the dirt on dublin

Joyce’s Dublin is dire. The stink of refuse and discarded lives proliferates the streets, all soaked in the oppressive drink.  The old wrappers, spit, piss,  the ‘frowzy whore with a face like dip’, Paddy Dignam’s children left to perish -Pa, come home!-,  the ubiquitous betting slip, all tell of decay… while the provost does his waving smiling rounds.

Like Stephen, I look on with ‘agenbite of inwit‘. It is unpleasant and familiar.

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