Tag Archives: dubliners

A (Proper) Statistical analysis of the prose works of Samuel Beckett


Content warning: If you want to get to the fun parts, the results of an analysis of Beckett’s use of language, skip to sections VII and VIII. Everything before that is navel-gazing methodology stuff.

If you want to know how I carried out my analysis, and utilise my code for your own purposes, here’s a link to my R code on my blog, with step-by-step instructions, because not enough places on the internet include that.

I: Things Wrong with my Dissertation’s Methodology

For my masters, I wrote a 20000 word dissertation, which took as its subject, an empirical analysis of the works of Samuel Beckett. I had a corpus of his entire works with the exception of his first novel Dream of Fair to Middling Women, which is a forgivable lapse, because he ended up cannibalising it for his collection of short stories, More Pricks than Kicks.

Quantitative literary analysis is generally carried out in one of two ways, through either one of the open-source programming languages Python or R. The former you’ve more likely to have heard of, being one of the few languages designed with usability in mind. The latter, R, would be more familiar to specialists, or people who work in the social sciences, as it is more obtuse than Python, doesn’t have many language cousins and has a very unfriendly learning curve. But I am attracted to difficulty, so I am using it for my PhD analysis.

I had about four months to carry out my analysis, so the idea of taking on a programming language in a self-directed learning environment was not feasible, particularly since I wanted to make a good go at the extensive body of secondary literature written on Beckett. I therefore made use of a corpus analysis tool called Voyant. This was a couple of years ago, so this was before its beta release, when it got all tricked out with some qualitative tools and a shiny new interface, which would have been helpful. Ah well. It can be run out of any browser, if you feel like giving it a look.

My analysis was also chronological, in that it looked at changes in Beckett’s use of language over time, with a view to proving the hypothesis that he used a less wide vocabulary as his career continued, in pursuit of his famed aesthetic of nothingness or deprivation. As I wanted to chart developments in his prose over time, I dated the composition of each text, and built a corpus for each year, from 1930–1987, excluding of course, years in which he just wrote drama, poetry, which wouldn’t be helpful to quantify in conjunction with one another. Which didn’t stop me doing so for my masters analysis. It was a disaster.

II: Uniqueness

Uniqueness, the measurement used to quantify the general spread of Beckett’s vocabulary, was obtained by the generally accepted formula below:

unique word tokens / total words

There is a problem with this measurement, in that it takes no account of a text’s relative length. As a text gets longer, the likelihood of each word being used approaches 1. Therefore, a text gets less unique as it gets bigger. I have the correlations to prove it:

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There have been various solutions proposed to this quandary, which stymies our comparative analyses, somewhat. One among them is the use of vectorised measurements, which plot the text’s declining uniqueness against its word count, so we see a more impressionistic graph, such as this one, which should allow us to compare the word counts for James Joyce’s novels, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and his short story collection, Dubliners.

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All well and good for two or maybe even five texts, but one can see how, with large scale corpora, this sort of thing can get very incoherent very quickly. Furthermore, if one was to examine the numbers on the y-axis, one can see that the differences here are tiny. This is another idiosyncrasy of stylostatistical methods; because of the way syntax works, the margins of difference wouldn’t be regarded as significant by most statisticians. These issues relating to the measurement are exacerbated by the fact that ‘particles,’ the atomic structures of literary speech, (it, is, the, a, an, and, said, etc.) make up most of a text. In pursuit of greater statistical significance for their papers, digital literary critics remove these particles from their texts, which is another unforgivable that we do anyway. I did not, because I was concerned that I was complicit in the neoliberalisation of higher education. I also wrote a 4000 word chapter that outlined why what I was doing was awful.

IV: Ambiguity

The formula for ambiguity was arrived at by the following formula:

number of indefinite pronouns/total word count

I derived this measurement from Dr. Ian Lancashire’s study of the works of Agatha Christie, and counted Beckett’s use of a set of indefinite pronouns, ‘everyone,’ ‘everybody,’ ‘everywhere,’ ‘everything,’ ‘someone,’ ‘somebody,’ ‘somewhere,’ ‘something,’ ‘anyone,’ ‘anybody,’ ‘anywhere,’ ‘anything,’ ‘no one,’ ‘nobody,’ ‘nowhere,’ and ‘nothing.’ Those of you who know that there are more indefinite pronouns than just these, you are correct, I had found an incomplete list of indefinite pronouns, and I assumed that that was all. This is just one of the many things wrong with my study. My theory was that there were to be correlations to be detected in Beckett’s decreasing vocabulary, and increasing deployment of indefinite pronouns, relative to the total word count. I called the vocabulary measure ‘uniqueness,’ and the indefinite pronouns measure I called ‘ambiguity.’ This in tenuous I know, indefinite pronouns advance information as they elide the provision of information. It is, like so much else in the quantitative analysis of literature, totally unforgivable, yet we do it anyway.

V: Hapax Richness

I initially wanted to take into account another phenomenon known as the hapax score, which charts occurrences of words that appear only once in a text or corpus. The formula to obtain it would be the following:

number of words that appear once/total word count

I believe that the hapax count would be of significance to a Beckett analysis because of the points at which his normally incompetent narrators have sudden bursts of loquaciousness, like when Molloy says something like ‘digital emunction and the peripatetic piss,’ before lapsing back into his ‘normal’ tone of voice. Once again, because I was often working with a pen and paper, this became impossible, but now that I know how to code, I plan to go over my masters analysis, and do it properly. The hapax score will form a part of this new analysis.

VI: Code & Software

A much more accurate way of analysing vocabulary, for the purposes of comparative analysis when your texts are of different lengths, therefore, would be to randomly sample it. Obviously not very easy when you’re working with a corpus analysis tool online, but far more straightforward when working through a programming language. A formula for representative sampling was found, and integrated into the code. My script is essentially a series of nested loops and if/else statements, that randomly and sequentially sample a text, calculate the uniqueness, indefiniteness and hapax density ten times, store the results in a variable, and then calculate the mean value for each by dividing the result by ten, the number of times that the first loop runs. I inputted each value into the statistical analysis program SPSS, because it makes pretty graphs with less effort than R requires.

VII: Results

I used SPSS’ box plot function first to identify any outliers for uniqueness, hapax density and ambiguity. 1981 was the only year which scored particularly high for relative usage of indefinite pronouns.


It should be said that this measure too, is correlated to the length of the text, which only stands to reason; as a text gets longer the relative incidence of a particular set of words will decrease. Therefore, as the only texts Beckett wrote this year, ‘The Way’ and ‘Ceiling,’ both add up to about 582 words (the fifth lowest year for prose output in his life), one would expect indefiniteness to be somewhat higher in comparison to other years. However, this doesn’t wholly account for its status as an outlier value. Towards the end of his life Beckett wrote increasingly short prose pieces. Comment C’est (How It Is) was his last novel, and was written almost thirty years before he died. This probably has a lot to do with his concentration on writing and directing his plays, but in his letters he attributed it to a failure to progress beyond the third novel in his so-called trilogy of Molloy, Malone meurt (Malone Dies) and L’innomable (The Unnamable). It is in the year 1950, the year in which L’inno was completed, that Beckett began writing the Textes pour rien (Texts for Nothing), scrappy, disjointed pieces, many of which seem to be taking up from where L’inno left off, similarly the Fizzlesand the Faux Départs. ‘The Way,’ I think, is an outgrowth of a later phase in Beckett’s prose writing, which dispenses the peripatetic loquaciousness and the understated lyricism of the trilogy and replaces it with a more brute and staccato syntax, one which is often dependent on the repetition of monosyllables:

No knowledge of where gone from. Nor of how. Nor of whom. None of whence come to. Partly to. Nor of how. Nor of whom. None of anything. Save dimly of having come to. Partly to. With dread of being again. Partly again. Somewhere again. Somehow again. Someone again.

Note also the prevalence of particle words, that will have been stripped out for the analysis, and the ways in which words with a ‘some’ prefix are repeated as a sort of refrain. This essential structure persists in the work, or at least the artefact of the work that the code produces, and hence of it, the outlier that it is.

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From plotting all the values together at once, we can see that uniqueness is partially dependent on hapax density; the words that appear only once in a particular corpus would be important in driving up the score for uniqueness. While there could said to be a case for the hypothesis that Beckett’s texts get less unique, more ambiguous up until 1944, when he completed his novel Watt, and if we’re feeling particularly risky, up until 1960 when Comment C’est was completed, it would be wholly disingenuous to advance it beyond this point, when his style becomes far too erratic to categorise definitively. Comment C’est is Beckett’s most uncompromising prose work. It has no punctuation, no capitalisation, and narrates the story of two characters, in a kind of love, who communicate with one another by banging kitchen implements off another:

as it comes bits and scraps all sorts not so many and to conclude happy end cut thrust DO YOU LOVE ME no or nails armpit and little song to conclude happy end of part two leaving only part three and last the day comes I come to the day Bom comes YOU BOM me Bom ME BOM you Bom we Bom

VIII: Conclusion

I would love to say that the general tone is what my model is being attentive to, which is why it identified Watt and How It Is as nadirs in Beckett’s career but I think their presence on the chart is more a product of their relative length, as novels, versus the shorter pieces which he moved towards in his later career. Clearly, Beckett’s decision to write shorter texts, make this means of summing up his oeuvre in general, insufficient. Whatever changes Beckett made to his aesthetic over time, we might not need to have such complicated graphs to map, and I could have just used a word processor to find it — length. Bom and Pim aside, for whatever reason after having written L’inno none of Beckett’s creatures presented themselves to him in novelistic form again. The partiality of vision and modal tone which pervades the post-L’inno works demonstrates, I think far more effectively what is was that Beckett was ‘pitching’ for, a new conceptual aspect to his prose, which re-emphasised its bibliographic aspects, the most fundamental of which was their brevity, or the appearance of an incompleteness, by virtue of being honed to sometimes less than five hundred words.

The quantification of differing categories of words seems like a radical, and the most fun, thing to quantify in the analysis of literary texts, as the words are what we came for, but the problem is similar to one that overtakes one who attempts to read a literary text word by word by word, and unpack its significance as one goes: overdetermination. Words are kaleidoscopic, and the longer you look at them, the more threatening their darkbloom becomes, the more they swallow, excrete, the more alive they are, all round. Which is fine. Letting new things into your life is what it should be about, until their attendant drawbacks become clear, and you start to become ambivalent about all the fat and living things you have in your head. You start to wish you read poems instead, rather than novels, which make you go mad, and worse, start to write them. The point is words breed words, and their connections are too easily traced by computer. There’s something else about knowing that their exact correlations to a decimal point. They seem so obvious now.


Declan Kiberd at the Theatre of Memory Symposium

Declan Kiberd giving a rather brilliant talk on the state of Ireland, memory and its relationship to culture. Great readings of Yeats, Joyce and the revolutionary generation abound, albeit greenwashed slightly. Also has a dig at the revisionist historians, which I would make more of if it wasn’t for his great idea for a new, radical arts policy.

J.M. Coetzee’s ‘Disgrace’ and one-word titles

When discussing J.M. Coetzee’s novel Disgrace, one should probably start with its title. As you may have already noticed, it is one word long. It is striking in the promise that it implicitly makes in exploring the nature of the abstract concept of disgrace in itself. Reading the novel for the second time I was keen to figure out exactly what it is that Coetzee is saying about disgrace, more on that later, but is also set me off on the collecting of one-word abstract titles.

When I first learned about the novel as an undergrad, it was mostly through Ian Watt’s interesting but flawed study, The Rise of the Novel. For Watt, the novel was the first form that took account of the specific nature of the world. Social milieux, individualism and consumerism were the driving forces behind the emergence of the genre; abstraction was not within its repertoire. This is what makes the grand statements that underpin these one-word titles so captivating, it takes what is supposedly the most modern literary genre while pledging a return to medieval morality plays, when ‘human nature’ was not something we placed in quotation marks.

My bookshelves were as good a place to start in pursuit of this genre-within-a-genre as anywhere else and as such I submit the few that I have that do qualify, some that don’t and the few that are marginal or limit cases.


Martin Amis’ novel Success is one such example, but in terms of its exploration of the theme is sets for itself I’m uncertain how successful it is. It details two brothers, one of whom is more successful than the other in sexual, financial terms. At roughly the halfway point, the less successful, ‘nicer’ brother begins to overtake the other, only for the reader to find that the initially more successful brother’s success may have been a meta-fictional game all along. Success is moderately diverting as a narrative, but makes no grand statements in the way that one might wish. I own a copy of his novel Money and I’m hoping that it turns out to be more successful in that regard.

Ovid’s Metamorphoses is not strictly a novel, but from the parts that I have read (thin ice), it arguably anticipates the methodology of the maximalist novelists, such as Thomas Pynchon and David Foster Wallace with its encyclopaedic knowledge of classical myth and the scope of its ambition. Since Ovid’s subject matter is change, it stands to reason (and also idle speculation, I suppose), that he is articulating a vision of a world based primarily in change. That said, this figuration of Ovid as a poet who is aware of the mutability of all things is a very modern understanding.

Another example is Jonathan Franzen’s novel Freedom, a deft and fun examination of how our supposed free society offers more in the way of paralysis and frustration than fulfilment. His more recently published novel Purity, presumably qualifies too, but I haven’t read it yet. So.

I’m reliably informed that Milan Kundera’s Ignorance counts too, aswell as Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea. William S. Burroughs’ Junky may well also, it all depends on whether or not Burroughs acts the social diagnostician in it and says something in the way of all people being, in some way, junkies. Michel de Houellebecq’s Submission also springs to mind.


As fun as it would be to discuss in this regard, Homer’s The Iliad and The Odyssey don’t qualify, simply because of the presence of the definite article, bringing their total word counts to two and two respectively. Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, John McGahern’s The Barracks and many, many others don’t qualify for the same reason.

Paul Auster’s Invisible doesn’t count, the title is a bit too specific, but if it was called Invisibility, it could have, seeing as much of it is concerned with the general flightiness of the phenomenal world and the fundamental unknowability of all human beings, how their inner lives are rendered invisible to us.

The less said about John Williams’ Stoner and Philip Roth’s Everyman the better, they were two novels that I had been looking forward to reading for a long time and as such read them back-to-back. They turned out to be so disappointing I tapped out in the last fifty to seventy pages. That was a bad week. However, Roth deserves an honourable mention for engaging in the kind of thematising that these titles should encourage; the title is pilfered from a morality play about exactly these same kind of Big Questions about The Human Condition. However, it provides interesting takes of none of these and depicts instead the life of a highly successful businessman who realises that he should have stayed with his first, gently aged but of course still quite attractive wife Phoebe, rather than the supermodel that he ended up with. In both we’re supposed to be gently swept along in the unearned melancholic nostalgia and believe that they hold some kind of significance for the ‘everyman.’ Bilge.

Will Self’s Umbrella and Emma Donoghue’s Room are unfortunately not included for their quite literal object titles. Though one could no doubt mount an argument to the contrary James Joyce’s Dubliners, Ulysses must be disallowed also, again because of specificity.

War and Peace is a near miss, Tolstoy should have chosen one or the other.

Maybe/Haven’t Read Yet

I haven’t read A.S. Byatt’s doorstopper Possession yet, so I am unsure whether is qualifies. If the novel says Something Important about how the human mind can be overtaken or become obsessed with something outside of itself, it might well do. Updates when they become available. Ditto John Banville’s Athena (though I’m dubious, if the novel is concerned with any of the things that the goddess Athena supposedly embodies, wisdom, courage, etc, it could get through on a technicality), Paul Auster’s Leviathan and John McGahern’s Memoir (if it deals with the nature of Memoiring, yes, if it’s an Irish misery narrative, no).

So what does Coetzee’s novel say about the nature of disgrace? Even after two readings, I’m not quite sure. Reading the book always makes me look up the defintion of disgrace and internally flit between the book and The Compact OED. A disgrace is the disfavour of one in a powerful and an exalted position, “with the withdrawal of honour…which accompanies it.” Archaic definitions also involve deformities, this will be important later.

The novel depicts David Lurie, a lecturer in romantic poetry in a South African university. He begins an affair with one of his students and when this is found out, he becomes a shamed public figure. Lurie refuses the mandatory media narrative of public apology, contrition and rehabilitation and maintains that he was only being true to himself. His stubborn commitment Nietzschean ethics ultimately loses him his job and he retreats to his daughter’s farm.

While Lurie is staying at the smallholding, helping out with various menial tasks, the farm is attacked. Lucy is raped and Lurie is disfigured. To Lurie’s horror, Lucy keeps her farm, intends to keep the child that she has conceived and marry Petrus, a man who is implicated in the attack. Lucy explains that she intends to live this life ‘with no cards, no weapons, no property, no rights, no dignity,’ and Lurie’s gloss on her decision is as follows: “Like a dog.” “Yes,” she replies. “Like a dog.”

One can see why it is difficult to know what to make of this, when the only recourse against the trials that life submits one to is to abandon one’s dignity altogether. Lurie casting himself as a Byronic hero, as a “servant of eros” is unconvincing at best, self-indulgent at worst, a lecturer on poetry hopped up on his own iambs, ignoring the very real power relations present in his affair with his student Melanie. It is also his luxury to do so, and to plead the cause of his own individuality. In order to Lucy to continue to eke out an existence on her farm, she has no other choice.

Lurie’s own rationalisation is that: “It was history speaking through them. A history of wrong. Think of it that way, if it helps. It may have seemed personal, but it wasn’t. It came down from the ancestors.” We must submit ourselves, Coetzee seems to be saying, if not strictly to disgrace and hopefully, not to what Lucy undergoes, but to the ways in which life humbles us. what life humbles us with. It’s not a consolation, but anyone who’s read the ending will know that isn’t what this book is for.

J.M. Coetzee’s ‘In The Heart of the Country’ and Authorial Sadism

There is some PhD perhaps yet to be written on the nature of the cruelty that authors tend to visit upon their characters. I am thinking here of Thomas Hardy’s treatment of Jude Fawley in Jude the Obscure. The reason for the trials that the generally well-intentioned and benign Jude is put through by Hardy can be difficult to conceive of and if one didn’t have enough reason to do so already, would make one sympathise with Hardy’s wife. One thinks also James Joyce’s decision to grant his Dubliners the kind of autumnal vision that allows one to perceive one’s ridiculous tininess in the face of an apparently apathetic universe.

Samuel Beckett always speaks of his characters as ‘creatures’ in his letters and seems to have some fondness for them, calling Molloy ‘poor old Molloy’ on more than one occasion. Of course, this general fellow feeling is never enough for Beckett to allow Molloy to figure out who he is or where he is going or why, but then I suppose that would defeat the purpose of having written a novel about him.

Another relevant text in this context is J.M. Coetzee’s In The Heart of the Country. Coetzee wrote his masters thesis on a stylostatistical analysis of Samuel Beckett (great minds and all that) and his novels bear his influence. However, Coetzee makes an important departure.

It may be controversial to state this unequivocally, but it is fairly clear that Beckett’s characters exist for the most part in an Irish milieu, their language and sense of cultural norms bear the mark of this, at least in English translation. While Coetzee’s characters in In the Heart of the Country are definitely South African, they lack the kind of enabling sense of identity that this more secure national framework can sometimes provide. However, they still exist in South Africa, it is just the mythic arc that allows existence to in some way make sense that has been removed, leaving his characters to float in a yawning vacuity of nationlessness, in a domestic sphere that really is in need of something else beyond it.  This forces the protagonist, Magda to take action. As she says: “I make it all up in order that it shall make me up.”

Magda is a woman living with her father on the frontier of the veld. She is most likely, simply bored with her life and begins committing her rage-induced fantasies of murder and sex to paper, though she may equally be the murderer that she describes herself as being. The only problem with this is that one has to choose one among five of the differing accounts she gives of murdering her father and, occasionally, his lover, who may or may not exist.

Most of the novel is concerned with Magda’s profound inability to relate, to understand others, to adequately situate herself in relation to alterity. Her relationship with her father seems to cause her the most amount of angst, as was mentioned before, she spends an awful lot of time mulling his demise, but she is equally distressed by her inability to understand the native South African servants living in her home, Hendrik and Klein-Anna. They barely converse with one another, lacking an individuality to justify their nature as individuals. They are, to adapt a phrase from James Wood, neurasthenic clown actors in history’s ambien influenced nightmare without their scripts.

My Dissertation

I finished my dissertation – a quantitative analysis of the works of Samuel Beckett. There’s a copy available in Hodges & Figgis because I left one there.

Alternatively, here is the PDF.

Against the Wordle

Thoughts on James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man or ‘Revenge of the Cringe-Inducing Marginalia’ Part 2

In the previous post I confessed to having a first-year-of-undergraduate-itis when it came to annotating books that I was reading, taking up space in margins that should probably be reserved for my future self who (hopefully) knows a thing or two more about a thing or two than I do.

In the library, it’s generally the texts that are prescribed in first year that are in the worst nick, not least for the often jaw-dropping levels of hubris exhibited by its readers. If you want to see a sequence of teenagers who have recently encountered Karl Marx for the first time quibble uselessly with Terry Eagleton about his definition of a novel, you’ll know where to look. It sometimes impresses me that students in later years make an effort to respond; as if the page functions as an analogue comment board and that the conversation is some way ongoing.

As was made clear below, I wasn’t immune from the tendency myself, I also once explained Roland Barthes’ theory of the honest sign as reminiscent of the way Heath Ledger’s Joker moves in the Christopher Nolan film The Dark Knight. But occasionally my notes aren’t as oppressively baffling, as I found in my copy of James’s Joyce’s novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. The paragraph in question reads as follows:

“Now it seemed as if he would fail again but, by dint of brooding on the incident, he thought himself into confidence. During this process all those elements which he deemed common and insignificant fell out of the scene. There remained no trace of the tram itself nor of the tram-men nor of the horses: nor did he and she appear vividly. The verses told only of the night and the balmy breeze and the maiden lustre of the moon. Some undefined sorrow was hidden in the hearts of the protagonists as they stood in silence beneath the leafless trees and when the moment of farewell had come the kiss, which had been withheld by one, was given by both. After this the letters L. D. S. were written at the foot of the page, and, having hidden the book, he went into his mother’s bedroom and gazed at his face for a long time in the mirror of her dressing-table.”

My note helpfully notes: “Women, Freud, Lacan.”

What set me of on this trail was the presence of the mirror in the above scene, a bit of home décor that can get the interpretative ball rolling in any novel handily.

This is due to French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan’s theory of the mirror stage, a juncture in a person’s life in which their self begins to exist. According to Lacan, this happens when a child first perceives themselves as an individual subject, a being that is distinct from their mother. It doesn’t necessarily involve an actual mirror.

This is fitting and is a loaded scene because of how Portrait is a novel concerned with how its precocious child Stephen Dedalus grows into a pretentious aesthete. Portrait is an extended exploration of Dedalus’ mirror stage, as he begins to see himself ‘mirrored’ as a literary artist. This can be seen in Dedalus’ emulation of Narcissus, cosying up to his new self-image as a writer.

Anne Enright once said that becoming a writer is to adopt a position of importance. Dedalus’ swollen ego certainly comes across in his preening, gazing and autographing a piece of juvenilia with his whimsical pseudonym “L. D. S.,” as if mindful of future antiquarian Christmas addicts who will come calling for the relic of the author’s manuscripts.

Joyce is ambivalent about his creature, not just in the above quotation, but in this novel in general. Throughout, he leans a bit more heavily than he does in Dubliners on the irony dial, giving us plenty of hints that the reader shouldn’t be taking the antics of this aesthete seriously. Far from a budding Joyce, Dedalus may be what Joyce was at risk of becoming, if his self regard and consciousness had overwhelmed his capacity to write anything of note.

The rather ingenious way that Joyce has this come across in this scene is the fact that Dedalus’ mirror stage takes place while he inspects his reflection in his mother’s mirror, after having written what sounds like a horrendous poem.

It is just as likely that Dedalus’ mirror stage marks the futility of his adolescent declaration of “Non serviam!” He pinched the line from Milton anyway.

Thoughts on James Joyce’s ‘Dubliners’ or ‘Revenge of the Cringe Inducing Marginalia’

One of the guilty pleasures/occasions for misery that comes from re-reading a book is the re-inspection of old marginalia. It allows for the momentary solemn reflection on how far you have indeed come since those long gone dearly departed days, while simultaneously and no less solemnly jotting down new observations, truly the best observations that any observer has ever observed while reading James Joyce’s collection of short stories, Dubliners on the 130 bus.

However, occasionally a note from the undergraduate days, those long gone dearly departed undergraduate days, when an interpretation will strike one by virtue of its idiocy. I found one such the other day in the short story ‘Clay’ and it merits this public self-flagellation.

The paragraph reads as follows:

“But wasn’t Maria glad when the women had finished their tea and the cook and the dummy had begun to clear away the tea-things! She went into her little bedroom and, remembering that the next morning was a mass morning, changed the hand of the alarm from seven to six. Then she took off her working skirt and her house-boots and laid her best skirt out on the bed and her tiny dress-boots beside the foot of the bed. She changed her blouse too and, as she stood before the mirror, she thought of how she used to dress for mass on Sunday morning when she was a young girl; and she looked with quaint affection at the diminutive body which she had so often adorned. In spite of its years she found it a nice tidy little body.”

At the point in which Maria sets her alarm, I had written: “mastery over time. Derrida?”

Analysing the note, I find it to be indicative of the kind of critics I was into at the time. I wanted to find whatever critical approach, no matter how ostentatiously difficult, that would help me fashion a chart in which I could look up any book and therefore be able to stop worrying about how little I understood in the books I was reading.

I bought a book on metre in poetry and rigidly memorised the definitions of the terms ‘dactyl,’ ‘anapaest’ and ‘pyrrhic’ with the same intention. This all missed the crucial point in the application of a schema. What I didn’t learn until much later was that a character setting an alarm, a pyrrhic emphasis does not always mean the same thing in every situation. What is really at stake in the context in which these tropes are deployed.

Which is why the marginal note above is so fabulously ridiculous. Rather than reflecting a supposed mastery over time, a point at which one could bring in Mr. Derrida’s assault on the sacred cows of Western metaphysics, Maria’s setting of the alarm is intended as an assertion of utmost mundane-ness, just another part of her daily ritual of little, nice and tidy propositions.

Like the proverbial boiling frog (and the metaphor is particularly apposite, bearing in mind Joyce’s malevolence towards his creatures in this sequence of fifteen stories) each of ‘the Dubliners,’ are steeped in mundane details that are the unsung gems of the novel, stacked neatly and with admirable restraint before the apex/nadir of the epiphany. These are the hands of Maria’s clock, the bookshelf of James Duffy and the petit bourgeois existence of Jimmy Doyle’s father. Beyond the book’s famous snow, they deserve attention.