A number of short stories describing middle class life in Dublin. I doubt I will ever be a James Joyce fan, but he creates sometimes amazing imagery. The problem for me is that the arc of his stories never catch me. I never care about the characters or their lives. I love the detail and description, but there is no emotional connection for me.
"The Sisters"
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 snuffbox, 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 snuff 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 gree 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.
"Araby"
An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown impertubable faces.
