Dubliners

Horrible, cursed thread
>most basic bitch choice for favourite story
>calls Dubliners 'comfy' when it's depressing as fuck
>only replies are about the story with the masturbating pedo, two bumps and this () which just speaks for itself
>state of Yea Forums 2019

Eveline was beautiful

Mine is Eveline. Clay and A Mother are also favourites.

Re-read it. I felt the same way when I first read it, I thought it was pointless autofiction. Read it again but carefully look at the symbols he uses: the use of music and 'The Lass of Aughrim', the Three Graces, symbols of love and death, the archangels Gabriel and Michael and their associations. It's this elegant interweaving of symbolism and realism that makes this story's finale so impactful.

Good reply

The Dead is amazing, but it doesn't feel like I'm reading Joyce. It feels like Flaubert or Chekhov or something. So it's kind of hard to judge by Joyce standards.

Two Gallants and Grace are my favorites.
Ivy Day in the Committee Room is also near perfect. I love how people just keep coming in and out of the room for no discernible reason. It's like a sitcom episode.

A Painful Case inspired me at a young age to stop being such a stick in the mud because I didn't want to miss out on the feast of life. That entire story is wonderfully written and heartbreaking in its final lines. The Dead has the greatest concluding passage but I find the bulk of it to be a slog.

You don't think the prose is comfy? Also, I agree, it is a bit sad that I had to bump this thread twice to actually get some discussion going. Actual literary discussion is becoming rare here.

Though I must say, I feel like you could have put a little more effort into saying why my favorite story in the book is "basic bitch" tier. I really love that story.

Dubliners is pretty mediocre at best.

Sorry, had to say it. You faggots will say anything to pretend to be well read.

>Arrogant shitpost which presents an argument without justifying it
State of lit

>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. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed.

>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.

Two Gallant impacted me especially. The anxiety of Leham—socially, economically, achievement-wise—is very relatably explored

>YOU HAVE TO EXPLAIN YOUR OPINION
No, I don't. You're a 90 IQ bugman if you think that piece of rubbish is any good. Consume more soi.

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Counterparts, most accurate depiction of feeling trapped and and aimless frustration I've ever come across.

Me, I prefer More Pricks than Kicks

Based