(Little) Dubliners Read By Dubliners

A monstrous, red double-decker bus almost pummeled me to my death as I hopped across the median between Nassau Street and Lincoln Place, landing safely in front of a vintage used bookstore. My gaze first landed on a decorated shrine to James Joyce sitting behind the front window. After spending three and a half weeks in Dublin, I have grown accustomed to such exaggerated Joyce worship. However, this particular display drew me in with its authenticity. Thoroughly impressed and intrigued, I took a step back to identify the store's name when five bold, authoritative letters practically reached out and punched me in the face: SWENY.

"He waited by the counter, inhaling the keen reek of drugs,

the dusty smell of sponges and loofahs.

Lots of time taken up telling your aches and pains."

Ulysses, James Joyce (1922)

Sweny's Pharmacy, now turned used bookstore and prized Joycean landmark, appears multiple times in Joyce's Ulysses. Joyce himself frequented the pharmacy in his lifetime. Because of its historical and literary connections to Joyce, Sweny's has become a type of monument for Dubliners with a passion for Dublin's most famous writer. 
I reached for the front door and effectively barged in to perhaps the smallest used bookstore I had ever seen. Before I could blink, a copy of Joyce's Dubliners was thrust into my hands along with a jovial instruction from the man behind the counter: "We're reading 'After the Races.' Sit anywhere you like." 

I had to quickly glance back at the sign on display in the front window to put the pieces together:  I had stumbled into the Wednesday afternoon session of "Dubliners Read By Dubliners." A group of four Dublin locals sat in a crowded, but cozy corner in the 11 ft by 14 ft store. Armed with fluffed pillows and coffee brought from home, these Joyce enthusiasts were settled in and prepared. Entirely flustered, I found a chair a few feet away from the group. I fumbled with my backpack and wondered how thoroughly I had just embarrassed myself. 

The first Dubliner to read was an elderly woman so small her feet didn't touch the hardwood floor. In an instant I had judged her by her size and assumed her frailty. Never did I anticipate the commanding, expressive voice that came resounding out of her tiny body. There was no set amount of text a reader was obligated to recite, but the pattern generally followed that each person read about one paragraph. This woman read entire pages without skipping a beat. No one prompted her and no one accused her of hogging the spotlight. If anything, we all begged her to just keep reading. 


Near the end of the story, I realized my turn to speak was drawing near. My logic was simple: I am not a Dubliner, I should not take part in Dubliners Read By Dubliners. I am an American (worse yet, a Texan) prepared to skulk over here in my corner until the story ends. A moment passed as the man closest to me finished his passage. All eyes on me. 

"Do you want to read?" he asked with sincere politeness.

"Oh no, it's fine. I'm just here to listen," the words fell out of my mouth with sincere panic

"Nonsense. We'd love to hear you read. How about just the next three lines?" 

I looked to my left to see the small, gray-haired woman I had been secretly admiring. She smiled sweetly and gave an encouraging nod. Suddenly, I felt like a Dubliner.