Stigma - The Stigma of Femininity in James Joyce’s...

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Unformatted text preview: The Stigma of Femininity in James Joyce’s “Eveline” and “The Boarding House” by Earl G. Ingersoll ames Joyce made the intent of his organization of Dubliners clear in his famous letter to Grant Richards: My intention was to write a chapter of the moral history of my country and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the centre of paralysis. I tried to present it to the indifferent public under four of its aspects: childhood, adolescence, maturity and public life. The stories are arranged in this order. (5 May 1906; Selected Letter: 83) Joyce’s classification of the quartet beginning with “Eveline” and ending with “The Boarding House” as stories of “adolescence” seems patently problematic. At 19, Eveline is technically “adolescent”; however, the central characters of the other three stories in this quartet—“After the Race,” “Two Gallants,” and “The Boarding House”-——are hardly adolescents, unless we associate “adolescent” with “unsettled,” or “unmarried.” In the last of the quartet there is an adolescent, Polly Mooney, who is the same age as Eveline—l9. In a group of stories whose characters’ ages are tantalizineg withheld—how old are the boys of the first three stories, for example?——the link of Eveline’s and Polly’s ages cannot be mere coincidence. Instead, it offers an example of Joyce’s subtle counterpointing of two women who bear the stigma of “femininity” in seemingly opposing yet perhaps similar fashions. Before exploring that connection, it might be useful to construct a framework of recent observations about the fascinating relationship between the use of literary tropes and indications of gender. In Reading dedn Jane Gallop explores the gender associations of the two key tropes in contemporary critical theory—metaphor and metonymy. She traces concern with these tropes back to the seminal work of Roman Jakobson, who saw connections between metaphor and poetry, especially the poetry of nineteenth-century Romantics and Symbolists, and connections between metonymy and the realist novel. Jacques Lacan followed Jakobson in connecting metonymy with realism and metaphor with poetry; he asserts: “In Studies in Short Fiction 30 (I993): 501~10. © 1993 by Newbcrry College. 501 a 502 Studies in Short Fiction a general manner, metonymy animates this style of creation which we call, in opposition to symbolic style and poetic language, the so~called realist style” (266). Gallop hypothesizes that metaphor and metonymy have gender implications as well; she writes: Metaphor is patent; metonymy is latent. The latency, the hiddenness of metonymy, like that of the female genitalia, lends it an appearance of naturalness or passivity so that realism . . . appears either as the lack of tropes, or as somehow mysterious, the “dark continent” [Freud’s term for female sexuality] of rhetoric. (127) Drawing on the work of the feminist psychoanalyst, Luce Irigaray, who correlates the privileging of metaphor over metonymy in contemporary psychoanalytic theory with a “phallocentric neglect of femininity” (Gallop 127), Gallop concludes: The most extreme and explicit form of metaphor’s privilege in Lacan’s text inhabits its association with liberation, which contrasts with metonymy’s link to servitude. . . . metonymy’s ellipsis can be considered “oppressive” . . . . Metaphor, on the other hand, is “the crossing of the bar.” The word for “crossing”—— “franchissement”——has an older meaning of liberation from slavery, enfranchissement. The “bar” is an obstacle; metaphor unblocks us. (128) In this way Gallop extends Irigaray’s suggestions of a connection between metaphor and the “phallocentric” on the one hand, and between metonymy and the “feminine” on the other, to imply that liberation, movement, and activity are associated with the “masculine,” while oppression, servitude, and passivity are associated with the “feminine.” For such readers of Lacan as Barbara Iohnson, Shoshana Felman, and Jerry Aline Flieger, the “feminine” represents something other than conventional sexual identity. In her defense of Lacan’s reading of Poe’s “Purloined Letter” against Iacques Derrida’s accusations of misreading, Barbara Johnson, for example, posits femininity as an indication of position. Discussing the repeated expropriations of the letter, Iohnson comments on how the letter “feminizes its purloiners by being successively purloined from them” (123). In this context “femininity” cannot be attributed to just one sex, since it indicates a position of vulnerability for men as well as women. One fascinating refinement of this efi‘brt at finding gender implications in Lacan’s key tropes of metaphor and metonymy is olfered by Naomi Schor in her article “Female Paranoia: The Case for Psychoanalytic Feminist Criticism.” Following in the male footsteps of psychoanalytic theorists like Lacan and Derrida in reading Poe’s “The Purloined Letter” as an allegory of the signifier, Schor argues that Derrida “inadvertently” points out what Femininity in flames once’s “Eveline” and “T746 Boarding Home” 503 Lacan missed in his purloined reading of Marie Bonaparte’s reading of the Poe story—the little brass knob “between the legs of the fireplace.” That knob is the clitoris that male theorists tend to omit in their discourse. If, as Schor argues, “the clitoris is coextensive with the detail,” may we not legitimately propose a “clitoral school of feminist theory” “identified by its practice of a hermeneutics focused on the detail, which is to say on those details of the female anatomy which have been generally ignored by male critics. . .” (216)? Taking off from Irigaray’s identification of metonymy with “the rhetorical figure of vaginal theory,” Schor would associate her “clitoral theory” with “synecdoche, the detail—figure.” She suggests that it is no coincidence that in his reading of Iakobson’s seminal study, “Two‘Types of Language and Two Types of Aphasic Disturbance,” Lacan erased synecdoche, which Iakobson had subordinated to metonymy. Schor concludes: Clearly in Lacan’s binary structural linguistics, with its emphasis on the perfect symmetry of metaphor and metonymy, there is no room for this third trope, just as in his rewriting of Bonaparte’s analysis of Poe, there is no room for the knob-clitoris. Let us now praise synecdoche! (219) This framework offers a useful context for a discussion of the Dublinert stories as they situate themselves within the dynamic of the metaphoric and the metonymic. It is possible to read Dubliners as an expression of the binary oppositions of “symbolist poetry” and “realist prose,” since the stories focus on both a “scrupulous meanness” in representing the details of everyday Dublin life and the transformative power of metaphor with which Joyce associated epiphany. It is more advantageous, however, to focus on the clear gender associations of these binary oppositions in the Dubliners, where the “feminine” is consistently associated with the constrained, restrained, and repressed position of those in the bourgeois “room,” while the “masculine” is associated with the impulse to travel, to organize desire as a quest for a variously defined possession or goal. In “Eveline” domesticity is clearly associated with details, with metonymy and synecdoche. The detail that will become Eveline’s signature is the “odour of dusty cretonne,” expressive of the eternal Hausfrau’s world: Eveline cleans and cleans, but still there is the inevitable dust that settles in those curtains of cretonne, representing her marginal effort at gentility. This is the “home” she has decided to leave, a home that she associates with its objects: “She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from” (37). Of the many “familiar objects” on which her gaze is fixed, two are foregrounded: the “yellowing photograph” of an absent priest whose name 504 Studies in Short Fiction she was never able to identify and a “broken harmonium.” In a home now merely a museum of memories for Eveline, it is details that have made her “tired.” She has not only all those “familiar objects” to be dusted each week but also the Saturday night quarrels with her father over money, which “weary her unspeakably.” She has been “feminized” by a concern for details, since she has become the keeper of the pitifully meager household funds. Eveline, with her “black leather purse” that she held “tightly in her hands as she elbowed her way through the crowds,” recalls the boy of “Araby,” who carried the image of Mangan’s sister “like a chalice safely through a throng of foes,” perhaps on the very same Saturday nights. As a metonymy of her role as housekeeper for her family, the “purse” with its naturalistic function in the narrative is juxtaposed with the boy’s metaphorical “chalice,” neatly marking the tropological/gender differences in these two contiguously linked narratives. Accompanying his aunt, another woman responsible for the details of household maintenance, the boy of “Araby” may feel burdened by the “parcels” she asks him to carry; however, the loving burden he more genuinely bears is that iconic chalice of Mangan’s sister’s image. Eveline, on the other hand, has no avenue for such metaphoric transcendence of the marketplace. Instead of the boy’s metaphoric “chalice,” she clutches that metonymic detail of the “black leather purse,” the incriminating stigma of her role as imprisoned housekeeper. Frank, on the other hand, offers her the prospect of “travel.” The narrative makes clear that the possible trip with him to Buenos Aires, where he claims to have a house, is a metaphor for a new realm of experience that his love promises to open for Eveline. In a statement suggesting how she herself might phrase it if this story were first~person narrative, we learn: “She was about to explore another life with Frank” (38). In contrast to the stasis of her life at home, or at “the Stores” where she is also confined, Frank offers Eveline the possibilities of travel in a variety of modes. He “took her to see The Bohemian Gi?’ ,” just as he has taken her into the realms of desire, for she is “pleasantly confused”—a oncean euphemism for “sexually aroused”——by the knowledge that others know they are courting, especially when he sings the song of the “lass that loves a sailor.” Most importantly, Frank takes Eveline with him imaginatively by telling her stories of his voyages. As though he fears that he will be the prisoner of the stereotyped sailor yarning a girl into his bed in every port, he offers her a profusion of details that neither her memory nor the narrator now particularizes—“the names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different services” (39). However, she recalls his telling her of his first voyage on “a ship of the Allan line going out to Canada” and his earning a “pound a month” as a “deck boy.” Furthermore, he tells her of having sailed through the “Straits of Magellan” and relates “stories of the terrible Patagonians.” Femininity in Jamesjoyce’s “Eveline” and “The Boarding Home” 505 These details, which he may offer as a legitimation of his authenticity as a wooer——-like some latter-day Othello courting Desdemona with his talesl— are metonymies of her desire for his Frank-mess, for his being something more than the sailor of countless jokes with what Lily in “The Dead” will call “palaver.” qutaposed to Frank, whose company she has been forbidden after their courtship was discovered, is Eveline’s father. Mr. Hill, in contrast to Frank’s associations of menace, offers the comfort and security of the familiar. Indeed, now that he is growing old and perhaps less likely to have the strength to abuse her, as he did her mother, he seems to be moving in her consciousness toward another of those “familiar objects” on which the dust will soon be settling in her domestic prison. As the time approaches when she must leave to keep her appointment with Frank, she continues to sit with two letters in her lap—one to her brother Harry, who tends the houses of his Lord, and the other to her father. Eveline recalls details from her life with her father, just as she has recalled similar ones from her new relationship with Frank: the time her father made her toast when she was ill and read her a “ghost story,” and the family picnic to Howth when he put on “her mother’s bonnet to make the children laugh” (39). Through the letters she has written and the “ghost story” that her father appropriately has read to her, Eveline is also implicated in textuality. However, she is a prisoner of “prose,” the servant of metonymy, and thus unable finally to travel, to move from the house of her father. Even the detail of the returning Italian organ-grinder, whom Eveline associates with her mother’s martyrdom and who seems to prophesy similar prospects for her own fiiture, is insufiicient to save her. The last paragraph of the major section of the story begins: “She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror,” and the first paragraph of the last section following a narrative strategy that seems like an extended ellipsis begins: “She stood among the swaying crowd in the station. . . .” However, the reader has no way of ascertaining that Eveline has actually moved to the “North Wall,” except in projecting herself forward to that scene of departure.2 Whether she stands on the quay being “shouted at” to come aboard or stands instead in her room fantasizing her inability to move forward in answer to his cry of desire is not important finally. What is important is the closing image of Eveline as one immobilized, one whose hands are frozen to the railing, one who loses lMyron Taube has also noted the parallels of Othello’s and Frank’s wooing women with their life histories. Suzette A. Henke calls Eveline a “Dublin Desdemona,” (8) and, most recently, Garry Leonard also compares Eveline to Desdemona. 2Edward Brandabur is not alone when he asserts that Eveline “may never actually even show up for her rendezvous with Frank” (60). 506 Studies in Short Fiction hamanness itself: “She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition” (41). Central to this last scene is the iron railing “gripped” and “clutched” by Eveline’s terrified hands. If the oncean epiphany allows the subject an encounter with the metaphoric, or the power of movement across the bar, Eveline is a subject as incapable of the epiphanic experience as is conceivable. Offered the possibility of crossing that bar into the metaphoric, she cannot move or indeed even speak. All she can know in the end is the “nothing” to which “all the seas of the world” seem to be opening her up. More graphically than any of the Dubliners to follow, Eveline is the ultimate “feminized” subject. Perhaps because she has been lent for a time a prospect of enfranchisement—whether or not Frank was “frank” is a moot point3~ Eveline comes to embody the essence of the “feminine” in patriarchy. She has seen the possibility of “travel,” but she evades the opportunity of “travel” because she can associate it with only the very vulnerability and loss to which, in the end, she ironically commits herself. Even if she never leaves her room at the end of the story—indeed especially if she does not—she has passed a life sentence on herself as a “housekeeper,” a servant of details. Unlike “Eveline,” whose title foregrounds the story’s only character, “The Boarding House” names none of its characters in its title. However, Mrs. Mooney, or the “Madam” as her boarders like to call her, is so central to the action that it is easy to ignore the passivity and vulnerability of Polly’s “femininity” as the obverse of Eveline’s more traditionally “virginal” variety. Mrs. Mooney is a powerful figure because she draws upon the elements traditionally labeled “masculine” and “feminine.” The conventional notion of the “masculine” is evident in the impression Mrs. Mooney, “a butcher’s daughter,” gives of being a large and imposing woman. More importantly, her power inheres in her activity and decisiveness. It is she who “married her father’s foreman and opened a butcher’s shop” (61); and it is she who manages to get a separation when Polly’s father threatens her with a meat cleaver. In the exclusively male world of butchering she manages to hold her own. More importantly, although she may operate only on the border of the metaphoric, a “masculine” preserve, the metaphor of the meat—market informs her sensibility: “She dealt with moral problems as a cleaver deals with meat: and in this case she had made up her mind” (63). 3Numerous readers have found the character of Frank ambiguous. Sondra Melzer argues for Frank’s roots in autobiography, reminding us that Joyce wrote “Eveline” after meeting Nora and before they eloped to the Continent. The story may express his anxieu‘es that Nora would infringe on his artistic integrity and his guilt in having to violate her virginity. Thus, argues Melzer, he may have projected his own ambivalence on Eveline, whose refusal to come to Frank represents what Joyce may have hoped/feared Nora would do to preserve her spiritual love from his “depraved” sexuality. Femininity in [amexjoyce’x “Eveline” and “The Boarding Home” 507 Since her husband “mined his business,” Mrs. Mooney has fallen back on the last resort of many women with talent as managers at the time—hiring out her domestic skills. Thus, she receives pay for providing the services to her boarders, women as well as men, which she would otherwise be forced to render gratis to her family. Since Mr. Mooney has proved himself incapable of functioning either as a butcher or as a husband/father, Mrs. Mooney must not only provide for herself and her children but also fulfill a father’s responsibility—finding an eligible husband for a daughter. Thus, she has allowed Polly to have “the run of the young men,” the clerks who comprise the “resident population” of the house. To match her “masculine” decisiveness and initiative, Mrs. Mooney has mastered the “feminine” concern for detail. She watches Polly flirt with the young men in the house but also sees that “none of them meant business” (63). On the “bright Sunday morning of early summer” when she puts into action the final solution to the problem of disposing of a penniless daughter, Mrs. Mooney clearly enjoys demonstrating her power in engineering this resolution of her parental concerns. The narrator lavishes detail on the scene’s description, from the “lace curtains” that “balloon” out from the “raised sashes” to the “gloved hands” of the churchgoers holding their prayer books as they are called to worship by the bells of “George’s Church.” As Mrs. Mooney watches her servant Mary removing the remains of breakfast, the “plates on which yellow streaks of eggs with morsels of bacon-fat and bacon- rind” serve as metonymic signifiers of her concern with detail, once again as though she herself were describing them. That concern with detail is also evident in her frugality: “She made Mary collect the crusts and pieces of broken bread to help to make Tuesday’s bread-pudding” (64). As she is reminiscing about her successful interrogation of her daughter the night before, she becomes aware that George’s bells have stopped, and she consults the “little gilt clock on the mantelpiece” to reassure herself that she has plenty of time: “It was seventeen minutes past eleven” (64). Mrs. Mooney’s management of details makes her an able “plotter,” a surrogate for the narrator of this tale. In preparation for her “interview” with the man who has traduced the family’s honor, she surveys the evidence for her confidence that he is in her power. Bob Doran cannot excuse his sin as youthful indiscretion, since he is “thirty-four or thirty-five.” In addition, he is “a serious young man, not rakish or loud—voiced like the others . . . Mr Sheridan or Mr Meade or Bantam Lyons.” Also the affair is common knowledge among the lodgers, and “details had been invented by some.” Probably the trump card, however, is the detail of Doran’s “thirteen years” of employment in a “great Catholic wine-merchant’s office” (65). If Doran’s job as a clerk necessitates attention to the minutest of details, Mrs. Mooney is about to prove to him that she is his master as a “Cindi,” since she has been 1 more astute at paying attention to those details that have Wit-plot. 508 Studies in Short Fiction Doran is clearly no match for her. His chances of answering Mrs. Mooney’s charges have been reduced by the Church as an agency of patriarchy: Bob has already been rendered vulnerable, or “feminized,” by the priest at confession “the night before.” Surely it can be no coincidence that the latter phrase occurs in Mrs. Mooney’s memory of her “interview which she had had with Polly the night before” (64; emphasis added). What has caused Doran the most “acute pain,” however, is the scrupulous concern for detail in his confessor, this meticulous keeper of the house of God: “the priest had drawn out every ridiculous detail of the affair and in the end had so magnified his sin that he was almost thankfiil at being afforded a loophole of reparation” (65). If Bob is indeed repentant and willing to atone for his sin, the priest’s attention to “every ridiculous detail” can perhaps be justified. However, it is difiicult not to catch the suggestion of the priest’s prurient interest in the details of desire from which his vow of celibacy has foreclosed his direct knowledge.4 As a clerk, Bob Doran has had to develop a keen eye for detail. That concern for detail surfaces in those passages in which the narrator allows access to his consciousness, especially the passage beginning “All his long years of service gone for nothing!” (66). Here we find details ranging from ordinary naturalistic ones, like his buying “a copy of Reynold’: Newspaper every week,” to something like the fastidiousness about grammar of the boy in “The Sisters,” evident in Doran’s petty bourgeois disdain for Polly’s lapses from grammatical correctness—“she said I seen” (66). It is the same eye for detail that is evident in the passage of Doran’s memory of his seduction. That narrative of desire began, he recalls, with “the first casual caresses her dress, her breath, her fingers had given him” and ended presumably with the night she came to his room after her bath. Here the narrative offers the metonymies of Doran’s desire in the “loose open combing-jacket of printed flannel” she wore and in his memory of how “[h]er white instep shone in the opening of her furry slippers” (67). The potential for metaphor exemplified in the “Araby” boy’s “chalice” has been reduced in the context of these characters to cliché, or tired metaphor. Bob, for example, recalls how he has not always been a steady, responsible citizen: “As a young man he had sown his wild oats, of course . . .” (66). However, the “wild oats” that this “celibate” sowed included only boasts of “freevthinking” and denials of “the existence of God to his companions in public-houses.” The narrator seems to be offering the reader complicity in a joke at the character’s expense, since we recognize Doran’s unawareness of any connection with his literal sowing of seed, which has 4We might recall in this context Molly Bloom’s memory of a confession in which she misunderstood her confessor’s prurient question about where a man had touched her and answered “on the canal bank” (Ulysses 610). Femininity in Iamesjoyce’s “Eveline” and “The Boarding Home” 509 positioned him as vulnerable, or “feminine.” Similarly, when the seduction scene is justified by Polly’s coming to his room to light her candle with his, the reader is drawn into a joke at the expense of a Doran, who neither sees through her guile nor senses the potential humor of the candle metaphor for his unused yet tired sexuality. As Doran leaves the enclosure of his room to walk down the stairs to the life sentence his prospective mother-in-law is about to hand down, he is allowed one momentary glimpse of the power of metaphor that he is about to relinquish. Stopping to wipe the moisture from his steamed—up eyeglasses, he dreams of escape from the prison of domesticity: “He longed to ascend through the roof and fly away to another country where he would never hear again of his trouble . . .” (67-68).5 Like Eveline’s desire to travel to Buenos Aires with Frank, however, Doran’s impulse toward flight is rendered impossible by responsibility to details—the “implacable faces of his employer” as well as the powerful “Madam.” In addition, Doran recalls Polly’s brother Iack with his “thick bulldog face” and “thick short arms,” synecdoches of violent brutishness. In the end the narrative focuses on Polly, after a hiatus marked by ellipsis points, as in “Eveline.” After regarding her image in the “looking-glass,” she fixes her gaze upon the detail of the bed pillows with which she metonymically associates “secret amiable memories” and eventually lapses into reverie so that “she no longer saw the white pillows on which her gaze was fixed or remembered that she was waiting for anything” (68). This gazing at the white pillows suggests a Lacanian “regard” reading the Other in her. What the detail reads is the essence of Polly’s “femininity” in a traditional context, the vulnerability of a subject as confined and helpless as her counterpart Eveline in the first story of this quartet. Like Eveline, Polly as the future Mrs. Doran faces a confinement to domesticity, mothering the children of the future barfly Bob—as we will see in Ulyrses—much as Eveline must “mother” her younger siblings. As a clerk, Bob too seems the “prisoner for life” of a profession that “feminizes” him as one, like Eveline, devoted to fastidious concern with details. Also, like Eveline, Bob bears the stigma of a desire for “travel”; however, as the fantasy- figure of “Frank” suggests, travel has been engendered as “masculine,” a privilege that patriarchy offers to only a few. And, since the genuine power of 5Even the metaphor of flight to “another country” requires special attention. Much as it may seem a cliche to match the sowing of Doran’s “wild oats,” we ought not to dismiss the flight metaphor out of hand. For example, Suzette A. Henke speaks of Doran’s “implausible fantasies of literal flight” (12). However, these “fantasies” are closely related to what Stephen tells Davin in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: “When a soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets” (203). 510 Studies in Short Fiction this patriarchy is reserved by the English to the east, escape from the stigma of “femininity” can be no more than “fantasy” for the Irish like Eveline, or even more briefly, for a Bob Doran. Polly Mooney, Eveline’s counterpart, is so stigmatized by her “femininity” that the fantasy of travel exceeds her imagination, and she is fixed by the metonymy of the bed pillows. Lacking any possibility for the Joycean epiphany, or what we might term the transformative power of metaphor, Polly cannot move to the narrator’s and reader’s awareness that this is a “bed” that she has allowed others to “make” for her, but also one in which sadly she will have to “lie.” Wom CITED/SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY Brandabur, Edward. Scrupulous Meanness: A Study of once’s Early Work. Urbana: U Illinois P, 1971. Bremen, Brian A. “‘He Was Too Scrupulous Always’: A Re—examination of Joyce’s ‘The Sisters.’ ”]ames]oyce Quarterly 22 (1984): 55-66. Derrida, Jacques. “The Purveyor of Truth.” Trans. W. Domingo, J. Hulbert, and M.— R. Logan. Tale French Studies 52 (1975): 31-113. Felman, Shoshana, ed. Literature and Psychoanalysis: The Question of Reading: Otherwise. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1982. Flieger, Jerry Aline. The Purloined Punch Line: Freud’s Comic Theory and the Postmodern Text. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1991. Gallop, Jane. Reading Lacan. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1985. Henke, Suzette A. “Through 3 Cracked Looking-Glass: Sex-Role Stereotypes.” International Perspectives on ]ames]oyce. Ed. Gottlieb Gaiser. Troy, NY: Whitson, 1986. 2-31. Irigaray, Luce. This Sex Which Is Not One. Trans. Catherine Porter. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1985. Jakobson, Roman. “Two Aspects of Language and Two Types of Aphasic Disturbances.” Fundamentals of Language. The Hague: Mouton, 1956. 55-82. Johnson, Barbara. “The Frame of Reference: Poe, Lacan, Derrida.” The Critical Difference: Essays in the Contemporary Rhetoric of Reading. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1980. 110-46. Joyce, James. Dubliners. New York: Viking, 1968. Selected Letters of jamesjoyte. Ed. Richard Ellmann. New York: Viking, 1975. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. New York: Viking, 1956. Ulysses. Ed. Hans Walter Gabler. New York: Viking, 1986. Lacan, Jacques. Ecrits: A Selection. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: Norton, 1977. Leonard, Garry. “Wondering Where All the Dust Comes From: jouissance in ‘Eveline.’ ” Jamesjoyce Quarterly 29 (1991): 23-41. Melzer, Sondra. “In the Beginning There Was ‘Eveline.’ ” james ]oyce Quarterly 16 (1979): 47984. Schor, Naomi. “Female Paranoia: The Case for Psychoanalytic Feminist Criticism." Tale French Studies 62 (1981): 204- 19. Taube, Myron. “Joyce and Shakespeare: ‘Eveline’ and ‘Othello.’ ” fame: Joyce Quarterly/4 (1967): 152-53. ...
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