Grace

This is one of those stories that represent my struggles with Joyce: the story is so realistic it doesn’t feel like a story and its weight becomes tedious. Yes we get caught up in the lives of these characters, but on the other hand I don’t feel like I’m reading a story. Yet it’s great art, too. It’s absolute realism, but why does art have to be so real? Do we learn anything from this? Is it just a mirror?