrights which came through along with a sudden interest in painting, which had until these last few pages only received passing mention in reference to John Yeats. Now there’s a sudden list of Irish painters who flourished in the 00s, 10s and 20s. The outstanding art collector Hugh Lane left his collection to the Dublin Art Gallery. In less than a page he skips over the East Rising and civil war to the creation of the Irish Free State, and then the last 3 or 4 pages concern the afterlives of his central characters.

Edward Martyn broke with the Abbey Theatre founders, founded his own rival theatre, died in 1924.

George Moore argued with everyone in the movement and, in 1912, left Ireland a second time, reverting to his initial contempt for his homeland. He died in 1933. He always felt James Joyce had plagiarised his ‘Confessions of a Young Man’ in his ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’, and stole his famous short story ‘The Dead’ from the end of his novel ‘Vain Fortune’. But the pair met in Paris in 1929 when Joyce was eager to conciliate the older man and they got on surprisingly well.

Lady Gregory stopped writing plays in the 1920s, negotiated a government subsidy for the Abbey Theatre in 1925. Her son Robert was killed serving in the air force in 1918. Coole Park had to be sold off, along with its wild swans and the tree she had her famous writers carve their names into. She died in 1932.

W.B. Yeats came to be recognised as one of the greatest poets of the age, receiving the Nobel Prize in 1924. He was made a senator in the new Free State. In 1928 he entered a late flowering period of creativity with ‘The Tower’. He died in the south of France in 1939.

Douglas Hyde was installed as president of Ireland in 1938. He had faded out of public life after refusing to let his Gaelic League get involved in politics. The decision to bring him out of retirement paid homage to his work as a young man in rescuing the Celtic language and its stories.

O’Connor ends with a charming story, of how the following year, when war broke out, coal became scarce, so Hyde opened the coal cellars of the Viceregal Lodge to the population of Dublin. Instead he had turf brought from the countryside so that the grand dinning, ball and state rooms of the palace, which had echoed to the social life of the conqueror for so many years, were now filled with the aromatic smoke betokening authentic Irish peasant life.

Firesides

O’Connor is a romantic, sometimes sentimental author. Peasants are noble. Aristocrats are noble. All his upper class characters are fine riders and excellent shots. He takes a heroic view of Irish patriots. One aspect of this is his fondness for ‘firesides’ as a symbol of authenticity, especially, of course, the firesides of the people and peasants.

[Henry Grattan]’s speech at the inauguration [of the 1782 parliament] would become a hymn of nationalism recited around the firesides of nationalist Ireland in the nineteenth century. (p.15)

Under the name of Speranza [Francesca Elgee] wrote patriotic ballads about the Fenians and English misrule, like ‘The Famine Year’ which was recited around firesides throughout the country. (p.100)

Soon [Synge] had mastered the Irish jigs and reels and slow airs, and he would sit at night near the firelight in the cottages and play his airs for the dancing boys and girls. (p.191)

This [lines from a Yeats poem] could be from the court of Aquitaine; or that its sentiment is a trifle extravagant, the address of a Cavalier. Least of all does one think of it as a poet’s address to his country in one of the traditional names which were used for Ireland in the seventeenth century, and that this was perfectly understood by the people when it was sung for them round their firesides or in the fields. (p.214)

[Of ‘In the Shadow of the Glen’] It was, after all, a daring theme for those days to depict a wife leaving a husband, however aged, for a tramp travelling the roads. The fact that it was based on an Irish folk tale told around the firesides of the west would not make it any more palatable when it would be acted out in front of urban audiences who would lack the Rabelaisian acceptance of farmyard life. (p.333)

The story of how Cuchulain inadvertently kills his own son whom he had had (unknown to him) by a Scottish princess, Aoife, was still told around the country firesides in the west. (p.352)

Documentary

There are many documentaries on the subject. This one is an easy-going complexity-free example, bolstered by extensive interviews with the eminent academic Fintan O’Toole. Most interesting for me was the section about Patrick Pearse’s objections to the movement which he said ought to be ‘strangled at birth’. He thought Yeats and Lady Gregory, Protestants both, were denying the Catholic faith of the peasants they depicted, and Ireland as a whole, in order to promote their own personal vision of a pagan Ireland, the Ireland of the myths and legends they collected and they promoted.

There was also a class aspect, because the revivalists’ plays focused on peasants or aristocrats, itself an ancient binary, with no space for the majority population of working and middle class. In this sense, their vision was utterly unrepresentative of Ireland’s realities. (Just one reason for James Joyce’s complete rejection of their vision and aesthetic, although the movement was, eventually, to be large enough for the working class dramas of Sean O’Casey.)


Credit

‘Celtic Dawn: A Portrait of the Irish Literary Renaissance’ by Ulick O’Connor was published by Hamish Hamilton in 1984.

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A Terrible Beauty is Born by Ulick O’Connor (1975)

I grew up in a free country which was decolonised seven years before my birth. The reflexes of colonialism linger on for a time after the rulers have departed.
(page 14)

‘I defy anyone to study Irish history without getting a dislike and distrust of England.’
(Lady Gregory)

This is, in the old and best sense of the word, an amateur book. It is a highly personal perspective on the series of very famous events in Irish history. Ulick O’Connor had a long and successful life as a sportsman, lawyer, writer, poet, playwright, historian and biographer, summarised in his obituary:

As a sportsman he certainly excelled. As a lawyer I’ve no idea of his status. As a writer, apparently his biographies of Oliver St John Gogarty and Brendan Behan are still important. But he was definitely not a professional historian and it shows. This slim 180-page account of the leadup to and aftermath of the 1916 Easter Rising in Dublin is anecdotal and empassioned rather than detached and scholarly. It’s a handy enough introduction to the events, although there must be many far more rigorous and scholarly accounts.

And it seems to skip or gloss over complex details. Every time I looked up an aspect of the leadup to the rising on Wikipedia, I found it to be more complex and byzantine than O’Connor’s account. This appears to be a simplified and romanticised account.

What makes it stand out is O’Connor’s flashes of real anger against British imperial rule in Ireland and, in the later stages, the number of participants and eye-witnesses who O’Connor seems to have met and interviewed for this book and so quotes verbatim.

Introduction

Setting the personal tone of the book, it opens with O’Connor visiting the Public Records Office at Dublin Castle to see the file on his great-grandfather. This was Matthew Harris who fought in the Irish risings of 1848 and 1867 and became one of three members of the Supreme Council of the Fenians, who, even though he went on to be elected as an MP to Westminster, was in later life followed everywhere by detectives. O’Connor discovers his file is huge and could be compared to the Czarist authorities’ files on Lenin. So O’Connor is using his great-grandfather as an example of the huge amount of time and energy the British colonial system spent keeping tabs on anyone who spoke against it.

But the anecdote is also typical of O’Connor’s romanticising tendency: he is quick to say of his forebears, or of any notable Irishman he’s writing about, that tales were told of him round fireplaces and ballads sung in pubs. The heroes of his story are constantly being turned into tales and ballads sung wherever patriots assemble.

His name had passed into tradition so that as I grew up I heard him talked about with reverence. (p.8)

And it’s typical of O’Connor’s approach in a third way, in that he underpins it, not with scholarly documentary information or research, but with an anecdote told him by an eminent person. In this case it’s the novelist Liam O’Flaherty, who tells O’Connor that he remembered his father recalling Harris’s fiery speeches. And in another anecdote, a visitor to the West of Ireland tells O’Connor that the peasants still remembered his great-grandfather. This is how the book proceeds: by anecdotes about heroes.

And a fourth way in which the introduction sets the tone and approach is when O’Connor broadens out his theme to explain how the Irish patriots’ struggle for independence went on to inspire like-minded revolutionaries in Egypt, India and many other colonies of the British Empire, a point he repeats a number of times in the rest of the book.

Back to great-grandfather Harris: O’Connor tells us that in 1880 he was persuaded to moderate his beliefs enough to stand for Parliament. He was persuaded to do this by Charles Stewart Parnell whose strategy was to unite the three elements in Irish political life: the physical forcers, the Land league and the Parliamentary Party. It was Parnell’s great achievement to do this and make his parliamentary party into the deciding force in British politics.

1. Rise and fall of Charles Stewart Parnell

O’Connor steps back to give us the deep background: he says it was the Flight of the Earls in 1607 after defeat in battle which handed Ireland over to British control. His great-great-grandfather was alive at the time of the 1798 rebellion. His great-grandfather lived through the potato famine when up to a million died of starvation due to the incompetence of the British administration, and some 2 million emigrated, mostly to America.

In the four years after the famine, 58,000 families amounting to 316,000 people were evicted from their homes for non-payment of rent, saw their houses destroyed and were left destitute, living in caves or wooden huts or dying by the roadside.

In 1886, leader of the Liberal Party and Prime Minister William Ewart Gladstone introduced the first Home Rule Bill with a horrified description of the abject poverty found throughout rural Ireland.

At the turn of the century the British Empire was at its height. O’Connor quotes Louis Fischer, the biographer of Gandhi, as saying that imperialism is a sort of perpetual insult to the colonised and governed.

Charles Stewart Parnell was a Protestant, a member of the ‘Protestant ascendency’ born into a wealthy Anglo-Irish Protestant landowning family in County Wicklow in 1846. He was leader of the Home Rule League from 1880 to 1882, and then of the Irish Parliamentary Party from 1882 to 1891, by which time his party held the balance of power in the House of Commons.

In a typically family anecdote, O’Connor remembers his grandmother telling him how, as a small girl, she used to greet Parnell when he came to stay with her father in the west of Ireland. ‘She treasured the table on which he wrote his speeches as if it were the relic of one of her favourite saints’ (p.16).

She also taught O’Connor that it was incorrect to refer to the married woman Parnell had a ten-year affair with as ‘Kitty’ O’Shea, it should always be Mrs O’Shea. It is typical of the book that we see the whole Parnell tragedy through the eyes of an O’Connor family member.

What happened was when it looked likely the Liberals under Gladstone were going to win the 1892 general election and pass his Home Rule bill, some Tory leaders persuaded Captain O’Shea (who knew about his wife’s long-standing affair with Parnell) to divorce her, citing Parnell as the third party. As soon as this happened Gladstone, leading a party whose core was nonconformist, was forced to repudiate Parnell and withdraw his support for the Irish Party till it replaced its leader. Parnell refused to stand down and the furore split his party with the majority of its MPs, and all his senior colleagues, abandoning him to form a new party.

The following, much more recent, account suggests the train of events had more to do with Captain O’Shea’s greed than with scheming Tories. In this as everywhere else you can feel O’Connor’s 1) tendency to simplify the story and 2) burning animus against English rule.

The party split and Parnell went into exile in… England, dying the next year, 1891, of pneumonia, aged just 45. His body was brought back to Dublin. A crowd of some 200,000 watched the procession to Glasnevin Cemetery. Many people say a meteor (or shooting star as O’Connor puts it with characteristic romance) fall from the sky.

O’Connor quotes James Joyce’s famous quip about the Parnell ‘betrayal’ although, characteristically, he slightly misquotes him. Here’s the Joyce quote from his 1912 essay ‘The Shade of Parnell’:

In his final desperate appeal to his countrymen, he begged them not to throw him as a sop to the English wolves howling around them. It redounds to their honour that they did not fail this appeal. They did not throw him to the English wolves; they tore him to pieces themselves.

Joyce’s essay was written 21 years after Parnell’s fall and indicates how long-lasting the sense of failure and loss was, as described in vivid fictional form in 1) his short story ‘Ivy Day in the Committee Room’ and 2) the famous Christmas dinner argument scene in ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’.

Rather than attempt a full historical perspective, O’Connor characteristically quotes the opinions of famous writers: Joyce, Dennis Ireland, W.B. Yeats, Sean O’Faolain, P.S. O’Hegarty, an old Sinn Fein writer who spoke to him. All the way through it’s these personal perspectives which O’Connor likes to give. And seeing as these writers or old-timers tend to romanticise and glamorise events, this contributes to the romanticising tendency of the whole book.

2. Celtic Revival

1884: foundation of the Gaelic Athletic Association: hurling, Gaelic football.

1893: Douglas Hyde, another son of the Protestant Ascendency, decided to set up the Gaelic League, an organisation to promote the Gaelic language, fast dying out in the cities but preserved among the peasantry. By 1906, over 3,000 branches.

An early convert was Lady Augusta Gregory, Anglo-Irish daughter of landed gentry (1852 to 1932). She was home schooled then married off to Sir William Henry Gregory, a widower with an estate at Coole Park, near Gort, in 1880. Sir William was 36 years older than her and had just retired from his position as Governor of Ceylon. He had a large house and estate at Coole Park which she, in the coming decades, turned into a major venue for nationalist writers. He also had a town house in London where she held literary soirées for leading figures of the time.

Throughout, O’Connor refers to the military element of the occupying power by the general term ‘the Garrison’.

Novelists George Moore and Edward Martyn were attracted to the Celtic Revival but it was the conversion of young William Butler Yeats which transformed things. Up till then he’d been writing fey pre-Raphaelite poetry under the influence of William Morris.

O’Connor fast forwards to the founding of the Abbey Theatre in 1904 and the renaissance of literary talent which constellated round it including J.M. Synge, James Stephens, George Russell A.E., Padraig Column, Katherine Tynan and more. O’Connor was to deal with the Celtic Revival separately in his 1984 group biography Celtic Dawn.

This all allows him to proceed by his favourite method which isn’t via documents or data, but by cherry-picking quotes from Famous Authors. On the upside, these are always chatty and anecdotal; on the downside, it’s the absence of any real historical context which gives the book its thin texture.

3. Portrait of turn-of-the-century Dublin

Parks, grand squares, the Season at the Castle, debutante balls. Population 400,000 with a small centre where it was easy to bump into people you knew (compare with London’s monstrous 6.5 million).

This leads him to Maud Gonne (1866 to 1953) ‘the most beautiful woman in Europe’ according to Wickham Stead, editor of the Times. Despite her claims she was of English descent on both sides but became a firebrand Irish revolutionary. Willie Yeats fell madly in love with her but she refused to become his lover.

In 1900, Gonne helped found Inghinidhe na hÉireann (Daughters of Ireland). Twenty-nine women attended the first meeting. They decided to ‘combat in every way English influence doing so much injury to the artistic taste and refinement of the Irish people’.

Lady Constance Gore-Booth (1868 to 1927) was an Irish revolutionary, nationalist, suffragist, and socialist, famous as the first woman elected to the UK Parliament (1918), though she did not take her seat. Born into Anglo-Irish aristocracy at Lissadell, she rejected her privileged background to fight for Irish independence, becoming a key figure in the 1916 Easter Rising. In 1900 she married Polish artist and playwright Casimir Dunin-Markievicz, and they styled themselves the Count and Countess = Constance Markievicz.

4. Arthur Griffith and Sinn Fein

Ireland was ruled by England from 1170. There was a short period of home rule from 1782 to 1800 which was put to an end by the 1800 Act of Union. Since 1800 nationalists had wanted to replace this foreign rule with home rule, some by constitutional means, some by violent uprising, as in 1848 and 1867.

In the early 1900s a journalist called Arthur Griffith came to prominence with a new strategy, passive resistance. In 1900 he founded the United Irishman which attracted top writers and became very influential.

Characteristically, O’Connor paints Griffith’s portrait by quoting other writers (Oliver St John Gogarty, James Joyce). Just as characteristically, he dwells on the way the short unprepossessing Griffith was madly in love with Gonne.

1903: Griffith starts publishing articles about how Hungary secured home rule within the Austro-Hungarian Empire under the Hungarian People’s Party led by Francis Deak. The next year he launched a political party to copy Deak’s strategy (the historical figure’s proper name appears to have been Ferenc Deák) – Sinn Fein, ‘Ourselves alone’.

Clause 14 of the Sinn Fein constitution: Non-recognition of the British Parliament. The plan was not just to abstain, but to set up a parallel Irish administration at all levels. However (in the book’s first mention of the Ulster problem) Griffith allowed for there to be a King of Ireland and a King of Britain.

Constance Markievicz joined Sinn Fein as did Maud Gonne.

Chapter 5. Roger Casement

Sir Roger Casement (1864 to 1916) worked for the British Foreign Office as a diplomat. He was honoured in 1905 for the Casement Report on the Congo Free State and knighted in 1911 for his investigations of human rights abuses in the rubber industry in Peru, sometimes credited as the ‘father of twentieth-century human rights investigations’.

Typically O’Connor conveys his importance by quoting writers – Joseph Conrad, who knew him in the Congo, and E.D. Morel who campaigned with Casement to end Belgium’s disgusting slave regime in the Belgian Congo (characteristically, the book incorrectly gives his initials as A.D.). See:

Resting in his native County Antrim, Casement heard about Griffith’s party and joined. He set out to learn Gaelic. He had seen imperialism at its most disgusting and had a shrewd feeling that Griffith’s strategy for freeing Ireland could work. He donated money to a school being run by a young Gaelic Leaguer called Eamon de Valera.

Chapter 6. The 1912 home rule bill

In 1910, though, the lead party was not Sinn Fein but the Irish Party led by Parnellite John Redmond. The Liberal Party returned to power in 1906 and, in order to pass its social legislation, needed the support of the Irish Party to pass its legislation neutering the House of Lords. In exchange its leader, Herbert Asquith, promised to sponsor another Irish Home Rule bill.

In March 1912, at a mass meeting in Dublin, Irish nationalists greeted the launch of an Irish Home Rule bill in Parliament but warned that if their hopes were dashed, Ireland would take arms.

 Chapter 7. Ulster

A quarter of the population of Ireland was Protestant, over a million living in the counties of Ulster. Two weeks after the Dublin nationalist meeting, a mass meeting was held in Ulster, with 100,000 men marching past Sir Edward Carson.

O’Connor analyses the Ulster Protestant as a typical colon in that his link to the imperial power gave him superiority. Even the poorest Protestant was, in a sense, superior to the richest Catholic. He compares them to the poor whites in the American South, persuaded of their racial superiority by their exploiters who thus kept the working class divided.

Carson had been Solicitor General in the Conservative government which fell in 1906 election. Next to him on the stand was Andrew Bonar Law, the Canadian-born new leader of the Conservative Party. In subsequent speeches Carson made it quite clear he was prepared to break the law and disobey officers of the Crown if home rule were passed.

In 1912 he and others set up the Solemn League and Covenant which was signed by hundreds of thousands (echoing the Covenants signed in Scotland during the civil wars).

Echoing Griffith, the Ulstermen set up their own provisional government. The Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) was set up under a British Army general. F.E. Smith was a leading figure, who later became Attorney General of Britain.

In Britain, a British League for Ulster was set up and 120 MPs and 100 Lords joined it.

It became obvious that these Ulster refuseniks were the key issue in the Irish Question. Carson and the rest were openly declaring treason. Warrants were made out for their arrest, in Dublin but not issued. Prime Minister Asquith hoped Ulster resistance would die down.

Chapter 8. The Irish Volunteers

Mirroring the foundation of the Ulster Volunteers, in the south the Irish Volunteers were founded. It was founded by professor of Irish history Eoin MacNeill. Characteristically, O’Connor’s grandfather knew him. His mother told stories of going with her parents and MacNeill to the Aran Isles for the summer to learn Gaelic and come back with Gaelic-speaking nannies.

It was following an article about the Ulster volunteers, that MacNeill was approached to spearhead its southern equivalent. A committee of 30 was set up, including men from Redmond’s party. Roger Casement (returned from Peru) was made secretary.

By January 1914 there were 10,000 volunteers, by September 180,000.

Chapter 9. The Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB)

Clann na Gael based in New York, run by old Feinian John Devoy. In 1907 he sent Thomas Clarke to Dublin to recruit for the IRB. Willie Yeats joined. And working class Catholic Sean O’Casey. They looked up to intellect and culture.

The (underground) IRB carefully infiltrated its members into the (aboveground) Irish Volunteers.

Chapter 10. The Citizen Army

In chapter 3 O’Connor gave us a very brief sense of upper class life in Dublin. This chapter emphasises the poverty. Dublin had the highest death rate of any city in Europe. The Irish Times compared living conditions of the poor to Dante’s Inferno.

August to Christmas 1913 Dublin saw a massive general strike, led by Jim Larkin (orator and journalist) and James Connolly (brilliant analyst who applied Marxist theory to Ireland, founder of the Irish Socialist Republican Party). He left for the States, then returned to become General Secretary of Larkin’s Transport Union.

The outcome of the long bitter violent general strike wasn’t concessions from the employers, but the creation of a Citizen Army which proceeded to arm itself. It came into being in November 1913 with a constitution drawn up by Sean O’Casey, who became its secretary and later wrote its history.

The Army Commander was Captain Jack White who had distinguished himself in the Boer War. He received a telegram of praise from Roger Casement.

Chapter 11. Guns for the Ulster Volunteers

In March 1914 a huge consignment of arms and ammunition arrived at Ulster to be distributed to the Ulster Volunteers. O’Connor describes how hundreds of cars owned by the landed gentry were parked along the route at night to light the lorries away from the port. Reading this, I was impressed by the commitment and organisation of these people, always painted as the baddies. I went looking for books about the Ulster Volunteers and only found two. History is written by the winners.

Its arrival triggered similar thoughts in the Irish Volunteers who arranged for Roger Casement. In July a yacht left Hamburg carrying 10,000 rifles. They docked at Howth, were met by Irish Volunteers, who marched with them back into Dublin.

Chapter 12. The Curragh Mutiny, then war

In March 1914 General Sir Arthur Paget, commander of British forces in Ireland, ordering to send detachments to protect depots in the north from raids by the Ulster Volunteers, firing on them if necessary. 60 officers and the leader of the 3rd cavalry brigade refused. This was regarded as a mutiny and rocked the British Army.

What it seemed to show everyone was that the British government would back down when faced with the threat of force. This triggers amusingly emotional rhetoric in O’Connor: ‘sordid intrigue… devious charade… ‘

O’Connor is quick to say in this rebellion of part of the Establishment against another, this splinter was the crack that foreshadowed the end of empire in violent independence movements around the world.

The Home Rule bill passed through the Commons in May 1914 and was scheduled to become law in September 1914. But in August the Great War broke out and all domestic legislation was suspended.

When war broke out, John Redmond, leader of the Irish Party which held the balance of power in the Commons, and with a force of some 180,000 trained men at his disposal, could have bargained with the Liberal government and witheld his support until the government absolutely promised to enact the bill. If an Irish government had been set up in Dublin, albeit with limited powers and still under ultimate British control, it is unlikely there would have been any Easter Rising.

But he didn’t. Without consulting his party he stood in the House of Commons and pledged the support of the entire nation of Ireland to the British in their time of need. This made the Irish immensely popular, even with the Conservative right, but at a stroke he handed over his trump card and had nothing left to bargain with.

The bill was placed on the statute book but only to come into force after the war. That was the rub. That was the cause.

Recruits flocked to volunteer. Some 300,000 Irish fought for the Empire, 40,000 of them were killed. But after the first flush of enthusiasm, many Irish found it difficult to win commissions in Irish regiments. The British Army establishment preferred Irish regiments to be officered by loyal British Protestant officers.

Chapter 13. Padraig Pearse and the military council

September 1914 the leadership of the Irish Republican Brotherhood decided that a nationalist uprising would take place before the war ended and began making plans.

James Connolly opposed the war from a Marxist point of view, as empires fighting over resources and markets.

Snapshots of: Padraig Pearse, at this point teaching at St Enda’s school; Thomas MacDonagh, English lecturer at the National University; Joseph Plunkett, poet and editor of the Irish Review. All three are members of the military council of the IRB. They didn’t expect a rising to defeat the British. They expected it to create an independent republic long enough for its case to be made at the conferences which would end the war. More poetically, the felt that they would revive the soul of their nation.

In March 1916 Clann na Gael contacted him to say they would be sending 20,000 rifles and 10 million rounds.

Meanwhile James Connolly, the socialist trade unionist, independent of the IRB, had concluded that an armed uprising was necessary, using his citizen army. Fearful lest the plans clash, the military council invited Connolly to a meeting in January 1916. He was delighted to hear the news from Joseph Plunkett and both sides agreed the uprising would happen at Easter 1916.

Chapter 14. The Easter Rising

Eoin MacNeill interferes MacNeill was the commander-in-chief of the Irish Volunteers but he was deliberately kept out of the loop by the IRB military council. Only on Good Friday did he learn about plans for an uprising on Monday. He strongly disapproved and went to St Enda’s to see Pearse. Pearse persuaded him plans were too far advanced and also a shipment of arms was arriving from Germany so MacNeill acquiesced.

But late on Saturday morning, he learned the arms shipment had been intercepted. Feeling he’d been fooled, MacNeill took out an advert in the Sunday papers telling his volunteers their traditional Easter weekend training manoeuvres were cancelled. Many read this and stayed at home. When the news of the uprising spread on Monday they weren’t ready. Pearse’s response was to send out envoys to Volunteer groups around the country and tell them to carry on, but the damage was done. On the Monday, most Volunteer groups did not rise along with Dublin. If they had the British Army would have been spread very thin. Instead they were able to concentrate their firepower in Dublin and end the uprising after a week (p.84).

O’Connor tells us that his grandfather knew MacNeill and once told him he wasn’t a bad man. Hard to see how he doesn’t come out of this as the fall guy.

The uprising began at 12 noon on Monday 24 April 1916 and continued for 6 days. At 11 Pearse and Connolly marched their men from Liberty Hall over to the poorly defended Post Office and seized it. Pearse stood between the huge Greek columns and read out a declaration of independence. O’Connor gives a good enough account but I’m not sure it’s worth my summarising his summary. Instead here’s the Wikipedia article:

Chapter 15. The uprising continues

The British put Brigadier Lowe in charge of suppressing the uprising. He brought a gunboat up the river which bombarded Liberty Hall then the GPO. Houses on both sides were set on fire. Eight or so other buildings had been seized so sporadic sniping and shelling took place round those, too.

The weirdest thing about it was the way most Dubliners strolled around watching it take place. O’Connor quotes the usual suspects, Gogarty, James Stephens, George Moore, Sean O’Casey, strolling round the city, listening to the shellfire, observing other citizens going about their business.

Chapter 16. The uprising ends; the executions

On Friday 28 April 1916 General Maxwell arrived and began investing the key sites in a rigorous way. At 2.30pm the next day, Saturday 29 April, Pearse surrendered to General Lowe.

Four days later the executions began. Sixteen rebel leaders were shot:

Signatories of the Proclamation of Independence: Patrick Pearse, Tom Clarke, Thomas MacDonagh, Joseph Plunkett, Sean Mac Diarmada, Éamonn Ceannt, and James Connolly.

Other leaders: Willie Pearse (brother of Patrick), Edward Daly, Michael O’Hanrahan, John MacBride, Seán Heuston, Con Colbert, and Michael Mallin.

MacBride was husband to Maud Gonne, the dazzling beauty who bewitched Willie Yeats.

Remember dashing Lady Constance Markievicz? She had been deputy of the troop which held Stephen’s Green then pulled back to the College of Surgeons. She was sentenced to death, too, which was commuted to life imprisonment as she was a woman. In fact she was released after less than a year when the British government offered a general amnesty.

About 1,350 people were killed or wounded, mostly civilians. The centre of Dublin had been gutted. The general population was furious with the rebels. Elsewhere life went on as normal with business carried out while the middle classes played golf and tennis.

Chapter 17. Poetic reactions

Characteristically, O’Connor summarises the aftermath by quoting the usual suspects: W.B. Yeats, George Russell, James Stephens, Lady Gregory, Tom Kettle.

He has a romantic notion of poets, that they are the first to notice the changes in a nation’s soul, that these poets grasped the rising’s significance way before the silly politicians.

Chapter 18. Roger Casement

In the last few years before the war Casement developed a pathological hatred of Britain’s rule in Ireland. Just before the Great War broke out he went to New York to work with Clann na Gael. In December 1914 he persuaded its leader, John Devoy, to Germany, as an envoy from independent Ireland and to secure arms. In fact Casement spent two weary years getting nowhere, and eventually asked to be returned to Ireland (with no guns). The Germans laid on a submarine which took him to the south coast but due to a SNAFU in the arrangements he was put into a canvas boat with two others, while the U-boat departed. The canvas boat overturned in high seas and Casement barely made it ashore. he staggered to the nearest house where he was resting when he was arrested by the local bobby, sent to Dublin and then to the Tower of London.

Chapter 19. The trial of Roger Casement

O’Connor was a practicing lawyer and so gives a brief but vivid account of Casement’s trial. As usual, a trial had nothing to do with ‘justice’ but entirely practical wrangles and politicking. Casement’s defence lawyer, Serjeant Sullivan, had himself recruited in Ireland for the British Army i.e was on the opposite side of the political cause. (O’Connor remembers seeing the 90-something old lawyer still beetling around the Dublin Inns of Court when your man was just a young barrister.)

Not just that, but the prosecuting counsel was F.E. Smith who had been active in the setting up of the Ulster Volunteers back in 1912 i.e. was extremely anti-Casement’s independence position and also, as O’Connor emphasises, arguably more guilty of treason than Casement.

The case revolved round the accusation that casement tried to recruit Irish prisoners of war held in Germany to join the German Army and fight against Britain. The defence argued that the treason act only applied to activities here in England, and Casement’s activities had taken place abroad.

Throughout the trial the authorities made available to the police, lawyers and senior figures in the Establishment the so-called black diaries in which Casement appeared to describe his personal homosexual activities in great detail. For a long time these were thought to be fakes but in the 1990s were apparently confirmed as true.

Poor Casement, a hero of international human rights, a principled nationalist and patriot, he was found guilty and hanged on 3 August 1916. He made a condemned man’s speech from the dock. O’Connor points out that so many Irish patriots did this that it is virtually a literary genre in itself. He made the point that the creation of the Ulster Volunteers created the atmosphere of violence, and the Curragh Mutiny in effect condoned disobedience to the Crown (although all that was fine if you were on the Protestant side).

(True to his recurring attempts to portray the rising as the having international impacts on other freedom struggles of other imperial colonies, O’Connor claims that Casement’s speech had a profound impact on the young Pandit Nehru.)

High Treason, Court of Criminal Appeal: the Trial of Sir Roger Casement 1916 - Government Art Collection

The Trial of Sir Roger Casement by Sir John Lavery (1916)

With the end of the Casement trial we reach the en of the build-up to and events of, the Easter Rising, on page 114 of this 180-page book. The rest of O’Connor’s book describes events over the next 4 years, the rise of Sinn Fein, the success of Arthur Griffith’s abstentionist policy, the granting of home rule and then the bitter civil war of 1921 to ’22.

Chapter 20. Sinn Fein

Some 3,000 people were interned after the rising. Over the next 12 months they were released in batches. By June 1917 the public mood had changed to become more sympathetic to the rising leaders who were coming to be seen as martyrs. In by-elections that year, Sinn Fein candidates won but refused to take their seats in the London Parliament, a tradition which continues to this day.

Eamon de Valera was the only commander who wasn’t executed. Upon release he contested a by-election and defeated the Irish Party candidate. Sinn Fein was replacing Redmond’s party.

Thomas Ashe, president of the IRB, went on hunger strike in prison. When he died, Michael Collins, who’d been released from internment at Christmas 1916, decided to organise a vast funeral for him. Characteristically, O’Connor tells us Sean O’Casey wrote a ballad requiem for Ashe, and quotes a hymn by Ashe himself.

Chapter 21. Conscription and the Dail

Most Irish still favoured the constitutional party of John Redmond and expected the home rule bill, which was on the statute books, to be implemented as soon as the war ended.

Then in spring 1918 the British made the latest in a long line of blunders when the Army Chiefs of Staff prevailed on Lloyd George to pass an act compelling the conscription of all able-bodied men in Ireland into the British Army. Not only Sinn Fein and the Irish Party but the Catholic party opposed it, though O’Connor skips completely over its implementation. He quotes A.J.P. Taylor as saying it was the decisive moment in Ireland’s seceding from the Union.

In the December 1918 general election the Irish Party was obliterated by Sinn Fein, winning just 6 seats to the nationalists’ 73. John Redmond had died in March.

The Sinn Fein MPs promptly set up their own government in the Mansion House in Dublin and called it the Dail. No fewer than 36 of the 73 MPs were in British prisons. A Declaration of Independence was read out.

Three delegates were chosen to attend the Peace Conference in Versailles. In April 1919 a President was elected and a Cabinet chosen. Griffith stood down in favour of de Valera who was beginning to acquire charisma and status, although the latter was in prison in England. Republican courts of justice were set up in the counties of Ireland and slowly these began to replace the British institutions.

When physical force was used later, it was important that the Volunteers and others derived genuine legitimacy by acting as the Army of an elected government rather than a paramilitary force.

Michael Collins, who was becoming chief fixer, organised the escape of de Valera from Lincoln prison.

Chapter 22.

The British banned the Dail and set about arresting nationalists. The cabinet ministers went into hiding. Collins had been made Director of Intelligence. Now he turned out to be a spymaster and guerrilla organiser of genius. O’Connor makes his recurring point that the strategy Collins developed went on to be copied by independence movements around the globe.

Collins knew they couldn’t fight the British soldier for soldier. But imperial rule rested on a network of spies and he could kill these spies. He got his own men on the inside of Dublin Castle and access to government files. He drew up lists of informers, and then he created a cadre of cold-hearted killers who began a campaign of targets assassinations starting in July 1919.

I noted that O’Connor mentioned when he had personal connections with various figures in the story. Now these become more frequent. He appears to have interviewed quite a few of these informers and assassins (Bill Stapleton, Joe Dolan) who give him vivid descriptions of actual assassinations they took part in.

The squad operated out of a decorators’ shop in Abbey Street. It’s difficult to credit, hard to believe, that this gang of assassins operated just a few minutes’ walk from Dublin Castle, the centre of the British police effort. How?

Chapter 23. The IRA in the countryside

At some point the Irish Volunteers morphed into the Irish Republican Army although, apparently, it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly when. O’Connor describes the spread of volunteers through towns around Ireland. Often these were dominated by Big Houses and/or British Army barracks, along with schools, Protestant churches and so on.

As so often, the authorities found it difficult to deal with an enemy which was part of the local population, appeared suddenly to assassinate someone or blow something up, then melted back into the general population. Also they knew the country better than the occupier, and where to hide out.

The strategy of ambushing British Army troops, convoys and so on, sometimes throwing grenades, sometimes mining roads, followed by rifle fusillades. The Brits called it ‘ditch murder’, but in his internationalist mode. O’ Connor points out how it went on to be copied by Mao Tse Tung, Tito, General Guap, Che Guevara and many others (p.140).

These attacks continued through 1920, with sometimes large-scaled engagements leaving 10 to 20 British soldiers dead. It was a real guerrilla war On Easter Sunday 1920 these flying squads set fire to 100 Inland Revenue buildings and 350 empty police stations.

Inevitably the British retaliated with a heavy hand. If a police station was attacked, neighbouring houses were to be burned down. Hunger strikers were to be helped to die. This not only embittered local populations but led to widespread resignations by Irishmen from the Royal Irish Constabulary.

Chapter 24. The Black and Tans

Many servicemen demobilised after the Great War were still unemployed. The British government launched a recruitment drive and many signed up to go and serve in Ireland. There was a shortage of uniforms so they were given dark green tunics and khaki trousers. So the locals nicknamed the Black and Tans. The first arrived in Ireland in March 1920. A few months later they were joined by Auxiliaries, ex-Army officers paid £7 a week. They were given licence to embark on savage, undisciplined reprisals .

Every media outlet was soon condemning their activities which came to be described as a terror campaign. They arrived in force in a town, made all the inhabitants assemble in the street, humiliated and beat them, set some houses on fire, occasionally bayoneted or shot anyone who resisted, then drove off leaving generations of bitterness behind them. Stupid stupid stupid.

The worst burning was in Cork where the Black and Tans went berserk, burning down key buildings including the City Hall. For weeks after they suspended burned corks from their hats. Who authorised this? Whose bright idea was this?

O’Connor gives a particular anecdote. On 15 December 1920 Canon Magnar of Dunmanway County Cork was in the street talking to a man. A lorryload of Auxies drew up, some jumped out, and shot the man dead. When the Canon protested, he was shot dead too.

O’Connor notes how they often destroyed local dairies and creameries in an effort to destroy local economies, prompting a letter of protest from AE who had spent many years setting up dairy co-operatives precisely to support locals. O’Connor quotes Yeats’ poem Nineteen nineteen:

Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare
Rides upon sleep: a drunken soldiery
Can leave the mother, murdered at her door,
To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free;
The night can sweat with terror as before
We pieced our thoughts into philosophy,
And planned to bring the world under a rule,
Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.

Chapter 25. de Valera

Back in June 1919 de Valera was smuggled onto a ship to New York. Here he held press conferences as the spokesman of the new (not yet existent) republic. New York, Boston, Chicago, San Francisco, he spread the word in a calm and dignified manner, boosting his own profile in the process. He took a financier with him and together they raised over a million dollars by the time he returned in January 1921.

Meanwhile the Dail continued to set up an alternative governance infrastructure with land courts, district courts etc, complete with lawyers and judges. People stopped using the British courts and used the nationalist ones. O’Connor quotes landowners and senior figures praising the new regime for its fairness and efficiency.

As usual, O’Connor internationalises it to say that just these tactics would be used in other colonies under the phrase ‘civil disobedience’ (p.152).

Chapter 26. Michael Collins

By the autumn of 1920 Dublin was under curfew. Lorries of soldiers patrolled the streets, with wire netting so grenades thrown at them bounced off. Houses were subject to random searches and maybe burning by the Black and Tans and citizens hauled off to prison. A police state. Officials and Auxies were assassinated in the streets. The press had uniformly turned against the government.

Meanwhile Michael Collins held four portfolios within the unofficial government and maintained an intricate network of spies, informers and assassination squads. He kept scrupulous records and accounts which O’Connor has perused.

The government put a bounty of £10,000 on his head but, incredibly, he remained not only at liberty but calmly cycled around central Dublin between his various offices. One of Collins’s key spies in Dublin Castle, Eamonn Broy, personally told O’Connor of some of his escapades with Collins.

O’Connor gives a brief impressionistic pen portrait, admiring Collins’s meticulous way with figures and accounting, his head rammed with facts and details which helped him make intelligence connections, his absolute cold-bloodedness when it came to assassinations, his courage in facing out numerous dicey situations and, alongside, what O’Connor sees as a typically Irish strain of romantic patriotism (he spends a page attributing the same thing to Casement, earlier).

Chapter 27. Martyrs

25 October 1920 Terence MacSwiney, Lord Mayor of Cork, died after a prolonged hunger strike in Brixton Prison. His lingering death was given international coverage, along with his claims for Irish freedom. He had actually written a play about a nationalist hunger striker but here, as elsewhere, O’Connor says the British authorities didn’t pay enough attention to Irish poetry, plays and literature. Here’s just one example of O’Connor’s personal and ripe prose style.

As with the death of Thomas Ashe, a shudder ran through the Nation’s being. (p.160)

If you wanted objective history, O’Connor is not your man. Facts yes, but also plenty of melodrama, passion, bitterness and romanticisation, along with quite a few personal confidences from eye witnesses, that’s what this brief book provides.

MacSweeney was afforded a magnificent funeral at Southwark cathedral in London. Sir John Lavery made this preparatory sketch for a large-scale painting.

Sketch for the Funeral of Terence MacSwiney, Lord Mayor of Cork, at Southwark cathedral by Sir John Lavery (1920)

On 1 November good looking, 18-year-old medical student Keven Barry was hanged for his involvement in an ambush in which a British soldier was killed. According to O’Connor his name became a symbol around the world, and:

There are few places in the English-speaking world where ‘Keven Barry’ is not sung. (p.162)

I’d never heard of it till I read this book. 1) Times change 2) it’s a typical example of O’Connor’s chauvinism, which I use to mean ‘excessive or prejudiced support for one’s own cause or group’, which crops up throughout the book. I don’t really mean that in a bad sense – just to mean that he is very strongly biased indeed.

Yeats had been booked to debate at the Oxford Union and apparently walked up and down the central aisle railing against the British government’s stupidity and mismanagement. A.E. lobbied Lord Northcliffe to get his American newspapers to print opinion pieces decrying British atrocities in Ireland. What with this and de Valera and their own anti-British history, American opinion swung behind the nationalists. It played an important part in negotiations between Britain and Ireland as it was to do for the rest of the century.

O’Connor quotes a very effective letter from Yeats to the Times saying the British spent the entire Great War railing against Germany’s atrocities against civilians in Belgium and philistine burning of cultural centres and now they were doing exactly the same in Ireland.

Chapter 28. The Cairo gang

Set up by Sir Henry Wilson in autumn 1920 to identify and assassinate all key Sinn Fein and IRA personnel. In one night one of these death squads murdered the current and former Lord Mayor of Limerick. The latter was Alderman George Clancy who had been a close friend of James Joyce and appears in ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’ as Davin, the peasant nationalist.

Collins used his intelligence network to identify members of the Cairo gang. O’Connor spoke with General Richard Mulcahy, Chief of Staff of the IRA, who is forthright about the need to destroy the death squads. So after much planning, Collins launched Black Sunday, when his death squads assassinated their death squads. 9am on the morning of 21 November 1920. A total of 14 British spies were executed.

O’Connor gives several pages detailed descriptions of men kicking in doors, shooting unarmed men in the back, as they nipped out of windows, taking them to a cellar and shooting them in the side of the head, the British torturing captives.

Lieutenant Aimes and Bennet were pulled out of bed by a group of armed men, placed standing together, both were then shot.

Some of the men refused to come out and were shot in bed. Others came to the door and were shot as they opened it. Two agents were shot on the landing, the stairs were covered in blood.

Flanagan took four Englishmen down to the cellar and after asking their names, shot them in the side of the head.

[Ordered to track down an Irishman identified as a snitch, Bill Stapleton tells O’Connor] We found him in a pub, a big burly man. He blustered at first: then we took him out and shot him.

O’Connor and other nationalists see this as the price of freedom. I see it as the inevitable outcome of the ethnic nationalist way of thinking. Compare the similar accounts I’ve summarised of the civil wars in Yugoslavia or the chaos in Iraq: perfectly decent educated men convinced that in order to make a better world they have to torture and execute other unarmed men, sometimes women, and burn their houses down.

In retaliation for the Bloody Sunday assassinations, later the same day a detachment of Black and Tans drove to Croke Park Sports ground where a Gaelic football match was in progress. They set up a machine gun and started firing into the panic-stricken crowd. A drunk Black and Tan lined up both teams and was going to execute them all until a sober regular British Army officer intervened.

And there are people who still insist that humanity is a rational creature.

O’Connor suggests Bloody Sunday was the day British rule broke in Ireland, although I thought he said the same about the introduction of conscription in 1917. Maybe it broke repeatedly. As I’ve said, O’Connor links Ireland to the independence struggles of other British colonies.

Not only was Bloody Sunday to mark the end of Britain’s rule in the greater part of Ireland, it was to be the beginning of the break-up of British rule throughout the Empire.

In Kenya, in Cyprus, in Egypt, Palestine and Burma, for the next forty years, guerrilla leaders were to claim Collins as their prototype and adapt the strategy he had designed for evacuating the colonial power. (p.175)

What beggars belief is that Collins organised the funeral of his friend Dick McKee who the British had tortured to death to get information about Collins’s operation, and attended the funeral in person, even though the entire British operation in Ireland was obsessed with finding and arresting him. How was that possible?

Epilogue

The last four pages of O’Connor’s book give a very brisk account of the peace talks which led to the Treaty and then the intense civil war between pro and anti-treaty Irish forces which followed, in which Collins himself (pro-treaty) was killed by anti-treaty forces.

He jumps to January 1922 when the British flag was taken down over Dublin Castle and the last troops marched down to the quay to take ship back to England. Negotiations had taken place from September to December 1921 and a treaty signed with the Dail in January 1922. The 6 northern counties were excluded although everyone expected them to join the Irish Free State within a few years. Civil war broke out between pro and anti treaty nationalists and lasted till May 1922. Griffith died of a stroke. W.T. Cosgrave became the independent nation’s first president.

A Senate was formed which at Griffith’s suggestion reached out to specifically invite the Protestant landed gentry. The new nation had to include everyone. W.B. Yeats was nominated and given the job of designing the states new coinage.

1927: De Valera had been anti the treaty but in 1927 was persuaded to attend the Dail.

1932: Five years later the party he created, known as Fianna Fail, won the 1932 general election.

1937: De Valera set about removing the last vestiges of British rule, in 1937 passing a new constitution.

1938: De Valera persuaded the British government to evacuate its three treaty ports.

1939-45: Thus cleansed of British presence it was easy for the Irish Free State to maintain independence in the war against Nazi Germany. So many Irishmen had died defending the Empire which treated them so poorly in 1914-18.

1948: Fianna Fail lost the general election but the new coalition government promptly removed Ireland from the Commonwealth. Non serviam.

In a throwaway last page, he says the tragic legacy of Northern Ireland was a result of Carson and his ilk refusing to accept the home rule movement and being prepared to go to war to preserve their economic and social status. If only they had thrown in their lot with the nationalists, together they could have forced the British government to give independence 1) much earlier and 2) on more inclusive terms to include the Ulster Protestants. Instead they insisted on holing up in their ghetto which, at the time of O’Connor’s writing (1975) was in chaos.

Thoughts

England’s crimes

It goes without saying that it makes me ashamed to be English to read (yet again) the litany of exploitation, repression, spying, corruption and naked violence with which the English mismanaged Ireland for centuries. But a few other thoughts as well:

History is written by the winners

They say history is written by the victors. The irony here is that the victors were the Irish nationalists who won their free state, with the result that thousands of books, papers, presentations, school syllabuses, TV series and movies have been made about Ireland’s heroic struggle for independence, and not least the dramatic events surrounding the Easter Rising. Supported by latterday English progressives, in the same way that we English now retrospectively (and safely) root for the independence movements in India, Kenya and scores of other places, taking a masochistic pleasure in seeing our own men shot and blown up and our own government covered in ignominy.

What about the losers? With no motive except idle curiosity I went looking to see if there are any books about the Ulster Volunteers and discovered there appear to be just three in print: Carson’s Army, a boringly specialised one about the precise configuration, training etc of the UVF; Friends in High Places; and Ulster will Fight, a series of three books which are prohibitively expensive and aren’t stocked by my London library. Of accounts of the Easter Rising and the long centuries of struggle behind it, there will be no end, as a proud nation promotes itself and mythologisers line up to retell the romantic story. Of the much less glamorous but in its way just as important obstinacy of the Ulster Protestants, very little. They’ll always be the ugly sisters in the fairy tale.

(An impression confirmed by contemporary historian Charles Townshend in his recent book ‘The Partition’ (2021) where he mentions ‘the dearth of significant historical studies of Ulster, certainly in comparison with the plethora of nationalist histories of Ireland (p.265).)

Nationalism

As I’ve read my way across the history of the nineteenth century I’ve come to think of nationalism as a mental virus, like something out of a zombie movie. It spreads across entire nations converting everyone to the belief that they must be ‘free’, no matter how much pain is caused and blood is shed in the process. The problem is that forging a nationalist identity almost instantly requires identifying the enemies within, the protestants or Jews or Roma or Muslims who are tainting ‘the purity of the Nation’.

Nationalism gave birth to the utter catastrophes of the 20th century, to the Great War and the collapse of empires which followed it, and led to the rise of fascism and its turbo-charged mission to liquidate the enemies of the People, all of which led up to the catastrophic Second World War.

The fever of nationalism spread far and wide as scores of imperial colonies fought for their freedom and independence: Israel, the partition of India, the long struggles in Algeria or Malaya or Kenya or Vietnam to name obvious ones.

In the 1970s the struggle of self-defined communities to be free led to ruinous civil wars in Cyprus and Lebanon and countless African nations.

And then after the long freeze of the Cold War, ethnic nationalism led to disasters in Rwanda and the Yugoslav civil wars. Then in this century the rise of ISIS in post-war Iraq, the Arab Spring which led to the ruinous Syrian civil war, and now here we are in 2026 with bloody rebellion in Iran, Israel’s brutal suppression of Palestine, the triumph of the Taliban in Afghanistan and the resurgence of ISIS in Syria. My barbers in south London are all Iraqi Kurds. For as long as I’ve been getting my hair cut there I’ve listened to them giving me the latest on their small nation’s struggle to be free.

Everywhere peoples conceiving of themselves as a nation which needs to be free, or needs to expel the enemy within (as in contemporary Myanmar needs to eliminate its Muslim Rohynga minority). There has been no end of young nationalist zealots who are prepared to die for the Fatherland and take quite a few people along with them.

Irish independence was no doubt a righteous cause, the repressive and incompetent rule of the pompous British needed to be overthrown, and the Irish patriots’ struggle for freedom is no doubt inspiring when viewed from the patriotic angle.

But read now, in 2026, after a century of any-level-of-violence-is-justified-to-free-my-people nationalism, and the hecatombs of atrocities it has inspired, a big part of my response to all of these stories is a shiver of horror at humanity’s utter inability to manage itself.

Now more than ever, Stephen Dedalus’s cry, ‘History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake’, rings true.


Credit

‘A Terrible Beauty is Born’ by Ulick O’Connor was published by Hamish Hamilton in 1975.

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Ulysses by James Joyce: Cast list

One obvious way of thinking about a book is not the plot, narrative or style, but slicing it up by characters and actions. This is especially handy for ‘Ulysses’ in which a cast of over 200 named characters weave in and out of the narrative as they weave their way around Dublin. You could get cute and say that many phrases and individual key words recur like characters, weaving in and out of the text to create complicated resonances and motifs, which is true, but listing them would take a book. Just creating this cast list deepened my own understanding of the characters and their significance.

The list is in order of first appearance – I wasn’t sure whether to put it into alphabetical order but Wikipedia already has an alphabetical list, if you want one:

I omitted chapter 15, ‘Circe’, because it is a beast unto itself, with over 100 characters with some of them of questionable nature (for example the various inanimate objects who have active or speaking parts) and would make this list unmanageably long. You can read my Circe review with its cast list, separately.

Chapter numbers and names

Here’s a reminder of the 18 chapters and their Homeric titles i.e. the episodes from Homer’s Odyssey which they are based on or reference. (Always worth emphasising that these titles don’t actually appear in any edition of ‘Ulysses’ where the chapters are just given as plain numbers; they are the names given by Joyce to early promoters of his book and which have been used by scholars and fans ever since they became known in the 1930s.)

Part 1. Telemachiad

  1. Telemachus
  2. Nestor
  3. Proteus

Part 2. Odyssey

  1. Calypso
  2. Lotus Eaters
  3. Hades
  4. Aeolus
  5. Lestrygonians
  6. Scylla and Charybdis
  7. Wandering Rocks
  8. Sirens
  9. Cyclops
  10. Nausicaa
  11. Oxen of the Sun
  12. Circe

Part 3. Nostos

  1. Eumaeus
  2. Ithaca
  3. Penelope

Cast

Numbers in brackets refer to chapters the characters appear in. They’re as complete as I could make them but probably not definitive.

1. Telemachus: at the Martello Tower

Stephen Dedalus (1, 2, 3, 9, 14, 15, 16, 17) aged 22, hyper-intelligent, extremely well-read, bookish young man with literary ambitions – described as ‘a lithe young man, clad in mourning, a wide hat’, mourning his recently dead mother. Called back from a brief sojourn in Paris by his father’s telegram telling him his mother is dying, Stephen caused scandal by refusing to kneel and pray at her bedside. Earns a bit teaching at Deasy’s school. In the National Library propounds his Shakespeare theory to sceptical traditionalists who aren’t impressed (10). Depressed, he appears to spend the rest of the day drinking, reappearing in the ‘Oxen of the Sun’ episode, making drunken smart remarks in the gang of drunk medical students when sober Bloom arrives. He is mortified that it is superficial Buck Mulligan who gets invited to the important literary soiree of George Moore and not the much more clever him. When the party in the maternity hospital breaks up, Stephen staggers off to the red light district where he encounters Bloom again, who rescues him from a confrontation with a British soldier and takes him home for cocoa and a chat.

On this reading of ‘Ulysses’ I realised that Stephen, for all his smarts, is a frustrated loser, stymied at every turn. By the time we get to the later chapters, his highfalutin quoting of Aquinas or whoever which felt impressive in the opening chapters, has come to seem a pathetic compensation for his failure.

I don’t feel sorry for Stephen, he’s had plenty of advantages to his start in life; I feel sorry for his impoverished younger brothers and sisters. He encounters one in chapter 10, Wandering Rocks, Dilly (Delia) Dedalus, at a bookseller’s cart, where Dilly has bought a French primer. He feels pity for her pathetic attempts to educate herself and he has his wages in his pocket to help her… but he doesn’t; he prefers to spend all his wages on alcohol and then on prostitutes. So no sympathy for Stephen.

Mary Dedalus – Stephen’s mother, recently dead. Mulligan castigates him for refusing to kneel and pray by her bedside as she was dying, a refusal that leaves him plagued by guilt throughout the novel, climaxing in the Circe chapter where he hallucinates her reproaching him. Her recent death explains why for the whole of Bloomsday Stephen is dressed in mourning. For me the often-overlooked fact is that his poor mother had 13 pregnancies, from which there are nine surviving children.

Malachi ‘Buck’ Mulligan (1, 10, 13) – plump, witty young medical student who has rented a Martello tower to live in and is letting Stephen rent a room. Mockingly dismissive of Stephen’s literary pretensions, he crops up again in the Scylla and Charybdis in the National Library taking the mickey out of Stephen’s Shakespeare theory. Stephen is repelled by his flashy cynicism. Hugh Kenner points out he is given no interior monologue i.e. he has no insides. Yet again he appears mid-way through an episode in the maternity hospital in Oxen of the Sun, yet again upstaging Stephen, before disappearing off to catch the last train out to the tower at Sandymount.

Haines (1) – Englishman temporarily staying at the Martello tower. Prone to nightmares which have kept Stephen up all night and put him in a grumpy mood. Well-meaning but imperceptive upper-class Englishman who typifies the colonial attitudes Stephen resents.

The old milk woman (1) – appears in ‘Telemachus’ when Haines tries to speak Irish to her which she can’t understand, asking if he’s speaking French: so, the comedy of a British Gaelic revivalist trying to use a half-dead language that the genuine locals don’t speak any more. For context, see:

2. Nestor: at Clifton Boys’ School, Dalkey

Cyril Sargent (2) – at Clifton Boys School, Stephen gives a history lesson then keeps this boy, Sargent, back after class to help him with sums, prompting the simple comment ‘Futility’. Stephen reflects that nonetheless his mother loves him, that a mother’s love is the one consistency in life, and then feels racked with guilt at hurting his dying mother.

Garrett Deasy (2) – pompous antisemitic Unionist headmaster of the (unnamed) school in Dalkey where Stephen is teaching in ‘Nestor’. As a ‘West Briton’ (remember, this was the insult levelled at Gabriel Conroy in ‘The Dead’) he represents unionist, Protestant and capitalist views, and so is a foil to Stephen’s nationalist, Catholic, artistic temperament. We see him a) paying Stephen his wages (£3 12s 0d) and b) finishing writing and then handing to Stephen a letter regarding foot-and-mouth disease which he wants him to take to the offices of the Evening Telegraph (and which we see Stephen deliver in chapter 7, Aeolus, and facetiously discussed by the drunken crew in chapter 14, Oxen of the Sun).

4. Calypso: at the home of Leopold and Molly Bloom, 7 Eccles Road

Leopold Bloom (4 and onwards) – aged 38. Used to work for Wisdom Hely’s, where he was a traveller for blottingpaper, now he is a freelancer canvasser for adverts i.e. advises clients about design and then tries to place them in newspapers. In Nosy Flynn’s view ‘He’s not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He’s been known to put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O, Bloom has his good points.’

Crucial to understanding the entire book is that Bloom knows his wife, Molly, is going to have sex with her concert impresario Hugh ‘Blazes’ Boyle, who’s popping round to her house around 4pm. All day long Bloom is haunted by this knowledge and from time to time sees Boyle in the street (signalled in the text by Boyle’s trademark straw hat).

Bloom himself is fleetingly seen in passing by other characters as ‘A darkbacked figure’. According to Lenehan ‘He’s a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He’s not one of your common or garden… you know… There’s a touch of the artist about old Bloom’. According to the narrator of Cyclops who sees him hesitate about taking a cigar, ‘he’s a prudent member and no mistake’ and, later, as he gets impatient with Bloom’s endless talk, describes him ‘with his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about’. He is similarly cautious in Oxen of the Sun where he accepts a drink from the other roisterers but then quietly pours it into his neighbour’s glass, thus proving the only respectful man among them.

As the book proceeds we come to realise Bloom is quite highly sexed and has numerous sexual fantasies. In the ‘Nausicaa’ chapter he apparently masturbates to the sight of a young childminder displaying her stockinged legs and knickers (although there is apparently scholarly debate about whether this actually happens or is just Bloom’s fantasy). And then in the extended ‘Circe’ chapter, among other transformations, Bloom is humiliated and turned into a woman for the sadistic pleasure of hallucinated prostitutes. This confirms the sense that he is actively conspiring in his own cuckolding (why doesn’t he confront Molly about it? turn up at the house at the appointed time, to prevent it?) because he gets a kick from sexual humiliation (see his correspondence with Martha, below).

Molly Bloom (4 and onwards) – née Marion Tweedy, daughter of Major Brian Tweedy and an unnamed mother from Gibraltar. She is a soprano singer, ‘Dublin’s prime favourite’ and going on a concert tour arranged by the producer Hugh ‘Blazes’ Boylan who has a date to come round her house that afternoon and have sex with her. Molly is plump. Leopold ‘looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat’s udder’. John Henry Menton says ‘a good armful she was’. Lenehan describes sharing a taxi ride with her and says ‘She has a fine pair, God bless her.’ The lowlife narrator of chapter 12 calls her a ‘fat heap’. In the spoof Celtic Revival style she is described as ‘The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms.’ Molly reads popular romances and Bloom spends some time at a second-hand stall looking for new ones to buy her. Her first appearance is lazing while Leopold beings her breakfast in bed. The novel famously ends with a long chapter devoted entirely to her freeflowing stream-of-consciousness thoughts as she falls asleep.

Milly Bloom (4) – Leopold and Molly’s 15-year-old daughter, recently left home to work as a photographer’s assistant in Mullingar, where she is seeing a young man named Alec Bannon. This Bannon turns up in Oxen of the Sun.

Rudy Bloom (4 and thereafter) – the infant son of Leopold and Molly Bloom who died at just 11 days old, about a decade before the events of Ulysses. As the couple’s only son, his death haunts Leopold, triggering recurring feelings of loss, guilt and regret at the lack of an heir.

Martha (4) – married woman who Bloom is having an ‘affair’ with via post, under the assumed name of Henry Flower. He’s never actually met her, he just enjoys exchanging risqué correspondence in which she calls him her naughty boy and threatens to spank him, more evidence of Bloom’s wish to be sexually humiliated.

Rudolph Virág (4) – Leopold’s father, a Hungarian Jewish immigrant who converted to Protestantism, which explains why despite being nominally Jewish Bloom has very few thoughts about Jewish history, theology, traditions or practices. What he does ruminate on is the fact that Rudolph committed suicide by taking poison. Rudolph appears as a hallucination in Circe to criticise his son.

Athos (4) – Rudolph’s dog, pined away and died after his owner killed himself.

Dlugacz (4) – Bloom’s local butcher (referred to as the ‘ferreteyed porkbutcher’). He is a Hungarian Jewish immigrant, similar to Bloom’s own background, yet he sells pork. He wraps Bloom’s kidney in a sheet of newspaper that advertises a Zionist land-settlement project named Agendath Netaim (Hebrew for ‘Union of Planters’) which Bloom reads and whose name recurs.

Sweny’s (4) – specifically, F.W. Sweny & Co. Ltd, the chemist’s shop where Bloom goes to order a lotion for his wife, Molly, and buys a bar of lemon-scented soap, promising to come back later and pay, which he doesn’t, despite nagging thoughts.

Hugh ‘Blazes’ Boylan (mentioned in 4, 10, 11) – flashy, popular concert promoter who’s arranging a concert tour for Bloom’s wife, Molly. In chapter 4, ‘Calypso’, Bloom picks up a letter from his doormat from him to Molly and hands it to her in bed. Somehow he knows that they’ve made a date for today, 4pm, when Boylan is going to come round and have sex with her, and is haunted by the knowledge all day and keeps catching glimpses of him in the street. Boylan is a ‘spruce figure’ wearing ‘a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit of indigo serge’. In ‘Wandering Rocks’ we see him buying fruit as a present for Molly and, characteristically, flirting with the salesgirl. In ‘Sirens’ he flirts with the barmaids and buys drinks for himself and Lenehan.

5. Lotus Eaters: Bloom wanders round central Dublin, from Sir John Rogerson’s Quay through Lime Street toward Westland Row, Lincoln Place (near Sweny’s pharmacy) and ending near Merrion Square

Charlie M’Coy (5, 10, 15) – small-time local conman, swindler and acquaintance of Bloom’s; asks Bloom to add his name to the list of Dignam’s mourners, despite not attending the funeral. Crops up in ‘Wandering Rocks’ accompanying Lenehan.

Bantam Lyons (5, 8) – a shabby gambler. In ‘Lotus Eaters’ (5) while looking for racing tips, Lyons asks to borrow Bloom’s newspaper, Bloom tells him to keep it because he was ‘going to throw it away’ which Lyons interprets as ‘Throwaway’ being the name of a horse to bet on. When Lyons mentions this to others, Bloom acquires a spurious reputation for having ‘inside information’. The joke outcome of this little storyline is that the horse ‘Throwaway’ actually wins the race, much to the vexation of Lenehan and other characters.

6. Hades: Paddy Dignam’s funeral at Glasnevin Cemetery

Paddy Dignam (6) – dead, died a few days before the novel starts, dropped dead of ‘apoplexy’ probably meaning heart attack. We learn that Dignam had mortgaged his life insurance policy to pay off debts, leaving his wife and five orphans penniless. His funeral is a central event in the first half of the narrative, attended by Bloom, Simon Dedalus and others. ‘As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said.’ His young son, Patsy, pops up briefly in Wandering Rocks. He may be an avatar of the Homeric figure of Elpenor in The Odyssey, who dies after he drunkenly falls overboard. After the funeral ‘Wandering Rocks’ shows Bloom visiting the Dignam home on Newbridge Avenue to offer assistance, but he also seems to visit her again. The reason Bloom looks into Barney Kiernan’s pub is he’s looking for Martin Cunningham to jointly pay her another visit; they are going to fiddle Paddy’s insurance policy to get her some of the money Paddy had mortgaged away.

Patrick Aloysius ‘Patsy’ Dignam (6, 10) – young son of Paddy Dignam, appears in ‘Hades’ and again in ‘Wandering rocks’. Represents the pitiful next generation, impoverished by this generation’s fecklessness.

Simon Dedalus (6, 7, 10, 11) – Stephen’s father. According to ‘Portrait’ was affluent enough in his early married years to send Stephen to a fee-paying school, but then went steadily downhill, unable to keep a steady job and continuing to impregnate his wife (who endures 13 pregnancies!). In ‘A Portrait’ Stephen gives a comic resumé of his father’s career:

Stephen began to enumerate glibly his father’s attributes. —A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a storyteller, somebody’s secretary, something in a distillery, a taxgatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past.

Now he mostly makes money by pawning family possessions. He’s one of the three others with Leopold in the carriage to Paddy Dignam’s funeral. Bloom thinks: ‘Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son’ but also: ‘Most amusing expressions that man finds’. Wears glasses. Pops up in the newspaper office in Aeolus, in the National Library in Scylla and Charybdis, briefly in Wandering Rocks, and at the Ormond Hotel in Sirens, eating, drinking and then singing along with other characters who play the piano and perform. He sings the aria ‘M’appari tutt’amor’ from Friedrich von Flotow’s opera Martha, a song about lost love that moves Bloom thinking about his own marital situation.

Martin Cunningham (6, 12) – one of the three others with Leopold in the funeral carriage, a kindly sympathetic friend to Leopold Bloom. He organises help for the Dignam family and defends Bloom against antisemitic slurs in ‘Hades’ and ‘Cyclops’. He has a beard and looks a bit like Shakespeare. He has to cope with an alcoholic wife.

Mr Power (6) – one of the three others with Leopold in the funeral carriage – a Dublin official associated with the Royal Irish Constabulary at Dublin Castle – good looking – keeps a mistress – commits a faux pas when (in the funeral carriage with Bloom and two others) he opines that suicide is ‘the greatest disgrace to have in the family’ unaware that Bloom’s father, Rudolph, committed suicide.

Corny Kelleher (6, 10, 15) – an undertaker’s assistant working for H.J. O’Neill’s funeral parlour, a shadowy figure connected to both death and the police, maybe an avatar of Charon the ferryman. He appears in ‘Hades’ (6) and ‘Wandering Rocks’ (10). In ‘Circe’ (15) he helps handle the police but doesn’t offer to take drunken Stephen home, that’s left to Bloom.

Ned Lambert (6, 7) – at the cemetery, a cheerful, well-connected Dubliner, a friend of Simon Dedalus. He is a seed and grain merchant who manages a grain store in St. Mary’s Abbey. He appears at Paddy Dignam’s funeral (6) then the Evening Telegraph offices (7) then showing the reverend Hugh Love around the Abbey in ‘Wandering Rocks’. Known for his wit and boasts about his influential relatives like his uncle, the Vice-Chancellor.

Father Coffey (6) – officiates at Paddy Dignam’s funeral, muscular, and ‘jowly’. Bloom thinks he ‘barks’ the funeral mass. Insofar as he mediates between the world of the living and the dead, maybe an avatar of Cerberus the dog at the entrance to Hades in Greek mythology.

John O’Connell (6) – real-life Superintendent of Dublin’s Glasnevin Cemetery, a respected local figure known for telling humorous stories e.g the one about the two drunks and Mulcahy’s statue. Insofar as he presides over the cemetery, an avatar of the Greek god of the underworld (Hades in Greek, Pluto in Latin).

Tom Kernan (6, 10) – tea salesman, agent for Pulbrook Robertson & Co. tea merchants. He was the central figure, the heavy drinking alcoholic who his friends set out to reform in the Dubliners short story ‘Grace’. Here we learn that Kernan is a Protestant, a detail that surfaces when he is part of the funeral party in ‘Hades’ and critically comments on the ‘rushed Catholic services’. In ‘Wandering Rocks’ he discusses a recent shipping disaster with Bloom and then in ‘Sirens’, encourages the baritone Ben Dollard to sing ‘The Croppy Boy’. His friends mock him for his use of pretentious phrases.

Joe Hynes (6, 7, 12) – unreliable, small-time reporter for the Freeman’s Journal who covers Paddy Dignam’s funeral; in his subsequent report he misspells Bloom as ‘Boom’, an error which rings through the rest of the story. Similarly, he asks for the name of a mystery man at the funeral and mishears the reply that he’s wearing a mackintosh for the man’s name, which he reports incorrectly as ‘M’intosh’, another joke error which recurs. Known for his financial unreliability, he borrows three shillings from Leopold and doesn’t repay it. Previously appeared in the Dubliners story ‘Ivy Day in the Committee Room’.

John Henry Menton (6, 15) – a petty, arrogant solicitor and commissioner of affidavits who we meet in the ‘Hades’ chapter. He holds a long-standing grudge against Bloom who beat him in a game of bowls and so coldly rebuffs Bloom’s attempt to fix his dented hat after the funeral. Insofar as he spurns the hero (Bloom/Ulysses) he is maybe an avatar of Ajax, a Greek hero spurned by Odysseus, who ignores him when Odysseus visits the underworld. He appears in the hallucinated jury of the ‘Circe’ chapter.

Reuben J. Dodd (6) – a real-life Dublin solicitor and moneylender, portrayed by other characters as an avaricious Jew. At the cemetery other characters discuss rumours of his son’s suicide attempt in the River Liffey.

7. Aeolus: in the newspaper offices of the Freeman’s Journal on Prince’s Street

Red Murray (7) – a minor character in ‘Aeolus’, an employee at the Freeman’s Journal office who helps Bloom arrange for a newspaper paragraph to appear about his client, Alexander Keyes.

Joseph Nannetti (7) – a real-life historical figure, a rising Dublin politician and printer who was working as the foreman at the Freeman’s Journal where Bloom encounters him. The real Nannetti went on to be Mayor of Dublin (1906 to 1908).

Professor McHugh (7) – brilliant but lazy, haphazard academic. Encountered hanging out in the Freeman’s Journal office bantering with other time wasters like Ned Lambert, Simon Dedalus and J.J. O’Molloy. ‘Professor MacHugh’s unshaven blackspectacled face’. His most significant moment is reciting a (real) speech by barrister John F. Taylor which compared the Irish language revival movement to Moses leading the Israelites to the Promised Land.

For an interesting article about all the characters found in the newspaper office, see:

J. J. O’Molloy (7, 10) – a once-promising but now struggling Dublin lawyer, portrayed as down on his luck and in debt, haunting newspaper offices like the Freeman’s Journal, for loans while maintaining a veneer of respectability and knowledge of oratory. Crops up in ‘Wandering Rocks’.

Myles Crawford (7) – pompous, alcoholic editor of the Evening Telegraph and Freeman’s Journal, dismisses Bloom’s polite approaches but fawns over Stephen when he later appears.

Matthew Lenehan (7) – a parasite, hanger-on, freelance journalist and horse-racing tipster. One of the two characters in the Dubliners story, ‘Two Gallants’ where he leaches on a fancy man who screws money out of his girlfriend. Desperate scrounger. He appears in ‘Aeolus’, ‘Wandering Rocks’, Sirens’ and among the medical students in ‘Oxen of the Sun’. He is obsessed with the Ascot Gold Cup, backs a horse called Sceptre and is infuriated when Bloom’s tip, Throwaway, wins instead.

Mr O’Madden Burke (7) – a smooth, sophisticated music critic and reviewer who we first meet in the Dubliners story ‘A Mother’ and who here appears in the newspaper office in ‘Aeolus’). He reappears in ‘Cyclops’, ‘Ithaca’ and is mentioned in ‘Penelope’. Pretentious and self-interested.

8. Lestrygonians

Bloom wanders central Dublin, walks past the Irish House of Parliament and Trinity College, moving from O’Connell Street toward Grafton Street and Kildare Street, deciding not to have lunch at Burton restaurant but grabbing a gorgonzola sandwich and glass of Burgundy at Davy Byrne’s pub on Duke Street, before walking on and ducking into the National Library to avoid Blazes Boylan.

Mrs Josie Breen (née Powell) (8) – former flame of Leopold Bloom and friend of Molly Bloom, long-suffering wife of the mentally unstable Denis Breen, ‘beauty and the beast’. When Bloom encounters her in ‘Lestrygonians’, he is sad that she looks shabby and haggard-looking.

Denis Breen (8) – Josie’s mentally ill husband – ‘Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison’s hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old times. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly.’ He has recently received an anonymous postcard with ‘U.P.: up’ on it which has made him panic. Scholars interpret it to mean ‘Your time is up’ or ‘You are all washed up’ and more broadly, in the context of the novel, to symbolise failure, paranoia, mockery and modern confusion – recurring themes in the novel.

Little Alf Bergan (8, 12, 15) – a Dublin character and assistant to sub-sheriff Long John Fanning. In ‘Lestrygonians’ he spots Denis Breen and explains the story about the ‘U.P.: up’ postcard. He plays a role in ‘Cyclops’ by bringing to Barney Kiernan’s pub a cache of applications for the job of state hangman which triggers a tipsy discussion about hangings. Crops up (like everyone else) in Circe.

Nosey Flynn (8) – a greasy, gossipy Dublin pub regular, often found at Davy Byrne’s, known for his intrusive questions and snuffling manner. First appeared in the Dubliners story ‘Counterparts’.

Davy Byrne (8) – owner of the eponymous bar where Bloom drops in for a ‘gorgonzola cheese sandwich with mustard and a glass of burgundy’. A careful, moral man who doesn’t gamble. The sandwich and wine give Bloom wind which he passes under cover of a passing tram at the end of ‘Sirens’.

Paddy Leonard (8, 15) – minor character seen around the pubs who crops up in ‘Lestrygonians’ and ‘Circe’.

Tom Rochford (8) – struggling inventor who in ‘Wandering Rocks’ shows off his device, designed for music halls to show which act is on stage, which he hopes to promote to Blazes Boylan.

Sir Frederick Falkiner (8) – a real Dublin magistrate (Recorder of Dublin) known for his antisemitic judgments, appears as a symbol of legal hypocrisy and judicial bias, particularly towards Jews like Bloom. Bloom encounters him in ‘Lestrygonians’ and later hallucinates him sentencing him to prison in ‘Circe’.

Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell (8, 10) – a real-life Dublin eccentric known as ‘Endymion’, appears in ‘Lestrygonians and ‘Wandering Rocks’, recognized by his long name, tight hat, and dangling stick-umbrella-dustcoat.

9. Scylla and Charybdis: in the director’s office of the Irish National Library on Kildare Street

The quaker librarian (9) – unnamed Head Librarian of the National Library, tiptoeing in and out of Stephen’s lecture about Shakespeare in ‘Scylla and Charybdis’.

John Eglinton (9) – fictional name for real-life essayist William Kirkpatrick Magee, a literary figure and librarian, who listens sympathetically to Stephen’s Shakespeare lecture.

Mr Best (9) – another of the auditors of Stephen’s Shakespeare lecture, based on the real-life Irish Celtic scholar and librarian Richard Irvine Best, he is depicted as a refined but shallow young man, signalled by his frequent use of the phrase ‘don’t you know’.

A.E. (9) – pseudonym of the real-life Irish poet, writer and mystic George Russell, who used the pseudonym Æ, a central figure in literary circles and a spiritual advisor. He is the main audience for Stephen’s Shakespeare lecture where he represents the old, spiritual, platonic view of art and so is unsympathetic to Stephen’s aggressively realist and autobiographical reading of Shakespeare.

10. Wandering Rocks: 19 vignettes depicting numerous Dubliners, many of them real-life figures

John Conmee S.J. (10) – ‘The superior, the very reverend John Conmee S. J.’ first figure we meeting in ‘Wandering Rocks’ having a series of encounters with passersby in which he is blandly polite. Real-life figure, rector at Clongowes Wood College who was kind to a young James Joyce and instrumental in securing scholarships for Joyce and his brothers to Belvedere College.

Master Brunny Lynam (10) – boy who Father Conmee gets to post a letter for him at a postbox across the road.

Mr Denis J. Maginni (10) – a real-life Dublin dancing professor – ‘professor of dancing &c, in a silk hat, slate frockcoat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots’. In ‘Circe’ when Stephen dances with prostitutes in Bella Cohen’s brothel, he imagines Maginni is there coaching him.

Mrs M’Guinness (10) real-life figure who owned a pawn shop, M’Guinness’s, where Stephen’s sisters (Katey and Boody) attempt to pawn some of Stephen’s books to buy food. Mrs M, ‘stately, silverhaired’, is greeted and bows to nice Father Conmee.

Katey, Boody and Maggy Dedalus (10) – boiling clothes, making yellow peasoup, living in poverty, shaming clever Stephen who had all the advantages in life.

Almidano Artifoni (10) – a music teacher and singer who appears briefly in ‘Wandering Rocks’, bumping into Stephen and suggesting he pursue a lucrative professional singing career, which Stephen rejects.

Miss Dunne (10) – typist, secretary to Blazes Boylan, sits in her office daydreaming or reading a romance novel. Types the date ’16 June 1904′, the only confirmation of the date on which Ulysses takes place (Bloomsday). She speaks with Blazes Boylan via telephone, relaying that Lenehan will be at the Ormond Hotel at four o’clock.

The reverend Hugh C. Love (10) – amateur historian being shown round St Mary’s Abbey by Ned Lambert, who’s in charge of the grain store in the abbey’s cellar.

Dilly Dedalus (10) – one of Stephen’s impoverished siblings. He bumps into her in ‘Wandering Rocks’, where she asks if he’s seen their father, then shows him a tatty French primer she’s bought at a second-hand stall, prompting Stephen’s feelings of pity and guilt.

Ben Dollard (10, 11) – large, good-natured and formerly successful Dublin bass singer with a big beard, often called ‘Big Ben’. Friend of Simon Dedalus, appears in ‘Wandering Rocks’, plays the piano and sings the sentimental ballad ‘The Croppy Boy’ in ‘Sirens’.

John Wyse Nolan (10, 12) – a minor nationalist character in ‘Cyclops’ who shares anti-British nationalistic views with the but is more moderate and briefly sympathetic to Bloom.

Long John Fanning (10) – fictional subsheriff of Dublin, first referenced in the Dubliners story ‘Grace’, appears here being discussed in ‘Aeolus’, appears briefly in ‘Wandering Rocks’ then appears in his role as sub-sheriff in Bloom’s masochistic court fantasy in ‘Circe’.

John Howard Parnell (10) – real-life figure, the brother of the superfamous Irish nationalist leader Charles Stewart Parnell who, at the peak of his power, was ruined by being cited as the co-respondent in a divorce case and died soon after, in disgrace, in 1891. John was a city marshal in Dublin and the registrar of pawnbrokers but his role in the novel is to be a ghostly figure symbolising the haunting memory of Irish political failure. He is spotted by Bloom in ‘Lestrygonians’. In ‘Wandering Rocks’ he is seen in a bar playing chess against himself.  Inward-turning, failed, paralysis, all Joyce’s themes. In the phantasmagoria of ‘Circe’ Bloom imagines him offering a blessing, linking the ordinary, fading John Howard with the immense, mythic status of his dead brother.

11. Sirens: the bar and dining room of the Ormond Hotel on Ormond Quay on the north bank of the River Liffey

Richie Goulding (11) – Stephen’s uncle, brother of Stephen’s dead mother, May, married to Sara hence Aunt Sara. A struggling solicitor’s clerk, depicted as a slightly pathetic figure, with a bad back, often weighed down by a legal bag but enthusiastic about music. In ‘Sirens’ Bloom has dinner with him at the Ormond Hotel.

Miss Mina Kennedy (11) – one of the two barmaids in the Ormond Hotel in the Sirens episode who align with the sirens of the Odyssey. Golden-haired in contrast to Lydia Douce, who is bronze-haired. The pair are like ‘malicious mermaids’ coolly observing the (useless) men in the bar. She is more reserved than the flirtatious Miss Douce.

Miss Lydia Douce (11) – the other of the two barmaids in the Ormond Hotel in the Sirens episode who align with the sirens of the Odyssey. Bronze-haired barmaid in contrast to golden-haired Mina Kennedy. She is the more outgoing, flirtatious of the two: acting in a suggestive behaviour such as reaching up to emphasise her bosom, snapping her garter for Lenehan, suggestively stroking the phallic-shaped beer pull, and flirting with Blazes Boylan who pops in for a drink and who she has a crush on.

Pat (11) – waiter at the Ormond, old, bald and hard of hearing, moving between the dining room (where Bloom has dinner) and the bar. ‘Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait.’

The piano tuner (11) – young, unnamed character known as the ‘blind stripling’. Kindly helped across the road by Bloom in ‘Lestrygonians’; rudely bumped into by Cashel ‘lamppost’ Farrell in ‘Wandering Rocks’; arrives at the Ormond Hotel to retrieve the tuning fork he’d left behind, and where he plays the piano, among others.

George Lidwell (11) – real-life Dublin solicitor and acquaintance of Joyce’s father. Offices nearby on Upper Ormond Quay, Lidwell is a ‘suave solicitor’ flirts with the barmaids. (Joyce consulted Lidwell in 1912 regarding legal issues with the publisher of ‘Dubliners’.)

12. Cyclops: Barney Kiernan’s pub

Narrator (12) – drops into Barney Kiernan’s pub to see the Citizen.

Geraghty (12) – doesn’t appear but is described as a ‘foxy’ (red-haired) plumber and a debtor who has stolen goods from a merchant named Moses Herzog.

The Citizen (12) – dominant figure in chapter 12, Cyclops. Supposedly based on Michael Cusack, the real-life founder of the Gaelic Athletic Association though scholars argue he’s more of a composite of radical nationalists of the era. The Homeric parallel is with the Cyclops Polyphemus because, like the one-eyed giant, the Citizen is depicted as narrow-minded, aggressive and blinded by his own prejudices.

Garryowen (12) – the Citizen’s mangy dog whose constant rumbling and occasional barking put everyone on edge. At the end of the chapter the Citizen sets him on Bloom who only just manages to jump onto a cab and make his escape. Comedically, Garryowen is mentioned by Gerty MacDowell in the ‘Nausicaa’ chapter (13) as actually belonging to her grandpapa Giltrap, and she calls him ‘a lovely dog’, really bringing out her rose-tinted view of everything.

Bob Doran (12) – first appeared a respectable, anxious employee in a wine-merchant’s office in the Dubliners short story ‘The Boarding House’. Since then he’s gone downhill and is now encountered as a drunk, weeping, rambling figure in Barney Kiernan’s pub, getting maudlin about the death of Paddy Dignam, adding to the general atmosphere of degraded chaos.

Terry O’Ryan (12) – bartender in Barney Kiernan’s pub – ‘Same again, Terry’.

Pisser Burke (12) – nickname of Andrew Burke, minor character and associate of the Cyclops narrator, known for spreading gossip around Dublin, tells stories from when he knew the Blooms when they lived at the City Arms Hotel.

13. Nausicaa: Sandymount Strand

Cissy Caffrey (13) – one of the three young women on the beach, looking after her young twin brothers, Jacky and Tommy. A non-nonsense straight-talking contrast with Gerty (see below) for example the way she goes straight over to loitering Bloom to ask him the time. In ‘Circe’ she returns in degraded form, apparently working as a prostitute while interacting with British soldiers.

Edy Boardman (13) – one of the three young women on the beach, the only mother so pushing a pram, she represents reality and maturity in contrast with Gerty’s self-deceiving romanticism. Makes cutting remarks which irritate Gerty. She and Cissy equate to the retinue of fine ladies who accompanied Princess Nausicaa in Homer’s Odyssey.

Tommy and Jacky Caffrey (13) – boisterous twin brothers looked after by their much older sister, Cissy.

Gerty MacDowell (13) – the young woman on the beach who Bloom watches from a distance, provocatively posing for him as he masturbates and while her head overflows with romantic, reality-denying fantasies.

14. Oxen of the Sun: National Maternity Hospital, Holles Street

Dr Horne (14) – a real-life figure, Sir Andrew J. Horne, a prominent Dublin obstetrician and the Joint Master of the National Maternity Hospital.

Nurse Quigley (14) – continually telling the drunken gang off for keeping the pregnant women in the ward above awake with their racket, inn the Homeric parallel, for disrespecting the sacredness of fertility – ‘an ancient and a sad matron of a sedate look and christian walking, in habit dun beseeming her megrims and wrinkled visage’.

Dr Dixon (14) – junior doctor at the hospital. Recognises Bloom and invites him to join the party in the common room. Later goes to attend Mrs Purefoy who’s finally had her baby.

Crotthers (14) – ‘the Scotch student, a little fume of a fellow, blond as tow’ – ‘Crotthers was there at the foot of the table in his striking Highland garb, his face glowing from the briny airs of the Mull of Galloway’.

Madden (14) – ‘the squat form of Madden’ – another drunk medical student.

Frank ‘Punch’ Costello (14) – medical student, the drunkest member of the party, frequently interrupting the quiet of the hospital with ribald drinking songs. Nicknamed ‘Punch’ from his habit of ‘dinging’ any table he’s sitting at with his fist.

Alec Bannon (14) – brought along by Mulligan to the hospital. Boyfriend of Bloom’s 15-year-old daughter, Milly.

Nurse Callan (14) – nurse working at the National Maternity Hospital on Holles Street, half-way through the chapter announces the birth of a son to Mina Purefoy.

Bridie Kelly (14, 15, 16) – young working-class woman Bloom lost his virginity to and reminisces about in ‘Oxen of the Sun’ (she also appears in ‘Circe’ and ‘Eumaeus’). One of the chapter’s Gothic paragraphs describes her as ‘the bride of darkness, a daughter of night’.

15. Circe

Too many to be listed. See my standalone review of Circe.

16. Eumaeus

Gumley (16) – nightwatchmen asleep in his ‘sentrybox’ by the docks.

Corley (16) – unemployed, scrounging son of a Dublin police inspector who asks Stephen for money – first appeared in the Dubliners story ‘Two Gallants’, extracting money from a naive girlfriend – nicknamed Lord John Corley because his mother was a servant in the house of an aristocrat

D.B. Murphy (16) – a sailor, teller of tale tales, possessor of impressive tattoos.

Skin-the-Goat (Fitzharris) (16) – owner of the shelter.

Streetwalker (16) – ‘glazed and haggard under a black straw hat’, briefly looks through the door of the shelter and makes Bloom duck behind the newspaper in embarrassment so is she Bridie Kelly who he tells us he lost his virginity to.

17. Ithaca

Stephen and Bloom.

18. Penelope

They don’t actually physically appear, but present in Molly’s thoughts are quite a few final characters:

Mrs Riordan (18) – who we met as Dante, nanny to young Stephen Dedalus in ‘Portrait’.

Mary Driscoll (18) – the Blooms’ scullerymaid.

Bartell DArcy (18) – tenor singer who kissed her in church.

Mrs Hester Stanhope (18) – adult friend when Molly was a girl.

Lieutenant Mulvey (18) – ‘beau’ of the 15-year-old Marion, they kissed.

Mrs Rubio (18) – elderly Spanish housekeeper of the Tweedy family in Gibraltar, Mrs Rubio.

Lunita Laredo (18) – Molly’s mother, a Gibraltarian of Spanish/Jewish descent.

Mrs Fleming (18) – useless cleaner they had, sneezing and farting everywhere and you had to follow her round fixing her work.

Dr Collins (18) – Molly’s gynaecologist, impressed her with his long learnèd words.


Credit

‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce was published by Shakespeare and Company in 1922.

Related links

Joyce reviews

Dubliners by James Joyce (1914)

Dublin is such a small city: everyone knows everyone else’s business.
(The Boarding House)

Dubliners, that book of traps…
(Literary critics Hugh Kenner)

‘Dubliners’ is a collection of fifteen short stories by James Joyce, written between 1904 and 1907, and published as one volume, after various problems and delays, in 1914. The earlier ones are mostly pretty short and so have been described as vignettes, a vignette being ‘a brief evocative description, account or episode.’ The later ones are longer and more complex.

On the face of it the Dubliners stories present naturalistic depictions of Irish middle-class life in and around Dublin in the early twentieth century, although some readers, and subsequently a small army of academic scholars, have detected all manner of subtle symbolism and clever structuring in all of them.

  1. The Sisters (9 pages)
  2. An Encounter (9 pages)
  3. Araby (7 pages)
  4. Eveline (6 pages)
  5. After the Race (7 pages)
  6. Two Gallants (11 pages)
  7. The Boarding House (8 pages)
  8. A Little Cloud (14 pages)
  9. Counterparts (12 pages)
  10. Clay (8 pages)
  11. A Painful Case (10 pages)
  12. Ivy Day in the Committee Room (17 pages)
  13. A Mother (13 pages)
  14. Grace (22 pages)
  15. The Dead (41 pages)

1. The Sisters

A young boy is taken to see the lying-in of his dead priest.

A young boy who lives with his philistine uncle and aunt, reacts to the death of an old priest, the reverend James Flynn, who taught him much. From the start he is very alert to words, he lives through words which are as real as people:

Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.

The title comes from the fact that the narrator is taken by his aunt to visit the two spinster sisters who looked after the dead man, Eliza and Nanny, to be shown the corpse in his coffin, then have a glass of sherry and a gossip.

2. An Encounter

Two schoolboys run into a flasher.

Another story about boyhood but told in a much more stilted and pompous style:

A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its influence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We banded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost in fear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant Indians who were afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one.

Three boys bunk off school to go swanning round Dublin.

We pleased ourselves with the spectacle of Dublin’s commerce—the barges signalled from far away by their curls of woolly smoke, the brown fishing fleet beyond Ringsend, the big white sailing-vessel which was being discharged on the opposite quay.

Except one of them, tubby Joe Dillon, doesn’t show up. So the narrator and Mahony roam round town till they come to rest in a field. Here they approached by a furtive old pervert, ‘a queer old josser!’ He asks about their girlfriends, talking about girls in a strange obsessive way. He excuses himself and goes off to a corner of the field and, it is strongly implied, masturbates.

After a silence of a few minutes I heard Mahony exclaim: “I say! Look what he’s doing!”

Then he comes back to the boys and, when Mahony goes off chasing a cat, launches into a monologue about how such boys should be whipped, repeating the word and idea obsessively.

It’s an encounter with a ‘flasher’, a case of indecent exposure, for sure, and creepy. But the man is also a type of mental blockage and paralysis, unable to get beyond his maundering obsessively repetitive phrases about girls and whipping. Perversion as paralysis.

3. Araby

An adolescent boy tries to impress an older girl he has a crush on but fails.

Everything around Joyce becomes charged with meanings and symbolism. So the apparently simple opening sentence is both realistic and symbolic:

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free.

One way to start with Joyce is not the awe-ful weight of the intellectual frameworks and symbolism, but more simply responding to his lyricism.

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.

The narrator is a pubescent boy who is romantically obsessed with the sister of his schoolfriend Mangan, who lives in the house opposite. He takes her image in his heart everywhere, amid the hurly-burly of the Dublin streets and shops, giving rise to the famous sentence:

I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes.

A bazaar comes to town. In an unclear passage, the narrator thinks Mangan’s sister says she wishes she could go but her convent are going on a retreat, so he promises to go and bring her back a present. All weeks he shirks schoolwork, burning to perform his quest for beautiful Mangan’s sister.

When Saturday comes he waits for his uncle (who’s gone out) to get home and give him a little pocket money to go to the bazaar but uncle, a bit drunk, doesn’t get home till past nine, and has to be reminded to give the boy some money.

He hastens to the train station to catch a train out to the bazaar and doesn’t make it till nearly ten, as it’s closing up, desolate and empty. He walks among different stalls, is asked whether he wants to buy anything by a bored shop assistant, reluctantly says no, and walks back through the now-empty bazaar, burning with humiliation.

Another story about frustration and paralysis and unfreedom.

4. Eveline

Young Evelyn is invited by her boyfriend to elope abroad and escape her closeted life, but at the last minute bottles out.

Eveline Hill is about to elope with a young fellow. She takes a last look round the family home, at the rooms she’s dusted once a week, at the estate of new houses which used to be fields where she played with her childhood friends, all grown up and moved away now. Reflecting on the weekly struggle to pool her own earnings at the department store where she is routinely demeaned, with whatever she can extract from her drunken bully of a father. She promised her dying mother to keep the home together as long as she could but the time has come. She’s been walking out with a young sailor named Frank, tall and handsome who’s back in Ireland on holiday from the merchant ships. Her father found out about the affair and tried to ban it. But now she’s written goodbye letters to him and to her surviving brother, Harry. When she remembers her mother’s final descent into madness, she is overcome with panic:

She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her.

The short text cuts to her standing with Frank amid the swirling quay by the huge ship set to sail across the sea to Buenos Aires and when it comes to it, she has a panic attack, clutches the railing, and cannot move.

5. After the Race

Swept up into a glamorous international set, a rich young man gambles away the money entrusted to him by his father.

Crowds are gathered to watch an international car race through the roads around Dublin, a place characterised by ‘poverty and inaction’. The story focuses on the four young men crewing one of the motor cars.

  1. Charles Ségouin, the owner of the car
  2. André Rivière, his cousin, a young electrician of Canadian birth – both about to start a motor establishment in Paris with Rivière
  3. Villona – a huge Hungarian devoted to his food
  4. Jimmy Doyle – a neatly groomed young man, with a soft, light brown moustache and rather innocent-looking grey eyes

After the race, the four young men go on a prolonged binge. It starts with dinner at Doyle’s house where they are indulged by Doyle senior, a wealthy businessman who made his money the hard way. It is emphasised that Doyle senior has been grooming his son to take over the family business, sent him to posh private (Catholic) school in England, then to Cambridge where an indulgent father picked up the tab for young Jimmy’s moderate debauchery. Doyle senior has encouraged Jimmy’s friendship with Ségouin and this has crystallised into an agreement that the Doyles will invest in Ségouin’s new car company in France.

They had already bumped into an English chum, Routh who they bring to dinner. Afterwards, out on the town, they bump into another pal in the street, a rich American named Farley and drunkenly row out to his yacht anchored in the bay. Here there is heavy duty drunken gambling and, the implication is, Doyle gambles away all the money which was meant to be his family’s investment in Ségouin’s business.

The unsung hero of the piece is the Hungarian Villona who is on the face of it a greedyguts only interested in food but turns out to be knowledgeable about English madrigals, of all subjects, and is wise enough to sit out the card game and play the piano. Wisdom.

6. Two Gallants

A parasite waits for a cocky ladykiller to inveigle money out of his latest squeeze.

Lenehan is a leech, a ravaged-looking hanger-on, a sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks and riddles who inveigles himself into partying groups. One evening he’s walking along with Corley, a swaggering police inspector’s son, who’s telling him all about a tart he picked up and has been seeing regularly; that they catch a tram out to the fields to have sex (he’s vaguely worried about her getting pregnant) but as important as the sex is the free fags and cigars she brings to every rendezvous. Lenehan listens and applauds and is all oily servility.

They walk through Dublin towards Corley’s rendezvous with the woman, Corley all the way regaling Lenehan with stories of past conquests. They come to the place where the girl is waiting and Lenehan gets a good look at here, minutely described. She looks like a tarty pig. Corley and she stroll off leaving Lenehan to kill time, because for some reason he is anxious to meet up with Corley afterwards, he is counting on Corley to pull off some kind of scam.

He pops into a cheap eatery, has a plate of hot peas, a ginger beer and laments his lot. He’ll be 31 next birthday and has no job or career and is fed up of leeching off people. Incidentally, all the stories reveal or display Joyce’s detailed knowledge of Dublin’s street layout.

He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl and went out of the shop to begin his wandering again. He went into Capel Street and walked along towards the City Hall. Then he turned into Dame Street. At the corner of George’s Street he met two friends of his and stopped to converse with them… He left his friends at a quarter to ten and went up George’s Street. He turned to the left at the City Markets and walked on into Grafton Street.

The aim of the story is to build up to a comic anticlimax. All the way through the narrative, every detail of his behaviour and thoughts rams it into our minds that Lenehan is desperately anxious that Corley ‘brings it off’, succeeds, achieves his goal, gets a result. Lenehan marches up and down the corner where he’d agreed to meet his palm long before he’s due there, it starts to rain and he begins to think it’s ‘no go’ bit then he sees the couple approaching. He ducks out of sight, watches the girl go down into the area (the low area in front of Georgian terraced houses), then sees her come out of the main door and skip down the steps and confer with Corley before disappearing back inside.

The bathetic anticlimax is that all this cloak-and-dagger behaviour has all been simply to extract some money from the poor girl. This, the story tells us, is the pitiful amount of time and nervous energy a leech and parasite expends on earning even a fraction of money.

‘Can’t you tell us?’ he said. ‘Did you try her?’ Corley halted at the first lamp and stared grimly before him. Then with a grave gesture he extended a hand towards the light and, smiling, opened it slowly to the gaze of his disciple. A small gold coin shone in the palm.

Squalid and pathetic. Lenehan goes on to appear in several chapters of ‘Ulysses’.

7. The Boarding House

A young man is intimidating into marrying the landlady’s daughter, who he’s unwisely had sex with.

At last, when she judged it to be the right moment, Mrs Mooney intervened. She dealt with moral problems as a cleaver deals with meat:

The situation is simple: a youngish (35) boarder in a boarding house (Mr Doran) has got into a relationship with the pretty daughter and servant in a boarding house (Polly Mooney) and had sex with her i.e. ‘taken her virginity’. Her mother and landlady of the house, the big solid no-nonsense Mrs Mooney, has got wind of the affair, obtained a full confession from her daughter. This vignette first of all gives a lot of backstory about Mrs Mooney (how she had to flee her drunken husband, and what became of him), how she set up the boarding house and how it became a popular venue for young artistic and musical types – before moving on to describe the tense mood of both young Polly and Mr Doran as they wait for Mrs D to call the young man in for an interview in which she will demand that he ‘does the decent thing’ and marries Polly i.e. half an hour which will change both their lives forever.

8. A Little Cloud

A flashy man who’s made his name abroad returns to Dublin and upstages his quiet sensitive friend who stayed at home.

Eight years ago Ignatius Gallaher left Dublin to start a career in the Press in London. Now he’s back in Dublin for a flying visit and has invited one of his old friends, shy timid Thomas Malone Chandler, to meet up with him at the loud garish Corless’s bar. Chandler fancies himself as a passionate poet but he is in reality ‘a delicate and abstinent person’, a chaste and methodical clerk, who long ago earned the nickname ‘Little Chandler’, timid and hesitant.

Predictably, the London man is large and hearty, wearing a vivid orange tie, and proceeds to regale timid Chandler with racy tales of life not only in London, but Paris and Berlin. When Chandler suggests he’ll settle down sooner or later, once he finds the right girl, Gallaher boomingly laughs off the idea.

Cut back to Little Chandler at home, at the end of the evening. He has irritated his prim wife, Annie, by forgetting to bring home some coffee. She’s loaded him with the sleeping baby and gone out. He looks at a photo of his wife and notes her pretty features, pretty but cold and prim. Compare with the lurid erotic fantasies conjured up by brassy Gallagher’s brave talk of rich Jewesses with dark oriental eyes, full of passion and voluptuous longing!

Dandling the baby he opens a book of Byron’s poetry and is transported. Why can’t he write poetry like that? The baby awakes, starts crying, refuses to be quieted and suddenly he feels trapped.

It was useless. He couldn’t read. He couldn’t do anything. The wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! He was a prisoner for life.

So he shouts ‘STOP’ at the baby which, after a moment of amazement, starts screaming even louder. And that’s when his wife walks back in, horrified and demanding to know what he’s done to the baby. Yes, he is trapped forever.

The story contains a line that may have been heartfelt for Joyce, who himself felt stifled by Dublin’s parochial and nationalist culture:

There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.

Which is, of course, precisely what Joyce did, moving to Trieste in the 1900s, Zurich during the Great War and then onto Paris (1920 to 1940).

9. Counterparts

Angry frustrated man, humiliated at work and hard up, gets angry drunk and returns to take it out on his poor young son.

Farrington works as a clerk and copyist in the offices of Crosbie & Alleyne and hates it. He is:

tall and of great bulk. He had a hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair eyebrows and moustache: his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites of them were dirty.

Farrington is a slacker and a drinker. Despite being warned he must finish off a long copying job before 5.30, he nips out to a nearby snug for a quick pint of porter. He is a little tipsy, stressed and discombobulated when the owner calls him out in front of the entire staff for not including two letters in an important tranche of documents he gave him. But he turns the moment into a crisis by choosing to answer back to the boss. The exchange is, in modern terms, hard to understand.

‘Tell me,’ [Mr Alleyne] 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.

Not the snappiest reparteee I’ve ever heard, but 5.30 comes and Farrington 1) pawns his watch and chain for six shillings, then 2) makes a beeline for his favourite pub, Davy Byrne’s, where he keeps a succession of arriving friends in awe with recounting of this devastating wit. His mates are: Nosey Flynn, O’Halloran and Paddy Leonard, and Higgins from the office who retells the story with great drama.

They pub crawl on to another bar called the Scotch House where they are introduced to Weathers, an acrobat in the Tivoli, and Farrington buys another round. When the Scotch House closes, they go round to Mulligan’s, to a parlour room at the back. Here Farrington spots a couple of dolled-up ladies and a man who come in and sit at a nearby table; he spends some time ogling one of the women and is irritated when they leave and she fails to turn round and give him an encouraging glance. He’s also irritated that he’s spent all his money on drinks for the others, who he now thinks of as spongers, instead of saving some to impress a lady.

The conversation turns to physique and Weathers shows off his strong arms. The others call on Farrington, the biggest there, to defend Irish national honour and so they stage an arm-wrestling contest. Weathers wins twice, which makes Farrington even angrier.

Drunk and angry, Farrington gets a cheap tram back to his house. It is a squalid household. His wife, Ada, is a little sharp-faced woman who bullies her husband when he is sober and is bullied by him when he is drunk. They have five children.

One of the small boys come down and tells him his mother’s gone to chapel. Farrington, boiling over with rage, takes it out on the harmless child, blaming him for letting the fire in the kitchen go out, taking his walking stick and mercilessly beating the poor child on his thighs.

I needed Wikipedia to explain to me that the story is titled ‘Counterparts’ for two reasons:

  1. For Joyce’s the term ‘counterparts’ could be expected to suggest (hand-written) duplicate copies of legal documents.
  2. At the story’s end, Farrington is seen as the ‘counterpart’ of Mr. Alleyne because just as his superior at his workplace humiliates him, so he, Farrington, abuses his child at home.

10. Clay

The timid life of a mousey spinster.

‘Maria is a very, very small person indeed but she had a very long nose and a very long chin.’ She is a small, middle-aged spinster, very popular at the laundry where she works, Dublin by Lamplight.

It’s Halloween which Irish Catholics celebrated with a party and traditional games. The story follows her helping with evening tea at the laundry, distributing slices of ‘barmbrack’ to all the ladies, then being toasted and cheered, she is so popular.

As soon as that tea is tidied away, she sets off by tram for the house of a man called Joe Donnelly who she nursed when he was a boy, along with his brother Alphy.

She goes to several shops on the way spending a lot of time worrying about which cake to buy to take with her eventually choosing a big slice of plumcake. On the tram to Joe’s she is made room for and shown great courtesy by a stout gentleman wearing a brown hard hat, with a square red face and a greyish moustache, a ‘colonel-looking gentleman’. The implication is he’s a bit tipsy and flirtatious.

She is welcomed with fanfare and affection at Joe’s house by him and his wife and children and plunges straight into tea and games. but when she goes to look for the plumcake can’t find it, asks the children if they’ve hidden or eaten it, and only finally realises the colonel looking gentleman must have stolen it off her.

Joe is keen to brush over this and so gets on with the main Halloween game which is being blindfolded and led to a table on which are a variety of objects. these include a Bible and a ring, and what you select predicts your future. Blindfolded, Maria puts her hands in something soft and squidgy, leading to silence and then a hurried taking of it away. Only later did I realise this is the clay of the story, clay brought in from the garden by the children and put into one of the saucers, clay which, in the symbolism of the game, stands for Death. Which is why there’s an embarrassed silence, then it’s quickly taken away and Maria told to have another go.

She moved her hand about here and there in the air and descended on one of the saucers. She felt a soft wet substance with her fingers and was surprised that nobody spoke or took off her bandage. There was a pause for a few seconds; and then a great deal of scuffling and whispering. Somebody said something about the garden, and at last Mrs Donnelly said something very cross to one of the next-door girls and told her to throw it out at once: that was no play. Maria understood that it was wrong that time and so she had to do it over again: and this time she got the prayer-book.

The prayer-book symbolising a life of spiritual vocation (service at a convent, suggests Joe’s wife). After more games for the children and wine for the adults, Maria is asked to sing. Mrs Donnelly plays the piano while Maria sings ‘I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls’ from the opera The Bohemian Girl by Michael Balfe.

The narrative tells us that she by ‘mistake’ sang the first verse twice. Characters in Joyce might make mistakes but Joyce never does. In a story fraught with symbolism this omission, too, is symbolic, because in the second verse of the song the singer imagines being beset with lovely suitors, thoughts and imagery inappropriate to the confirmed spinster status of little old Maria.

In an ironic conclusion, Joe is so moved by her singing that he can’t find a corkscrew and has to ask his wife where it is. Much earlier Maria had said she loved Joe except when he drank, for then he became a different person.

Only she hoped that Joe wouldn’t come in drunk. He was so different when he took any drink.

Very subtly it’s implying that some men can only cope with emotion by drinking, thus channeling emotion into the familiar channels of inebriation. Given the horrible violence drunken frustration triggers in Farrington in the previous story, this casts a small shadow over the narrative (as did the tipsy colonel-type nicking her cake).

Not only is Maria, like so many of the characters, trapped in her condition, but she is hemmed round by these threats and risks, mostly from men.

11. A Painful Case

An emotionally constipated would-be intellectual starts an affair with a married woman but as soon as she becomes really engaged, backs off, with tragic consequences.

A portrait of a middle-aged man painfully isolated life, even from his own life, who begins a platonic affair with a married woman but, when she starts to have feelings for him, hurriedly breaks it off.

Mr Duffy is a middle-aged bank cashier of extraordinarily rigid lifestyle, every aspect of his life meticulous and ordered so as to incur as little social contact as possible. One night at a concert he meets a Mrs Emily Sinico, a middle-aged married woman. They strike up a conversation, arrange to meet again, and again.

These meetings are perfectly chaste and mostly an opportunity for Mr Duffy to sound off about his abstruse intellectual concerns. He feels uneasy about the surreptitious nature of the meetings and so asks to be invited to the family home, where me meets the husband, Mr Sinico, who mistakenly thinks his regular visits are by way of wooing their daughter. And so their friendship continues with Duffy sounding off and impressing her with his many intellectual interests.

Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her books, provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with her. She listened to all.

In a scene which shows what a gulf there is between Joyce’s Edwardian times and our own, in the areas of sex and relationships, one night at a meeting, Mrs Sinico displays unusual levels of ‘excitement’ and then impulsively takes Duffy’s hand and presses it to her cheek.

This shocks our man in two ways, that he realises the lady hasn’t been listening to his lectures in the high-falutin’ way he intended but also that she’s getting sticky and he risks being sucked into human contact and emotion. So he arranges one last meeting, they walk round the park for three hours as he painfully extricates himself from the relationship. When she shows signs of getting emotional he jumps on the nearest tram and legs it.

As in a fairy story, four years pass and Mr Duffy has reverted to his utterly inflexible, chilly lifestyle when one evening he sees an item in his evening paper. Joyce quotes at length a fictional newspaper report about Mrs Sinico who was knocked over by a train while crossing the line at a station. The train wasn’t going very fast and obliquely from witnesses at the coroner’s enquiry it emerges that in the last few years she had changed character and taken to drink.

The title of the newspaper article is ‘A Painful Case’ which gives the story its title.

Duffy is at first disgusted by the report, dismissive of Mrs Sinico and thinking it weakness that led to her drinking. He is agitated enough to go out for a walk and drops into the local pub for a drink but as he reflects on their time together more, and then leaves the pub to walk into the park up a hill and looking out over Dublin, he slowly, guiltily, starts to think maybe it was his rejection of her which led to her drinking and, ultimately, her death.

He spots young people lying by the wall of the park, no doubt engaged in amorous activities and suddenly realises how lonely he is. ‘He gnawed the rectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life’s feast’.

Unrelentingly sad aren’t they, these stories.

12. Ivy Day in the Committee Room

Rambling portrait of ten or so Dublin characters involved in a local election campaign.

The stories get steadily longer. This one is a sort of portmanteau piece, introducing us to quite a number of Dublin characters, men involved in the half-hearted politics of a local election, being:

  • Old Jack – the caretaker, ‘an old man’s face, very bony and hairy. The moist blue eyes blinked at the fire and the moist mouth fell open at times, munching once or twice mechanically when it closed’
  • Mr O’Connor – ‘a grey-haired young man, whose face was disfigured by many blotches and pimples’
  • Mr Richard J. Tierney – the Nationalist candidate
  • Mr Hynes – ‘a tall, slender young man with a light brown moustache’
  • Mr Henchy – ‘a bustling little man with a snuffling nose and very cold ears’
  • Father Keon – pops in, in search of someone, then pops lout again
  • Crofton – ‘a very fat man whose blue serge clothes seemed to be in danger of falling from his sloping figure. He had a big face which resembled a young ox’s face in expression, staring blue eyes and a grizzled moustache’
  • Lyons – ‘much younger and frailer, had a thin, clean-shaven face. He wore a very high double collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat’

One by one they enter like actors onto a set, coming through the door to the outside where it’s a wet cold October day, and into the hall where there’s a fire, stoked by Old Jack the caretaker. For me, the overall impression of the thing is the slack amateurism of all involved but chances are it’s an accurate description of political canvassing in Dublin circa 1908 because, apparently, Joyce’s own father did just such canvassing. The Wikipedia summary is thus:

In a committee room, Matthew O’Connor, a canvasser for Richard Tierney, a candidate in an upcoming municipal election, discusses child-rearing with Old Jack, who tries to keep a fire going. Joe Hynes, another canvasser, arrives and needles O’Connor on whether he’s been paid for his work yet. He proceeds to defend rival candidate Colgan’s working-class background and maintains that Tierney, although a Nationalist, will likely present a welcome address at the upcoming visit of King Edward VII to which, as the spokesman for the working class, he objects. This sparks a debate about whether they, Dubliners, the Irish, should welcome the King or not.

When Hynes points out that it is Ivy Day (October 6), a date appointed to commemorate the Irish Nationalist leader Charles Stewart Parnell, a nostalgic silence fills the room. Another canvasser, John Henchy, enters and criticises Tierney for not having paid him yet. When Hynes leaves, Henchy voices a suspicion that the man is a spy for Colgan.

A priest, Father Keogh, makes a brief appearance, asking after a Mr Fanning and, when told Fanning’s at a certain pub, exits, triggering gossip about the priest, some wondering whether he’s even a priest at all.

A ‘boy’, in fact 16, enters to deliver a crate of stout from the nearby pub, the Black Eagle. He’s asked to pop out and fetch a corkscrew for the bottles, upon his return old Jack opens three of them and, reluctantly, one for the delivery boy, who finishes his off and exits with the corkscrew.

Henchy badmouths another canvasser, Crofton, just before Crofton himself enters with Bantam Lyons. Crofton had worked for the Conservative candidate until the party withdrew and gave their support to Tierney. Henchy offers Crofton and Lyons a drink but they realise they have no corkscrew to open the bottles. So Henchy shows them a trick, he places the bottles on the hob of the fire and, once they’ve warmed up enough, the corks pop out by themselves. This struck me as dangerous – what if the bottles crack before the corks pop out – and disgusting – drinking fire-warmed beer? Yuk.

The talk of politics drifts to Charles Stewart Parnell, who has his defenders and detractors in the room. Hynes returns and is encouraged to read his sentimental poem dedicated to Parnell. The poem is in simple ballad form and criticises those who betrayed Parnell, including the Catholic Church, and places Parnell among the ancient heroes of Ireland. All applaud the performance and seem to forget their differences for the moment.

Commentary

Apart from the air of amateurishness and laziness, the other thing that comes over, and which is odd for a story about canvassing for an election, is the lack of politics. Nobody really discusses political policies except objecting to a possible visit to Dublin by King Edward; some object they shouldn’t truckle to a German king (Edward’s father was the German Prince Albert); others say he’s a good fellow coming on a well-intentioned visit to meet and talk to his subjects, so they shouldn’t reject or heckle him before they’ve even met him, it will only confirm negative English stereotypes of the Irish.

In other words, the only thing close to a policy they discuss is their response to the English monarchy, on which they’re largely split. And the only thing that gives them all a temporary unity is sentimental nostalgia for the disgraced nationalist leader, Charles Stewart Parnell.

But tipsy nostalgia is not a political platform. The lack of debate, the lack of readiness or preparation, the lack of discussion of any policies at all, is interesting background to the confusion and disagreement which afflicted all parties when radical political change was triggered by the Easter Uprising 6 or so years later.

13. A Mother

Pushy mother embarrasses her young singer daughter at a public recital.

The mother in question is Mrs Kearney. With characteristic thoroughness, Joyce gives us her backstory, how she was an educated, romantic, accomplished young lady named Miss Devlin, who intimidated man of her acquaintance and so ended up marrying the solid, reliable , who was very accomplished at a young age but found that the young men of her class were intimidated by her, which prompted her to marry the working class Mr Kearney, who was a bootmaker on Ormond Quay, ‘out of spite’.

So she becomes a mum and raises her girls with his educational and cultural standards. When the Irish Revival comes along in the 1890s she gets her girls educated in Gaelic and folklore. Her daughter Kathleen becomes an accomplished enough pianist to be offered gigs as an accompanist at concerts.

And that’s where the narrative proper commences: A Mr Holohan, assistant secretary of the Eire Abu Society, is organising a series of four concerts and approaches Mrs K to ask if Katherine could be the pianist. Mrs K agrees and sets the price at 8 guineas, and this is the core of the story because the concerts turn out to be very badly planned and publicised. Although Mrs K lends a lot of shrewd help to the creation of the posters, the night of the first concert is very poorly attended.

The second one has a larger audience but Mrs Kearney is bothered by both the behaviour of the audience and the casual attitude of the society’s secretary, Mr. Fitzpatrick, ‘a little man, with a white vacant face. She noticed that he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the side of his head and that his accent was flat.’

The third concert is cancelled and Mrs Kearney now becomes concerned that her daughter will not be paid the full contracted price but is unable to get a straight answer on the matter from Holohan or Fitzpatrick. She brings her husband to the final concert, anticipating a confrontation.

She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed…

and confrontation there is. In readiness for this final night, we get a full list of the performers, being:

  • The bass, Mr Duggan, was a slender young man with a scattered black moustache. He was the son of a hall porter in an office in the city and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged bass notes in the resounding hall. From this humble state he had raised himself until he had become a first-rate artiste.
  • Mr Bell, the second tenor, was a fair-haired little man who competed every year for prizes at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth trial he had been awarded a bronze medal. He was extremely nervous and extremely jealous of other tenors and he covered his nervous jealousy with an ebullient friendliness.
  • Miss Healy, the contralto.
  • Madam Glynn, the soprano, wearing a faded blue dress which was stretched upon a meagre body.

In addition there are some gentlemen from the press:

  • the man from the Freeman – a grey-haired man, with a plausible voice and careful manners. He held an extinguished cigar in his hand and the aroma of cigar smoke floated near him – due to miss the concert in order to attend a lecture by an American priest
  • Mr O’Madden Burke who will write the notice

So you can see that there’s a narrative of sorts, but that arguably the point of the story is the range of characters, the sense of the variety of Dublin society.

Anyway the crisis of the story is that as the theatre fills up and then audience start to get restless, Mrs Kearney absolutely refuses to let her daughter go on until she is paid the contracted 4 guineas. At last, after a lot of feverish whispering and haggling, Haloran manages to return from the mysterious ‘committee’ he’s always talking about, with four pounds (a guinea is a pound and a shilling so he’s four shillings short).

At this point young Kathleen intervenes and insists on going onstage with the performers despite her mother’s wishes, and the first half of the concert is a triumph

The first part closed with a stirring patriotic recitation delivered by a young lady who arranged amateur theatricals. It was deservedly applauded; and, when it was ended, the men went out for the interval, content.

In the climax tempers get out of control and when Holohan tells her the committee will pay the remained the following Tuesday, Mrs Kearney says that’s not good enough and refuses to allow her daughter to go back onstage. At which all the performers, Holohan, Fitzpatrick et al roundly condemn her. Timid Miss Healy agrees to play one or two accompaniments, and when the performers troop back onstage for part two and the first act commences, Mrs Kearney forces her husband and daughter out the side entrance and into a cab in a blazing fury.

14. Grace

Four kind-hearted men try to talk their friend into reforming his alcoholic ways, employing comically ignorant Catholic theology along the way.

The story opens with two men helping to his feet a man who’s passed out drunk in the downstairs toilet of a pub. Carried upstairs, and a policeman called, he’s identified by a pal of his, a Mr Power, who identifies him as Mr Tom Kernan and promises the copper to get him home to his wife, which he does, in a cab. They carry him up to bed then Power is embarrassed before the hapless wife, used to Kernan’s drunkenness and who has nothing to offer him by way of hospitality. As if to make amends for this, Power tells her that he and Kernan’s other buddies will help Kernan turn over a new leaf.

And that’s what they do. Powers organises a plan with two other buddies, M’Coy and Cunningham, to get Kernan along to a Catholic retreat with them. The long central part of the ‘story’ consists of an extended dialogue between these four guys, as the three in on the plan chip in with various suggestions and pledged until Kernan is shamed into agreeing to join them. His wife tries hard to conceal her delight at the prospect of her husband stopping being such a pitiful drunk.

Cut to the third scene, which sees all four chaps in the Jesuit church in Gardiner Street and the arrival of the priest, Father Purdon, in the pulpit to deliver a sermon. Far from the high-falutin’ theology of redemption you might have expected, the priest’s approach is surprisingly mundane and worldly:

He came [Father Purdon said] to speak to businessmen and he would speak to them in a businesslike way. If he might use the metaphor, he said, he was their spiritual accountant; and he wished each and every one of his hearers to open his books, the books of his spiritual life, and see if they tallied accurately with conscience.

Commentary

1. Characters As so often, in one sense the most interesting part of the narrative is the backstory of the central characters. These are stated clearly and bluntly, as in a presentation: I mean they aren’t conveyed with subtle and scattered hints, but all plonked down in one interest bio.

Mr Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old school which believed in the dignity of its calling. He had never been seen in the city without a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters. By grace of these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always pass muster. He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the great Blackwhite, whose memory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry. Modern business methods had spared him only so far as to allow him a little office in Crowe Street on the window blind of which was written the name of his firm with the address—London, E.C. On the mantelpiece of this little office a little leaden battalion of canisters was drawn up and on the table before the window stood four or five china bowls which were usually half full of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr Kernan tasted tea. He took a mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate with it and then spat it forth into the grate. Then he paused to judge.

Mr Power, a much younger man, was employed in the Royal Irish Constabulary Office in Dublin Castle. The arc of his social rise intersected the arc of his friend’s decline, but Mr Kernan’s decline was mitigated by the fact that certain of those friends who had known him at his highest point of success still esteemed him as a character. Mr Power was one of these friends. His inexplicable debts were a byword in his circle; he was a debonair young man.

Mrs Kernan… was an active, practical woman of middle age. Not long before she had celebrated her silver wedding and renewed her intimacy with her husband by waltzing with him to Mr Power’s accompaniment. In her days of courtship Mr Kernan had seemed to her a not ungallant figure: and she still hurried to the chapel door whenever a wedding was reported and, seeing the bridal pair, recalled with vivid pleasure how she had passed out of the Star of the Sea Church in Sandymount, leaning on the arm of a jovial well-fed man, who was dressed smartly in a frock-coat and lavender trousers and carried a silk hat gracefully balanced upon his other arm. After three weeks she had found a wife’s life irksome and, later on, when she was beginning to find it unbearable, she had become a mother. The part of mother presented to her no insuperable difficulties and for twenty-five years she had kept house shrewdly for her husband. Her two eldest sons were launched. One was in a draper’s shop in Glasgow and the other was clerk to a tea-merchant in Belfast. They were good sons, wrote regularly and sometimes sent home money. The other children were still at school.

See how much time and detail, precision and effect, Joyce spends on each character. They are highly defined and positioned. As many people have pointed out, in ‘Dubliners’ Joyce feels like he’s taken nineteenth century naturalism as far as it can go. Nobody could write more careful detailed descriptions of his characters. Which is why, having reached the end of the line, he burst through the boundaries of the genre into something post-naturalist, experimenting with free indirect speech in ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’, and then bursting the bounds of what a novel even is, in ‘Ulysses’.

2. Catholic dogma A good deal of the long central section consists of the three would-be conspirators struggling with various aspects of the Catholic faith, from the mottos of various popes to the role of the Jesuits, the difference between Catholics and Protestants, and so on.

Why is it called ‘Grace’? Is it a sympathetic view that the grace of spiritual rebirth stems from pretty much as low as one could go, a man falling down dead drunk in an underground toilet? Or is Joyce mocking religion, suggesting that there is no grace, here or anywhere? That fits the spirit of irony and satire which informs the entire collection.

15. The Dead

Beautiful extended description of a traditional Christmas party which ends with a sensitive husband suddenly made aware of the tragic death of his beautiful wife’s first love.

The Dead is routinely described as one of the greatest short stories in the English language. It is noted for its tenderness, and lyrical acceptance of lost love, death and bereavement. The main character is Gabriel Conroy who takes his beautiful wife Gretta to the annual Christmas party thrown by his lovely aunts, Miss Kate and Miss Julia Morkan, ‘in the dark gaunt house on Usher’s Island’. The narrative describes the preparations, the arrival of the guests, numerous conversations, dancing and singing, the big Christmas dinner at which Gabriel carves the roast goose, and then makes a movingly gracious speech of thanks to the old aunts, and then the slow winding down towards thank yous and farewells.

Cast

As usual, Joyce pays scrupulous attention to each of his characters’ backstories and appearance.

  • Gabriel Conroy – ‘plump’, ‘a stout tallish young man. The high colour of his cheeks pushed upwards even to his forehead where it scattered itself in a few formless patches of pale red; and on his hairless face there scintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims of the glasses which screened his delicate and restless eyes. His glossy black hair was parted in the middle and brushed in a long curve behind his ears where it curled slightly beneath the groove left by his hat’ — Gabriel is ‘son of their dead elder sister, Ellen, who had married T. J. Conroy of the Port and Docks’ — he is a college teacher and book reviewer
  • Gretta Conroy – Gabriel’s wife
  • Kate Morkan and Julia Morkan – Gabriel and Mary Jane’s aunts – ‘two small plainly dressed old women. Aunt Julia was an inch or so the taller. Her hair, drawn low over the tops of her ears, was grey; and grey also, with darker shadows, was her large flaccid face. Though she was stout in build and stood erect her slow eyes and parted lips gave her the appearance of a woman who did not know where she was or where she was going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her face, healthier than her sister’s, was all puckers and creases, like a shrivelled red apple, and her hair, braided in the same old-fashioned way, had not lost its ripe nut colour.’
  • Mary Jane Morkan – niece of Kate and Julia, teaches music, ‘Many of her pupils belonged to the better-class families on the Kingstown and Dalkey line’
  • Lily – the caretaker’s daughter, ‘a slim, growing girl, pale in complexion and with hay-coloured hair’
  • Freddy Malins – an alcoholic and friend of the family – ‘a young man of about forty, was of Gabriel’s size and build, with very round shoulders. His face was fleshy and pallid, touched with colour only at the thick hanging lobes of his ears and at the wide wings of his nose. He had coarse features, a blunt nose, a convex and receding brow, tumid and protruded lips. His heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his scanty hair made him look sleepy’
  • Mrs Malins – Freddy Malins’ mother, ‘a stout feeble old woman with white hair. Her voice had a catch in it like her son’s and she stuttered slightly’, lives with her married daughter in Glasgow and comes to Dublin on a visit once a year
  • Molly Ivors – a long-time acquaintance of the family – ‘a frank-mannered talkative young lady, with a freckled face and prominent brown eyes. She did not wear a low-cut bodice and the large brooch which was fixed in the front of her collar bore on it an Irish device and motto’
  • Mr Browne – only Protestant guest at the party, ‘A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled moustache and swarthy skin’
  • Bartell D’Arcy – a tenor, ‘a dark-complexioned young man with a smart moustache’
  • Other guests: Miss Furlong, Miss Daly and Miss Power, Mr Bergin and Mr Kerrigan

Incidents include:

– Upon arrival Gabriel tries to joke with his aunts’ maid, Lily, which doesn’t work out.

– He goes upstairs to join the rest of the guests, where he worries about the speech he has to give, worrying about too highfalutin’ reference to the poetry of Robert Browning, still, in the 1890s, considered difficult.

– When Freddy Malins arrives drunk, as the aunts had feared, Aunt Kate asks Gabriel to make sure he doesn’t cause trouble.

– As the party gathers pace, Gabriel is twitted by Miss Ivors, an Irish nationalist, because she has figured out that he is the GC who writes book reviews in the Unionist newspaper The Daily Express. She teases him by calling him a ‘West Briton’, repeatedly. Gabriel tries to reply but can’t come up with a convincing argument.

– Miss Ivor tells Gabriel she and some friends are organising a reading week in the West of Ireland. He says he can’t go but when he then tells his wife, she is excited at the thought of revisiting her childhood home of Galway.

– Dinner begins, with Gabriel seated at the head of the table. He boisterously carves and hands round the plates while the guests discuss music and theology. Once the eating is over, Gabriel rises to his feet again and makes his speech, courteously referring to Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane as the Three Graces. The speech ends with a toast and the guests sing ‘For they are jolly gay fellows’.

– The party winds down and the guests leave one by one. Having got his coat Gabriel goes to the foot of the stairs and from the dark well looks up to see his wife lost in thought at the top of the stairs, listening to a song coming from the living room. She is listening to the famous tenor Bartell D’Arcy singing ‘The Lass of Aughrim’.

– They walk part of the way back to their hotel, then get a cab. Gabriel has rarely seen his wife looking so beautiful and suddenly he is overcome with lust. He can’t wait till they are back in the hotel room alone together. There is what I suppose for the time was fairly graphic description of his desire, specifically the fact that he needs her to want it too:

If she would only turn to him or come to him of her own accord! To take her as she was would be brutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyes first.

– BUT once they are alone in their hotel room, Gabriel’s lust reaches a peak and then is utterly dashed. Gretta sits on their bed but not in the heat of desire at all; instead she is crying. She tearfully admits that the song she was listening to reminded her of her first true love, reminds her of a young boy, just 17, named Michael Furey who had courted her in her youth in Galway. He, too, used to sing ‘The Lass of Aughrim’ for her.

– The boy fell ill as she was leaving for the big city, but insisted on getting out of his sick bed to come to her house and stand under her window in the winter rain just to see her. He returned to bed even sicker and died soon after.

– Gretta is overcome with grief and cries herself to exhaustion and then to sleep leaving Gabriel dismayed that there was something of such importance in his wife’s life that he never knew about. Now alone in the bedroom he reflects that we will all die, Aunt Julia, Aunt Kate, all of them – and finds this strangely comforting. He can almost feel the presence of the dead:

His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling.

And in the story’s famous last lines the narrative picks up on him looking out the window at the snow falling, to describe how it is falling all across Ireland.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

There should not, by these closing lines, be a dry eye in the house.

When I first read this as a boy, I wished my Christmases were like this, festive and convivial with lots of singing, and I wished I would grow up as soulful and sensitive as Gabriel…

Swayed by their beauty, for years I remembered the story for the haunting beauty of its closing lines. I had completely forgotten that the key passages beforehand give a surprisingly frank expression of Gabriel’s desire, nay lust. He becomes really inflamed with lust and desperately wants to ‘take’ his wife as soon as they get back to the hotel. Everyone remembers the poetic ending. Not so many people comments on the way it is also a story about the inappropriateness of male desire; a description of how male desire flares up but then is crushed, mortified and embarrassed by superior female sensitivity.

Commentary

Human life

The stories offer a loosely chronological overview of the different stages of human life, starting with:

  • boyhood (in The Sisters, An Encounter, Araby)
  • young adulthood (After the Race, Two Gallants, The Boarding House)
  • maturity (Counterparts, Clay, A Painful Case, A Mother)
  • old age and mortality (The Dead)
  • with slyly comic digressions into contemporary politics (Ivy Day in the Committee Room) and the arts (A Mother)
  • before the grand meditation on mortality (The Dead)

Sociology

The light music of whisky falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude.

Fiction doesn’t have to be sociological i.e. comment on the social issues of its time (see Kafka or Borges) but realist fiction tends to do so because a realistic depiction tends to take time to fill in details of character or aspects of events, which themselves tend to reflect contemporary practice. The three themes which stick out for me are drunkenness, Irish nationalism and the broader one of paralysis and trapment.

1. Drunkenness is shown in numerous aspects:

  • the youthful exuberant party drunkenness of young Jimmy Doyle who gambles away his inheritance
  • the hardened middle-aged drunkenness of the angry failure Farrington, who takes out an evening of humiliations by beating his poor son
  • the pathetic fall-down-drunk inebriation of Tom Kernan
  • the sad, pitiful drunkenness of Mrs Sinico after Mr Duffy dumps her

In a number of other stories, nobody gets drunk but drink plays a role. Thus:

  • it’s notable how the bottles of beer are a necessary emollient which take the edge off the political frictions in ‘Ivy Day in the Committee Room’
  • Joe’s occasional drunkenness is a threat lurking at the edge of ‘Clay’
  • the scenes in which Little Chandler is compared with big brassy Ignatius Gallaher are set in a noisy bar where Gallaher not only knows his drinks but gets the bartender’s attention in a second whereas Chandler struggles to be seen etc

2. Paralysis Not much need be said because I’ve pointed out in individual stories where their guiding theme or mood is one of entrapment and paralysis. Almost all the characters are trapped in their behaviour patterns; when offered escape like Evelyn, they are too scared to take it. And entrapment becomes a way of life, for timid characters like Little Chandler or Maria; or underpins the alcoholic rage of a bully like Farrington.

Irish nationalism is well represented in the tales, notably in the character of Miss Ivors in ‘The Dead’ but the issues surrounding nationalism are most fully dramatised in ‘Ivy Day in the Committee Room’ – but in neither does the debate or argument get much beyond abuse – there doesn’t appear to be any plan or policy for how independence would be achieved, what steps are required, for example lobbying the Liberal government which was in power for most of the Edwardian period, and lobbying them for what, precisely?

In this way, the presentation of Irish nationalism – no doubt a massive issue in Joyce’s day and which flavours and sometimes becomes a dominant issue in all his writings – feels, ultimately, like a sub-set of the paralysis and stagnation which is the book’s central theme.

Lyricism

The volume concludes with the tremendous lyric vision at the end of ‘The Dead’ but this lyrical eloquence appears at key moments throughout all the stories. It is often very beautiful writing, worth savouring in its own right. It’s a large question for debate whether this lyricism can be said to underpin Joyce’s entire worldview, and how it is contained or subsumed in the more complex styles of his later works.


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