Araby by James Joyce

"Araby" is a short story by James Joyce (PDF) published in his 1914 collection Dubliners. On the purely narrative level the story traces a young boy's infatuation with his friend's sister. On the symbolic level Araby traces the development of the boy as he turns his back on the certainties of childhood and Catholicism and embraces the uncertainties of adult emotions and desires via imagination. Araby is structured in a way that first introduces the childhood world of the narrator, the boy of the story. It is a mysterious but exciting world where even simple things take on great significance, relative to the small size of the world - a single street really. But the story also opens with death, and the abandoned house of the recently deceased, but 'charitable' priest. This death can be understood as the loss of faith and the end of childhood. From there we look forward as readers through what is possibly the first steps into the adult world by the boy telling the story.

"Araby" touches on a great number of themes:

• coming of age
• meeting of imagination with reality
• the life of the mind versus poverty (both physical and intellectual)
• the consequences of idealization
• the Catholic Church's influence to make Dublin a place of asceticism where desire and sensuality are seen as immoral
• the pain that often comes when one encounters love in reality instead of its elevated form
• paralysis

These themes build on one another entirely through the thoughts of the young boy, who is portrayed by the first-person narrator, who writes from memory.

Through first-person narration, the reader is immersed at the start of the story in the drab life that people live on North Richmond Street, which seems to be illuminated only by the verve and imagination of the children who, despite the growing darkness that comes during the winter months, insist on playing "until [their] bodies glowed." Even though the conditions of this neighbourhood leave much to be desired, the children's play is infused with their almost magical way of perceiving the world, which the narrator dutifully conveys to the reader:

"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."

But though these boys "career" around the neighbourhood in a very childlike way, they are also aware of and interested in the adult world, as represented by their spying on the narrator's uncle as he comes home from work and, more importantly, on Mangan's sister, whose dress “swung as she moved” and whose “soft rope of hair tossed from side to side.” These boys are on the brink of sexual awareness and, awed by the mystery of another sex, are hungry for knowledge.

On one rainy evening, the boy secludes himself in a soundless, dark drawing-room and gives his feelings for her full release: "I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: O love! O love! many times." This scene is the culmination of the narrator's increasingly romantic idealization of Mangan's sister. By the time he actually speaks to her, he has built up such an unrealistic idea of her that he can barely put sentences together: “When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me if I was going to Araby. I forget whether I answered yes or no.” But the narrator recovers splendidly: when Mangan's sister dolefully states that she will not be able to go to Araby, he gallantly offers to bring something back for her.

The narrator now cannot wait to go to the Araby bazaar and procure for his beloved some grand gift that will endear him to her. And though his aunt frets, hoping that it is not “some Freemason affair,” and though his uncle, perhaps intoxicated, perhaps stingy, arrives so late from work and equivocates so much that he almost keeps the narrator from being able to go, the intrepid yet frustrated narrator heads out of the house, tightly clenching a florin, in spite of the late hour, toward the bazaar.

But the Araby market turns out not to be the most fantastic place he had hoped it would be. It is late; most of the stalls are closed. The only sound is "the fall of the coins" as men count their money. Worst of all, however, is the vision of sexuality—of his future—that he receives when he stops at one of the few remaining open stalls. The young woman minding the stall is engaged in a conversation with two young men. Though he is potentially a customer, she only grudgingly and briefly waits on him before returning to her frivolous conversation. His idealized vision of Araby is destroyed, along with his idealized vision of Mangan's sister—and of love. With shame and anger rising within him, he is alone in Araby. As he is alone in his imagination. 

Dubliners

When discussing Joyce's Dubliners, there are two types of critics that are often at the forefront of the conversation: the "Realists" and the "Symbolists." The Realists view Dubliners as the most simple of Joyce's works, which often causes them to disregard the revolutionary nature of the work. The symbolists instead neglect the rebellious meanings behind Joyce's symbols. While some choose only one side to argue, others believe that Dubliners completely defies any form of characterization. Without any clear evidence of thematic unity, logic of plot, or closure, Joyce prevents any conclusive critical analysis. As Sonja Bašić argues, the book "should be seen not just as a realist/naturalist masterpiece, but as a significant stepping-stone integrated into the modernist structure of Joyce's mature work."

It has been argued that the narrators in Dubliners rarely mediate, which means that there are limited descriptions of their thoughts and emotions, a practice said to accompany narratorial invisibility where the narrator sees instead of tells. While some point to Joyce's use of free indirect discourse (which uses some of the characteristics of third-person along with the essence of first-person direct speech; it is also referred to as free indirect discourse, free indirect style, or, in French, discours indirect libre) as a way to understand his characters, he often obscures the reliability of his characters in a way that would make any kind of analysis very difficult. As Richard Ellmann has argued, "Joyce claims importance by claiming nothing." His characters' personalities can only be observed because they are not explicitly told.

The collection progresses chronologically, beginning with stories of youth and progressing in age to culminate in "The Dead".

Emphasis is laid upon the specific geographic details of Dublin, for example, road names and buildings feature extensively. Joyce said "For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal."