Though James Joyce began these stories of Dublin life in 1904 when he was twenty-two and completed them in 1907, their unconventional themes and language led to repeated rejections by publishers and delayed publication until 1914. In the century since, his story “The Dead” has come to be seen as one of the most powerful evocations of human loss and longing that the English language possesses; all the other stories in Dubliners are as beautifully turned and as greatly admired. They remind us once again that James Joyce was not only modernism’s chief innovator but also one of its most intimate and poetic writers. In this edition the text has been revised in keeping with Joyce’s wishes, and the original versions of “The Sisters,” “Eveline,” and “After the Race” have been made available in an appendix, along with Joyce’s suppressed preface to the 1914 edition of Dubliners.

In 1800, Dublin was one of the largest and most impressive cities in Europe. The city's townhouses and squares represented the pinnacle of Georgian elegance. Henrietta Street was synonymous with this world of cultural refinement, being one of the earliest and grandest residential districts in Dublin. At the end of the eighteenth century, the street was home to some of the most powerful members of the Anglo-Irish Ascendancy. Yet, less than a century later, Dublin had been transformed from the playground of the elite into a city renowned for its deprivation and vast slums. Despite once being 'the best address in town, ' by 1900 almost every house on Henrietta Street was in use as tenements, some shockingly overcrowded. How did this happen? How did a location like Henrietta Street go from a street of mansions to one of tenements? And what was life like for those who lived within the walls of these houses? This is a story of adaptation, not only of buildings but of people. It is a story of decline but also of resilience. Spectral Mansions charts the evolution of Henrietta Street over the period 1800 to 1914. Commencing with the Act of Union and finishing on the eve of the First World War, the book investigates the nature and origins of Dublin's housing crisis in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Commissioned by Dublin City Council Heritage Office in conjunction with the 14 Henrietta Street Museum, the book uses the story of one street to explore the history of an entire city.

James Joyce began his literary career as an Irishman writing to protest the deplorable conditions of his native country. Today, he is an icon in a field known as "Joyce studies." Our Joyce explores this amazing transformation of a literary reputation, offering a frank look into how and for whose benefit literary reputations are constructed. Joseph Kelly looks at five defining moments in Joyce's reputation. Before 1914, when Joyce was most in control of his own reputation, he considered himself an Irish writer speaking to the Dublin middle classes. When T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound began promoting Joyce in 1914, however, they initiated a cult of genius that transformed Joyce into a prototype of the "egoist," a writer talking only to other writers. This view served the purposes of Morris Ernst in the 1930s, when he defended Ulysses against obscenity charges by arguing that geniuses were incapable of obscenity and that they wrote only for elite readers. That view of Joyce solidified in Richard Ellmann's award-winning 1950s biography, which portrayed Joyce as a self-centered genius who cared little for his readers and less for the world at war around him. The biography, in turn, led to Joyce's canonization by the academy, where a "Joyce industry" now flourishes within English departments.

George and Betty Keller had always dreamed of owning a vacation home by the sea. In life, they had been a vivacious couple, full of adventure and laughter. Even death couldn't dampen their spirits or their desire for a place to call their own. As they floated invisibly through countless open houses, their spectral hearts yearned for a home that could accommodate their unique needs. It was on a misty autumn afternoon when they first laid eyes on the Victorian mansion. Perched atop a rocky cliff overlooking the turbulent ocean, the house stood like a sentinel against the gray sky. Its weathered facade spoke of decades of neglect, yet there was an undeniable majesty to its towering turrets and expansive wraparound porch. The realtor, a thin man named Mortimer Finch, looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else. His perpetual nervous twitch became more pronounced as they approached the wrought-iron gates, which creaked ominously in the salt-laden breeze. "You may want to keep on looking," Mortimer said, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes darted anxiously towards the upper windows of the house, as though expecting to see something – or someone – peering back at him. Betty laughed aloud, her spectral eyes sparkling with excitement. In life, she had been a vivacious redhead with a penchant for the dramatic, and death had only amplified these traits. "Are you crazy? This place is beautiful on the outside, and the inside must be just as magnificent! I also love how secluded it is, with no other homes nearby." George, ever the practical one, even in death, raised an ethereal eyebrow. In life, he had been a successful businessman with a keen eye for opportunity. Now, he sensed there was more to the realtor's reluctance than met the eye. "Mr. Finch," he said, his voice carrying the authoritative tone he had often used in board meetings, "is there something you're not telling us about this property?" Mortimer glanced anxiously at his watch, a beautiful antique timepiece that had been in his family for generations. "It's getting close to sundown," he said, his voice quavering. "We can go back to my office and look over other properties that I have listed besides this one. How does that sound?" George interjected, his patience wearing thin. "If my wife and I have our hearts set on this house, then this is what we want. I think you need to sell us this house. Why is it so important that we look elsewhere?" Mortimer's eyes darted nervously towards one of the bedroom windows on the second floor of the mansion. For a moment, he thought he saw a shadow move behind the dusty curtains. A chill ran down his spine, and he silently cursed his decision to become a realtor in this godforsaken town. "Fine," he said, his voice trembling. "But you'll just laugh and think I'm crazy." He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the ridicule he was sure would follow. "This place is haunted." Betty and George burst out laughing, their ethereal voices echoing across the overgrown garden. Little did Mortimer know that his clients were themselves ghosts, amused by the irony of the situation. "What did I tell you," said Mortimer, an angry look flashing across his face. He had dealt with skeptics before, but the Kellers' laughter stung more than usual. "We ain't afraid of no ghost," Betty and George chimed in unison, still chuckling. They exchanged a knowing glance, their spectral forms shimmering slightly in the fading daylight. "How much is the price?" George asked, reaching for his checkbook – a habit he had yet to break, even in death. Mortimer hesitated, then sighed in defeat. "$250,000," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. "Only because it's haunted, and everyone who has lived here left within days and were refunded the full amount." He looked at the Kellers, a mixture of concern and frustration in his eyes. "Well, do you still want it?" Betty and George exchanged another knowing glance before bursting into hysterical laughter. As George caught his breath, he said, "Let's get this over with. We'll definitely have the last laugh because we are not afraid of any ghosts." What Mortimer didn't know – couldn't know – was that Betty and George had been killed in a car wreck long ago. They had been on their way to close on this very house when tragedy struck, their lives cut short just miles from their dream home. Now, as spectral beings themselves, they were finally able to fulfill their dream of owning the beautiful Victorian mansion. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the overgrown lawn, Betty and George signed the paperwork. Mortimer's hand shook as he handed over the keys, his eyes constantly darting towards the darkening windows of the house. "I wash my hands of this place," he muttered, hurrying down the gravel driveway to his car. "Don't say I didn't warn you!" Betty and George watched him go, their ethereal forms shimmering in the twilight. They turned to face their new home, excitement building within their spectral hearts. "Shall we, my dear?" George asked, offering his arm to Betty. "Let's," she replied with a ghostly giggle. They floated up the creaking steps and phased through the heavy oak door. The moment they entered the foyer, a chill ran through their incorporeal forms. The air grew thick with an oppressive energy, and they sensed a presence that was far from friendly. "George," Betty whispered, her voice echoing unnaturally in the dusty hall. "I don't think we're alone." A low, guttural growl reverberated through the house, causing the chandeliers to sway and the floorboards to groan. Betty and George exchanged worried glances, realizing that their afterlife was about to become far more complicated than they had anticipated. As they drifted from room to room, exploring their new haunt, the sense of unease grew stronger. Shadows seemed to move of their own accord, and whispers echoed from empty corners. In the library, they found shelves upon shelves of ancient books, their pages yellowed with age and filled with arcane knowledge. Betty, always curious, reached out to touch one of the leather-bound tomes. As her spectral hand made contact, the book flew open, its pages flipping wildly as though caught in a violent wind. Strange symbols and diagrams flashed before their eyes, accompanied by a cacophony of whispered incantations in long-dead languages. "George," Betty gasped, recoiling from the book. "I think we might be in over our heads here." Before George could respond, a cold wind whipped through the library, extinguishing the feeble light from the dusty chandelier. In the sudden darkness, they heard the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps approaching from the hallway.

This book examines the deeply divided terrain of the twentieth century city and its formative impact on narrative fiction. It focuses on two major 'world authors' at the two ends of the twentieth century who write, systematically, about the colonial and postcolonial cities they were born in: James Joyce and Dublin, and Salman Rushdie and Bombay.

James Joyce (1882-1941) was an Irish writer. Author of "Dubliners," "The Dead," "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," and also "Ulysses," considered the work that inaugurates the modern novel and one of the most important in Western literature. "Dubliners" was written by James Joyce starting in 1904 and published in 1914. It consists of fifteen stories focusing on various aspects of city life and its inhabitants. It is an excellent entry point into the fascinating literary world of James Joyce.