Notes
1 Urbanizing the Revival: Urban Planning, Irish Modernism, and Dublin
1. Arguably Andrew Thacker betrays a similar underlying assumption when he writes of ‘After the Race’: ‘Despite the characterisation of Doyle as a rather shallow enthusiast for motoring, the excitement of the car’s “rapid motion through space” is clearly associated by Joyce with a European modernity to which he, as a writer, aspired’ (Thacker 115). 2. Wirth-Nesher’s understanding of the city, here, is influenced by that of Georg Simmel, whereby the city, while divesting individuals of a sense of communal belonging, also affords them a degree of personal freedom that is impossible in a smaller community (Wirth-Nesher 163). Due to the lack of anonymity in Joyce’s Dublin, an indicator of its pre-urban or non-urban status, this personal freedom is unavailable to Joyce’s characters. ‘There are almost no strangers’ in Dubliners, she writes, with the exceptions of those in ‘An Encounter’ and ‘Araby’ (164). She then enumerates no less than seven strangers in the collection, arguing however that they are ‘invented through the transformation of the familiar into the strange’ (164). 3. Wirth-Nesher’s assumptions about Dublin’s status as a city are not really necessary to the focus of her analysis, which emphasizes the importance Joyce’s early work places on the ‘indeterminacy of the public and private’ and its effects on the social lives of the characters (166). That she chooses to frame this analysis in terms of Dublin’s ‘exacting the price of city life and in turn offering the constraints of a small town’ (173) reveals forcefully the pervasiveness of this type of reading of Joyce’s Dublin. 4. See, for example, Mathews, Kincaid, Rubenstein, and Strachan and Nally. 5. This covered the period 1853–69. For an analysis of Haussmann’s life and legacy, see Carmona. For an account of the political and social impact of his work on Paris, see Tombs (20–30). 6. For a comprehensive account of the history of urban planning in Europe and North America, focusing particularly on Britain, see Hall. 7. ‘With the four giants at the four corners / and four gates mid-wall Hooo Fasa / and a terrace the colour of stars / pale as the dawn cloud’ (Pound 425). 8. Parsons argues that the figure of the rag-picker is an example of such a new perspective, one simultaneously familiar with the city and marginalized from its social and cultural life. 9. Enda Duffy discusses the work of the anthropologist Marc Augé, who argued that the exercise of power involved the aggressive rationalization of ‘places’ with all of their historical associations and particularities into ‘non-place’, that is, spaces without cultural specificity or identity. In this process ‘placed- ness’ is ‘relegated to the status of vestige’ (Duffy 44).
213 214 Notes
10. For a comprehensive analysis of the work of the Wide Streets Commission, see Sheridan (108–35). For an analysis of the ways in which local and national politics influenced the work of the Commission, see McParland (101). 11. In the Stephen’s Green development, all owners were required to plant six sycamore trees, and there were also some general criteria laid down as to the allowable height and style of the buildings. See Sheridan (81–6). 12. Minutes of the Wide Streets Commission, held at Dublin City Archives, 1802 (16). 13. For a study of the conditions and history of Dublin’s extensive slums during this period, see Prunty. 14. See Brady (14–15). 15. For two such accounts of planning in Dublin, see Bannon and McManus. 16. For example the main thrust of the plan, we are told, is slum clearance (vii). Although this is intended as a philanthropic gesture, it forms part of a policy of suburbanization and urban beautification that is more in keeping with the tendency of planning generally to seek to eradicate visible signs of poverty, or to seek physical determinist solutions to it rather than engaging with its deeper causes. 17. For an analysis of this type of dual temporality, and the aesthetic effects on writers from countries that have experienced it, see Parry, especially Chapter 10, ‘Tono-Bungay: the Failed Electrification of the Empire of Light’ (148–61). 18. Walkowitz and Mao also note that the ‘transnational turn’ in modernist studies is related to a shift in emphasis within literary criticism towards a more direct interrogation of how literature engages with the state apparatus as it manifests itself in daily life: ‘literary scholars seem more and more to be augmenting broadly Foucauldian approaches to the subject’s fashioning by putatively apolitical institutions, experts, and norms with attention to the dissemination of overtly political rhetoric, to perplexities of sovereignty as such, and to writers’ confrontations with immediate apparitions of the state.’ (745) 19. Jessica Berman’s reading of the modernist Bildungsroman (which draws upon that of Jed Esty) is informative in this regard. Noting that the developmental narrative of such texts is often frustrated by an anti-teleological turn in their plots, she argues that what often disrupts the protagonist’s development is a colonial plot or setting. They ‘are anti-developmental fictions set in under- developed zones’ that speak to us about the ‘connection between modernist aesthetics and modern colonialism’ (475). This is an example of the way that a given form can be transposed into a new context in order to highlight certain aspects of that society (the lack of possibility for growth and develop- ment due to colonial strictures), which also serve to inflect and alter the form that is transposed enough to warrant interrogating a form’s relations with a given locale. Richard Begam and Michael Valdez Moses argue, similarly, that Joyce’s use of stream-of-consciousness and the ‘mythic method’ serves ‘not so much to establish the novel’s universalism as to insist on its decolonizing particularism’ (11). 20. We might helpfully view such networks of exchange in terms of what Melba Cuddy-Keane has called ‘cultural globalization’: ‘Cultural globalization is found in “patterns of reciprocal interaction”’, ranging through ‘homogeni- zation, contestation, hybridization and indifference’ (544). The definitive Notes 215
quality of cultural globalization thus lies in interactivity and interdepend- ency. In this definition global cultural exchange is not a process of intermix- ture through which participants move from the provincial to the universal, but rather a complex set of interactions between localities, or involving dif- ferent reactions between cultures, a form of negotiation, involving hybridiza- tion in some places, resistance in others. ‘Globalization thus does not exclude identity as conceived in terms of geopolitical boundaries; but it situates those constructs within a multidirectional, global space. The geopolitical and the global will always coexist.’ Ultimately, Cuddy-Keane’s reading of cultural globalization is a humanistic-liberal one in which it is a benign process of cross-fertilization of ideas juxtaposed with a seemingly destructive economic globalization. This reading does not address how cultural globalization reflects economic globalization, is often complicit in it, and is indeed scarcely separa- ble from it. 21. Among the examples of such art Williams mentions News From Nowhere (1890) by William Morris, in which the protagonist awakes in twenty-first- century London, which has been radically decentralized with the suburbs melting back into the countryside and only the more beautiful areas (like Trafalgar Square) surviving. Williams also mentions H. G. Wells, James Thomson’s Doom of a City (1857) and City of Dreadful Night (1874), Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927), and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932). 22. As Seamus Deane notes, almost all writers of this period responded to that paradigm. The ‘urge to make what was strange’, namely a recalcitrant Ireland, ‘familiar’ produced a subversion of that discourse that opened a new space in which to represent Ireland differently: ‘predicated on the shared belief that the country had never been adequately (or at all) represented before. The sense of an initiatory blankness, or emptiness, and the evolu- tion of the techniques by which it could be filled is an abiding one in Irish writing’ (120). The production of this cultural space (and, presumably, the initiatory blankness), Deane links to the experimentalism of Irish writing, arguing that it is experimental because it is in search of modes of cultural pro- duction that will find a way of representing Ireland beyond its linkage with Britain: ‘For the Dublin, the Ireland, he [Joyce] wrote of was, in an important sense, a nowhere, a territory not yet represented, a place caught between geography and history. The sacralizing agency in Joyce, as in these others, is displaced from the territory, or the nation, to the action of representing it. Representation becomes the auratic process by which a place that had been misrepresented or not represented at all finally achieves presence’ (133). 23. See Grene (135–47).
2 A Drama in Muslin and the Formation of an Irish Urban Modernism
1. For a discussion of Moore’s time in Paris and its influence on his artistic development, see Crisler. 2. Moore tells us that soon after arriving in Paris he begins to write ‘natural- ist’ poetry (‘Poems of Flesh and Blood’) which he regards as largely a col- lection of clichés about modern life: ‘ “Elle mit son plus beau chapeau, son 216 Notes
chapeau bleu”… and then? Why, then picking up her skirt, she threads her way through the crowded streets, reads the advertisements on the walls, hails the omnibus, inquires at the concierge’s loge, murmurs as she goes upstairs, “Que c’est haut le cinquième”, and then? Why, the door opens, and she cries, “Je t’aime.”’ (Confessions 62). But the clichés themselves do imply a disengagement from emotionality as the driving force in his writing, and an embrace of a new set of aesthetic values capable of capturing the essence of urban modernity: ‘But it was the idea of the new aestheticism – the new art corresponding to modern, as ancient art corresponded to ancient life – that captivated me, that led me away, and not a substantial knowledge of the work done by the naturalists’. The notion of a style or form that is related to the nature of modernity fascinates him, while the actual practice of that style is relatively incidental. 3. After the massive success of A Mummer’s Wife, through which Moore seemed to have succeeded in his aim of establishing himself as ‘un ricochet de Zola en Angleterre’ (or the more specific ‘Zola’s ricochet in London’, Frazier, George Moore 104), an American correspondent wanted to write up an article on him. ‘Moore mentioned Flowers of Passion and Pagan Poems, but hoped the journalist wouldn’t. They were not parts of the self he was now creating – a serious character, and an international modernist author’ (116). It is with this novel, then, that Moore regards himself as having entered the field of modern literature. For Moore the self-creator, that necessitated disavowing his earlier work that was so indebted to a premodern literary sensibility. 4. Thus, having helped Eleanor Marx to get a contract from Vizetelly to trans- late Madame Bovary, Moore heavily influenced the novel’s introduction, which dealt with the circulating libraries, comparing Flaubert and Zola ‘to Flaubert’s advantage’ and going on to say that ‘Moore himself is one of only two living novelists who belong to the school of Flaubert, rather than the naturalist school of Zola. That is just how Moore wished to be seen in April 1886’ (Frazier, George Moore 127). This was at the time when Moore was composing A Drama in Muslin. 5. This view is echoed in A Drama in Muslin: ‘For Dublin is a city without a conviction, without an opinion. Things are right and wrong according to the dictum of the nearest official’ (191). 6. See Fraser, John Bull’s Other Homes (4). 7. Frazier regards Moore’s declaration of his ‘nationalism’ in the context of his correspondence with the Review as opportunistic. Primarily, he argues, the book was about morality, society, and sexual relationships. The decision to push it as a political text is a response to the ‘Hawarden kite’, William Gladstone’s con- version to Home Rule, a momentous change in British parliamentary politics that rendered it opportune to have a book dealing with the issue. Thus, he ‘defined his novel as a book on Irish national liberation’: ‘In fact, A Drama in Muslin is a political – even a Home Rule – novel too, indicting with a sort of merciless, inward sympathy “an entire race, a whole caste…”’ (134). 8. The Marquis’s lamentation that ‘Dublin, they say, is undermined with secret societies, and the murder that was committed the other day in Sackville Street was the punishment they inflict on those whom they even remotely suspect of being informers’ similarly reflects a pervasive fear of the city as a threatening site of potential social instability and sedition (A Drama in Muslin 201). Notes 217
9. In his essay ‘Balzac’ Moore writes ‘it occurred to me that possibly the only way to a suggestion of the vastness of Balzac lay through the minor pieces. However this may be, and before we start on our adventure, let us for a moment view the city from this last ridge, whence we can see it spreading over the plain, beautiful in its magnitude – famous public ways and squares clearly defined; and far away, under the horizon, vapoury indications of rampart and outlying fort’ (Impressions and Opinions 3). The similarity with his panorama of Dublin is striking, as is the utter difference in tone. The effect of comparing the two passages once again emphasizes the sense of Dublin as a culturally decrepit space. 10. Moore frequently associates Catholicism with an earlier stage of intellec- tual development and modernization than Protestantism or atheism. In Confessions he writes that independence of mind, and a love for Byron and Shelley, ‘saved me from intellectual savagery’ at a ‘hateful Roman Catholic college’ (3). In Hail and Farewell: Salve, bemoaning Dublin’s expanding con- sumerist culture, he remarks that ‘To keep Dublin it might be well to allow it to slumber in its Catholicism’ (254). 11. Adrian Frazier argues that, for all of its apparent pessimism, the novel clearly delineates the changes in Irish society that were necessary. Discussing the scene in which Alice and Dr Reed pay a tenant’s rent in order to spare them eviction only to be told that there are countless others who will suffer evic- tion anyway, he writes: ‘It is possible to take a strong view of the irony in this passage, yet Moore’s pessimism at this stage was not all-consuming. The novel makes clear what he thought ought to be done: clear out Dublin Castle, educate women, put the landed aristocracy to work, gradually enable the peasants to come into ownership of the land, and begin to create a degree of civilisation in Ireland’ (George Moore 135). The problem with this interpretation, though it is valid enough, is that there seems to be no agent for it in the novel. Alice and Dr Reed leave, utterly abandoning any hope of effecting change in Ireland. To say that Moore thought all this should hap- pen is one thing, but the novel remains fatalistic in not giving any glimmer of hope that it can. 12. See Cleary, Outrageous Fortune (114) for a discussion of this contradiction in an Irish context. 13. For further discussion of naturalism as an intrinsically static literary form, tending towards resignation about the possibility for necessary social reform in the absence of a set of social dynamics, see David Baguley, ‘The Nature of Naturalism’ and Naturalist Fiction. 14. Cleary posits as one of the reasons that naturalism could not comprehend the socially integrated causes for people’s oppression in society as follows: ‘The late nineteenth-century expansion of capitalism via imperialism onto a more fully global scale may have meant that neither individual nation- states nor even continental Europe as a whole could any longer be properly comprehended as discrete, knowable spaces’ (Outrageous Fortune 122). Thus, the position of the character in his or her society cannot be comprehended because the full complexity of the system that puts him there cannot be comprehended in toto. I would argue that this conundrum or inadequacy is actually played out at the level of the cityscape itself, where characters constantly strive to understand their place in a system they cannot fully 218 Notes
know, while this perspective shows a wider city that is invisible to the striv- ing character. In pointing out the limitations of the characters’ perspective, this approach also indicates the limitations of the narrative itself. 15. In his essay ‘Une Recontre Au Salon’ Moore expands a little on his idea of the villa as the hallmark of an oncoming mediocrity: ‘if all that you say be right we have immortality; not on account of any merit we possess, but because of the mediocrity that will follow us. We are the demi-gods, and the demi- gods are to-night going to dine with the gods, with the last of the old world’s gods’ (Impressions and Opinions 217).
3 ‘A Space-embracing Somewhere, Beyond Surmise, Beyond Geography’: Visions of the City in the Irish Revival
1. See, for example, Michael Rubenstein, who traces the development of what he regards as an Irish cultural antipathy to public works and other mate- rial modes of modernization to an ‘overriding sense … that Ireland was a brutal experimental testing ground for the most unpopular kinds of public works’ (23). This sense was most forcefully articulated by John Mitchel, who popularized the idea of the Famine as a genocide designed ‘to get rid of a recalcitrant population that was in the way – physically and culturally – of a massive push toward agricultural modernization’ (26). This traumatic experi- ence of modernization, he argues, helped to configure the antimodern thrust of much revival writing. 2. Frazier argues in ‘Irish Modernisms’ that the Land Acts largely shaped the romanticism of much revivalist writing: ‘if there is something Irish about Irish modernists, one of the most distinctively national traits is that they were living through a period when the material basis for their own social class was melting away.’ (121) 3. This argument is most fully articulated by Kiberd. See also Castle (3–8). For a discussion of the effect on the literary revival of both the rise of the Catholic middle class and of the consequent sense of isolation and marginalization among the Protestant Ascendancy, see Foster. Terence Brown (7–21) similarly links Protestants’ involvement in Irish cultural nationalism with the erosion of their social position throughout the nineteenth century beginning with Catholic Emancipation. 4. In an Irish context, this meant supplanting images of the landlord–tenant relationship with fictive portraits of the noble peasant living harmoniously with nature and under the protection of a benign aristocracy, or nostalgic rec- ollections of an untroubled and organic relationship with the rural landscape. What is interesting is that this reversed the tendency of many key Irish writ- ers from earlier in the nineteenth century, such as Maria Edgeworth, William Carleton, Emily Lawless and, as we have seen, George Moore, all of whom were concerned with the material relations underpinning Irish rural life. 5. See Horgan: ‘If the very substance of the nation is premised on a particular ideology that views rural life as the truth and ideal of Irish life, then gen- eral disdain for Dublin, as the place where what is not Irish occurs, was inevitable’ (40). He continues: ‘Suspicion of the central city characterizes the provincial imaginary in general, though in Ireland this suspicion is given Notes 219
a peculiar remoulding in unveiling a paranoid sensibility around Dublin’s erasure of the essence of Irishness’ (41). Daly argues in a similar vein that rural depopulation became synonymous with ‘loss of race or nationhood’ (191) while rural imagery became ‘essentially romantic and devoid of realis- tic content’ (192). For a discussion of how such attitudes became embedded not just in cultural production but in actual policy advocacy, see Devereux. 6. ‘The Catholic Church by and large disengaged from urban problems, not just because of the perceived concentration of vice and the secularizing tendency inherent in urbanization, but also because Dublin was to be feared as the place where socialists could and would triumph, a fear exacerbated by the 1913 Lock-Out’ (Horgan 43). 7. ‘[T]he cities were where colonialism had had the greatest impact on the landscape. Indeed, Dublin had inherited an unmistakably colonial imprint and the opportunity for levelling and reconstruction along the lines of Hausmannian Paris certainly did not arise in a newborn country that could ill afford to assign funds to such a massive undertaking’ (Horgan 42). 8. This contention is most eloquently articulated by O’Toole: ‘What has been missing has been a Utopian tradition, drawing its poetry from the future, taking the city as the ground of transformation to set against the tradition of the Golden Age which draws its poetry from the past, taking the country as the ground of timeless, ahistorical innocence. For it is in the nature of the city that it cannot be merely represented without being transformed. The later O’Casey tried to show the city by transforming it, viewing its daily realities from the point of view of the future, of a radically altered Holy City. Joyce, having named the city and informed its daily realities with new dimensions of symbol and myth in Ulysses, went on to the Utopian geogra- phy of Finnegans Wake in which the city achieves a new unity by absorbing the country, history and the world. But these attempts to make Dublin a new Jerusalem, the stirrings of a genuinely urban literature do not amount to a tradition’ (116). 9. See Hirsch. 10. See, for example, Joseph O’Leary: ‘[Hail and Farewell] aims to rescue the Irish Literary Renaissance from its own retrograde tendencies’ (90). 11. See, for example, Mathews and Rubenstein. 12. As both a prominent aristocratic figure and the wife of the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, Lady Aberdeen is an unlikely purveyor of Irish patriotic senti- ment. As Janice Helland has shown, however, both she and her husband were popular figures among nationalists in Dublin, at least in the 1880s. When leaving the city in August 1886 at the end of the Earl of Aberdeen’s first tenure as Lord Lieutenant, they were seen off by a huge crowd waving green flags as well as the flags of France and America. Helland’s essay details Lady Aberdeen’s keen interest in Irish handicrafts and materials, arguing that in wearing Irish garments she was able to perform a type of Irishness befitting her social standing that posed a challenge to inherited stereotypes about Irish identity. See Helland. 13. See McManus: ‘Garden suburb ideas were often seen as too idealistic, given the scale of the housing problem, and it has been suggested that their pro- motion was confined to a relatively small group of middle-class reformers.’ 14. See Nemo. 220 Notes
15. Discussing the generally rural focus of Gaelic revival texts, O’Leary notes that one Dublin Gael had complained ‘that through his reading he had acquired a truly impressive and entirely useless familiarity with the practices and accoutrements of farm life.’ Complaining that he had no land or livestock, he continued, ‘it’s not only that I don’t have them, but it’s very rarely I even see them, except for the horses I see going through the town in which I live’ (402). O’Leary goes on to quote ‘Fear na Cathrach’ writing in Fainne an Lae in 1898: ‘If Irish is only suited for the country, it’s not a national language at all, but only a poor dialect that’s not worth discussion or debate.’ He goes on to note that for the nation and language to thrive it must be in contact with ‘the great move- ments of the world’, a feat only possible in the city. Padraig Pearse, ‘the most influential voice calling for a truly modern literature’ had similarly bemoaned the failure of Irish language literature to embrace modernity sufficiently: ‘This is the twentieth century; and no literature can take root in the twentieth cen- tury which is not of the twentieth century’ (O’Leary 404). The necessity among those in the language revival, then, was for the development not just of an Irish language of the city, but of native speakers of modern life in Irish. 16. A 1 May 1909 article published in An Claidheamh Soluis entitled ‘An Baile Gaedhealach’ called for the establishment of an Irish-speaking suburb of Dublin. 17. ‘A motion passed at one London Gaelic League meeting in early 1920 … agreed that one child should be sent from each local school to a Gaeltacht area for a fortnight’s holiday, the relaxed wink and wave of rural Ireland being seen as more conducive to the learning of Irish language, customs and traditions than the impersonal scramble of life in London. In this regard the London Gaelic League was in keeping with the Gaelic revivalist movement to which it adhered. This movement had long been, to a great extent, an ide- ological expression of rural life, values and mores. Urban settings in England, by contrast, were often portrayed in Gaelic revivalist literature as sources of vice and corruption and the antithesis of the rural idyll espoused by Gaelic Ireland. London, according to such thinking, was the very embodiment of amoral urban lifestyles and was often treated with antipathy’ (Gannon 92). 18. For a discussion of this presentation, see Kincaid (71–2). 19. ‘But she was out of reach; his hand, high-flung as it might be, could not get to her. He went furiously to the Phoenix Park, to St. Stephen’s Green, to outlying leafy spots and sheltered lanes, but she was in none of these places. He even prowled about the neighbourhood of her home and could not meet her.’ (177–8) 20. ‘The Results of Revolution’, Irish Builder and Engineer (13 May 1916), 202. 21. For example the main thrust of the plan, we are told, is slum clearance (vii). Although this is intended as a philanthropic gesture, it forms part of a policy of suburbanization and urban beautification that is more in keeping with the tendency of planning generally to seek to eradicate visible signs of poverty, or to seek physical determinist solutions to it rather than engaging with its deeper causes. 22. Ramazani illustrates this point with reference to Yeats, the surface simplicity of whose identifications quickly give way to unfathomable complexity upon closer analysis: Notes 221
Yeats is another poet whose life and work, despite his intermittent cultural nationalism, exceed the bounds of a nationalist disciplinary framework. Although usually tagged unambiguously Irish, he shuttled between England and Ireland, identified with both Irish nationalism and the Anglo-Irish Protestant Ascendancy, pined after an Irishwoman and mar- ried an Englishwoman, and collaborated with such South Asians as Tagore and Shri Purohit Swami. His writing hybridizes English and Irish genres, meters, and orthographies while also incorporating forms and motifs from East and South Asia. Poetry is a means of transgeographic and cross- temporal travel, he suggests in ‘Sailing to Byzantium’, and in ‘Lapis Lazuli’, he intercuts Renaissance England, modern Europe, ancient Greece, and China. Just as a transnational poetics can provide a unifying ground for poets as seemingly unlike as McKay and Eliot, Yeats’s violent ambivalences toward his Irish and English inheritances, in a poem such as ‘Easter, 1916’, can be compared with Mina Loy’s fractured identifications, his cross- national and cross-cultural interstitiality with hers, although Yeats and Loy are generally thought of as having almost nothing in common – Yeats as a canonical Irish monolith, Loy as a recent entrant into a more experi- mental Anglo-American countercanon. Loy’s ‘Anglo-Mongrel’ verse reflects American, English and Continental influences in its harsh, edgy surfaces and interlingual mixture. Multiply alienated, as indicated by her discomfit- ing manipulation of stereotypes of Englishness and Jewishness, this Anglo- Euro-Judeo-American poet had grown up with a Protestant English mother and a Jewish Hungarian immigrant father, wryly allegorized as ‘Alice the gentile / Exodus the Jew’ in ‘Anglo-Mongrels and the Rose’, before she left England for Italy, France, New York, Paris, again New York, and finally Aspen … Helping to put in relief stylistic and cultural commonalities and differences, a cross-national paradigm enables us to recognize that both Loy and Yeats were bricoleur migrants entangled in, and tensely divided amid, the various cultural affiliations mediated in their poetry. (339)
4 ‘A More Spacious Age’: Reimagining the City in Dubliners
1. As Desmond Harding points out, one of the central tensions that emerge in Dubliners consists in ‘a fading minority Ascendancy culture coexisting alongside a displaced but burgeoning Catholic majority’ (55). 2. See also Gibson, James Joyce (68–76). Gibson discusses the connections between the personal failures of Dubliners characters and broad historical processes. For example, he connects the repeated failure of Irish independ- ence movements to the sense of ineluctable failure that pervades many characters’ psyches. 3. Garry Leonard suggests that Chandler’s fantasy is fueled by erotic postcards of ‘primitive beauties’ photographed for ostensibly anthropological purposes (Leonard, Commodity Culture 94) 4. Farrington’s frustration with his boss, Mr Alleyne, is twice directed towards his ‘piercing Northern Ireland accent’ (D 86, 92). 222 Notes
5. For another discussion of the importance of an indeterminate elsewhere to Eveline’s process of identity formation, see Leonard, ‘Wondering Where All the Dust Comes From’. 6. Jim LeBlanc points out that in ‘Araby’, when the children who attend the Christian Brother’s School are ‘set free’, they begin playing, which is to say acting out fantasies made possible when they are beyond the observational scope of the school as an integrative institution (231). 7. The line continues, ‘and yet a force pushed him downstairs step by step’, a striking instance of a character’s sense of agency being usurped by abstract social and cultural conditions of which he has no perception. 8. See Keith Williams (160–1). 9. Bush argues that Joyce’s decision to turn away from the ‘trustworthy’ omnis- cient narrator is influenced by Flaubert (10–38). Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren have also analyzed the sense of distance between subjective and objective experience created by perspective in ‘Araby’ (192). John Paul Riquelme has also analyzed what he calls Dubliners’ ‘oscillating perspective’ for the ways in which it invites us to view subjectivity through an objective lens, thereby undermining any sense in which the characters possess real subjectivity (90–104). 10. Coilin Owens has recently demonstrated how ‘After the Race’ incorporates the route of the parade marking the centenary commemoration of Robert Emmet’s rebellion. Owens thereby draws attention to the ways in which the actual 1903 race, with all its attendant technological advances and publicity, reflected a broader understanding of British hegemony in Ireland as riding roughshod over nationalist historical sensibilities (Owens 30–46). 11. Taking his daily meal in George’s Street, Duffy ‘felt himself safe from the society of Dublin’s gilded youth’ (D 109). 12. Roberta Jackson has argued that Duffy’s self-isolation is a result of his clos- eted homosexuality: ‘He has no wish to associate himself with the very insti- tutions that foster and enforce both the homosocial cohesiveness between men and the homophobia supporting it’ (91). Work such as that of Jackson is important, because it overcomes the tendency in much older criticism to take Joyce’s statements about Dublin as the center of paralysis at face value, rather than attempting to uncover the systems of causality behind that paralysis and to examine the relationship between city and citizen in its full complexity. Nevertheless Jackson’s point does not undermine my argument that, ultimately, Duffy’s emotional turmoil stems from his lack of engagement with the institutions of civic life, although it provides a sound rationalization for that lack of engagement. 13. In 1905, while composing Dubliners, Joyce wrote to Stanislaus in Dublin asking him whether or not Aungier Street and Wicklow Street were in the Royal Exchange Ward, if the police at Sydney Parade were a part of D Division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, and if an accident occurred at Sydney Parade, whether or not the ambulance would bring the victims to St Vincent’s Hospital. His commitment to the accurate depiction of the civic administration of the city was therefore as thorough as that given to the city’s topography (Letters II 108). 14. See, for example, Anderson (65). 15. See McCourt (81). Notes 223
16. See Letters II (171). 17. See Duffy, The Subaltern Ulysses (44). Duffy discusses the work of the anthropologist Marc Augé, who argued that the exercise of power involved the aggressive rationalization of ‘places’ with all their historical associa- tions and particularities, into ‘non-places’, spaces without cultural speci- ficity or identity. In this process ‘placedness’ is ‘relegated to the status of vestige.’ 18. See Barthes. 19. De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (xii–xiii). Further references to this work will be cited in parentheses. 20. See Cheng (139). 21. Neillands (32). 22. During the course of the nineteenth century, in fact, the Corporation became a more nationalist-orientated body, so much so that it took great pains to place new monuments to nationalist figures such as Daniel O’Connell in highly visible situations, as a deliberate attempt to counteract the prevailing ideological tenor of the city. See Brady (14–15). 23. Whelan (80–2). 24. Jeri Johnson notes that this poem is a source for Gabriel’s speech. See Joyce, Dubliners, ed. Jeri Johnson, 275 n. 27.
5 A Portrait of the City
1. Wolfgang Schivelbusch notes that the advent of the railway necessitated that the area on which the track was built be leveled. Just as the mechanization of transport changed the perception of distance, the replacement of natural irregularity with mechanical regularity meant ‘the traveller felt that he lost contact with the landscape’ (23). 2. See Carey. Carey sees this tradition, which also includes D. H. Lawrence and E. M. Forster, as a by-product of the modernist disdain for the ‘masses’ pro- duced by large-scale industrialization and urbanization. 3. For discussions of how particular images (particularly those depicting empty rural space) became bywords for the suffering and aftermath of the Famine, see Morash (ed.), and Kelleher. 4. In ‘The Trieste Notebook’ Joyce had noted: ‘The curfew is still a nightly fear in her starving villages’ (Workshop of Daedalus, 100). 5. For a discussion of the importance of the Dublin Civic Survey Report, see Prunty (187–8). 6. Of the population of 290,638 in Dublin according to the 1901 census, an overwhelming 155,744 belonged to the class described as ‘Indefinite and Non-Productive’ (Flinn 8). 7. Hepburn posits that ‘Stephen prefers the streets of Dublin in which to develop his aesthetic theories, because being outside allows him to escape his overcrowded house. In the streets, he can confound class expectations. The boulevardier can pretend to belong to a class by striking the right poses in public’ (214). However there is little evidence that Stephen’s wanderings enable him to escape the economic realities of his domestic life, and I would argue that his embrace of the most impoverished districts of the city 224 Notes
is suggestive of a more complex relationship with the streetscape. Certainly I can see no persuasive examples of Stephen pretending to belong to a class that he does not after he leaves Clongowes Wood. 8. Jeri Johnson notes that Stephen is not, in fact, in Dublin’s Jewish quarter at this point (P 243 n84.14). A little later, during the sermon at his school retreat, Stephen hears that one of the humiliations Christ suffers is to be ‘hustled through the streets by the Jewish rabble’ (100). The reference to the quarter of the Jews might thus symbolically render Stephen as a kind of perverse Christ-figure in this scene, as well as serving to incorrectly endorse an anti-Semitic stereotype. 9. Joyce’s father is once reported to have said of his son, ‘If that fellow was dropped in the middle of the Sahara, he’d sit, be God, and make a map of it’ ( JJII 28). 10. Stephen frequently relies upon signifiers in order to orient himself in space. During his trip to Cork with his father, he becomes ‘sick and powerless’ because he is unable to ‘interpret the letters of the signboards of the shops’. To calm himself, he thinks: ‘I am Stephen Dedalus. I am walking beside my father whose name is Simon Dedalus. We are in Cork, in Ireland. Cork is a city. Our room is in the Victoria Hotel. Victoria and Stephen and Simon. Simon and Stephen and Victoria. Names’ (P 77–8). 11. Kain notes that Stephen’s calling Dublin ‘the seventh city of Christendom’, despite its grandiose and seemingly complimentary overtones, probably refers to the Book of Revelation, in which there are seven churches of which the last, Loadicea is described thus: ‘I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art luke- warm, and neither cold not hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth’ (3:15–16, quoted in Kain 174).
6 ‘If My Memory Serves Me’: the Subject, Memory, and Democratic Planning in ‘Wandering Rocks’
1. Ellmann also notes that in Exiles Robert claims that all Dublin statues are of two kinds, the one that asks ‘How shall I get down?’ and the other that says ‘In my time the dunghill was so high’ (JJII 92 n.). 2. Clive Hart does refer to the ‘narrator’ and even to his ‘difficult personal- ity’, however his essay has done more than any other to reveal the extent to which the episode acts as an organized system, so that we may regard his deployment of this vocabulary as expedient rather than fundamental to the analysis (‘Wandering Rocks’ 186). At the beginning of the essay he seems to identify Joyce, ‘exercising his will’ over the city, as the narra- tive voice, and again, this is not indispensable to the argument that Hart makes. 3. This is an idea shared by Bloom, and which forms the basis for the latter’s fantasy of becoming the Lord Mayor in ‘Circe’. 4. Arguably this passage could also be regarded as a narrative projection, rather than Conmee’s imagination. However the sense of subjective control that Conmee appears to have over the narrative’s progress in this section lends legitimacy to the latter interpretation. Notes 225
5. The idea of Conmee as an imaginative planner of the city with an acute anti-urban bias need not be regarded as being so contradictory as it appears. Many of the precursors to modern planning displayed a distinctly anti-urban bias. Ebenezer Howard’s Garden Cities of Tomorrow, first published in 1898, saw the remedy to the problems of crime, poverty, and congestion in the city as lying outside of the city itself. In effect, the ‘Garden City’ attempted to alleviate urban problems by removing people from urban areas, blurring the distinction between rural and urban life. The earliest urban planners, then, often regarded the city itself as the problem, and urban planning not as a mode of dealing with the city, but as a solution to the problem of the city. 6. Again, this preoccupation with gardens and parks is unsurprising given that the leading adjudicator was Patrick Geddes, an important figure in the early planning movement and an exponent of Howard’s Garden City principles. 7. The role of printing as an integrative technology is emphasized in ‘Lestrygonians’ when Bloom thinks of The Irish Times that it has ‘Got the provinces now’ (U 8.334). One is also reminded of the description in ‘Eumaeus’ of the newspaper as ‘the allembracing give us this day our daily press’ (16.1237–8). For a discussion of the relationship between Ulysses and the newspaper, see Kiberd 463–81. See also Kenner, Mechanic Muse 69–70. 8. Dunsink Time was abolished by the British government in August 1916 through the Time (Ireland) Act. As a measure of the extent to which the question of time had become politicized in Ireland, it is informative to note that writers such as Fr R. S. Devane regarded this act as retaliation for the 1916 Rising. Luke Gibbons relates this incident to Bloom’s apprehension of the discrepancy between Dunsink and Greenwich time, arguing persua- sively that this is an example of the persistence of ‘different time-frames or “chronotopes” which overlap and interpenetrate each other: clock- time, psychological time, and the political time sedimented in the build- ings and streetscapes encountered by the various characters’ (‘Spaces of Time’ 80–5). 9. A statement of Joyce’s to Arthur Power would appear to corroborate this subjectivist reading of the novel: ‘… when I was writing Ulysses I tried to give the colour and tone of Dublin with my words; the drab, yet glistening atmosphere of Dublin, its hallucinatory vapours, its tattered confusion, the atmosphere of its bars, its social immobility – they could only be conveyed by the texture of my words’ (Power 98). David Pierce offers an alterna- tive view, stressing the objective topographical details of the novel: ‘Joyce employs so much of the city’s topography that the landmarks he omits, or deploys in a cursory manner, become significant’ (91). 10. Earlier the episode describes ‘a crumpled throwaway … sailing eastward past hulls and anchorchains’ (10.294–6). 11. Trevor Williams comments that the characters ‘wander [the city’s] streets freely without ever themselves becoming aware of the imprisoning struc- tures mechanically enclosing them’ (268). Clearly it is problematic to regard the characters as moving ‘freely’ and simultaneously seeing their movements as imprisoned by a set of narrative structures. In this section I am suggesting that those narrative structures can be helpfully interpreted as responsive to the free movement of the characters. This might also explain Clive Hart’s observation that, rather than being an unproblematic mechanistic system, 226 Notes
‘unresolved confrontations of order and what at first appears to be disorder’ constitute a ‘fundamental organizational principle’ of the episode (‘Chiastic Patterns’ 17). 12. ‘Wandering Rocks’ thus exemplifies Vicki Mahaffey’s assertion that ‘Joyce systematically splintered the power of an established authority’ and that ‘he transformed a totalizing “authority” into a montage of “minorities”’ (Mahaffey xiii). It also superficially appears to corroborate Heyward Ehrlich’s argument that ‘Joyce constructed his own city of modernism not as a fixed, single locus but rather as a flexible, plural assemblage’ (5). Ehrlich’s analysis is problematized by his assertion that Joyce ‘removed civilization from any particular city, relocating it to his idea of an abstract city located wherever an English-speaking reader could be found’ (15). This latter argument appears rather to dismiss the social and cultural complexity of the Dublin of the novel, seeing Ulysses as positing precisely the deracinated utopia I am here arguing that it systematically undermines. 13. We can see Bloom engaging in a similar process of historical-topographical reinterpretation in ‘Lestrygonians’ when he recounts to himself the old Dublin joke about the statue of Thomas Moore at College Green: ‘They did right to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters’ (U 8.414–15). Similarly a few moments later we are told that ‘His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity’s surly front’ (8.475–6). The latter passage illustrates the dynamic relationship between character and topography: Trinity, as a topographical representative of British cultural power is ‘surly’ to Bloom, but the ambiguously placed verb ‘shadowing’ implies that it is also being imaginatively reinterpreted according to Bloom’s suddenly changing mood as the cloud passes over. 14. The actual whereabouts of Emmet’s burial place remain unknown. 15. Anne Fogarty similarly questions critical approaches to Ulysses, and particu- larly ‘Wandering Rocks’, that see history as ‘static and unchanging’ in the novel, ignoring how it ‘interacts with and contests a very shifting and con- tested set of historical experiences’ (Fogarty 56). She continues: ‘Historical remembrance and ideological conflict constantly disrupt the clockwork operations of the interlocking paths of the multifarious cast of characters. Their peripatetic movements are accompanied by the divagations of com- munal memory and are correlated to the political discourse and debates from which they dissent but can never dissever themselves’ (62). 16. Len Platt argues that, along with statues, street names are ‘markers of an imperial history which had its presence stamped very firmly over the stones of a modern urban landscape …. They also authenticate, registering owner- ship of streets and buildings. Even more importantly, this naming indicates ownership … of the historical process itself’ (146). Platt argues, therefore, that while this ‘ownership’ is contested, a ‘more dangerous history, a history of Tone and Parnell perhaps’ is occluded and absent. Demonstrably, how- ever, the text takes great pains to render all histories ‘present’, and what is more, the example of Tom Kernan shows that the process of occlusion Platt identifies exercises itself rather more indiscriminately than he implies. 17. As Fritz Senn writes: ‘All of Ulysses is in constant transit and gestures towards somewhere else’ (184). Notes 227
7 ‘A Necessary Evil’: Planning and the Marginal Space of Nighttown in ‘Circe’
1. Works that exemplify the treatment of ‘Circe’ as an emancipatory moment of subjective fantasy over against existing moral regulatory systems include Bruce McDonald, Brivic, Whitley, Wicht, and Valente, ‘Beyond Truth and Freedom’. Other critics, such as Norris, are more alert to the subtext of male exploitation inherent in the use of female characters as blank canvases for the projection of male fantasies repressed elsewhere. Duffy (Subaltern Ulysses) and Cheng also substantiate the connection between this form of exploita- tion and the colonial context in which it is played out. 2. Lewis Mumford exemplifies this tendency when he writes: ‘Today we face not only the social disruption. We likewise face the accumulated physical and social results of the disruption: ravaged landscapes, disorderly urban dis- tricts, pockets of disease, patches of blight, mile upon mile of standardized slums …’ (8). While Mumford implies that such devastation is necessarily coexistent with ‘progress,’ his analysis does not treat of how a new approach to planning might manage these problems, since they are fundamental to his conception of the modern city as it is currently constituted. 3. In the map of the general plan Montgomery Street seems to be absent entirely, even though no other significant changes in the area are visible except for the extension of Amiens Street all the way to the Customs House (48–9). 4. It is worth noting, incidentally, that when large-scale suburbanization did occur later in the century, far from having an exemplary moral effect, the problems of tenement life were severely exacerbated by the disruption caused by the resettlements to extended family support networks that had alleviated some of the worst problems in the tenements. 5. Chapter 4 of David Sibley’s Geographies of Exclusion similarly discusses how maps which ‘relegate others to places distant from the locales of the domi- nant majority’ are often used to imagine a geography in which minorities are marginalized, often with real effects on the treatment of those minori- ties. Analyses such as those of Sibley and of Pile et al., I am contending, provide considerable insight into processes of marginalization, and perhaps also a framework for how to understand the specialization of prostitution; however by not accounting for the specific effects of gendered or sexual marginalization, they are incomplete models of such processes generally. 6. Similarly, in 1857 the Dublin Metropolitan Police decided not to close a Duke Street brothel, but simply to warn ‘respectable’ people of its existence. Rawton McNamara, senior surgeon of the Westmoreland Lock Hospital, commented in the 1870s that prostitutes congregated on French Street, which was ‘very close to the square in which I live … St Stephen’s Green Park, and we did not like to have such people near us, and we were anxious to close it’. Once it was closed, though, the result was that they were scat- tered into surrounding areas (Luddy 29). Similarly, the destruction of tene- ments in Montgomery Street in 1905 was said to have ‘spread immorality, not alone along the Dodder banks but within close proximity to the leading squares and residential districts of our city’ (160). An article in The Irish Times argues that it should be isolated: ‘Keep it in one locality, concentrate 228 Notes
it, hide it from the gaze of our rising generation’ (160). This desire to protect the nation’s youth from prostitution reflects ‘the belief that Ireland was rapidly losing its reputation for purity’ due to ‘the contamination of public space with lewd behaviour’ (30). 7. Judith Walkowitz, analyzing the role of the impoverished East End of London in the creation of a sense of social cohesion in the nineteenth cen- tury, contends that the area becomes an extension of the Empire, a site of nativist threat and disorder against which the West End symbolizes domes- ticity and imperial grandeur (27). In Dublin, however, such a distinction was not tenable, since Monto was just as readily associated with imperial occupation as it was with ‘native’ poverty or degeneracy. 8. James Davis, in his study of the phenomenon of moral panics, similarly argues that while social conformity is actively sought out by all societies, deviance is also necessary to that conformity, since without it ‘there is no self-consciousness of conformity and vice-versa’ (96). 9. Douglas identifies four kinds of social pollution, three of which are relevant to the present discussion: ‘danger pressing on external boundaries’, ‘danger from transgressing the internal lines of the system’, and ‘danger in the mar- gins of the lines’ (122). 10. Among the ‘perversions’ of which Bloom is accused by ‘THE SINS OF THE PAST’ in ‘Circe’ is that he ‘[lay] in bed, the gross boar, gloating over a nau- seous fragment of wellused toilet paper presented to him by a nasty harlot, stimulated by gingerbread and a postal order?’ 11. See Luddy (175–7) for an analysis of these patrols. 12. See Luddy (184–93) for an examination of the prevalence of venereal dis- eases in Ireland and its relationship to attitudes to prostitution. 13. Lorna Ryan notes that prostitution in Dublin is frequently portrayed as a night-time ‘world’, a nightmare, defined as ‘opposite’ to the ‘world’ that ‘we’ inhabit (156). This reflects a tendency to see the ‘realities of marginal situations as a threat to the taken-for-granted everyday reality’. Repeated references to the ‘world’ of the prostitute ‘present a view of prostitution as outside of the ordinary, everyday, mundane world which “we”, the readers of these stories, inhabit’ (158). Effectively, then, even a story designed to raise awareness of the realities of prostitution can serve to reinforce the sense of moral, ethical, social, and economic separation from it. Unsurprisingly it is when the activities surrounding prostitution start to invade ‘our’ world that they become of immediate concern in the articles. 14. This is an important feature of marginal spaces in all cities. Thomas Angotti notes that inequalities in urban social systems, leading to the spread of shan- ties and other impoverished districts, are necessary in order to create a pool of excess labor through which a city can compete for the attention of large cor- porations seeking cheap workers (78). While the slums that emerge may be at a remove from the city’s center physically, and while they may be regarded as an unfortunate consequence of overly rapid urban development, such attitudes ignore the extent to which such ‘marginal’ spaces are not, in fact, incidental to the system at all, but structurally essential to its normal functioning. In the case of spaces marginalized as areas of prostitution, their function within the system is an assertion of the moral order of the society. ‘Power’, David Sibley argues, ‘is expressed in the monopolization of space and the relegation of weaker groups Notes 229
in society to less desirable environments’ (ix). A central aspect of the exertion of power is the relegation of such people from direct visibility: they ‘are rendered invisible to the affluent downtown workers by the spatial separations of city center development which keep the underclass at a distance’ (xiv). Sibley quotes Foucault, for whom life is governed by a ‘number of oppositions that remain inviolable’ (72). These oppositions are underpinned and extended by policies of spatial exclusion that serve to reinforce the sense of moral cohesion that the city as an integrated space represents. 15. See Silverstein (30). 16. This plan is also a preoccupation of Father Conmee’s in ‘Wandering Rocks.’ 17. His preoccupation with trams is further emphasized when he corrupts a joke from earlier in the book: ‘What railway opera is like a tramline in Gibraltar? The Rows of Casteele’ (15.1731). 18. In Abercrombie’s Dublin of the Future, the Loop line bridge is proposed for destruction, to be replaced by underground tubes linking the two sides of the river (See Abercrombie et al., Map no.1, n.p.). 19. More formal and authoritarian systems were quite common. Walter Benjamin quotes a police edict of 14 April 1830 in Paris on the regula- tion of prostitution: ‘They are forbidden to appear at any time, or on any pretext, in the arcades, in the public gardens, or on the boulevards’ (The Arcades Project 499). Such regulations formed part of a pervasive system of surveillance designed to reduce the visibility, rather than the practice, of prostitution in the city. 20. As Maria Luddy writes: ‘Containment and visibility were the factors that influ- enced both public and police reactions to prostitution. Prostitution was most often tolerated when it was not evident on the public streets’ (13). 21. Maria Luddy’s research appears to bear out this proposition: ‘The prostitute revealed by most of the documentary records is a woman created by those who watched and discussed her’ (8). 22. Wolfgang Wicht argues that in ‘Circe’ the characters lose fictional autonomy, their subjectivity coming under the influence of the discursive organization of the text (43). Specifically, this means that the subjective phantasm that characterizes the action of the episode is necessitated, rather than allowed, by the subversion of the principles of narrative representation that occurs. Analogously, within the liminal space of Nighttown, the characters interact with a different set of architectonic imperatives, rather than no impera- tives at all. It is not simply that Bloom is hallucinating, but rather that he becomes a participant in a drama beyond his subjective control even as it is derived from his subjectivity (45–6). 23. For an extended discussion of the relationship between this passage and utopia- nism, see Wicht (43–96). Wicht argues that the passage is a ‘critique of existing representations of messianic ideas to which it perpetually refers’ (43). Among these ideas are AE’s idealism and Christian antisocialist utopianism. The utopia- nism of the passage creates a ‘teleological end of history’ that is ‘fixed in a state form of rule and coercion’ (83), and for all its apparent shallow idealism the new Bloomusalem serves to ‘subject the individual and establish authority that sup- presses alternative contests for authorship’ (91). In other words, Wicht argues that the utopian discourses on which Bloom draws narrow the possibilities for subjective engagement with the cityscape rather than expanding them. 230 Notes
8 Epilogue: Writing Dublin after Joyce
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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man contrasted with London in A Drama (Joyce), 128–53, 207 in Muslin, 68–9 Abercrombie, Patrick, 25, 27–9, 97–8, depiction in The Insurrection in 159 Dublin, 94–6 see also Dublin of the Future Joyce compares favourably with Aberdeen, Lady, 75–6, 136 Rome, 117–18 Achebe, Chinua, 35 Dublin Artizans’ Dwelling Company Act of Union (1801), 23–4, 123, 175, 181 (DADC), 69 Dublin City Council Health Barrington, William, 133 Committee, 135 see also Dublin Tramways Company Dubliners (Joyce), 2, 88, 102–27, 152, Barthes, Roland, 120–1, 123 207 Benjamin, Walter, 5–6, 9, 14, 32, 190, ‘After the Race’, 108–9, 110–1 193, 194, 195–6 ‘A Little Cloud’, 102–5, 110, 113, Brennan, Maeve, 204, 209–11 116, 123 Budgen, Frank, 155, 169–70, 189 ‘An Encounter’, 106–7, 113, 116 ‘A Painful Case’, 112–4 Cameron, Sir Charles, 132–3, 140–1 ‘Araby’, 107, 111–2, 116 Catholic Church, 63, 73, 78–9 ‘Clay’, 114 Certeau, Michel de, 17, 19–20, 121–2 ‘Counterparts’, 112, 114 Chambers, William, 23 ‘Eveline’,105–6, 113, 116 City Beautiful movement, 181 ‘Ivy Day in the Committee Room’, Civic Survey of Dublin, The, 128, 135–6 114–16 Collins, Michael, 182 ‘The Boarding House’, 107 Conrad, Joseph, 35, 207 ‘The Dead’, 103, 116, 117–127, 129, Contagious Diseases Acts, 188 139, 152 Cork, 131 ‘The Sisters’, 107–8 Cowan, P. C., 133–4 ‘Two Gallants’ 109–10 Criminal Law Amendment Act (1885), Dublin Metropolitan Police, 184 (see 182 also Ross, John) Dublin Tramways Company, 133 Dickens, Charles, 12, 60, 87–8 Douglas, Mary, 185–6 Edward IV, King, 114–15, 181 Dublin of the Future, 27–30, 97–8, 159, Engels, Friedrich, 12 160, 161, 163, 174–5, 183 Eliot, T. S., 1, 12, 35–6, 192 see also Abercrombie, Patrick Essex Bridge, 21–2 Dublin ‘metro-colonial’ character of Famine, the, 73, 131–2 (Valente), 23 Figgis, Darrell, 81 careers of early urban planners, film, 14 central to, 24–5 Finnegans Wake (Joyce), 205–7 contrasted with Cork in A Portrait of flâneur, 13 the Artist, 131 Freeman’s Journal, 184
241 242 Index
Galway, 123–4 Legion of Mary, The, 180, 186–7 Garden Cities of Tomorrow (Howard), 8, London, 23, 66, 105 26, 67, 75, 133, 134 Lukács, Georg, 65 Geddes, Patrick, 25, 26, 78, 136 Martyn, Edward, 82, 83, 85 Giedion-Welcker, Carola, 186 McCarthy, Charles J. (Dublin City Gonne, Maud, 187 architect), 200 Grosz, Elizabeth, 16, 202 modernism, 3, 12–13, 20, 33, 36–9, 100–1 Haussmann, Georges-Eugéne, 5–7, 9, Moore, George, 35, 43–71, 73–4, 81–7, 22, 205 94, 99, 208 Heinemann, William, 110 A Drama in Muslin, 35, 43, 44, 49, Holloway, Joseph, 135–6 54–5, 64, 65–6, 89 Housing and Town Planning A Modern Lover, 47 Association of Ireland (HTPAI), A Mummer’s Wife, 47 75–7, 134, 136 Confessions of a Young Man, 44–5, Howard, Ebenezer 8, 24–5 46–7, 66 see also Garden Cities of Tomorrow Hail and Farewell, 81–4 Hugh Lane Gallery, 79–80 Parnell and His Island, 48 The Untilled Field, 49, 82 Irish cultural revival, 72–101, 131 ‘The Wild Goose’, 85–7 Irish studies, 3, 36–9 Moran, D. P. Irish Transport and General Workers’ see The Leader Union, 69, 78 naturalism, 47–8, 65–7 Jacobs, Jane, 17 ‘New Modernist Studies’, 34–6 Joyce, James, see esp. 1–2, 12, 37–40, 81, 99–101, 102–203, 205–7 O’Brien, Flann, 204, 206–7 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young O’Connell, Daniel, 124–5 Man, 128–53, 207 O’Casey, Sean, 1, 39–40 Dubliners, 2, 88, 102–27, 152, 207 O’Flaherty, Liam, 207–9 for individual stories see also O’Sullivan, Seumas, 98–100 Dubliners Finnegans Wake, 205–7 Paris, 2, 28, 44–5, 45, 53–4, 60–1, 105, Stephen Hero, 129–120, 132, 137–9, 159, 174, 180 142, 145–6 perspective, 4, 5, 8–9, 9–10, 50–1, Ulysses, 154–203 57, 158, 161–2, 169–70, for individual sections see also 175–7 Ulysses Plunkett, James, 204 Joyce, Stanislaus, 110 Pound, Ezra, 1, 12–13, 35–6
Land League, 55, 57, 61, 66 Revelation, Book of, 199–200 Larkin, James, 69, 78 Rising, the (1916), 94–7, 98 Leader, The, 134–5, 136–7, 141–2 Rome, 117–18 Le Corbusier, 10, 13, 31–2, 119, 161, Rose, Gillian, 18, 202–3 199, 205 Ross, John (Chief Commissioner L’Enfant, Pierre Charles (architect of of the Dublin Metropolitan Washington DC), 206 Police), 182 Lefebvre, Henri, 180 Russell, George, 87 Index 243
Sackville Street, 21, 27, 64, 91–2, ‘Lestrygonians’, 166–7, 171 95–6, 97, 182, 184–5 ‘Oxen of the Sun’, 195 Schumpeter, Joseph A., 30–2, 205 ‘Penelope’, 18 Sennett, Richard, 17 ‘Wandering Rocks’, 154–77, 190, 202 Shaw, George Bernard, 41 Unwin, Raymond, 8, 25, 97 Stephen Hero (Joyce), 129–120, 132, 137–9, 142, 145–6 venereal disease, 188–9 Stephens, James, 73–4 Vidler, Anthony, 16–17, 31, 118–9, The Charwoman’s Daughter, 87–94 125–6, 155, 159 The Insurrection in Dublin, 94–8 suburbs 8, 85–7, 133 Walkowitz, Judith, 11–12 Synge, J. M., 1, 131 Wellington, Duke of, 124–5 Wide Streets Commission, 22–3, Ulysses (Joyce) 52, 174 ‘Aeolus’, 166 Woolf, Virginia, 1 ‘Calypso’, 202 ‘Circe’, 178–203 Yeats, W. B., 1, 79, 83, 85, 131 ‘Cyclops’, 195 ‘Eumaeus’, 188 Zola, Émile, 4, 45–6, 48, 60–1, 142