Little Deaths in Dublin

 

James Joyce's collection feels eerily familiar. It is a movement that captures the vignettes of urban life, lifting to the surface the subtle shifts in human emotions as we navigate the seemingly normal and the seemingly mundane. I never studied Irish history in school but the narrative here is redolent with desperation. Or rather, a sense of inescapable agony. Why is that? There is always that glimpse of hope that perhaps things could be different, as the diffident reader watches on, knowing that is not so. All in all, a searing and relentless memory of Dublin. Nothing is withheld.