Dublinersby James Joyce, Malachy McCourt, Frank McCourt, Ciaran Hinds
Dubliners - James Joyce's stories of his native homeland - performed by a cast of 15 different actors originating from Ireland. Unabridged.
The fifteen stories that make up this brilliant audio roam over a human landscape that stretches from the bleakest of despair to the most blinding of epiphanies. First published in 1914, the stories are as lucid
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Dubliners - James Joyce's stories of his native homeland - performed by a cast of 15 different actors originating from Ireland. Unabridged.
The fifteen stories that make up this brilliant audio roam over a human landscape that stretches from the bleakest of despair to the most blinding of epiphanies. First published in 1914, the stories are as lucid and accessible as they are memorable poignant.
As you listen to the cast of internationally famous stage and screen actors perform Dubliners, both the spiritually deadening atmosphere that drove Joyce from his homeland and the irresistible emotional pull it always kept on him to the end of his days become heartbreakingly beautiful.
Dubliners is an audio experience that will only grow in richness with each time you listen.
The stories and performers are:
Sisters - Frank McCourt
An Encounter - Patrick McCabe
Araby - Colm Meaney
Eveline - Dearbhla Molloy
After the Race - Dan O'Herlihy
Two Gallants - Malachy McCourt
The Boarding House - Donal Donnelly
A Little Cloud - Brendan Coyle
Counterparts - Jim Norton
Clay - Sorcha Cusack
A Painful Case - Ciaran Hinds
Ivy Day in the Committee Room - T.P. McKenna
A Mother - Fionnula Flanagan
Grace - Charles Keating
The Dead - Stephen Rea
“Joyce renews our apprehension of reality, strengthens our sympathy with our fellow creatures, and leaves us in awe before the mystery of created things.” –Atlantic Monthly
“It is in the prose of Dubliners that we first hear the authentic rhythms of Joyce the poet…Dubliners is, in a very real sense, the foundation of Joyce’s art. In shaping its stories, he developed that mastery of naturalistic detail and symbolic design which is the hallmark of his mature fiction.” –Robert Scholes and A. Walton Litz, authors of Dubliners: Text and Criticism
With an Introduction by John Kelly
- HarperCollins Publishers
- Publication date:
- Edition description:
- Unabridged, 7 CDs, 8 hours
- Sales rank:
- Product dimensions:
- 5.14(w) x 5.66(h) x 1.04(d)
Read an Excerpt
THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said to me: I am not long for this world, and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. 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.
Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to some former remark of his:
--No, I wouldn't say he was exactly . . . but there was something queer . . . there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion. . . .
He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery.
--I have my own theory about it, he said. I think it was one of those . . . peculiar cases. . . . But it's hard to say. . . .
He began to puff again at his pipewithout giving us his theory. My uncle saw me staring and said to me:
--Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear.
--Who? said I.
--Is he dead?
--Mr Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house.
I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if the news had not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter.
--The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him a great deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him.
--God have mercy on his soul, said my aunt piously.
Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady black eyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him by looking up from my plate. He returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely into the grate.
--I wouldn't like children of mine, he said, to have too much to say to a man like that.
--How do you mean, Mr Cotter? asked my aunt.
--What I mean is, said old Cotter, it's bad for children. My idea is: let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age and not be . . . Am I right, Jack?
--That's my principle, too, said my uncle. Let him learn to box his corner. That's what I'm always saying to that Rosicrucian there: take exercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had a cold bath, winter and summer. And that's what stands to me now. Education is all very fine and large. . . . Mr Cotter might take a pick of that leg of mutton, he added to my aunt.
--No, no, not for me, said old Cotter.
--My aunt brought the dish from the safe and laid it on the table.
--But why do you think it's not good for children, Mr Cotter? she asked.
--It's bad for children, said old Cotter, because their minds are so impressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it has an effect. . . .
I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to my anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!
It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotter for alluding to me as a child I puzzled my head to extract meaning from his unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imagined that I saw again the heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over my head and tried to think of Christmas. But the grey face still followed me. It murmured; and I understood that it desired to confess something. I felt my soul receding into some pleasant and vicious region; and there again I found it waiting for me. It began to confess to me in a murmuring voice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were so moist with spittle. But then I remembered that it had died of paralysis and I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve the simoniac of his sin.
The next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little house in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop, registered under the vague name of Drapery. The drapery consisted mainly of children's bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used to hang in the window, saying: Umbrellas Re-covered. No notice was visible now for the shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the door-knocker with ribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned on the crape. I also approached and read:
July 1st, 1895
The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's Church, Meath Street), aged sixty-five years.
The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I was disturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I would have gone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him sitting in his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his great-coat. Perhaps my aunt would have given me a packet of High Toast for him and this present would have roused him from his stupefied doze. It was always I who emptied the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembled too much to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuff about the floor. Even as he raised his large trembling hand to his nose little clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers over the front of his coat. It may have been these constant showers of snuff which gave his ancient priestly garments their green faded look for the red handkerchief, blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with which he tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious.
I wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage to knock. I walked away slowly along the sunny side of the street, reading all the theatrical advertisements in the shopwindows as I went. I found it strange that neither I nor the day seemed in a mourning mood and I felt even annoyed at discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if I had been freed from something by his death. I wondered at this for, as my uncle had said the night before, he had taught me a great deal. He had studied in the Irish college in Rome and he had taught me to pronounce Latin properly. He had told me stories about the catacombs and about Napoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning of the different ceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestments worn by the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself by putting difficult questions to me, asking me what one should do in certain circumstances or whether such and such sins were mortal or venial or only imperfections. His questions showed me how complex and mysterious were certain institutions of the Church which I had always regarded as the simplest acts. The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist and towards the secrecy of the confessional seemed so grave to me that I wondered how anybody had ever found in himself the courage to undertake them; and I was not surprised when he told me that the fathers of the Church had written books as thick as the Post Office Directory and as closely printed as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating all these intricate questions. Often when I thought of this I could make no answer or only a very foolish and halting one upon which he used to smile and nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to put me through the responses of the Mass which he had made me learn by heart; and, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively and nod his head, now and then pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alternately. When he smiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let his tongue lie upon his lower lip--a habit which had made me feel uneasy in the beginning of our acquaintance before I knew him well.
What People are saying about this
“A handsome deluxe edition.” —The New York Times
“A gorgeous new trade paperback edition [of] arguably the most important single-author short story collection in the English language.” —KQED, “Great Lit Perfect for Summer Reading”
Meet the Author
James Augustine Aloysius Joyce was born in Dublin in 1882. One of the most influential writers of the 20th Century, Joyce's life was punctuated by poverty, critical controversy and self-imposed exile. Joyce was one of the pioneering figures of modernism and counted W.B. Yeats and Ezra Pound amongst his earliest supporters. Before his death in 1941, Joyce had published Ulysses, Finnegan's Wake, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Dubliners; works that today are recognized as amongst the greatest achievements in literature.
- Date of Birth:
- February 2, 1882
- Date of Death:
- January 13, 1941
- Place of Birth:
- Dublin, Ireland
- Place of Death:
- Zurich, Switzerland
- B.A., University College, Dublin, 1902
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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Dublin at the turn of the nineteenth century is this book's source of inspiration. Joyce here captures a sense of sadness, a sense of folly, and a sense of unsatisfaction in this collection of short stories. Fourteen were intended by Joyce for The Dubliners, and in this Bantom Books Reprint, the lyrically written, but awkwardly structured 'The Dead' has been included (it reads in two seemingly incongruent parts). My notables include 'A Mother', 'A Little Cloud', and 'Counterparts'. 'The Dead' is hailed by the literati as a great piece, and the second half of the story captures the distance that can occur in a marriage, the effects of a perceived affair on a husband and a woman's longing for what could have been if she'd married differently. This collection of stories is compulsory for any James Joyce reader, as it is a sharp contrast in style to Finnegan's Wake or Ulysses. I find the value in it, if one wants to be absolutely immersed in a different time and place, and read some passionately painful, realistic stories. The morals of these stories can be interpreted open-endedly, like most great art, and at times may be too subtle for the modern reader. One drawback to this edition. Shame on Bantam for not presenting the punctuation as Joyce intended. He originally demarcates his changed in dialogue with dashes, rather than standard quotation mark indicators. What is the point of reading the book how the author did not intend it read? Read the book, but choose an edition true to the author's intent.
Dubliners is a wonderful masterpiece that is insightful and cascades with beauty through its words splashed upon the pages. My personal favorite story is 'The Dead' which is Joyce's transition from his more simplistic writing into what will later become his stream of conciousness and deeply imbedded symbolism style of writing that we see in Ulysses. I recommend this to anyone. Some of the short stories are easier to read than others, but there shouldn't be any great trouble in any of them. Each story has its unique beauty and truth about the human race.
The Dubliners is a revelation into the dark side of human reasoning. It¿s a smashing book, when you are done with it you understand why people do stupid things, drink excessively or gamble (the reasoning behind it). This book is a benchmark in literary competence that everyone should read. I love this book because it gives the perspective of the lower class of Dublin children skipping school, alcoholics exedra. James Joyce has exceeded the expectations for word choice of the finest writers. It is a book of short, stories each chapter gives a different perspective of the same day in Dublin. James Joyce also wrote the Odyssey which by many standards is the hardest book to understand (in English) and is legendary for its complexity. The Dubliners retains all the richness and word of the Odyssey but everyone can (should) understand.
This is the second James Joyce book I have read and it goes to reinforce the feeling I had after reading the first that that writer is a great storyteller. In fact, I consider James Joyce's Dubliners as one of the best collection of short stories ever put together. The settings are amazing and the rich and lively characters all combine with the incredible plots to add credence to the stories. Not only are they true to life in fitting with the atmosphere that one finds in Dublin, the stories are also hilarious, subtle, and inspirational and gripping. The pace of the stories is fast and the voices are rich.
I had to read this book for my AP Literature class, but I ended up buying my own copy to keep notes in..and also because I liked it so much. I loved the message that Joyce was trying to portray with this novel: Dublin (and society as a whole) was stuck in a never-ending circle, paralyzed if you will, of drinking, passionless love and lives, materialism, meaningless faith, etc. I had never read something quite like this before, and I loved the creative grouping of the chapters into a timeline type thing. My favorite chapter was Evelyn. All in all, it was a pretty good read.
A GREAT book. If it were a good book it would show this dank, depressive, captivating and surreal world. Instead it emerses you in this world. Joyce's writing is so spontaneous. I despise being gushing but it is Joyce. The man is a genius. (I realise I should refer to him in the past tense but his writing seems to suspened his intellect and reality in time). He never resorts to the writing-by-numbers tecnique of presenting characters with a view to evoking sympathetic sentiments from the reader. Characters aren't pleasant so that you want to be their friend or unsuccesful/destructive/pathetic for the purpose of making the reader feel smug, successful and sensible. I can't recommend this book enough. It's an experience. One which you may find tiring and depressing but which is completely worthwhile. And compared to Finnegans Wake it's a walk in the park! Allows you to experience Joyce's writing without completely perplexing you (speaking from experience!)
Barnes and Noble needs to kick out all of the people that are posting solicitations and personal chats. This is for reviews of authors and books only.
Maximum walked in, smirking a bit.
Mia To Alex: I will ASAP 3: I thought you guys forgot about meee :D I feel much better now! I'll try to be back by either tomorrow or Wednesday!!!
Mia To All (and the Dustin dude): So, like, I miss you guys so FRIKKIN much! By everyone I mean bw, carrie, alex, doc.... You other newbies can suck it :3 But still, I lost mah nook but Im gun find it 'cause I miss being on here... PS Dustin, Delilah says "Hi"
Added this to my collection because I remember enjoying it very much as the focus of a literature course at the university in the late 1950's or early 1960s. Joyce captures the essence of every day people doing every day things. Modern Library Series has been my source for so many classics.
Looked at him
Ok so will u?
It's not hanging on at all. It is dead.
Tell Riker to get on sometime.
I havent given up yet. I still love you Nonnie...
Oops wrong name xD<p>
HER NOOK BROKE SHE WONT BE ON FOR A WHILE. <p> ~ Ellie.