This story is about a superficial man— one seemingly commanding and self-possessed—who finds himself susceptible to the profound melancholy felt when a woman cannot fulfill his inflated expectations of an everlasting, ever gratifying love. This story—James Joyce’s The Dead involves a contrived, status-concerned character who inevitably finds himself disappointed by a self-dramatized, and subsequently failed romance. As a result, this shallow character endures a love-induced emotional transformation that irrevocably changes his perspective on life and death.
In The Dead, Gabriel is a man whose “superior education” has, in effect, made him entirely concerned with trivial matters—evidence of which is repeatedly found in the story. At an annual party thrown by his aunts, Gabriel “scrapes his feet” with the vigor of a man terribly bothered by the “light fringe of snow” on his “galoshes.” Still, this fixation is comparatively minor considering what else seems to preoccupy Gabriel’s mind. Immediately upon entering the party, the “indelicate clacking of the men’s heels and the shuffling of their soles” emphasize to him how the other guests live by a “grade of culture” inferior to his own. He pompously worries that by using quotations that are “above the heads of his hearers,” he may run the risk of “making himself ridiculous” and cause his “whole speech” to be “an utter failure.”
This self-importance fits into a greater representation of Gabriel as an inherently selfish character. The man listens to a young girl speak of men with bitterness and subsequently laments over the sadness that she casts over him. He can’t listen to his aunt play the piano because the music has absolutely “no melody for him”. His eyes are “irritated by the floor” and his ears are confused by accusations of him knowing nothing of his people. He silently questions the justification behind her criticism but ultimately can not “risk a grandiose phrase” at such a family.
At dinner, Gabriel internally excuses his aunts for being ignorant of everything outside the scope of their daily lives and instead, externally praises them for their “qualities of hospitality, of humor, of humanity”—this is done for the sake of a well-received speech. Ultimately, it would appear that Gabriel treats the minutiae of his everyday life with excessive importance, and is entirely indifferent towards matters unrelated to him—consequently, Gabriel is deemed a thoroughly self-important and superficial character.

Ok—now let’s get to the good part—Gabriel feels a sudden “wave of tender joy” and lust for his wife—an arguably superficial burst of emotion. Gretta’s “light and…erect” manner of walking illuminates her husband’s eyes—leaving them “bright with happiness.” He is suddenly “proud of her grace and wifely carriage” which evoke memories “of their secret life together.” Almost instantaneously, he longs to “forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy”—notably “the first touch of her body.” Gabriel’s reputation as a shallow character has been established—so logically, any spark inciting profound passion towards his wife will be physical in nature. His abrupt, self-contrived love for Gretta only scratches the surface of “her frail shoulders” and “tightly girt” skirt. His intentions are not to re-establish an intellectual connection, but to “crush her body against his.” Thus, Gabriel’s yearnings can be reduced to nothing more than nostalgic arousal. Granted, these desires are by no means offensive, however, they do not exactly encourage anything deeper than a lustful representation of Gabriel.
This inherently superficial euphoria is soon met with disappointment. Gabriel longs to be intimate with his wife and “cry to her from his soul.” The anticipation of a glorious sexual encounter captivates his mind and body—causing him to imagine their “wild and radiant hearts” embarking on “a new adventure.” This lustful happiness proves to be completely one-sided: Gretta is consumed with thoughts of another man—of a past lover who killed himself. Choking on her own tears—Gretta feels the grief of her youth resurface, rendering her emotionally (and quite literally) unavailable. The imminent revival of their love falls flat and Gabriel is now a mere outsider “intruding on her grief.” His superficial, self-dramatized attempt at marital passion fails. Stunned—Gabriel is met with a bitter reality: a past romance will always outshine the affection present in this marriage.
Ironically, Gabriel—spewer of pleasantries and scholar of all inconsequential matters, especially those related to himself—is, in effect, extensively sobered. The pain of this love-related humiliation resonates in every facet of his life, evoking in Gabriel “a shameful consciousness of his own person.” All at once, he recognizes the utter ridiculousness of every thought, of every artificial encounter. His perspective, to say the least, is completely transformed. He sees himself for what he really is: a “ludicrous figure…, a pennyboy” and “a nervous…sentimentalist” who “orates to vulgarians and idealizes his own clownish lusts.” The result of this epiphany? Gabriel—grieving the death of his identity—is left contemplating man’s “wayward and flickering existence…(in) a grey impalpable world.” His heart beats with a healthful rhythm, but his heartbreak-induced examination of his own superficial existence kills his spirit—and forces him to accept the melancholic reality forced upon “all the living and the dead.”

I read this story years ago, and then once more in college, and again this past week. Each time it never fails to stir something in me. Really—how can you not love this story? Howken? This story epitomizes melancholy—something I am fascinated by and find difficult to articulate, and so, I am so impressed by writers—particularly this one—who capture it so well. And I include so many quotes because I think the language of this story is so crucial to its success. But then there’s also the realization that only James Joyce can consider our “wayward and flickering existence” and not sound incredibly lame. So ultimately, this style of writing is not something I want to master myself—but I also never want to stop reading it.

-MC