Life Lines

A Shared Reading activity pack

to read wherever you are
Issue 47

For more Shared Reading, poems and texts,

email us at: coronavirus@thereader.org.uk
.
 “If I go,” I said, “I will bring you something.”

Araby, James Joyce

The Reader is a charity which usually brings people together

to listen to stories, extracts and poems in free, weekly
Shared Reading groups. In these Life Lines activity packs
we hope to offer everyone the same comfort, meaning and
connection through great literature that our reading groups
provide – wherever it finds you.
Each Life Lines pack will bring you some of a story and a
poem, which you can read in your own time. Along with the
reading, you’ll find a selection of thoughts and feelings
shared by other fellow readers about the chosen pieces. We
suggest that reading the poem or the story out loud is a
great way to fully immerse yourself in the reading
experience and discover your own personal connections
with the material. It may feel strange but it does make a
difference, so do please give it a try!

This week’s story is an extract from Araby by James

Joyce. Feel free to make notes on your own
thoughts and feelings as you go , perhaps marking
words or sentences that particularly stand out to
you…

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Araby
by James Joyce

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet

street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’
School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of
two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its
neighbours in a square ground The other houses of
the street, conscious of decent lives within them,
gazed at one another with brown imperturbable
faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in

the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been
long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste
room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless
papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered
books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The
Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communnicant
and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best
because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden
behind the house contained a central apple-tree and
a few straggling bushes under one of which I found
the late tenant’s rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a
very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his
money to institutions and the furniture of his house
to his sister.

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When the short days of winter came dusk fell before
we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the
street the houses had grown sombre. The space of
sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet
and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their
feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played
till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent
street. The career of our play brought us through the
dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran
the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to
the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where
odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous
stables where a coachman smoothed and combed
the horse or shook music from the buckled harness.

When we returned to the street light from the

kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was
seen turning the corner we hid in the shadow until
we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan’s sister
came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his
tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and
down the street. We waited to see whether she
would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left
our shadow and walked up to Mangan’s steps
resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined
by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother
always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by
the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she
moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed
from side to side.
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Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching
her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the
sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the
doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books
and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye
and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged,
I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning
after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few
casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my
foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to

romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing
I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through
the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining
women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-
boys
who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’ cheeks, the nasal
chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about
O’Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native
land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for
me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of
foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange
prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes
were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a
flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I
thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever
speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of
my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her
words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

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Pause for Thought...
Let’s just take a moment to think about what might be
going on here. My first thoughts about this story are to
wonder where it is set. It sounds a bit bleak to me!
There is an empty house at the blind end of the street
which I guess he means is like a cul de sac but that way
of putting it conjures up something a bit forbidding
perhaps. It almost sounds as if the houses are alive and
watchful
– conscious – and with faces.

It doesn’t seem as if his own house is much of a

sanctuary for him either with its musty air, long
enclosed. I wonder if he feels more at home outside.
His description makes me quite nostalgic for playing
out in the street with friends as a child until late at night
- there seems to be a feeling of physical freedom there
- we played till our bodies glowed.

I’m curious as well to know why they hide from his uncle
– are they afraid of him – is him being safely housed a
hint that he’s a danger to them? Or is it just that he’s
part of the grown-up world they’re escaping?

Mangan’s sister seems important here. And this boy is

certainly drawn to her – her name was like a
summons
- but I wonder why he keeps his distance and doesn’t
speak to her. It seems with his confused adoration he
is experiencing feelings he doesn’t quite know how to
cope with. Her name sprang to my lips at moments
in strange prayers and praises which I myself did
not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I
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could not tell why). Do you think he will ever speak to
her? Let’s continue on with the story…

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One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which
the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and
there was no sound in the house. Through one of the
broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth,
the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden
beds.
Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me.
I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses
seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I
was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my
hands together until they trembled, murmuring: “O love!
O
love!” many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first

words to me I was so confused that I did not know what
to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot
whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid
bazaar, she said she would love to go.

“And why can’t you?” I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and

round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there
would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother
and two other boys were fighting for their caps and I was
alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing
her head towards me.

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“It’s well for you,” she said.

“If I go,” I said, “I will bring you something.”

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping

thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the
tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school.
At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her
image came between me and the page I strove to read. The
syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the
silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern
enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar
on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised, and hoped it was
not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in
class. I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to
sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not
call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any
patience with the serious work of life which, now that it
stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child’s play,
ugly monotonous child’s play.

Pause for Thought…

When he does eventually get to speak to her, he
appears quite shocked. I wonder also, is she nervous
too? While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet
round and round her wrist. I was shocked at his
sudden courage in speaking to her about going to
Araby- If I go…I will bring you something. It feels as
though this has become the new quest to occupy all
his thoughts and feelings.

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Time for a poem ….

We’ll pick up with another story again in our next

issue, but now a pause for some poetry. Poetry isn’t
always easy for everyone to get going with. In our
Shared Reading groups we read a poem out loud a few
times, to give ourselves a bit of time to hear it
aloud. Give this a go yourself and see if it helps
you to feel comfortable with the words, even if
you’re still not sure what it’s all about!

We aren’t looking to find an answer here, or what the

person writing it might have meant when they wrote
it. We’re just looking to see if any feelings or
ideas come up when we read it – and often we find
that the more time you allow yourself to simply be
with the poem, the more thoughts and feelings will
come through.

One of the keys is to enjoy yourself: take your time,

read it out loud, have a think about any bits you
like, or that puzzle you, then… have another read!

This week's Featured Poem It Was Long Ago by Eleanor

Farjeon. It is a wonderful poem that prompts
imagination within our memories. I hope you enjoy!

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It was long ago by Eleanor Farjeon
I’ll tell you, shall I, something I remember?
Something that still means a great deal to
me. It was long ago.
A dusty road in summer I remember,
A mountain, and an old house, and a tree
That stood, you know,
Behind the house. An old woman I remember
In a red shawl with a grey cat on her knee
Humming under a tree.
She seemed the oldest thing I can
remember. But then perhaps I was not more
than three. It was long ago.
I dragged on the dusty road, and I remember
How the old woman looked over the fence at
me And seemed to know
How it felt to be three, and called out, I
remember “Do you like bilberries and cream for
tea?”
I went under the tree.
And while she hummed, and the cat purred, I remember
How she filled a saucer with berries and cream for me
So long ago.
Such berries and such cream as I remember
I never had seen before, and never see
Today, you know.
And that is almost all I can remember,
The house, the mountain, the gray cat on her knee,
Her red shawl, and the tree,
And the taste of the berries, the feel of the sun I
remember, And the smell of everything that used to be
So long ago,
Till the heat on the road outside again I remember
And how the long dusty road seemed to have for
me No end, you know.
That is the farthest thing I can remember.
It won’t mean much to you. It does to
me. Then I grew up, you see.
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A few thoughts…

I wonder about that line near the beginning, thinking about

a memory-Something that still means a great deal to
me. It feels as if it might be different for everyone, but
what might that look like for to you and I?

There seems to be memories here about people as well-

She seemed the oldest thing I can remember. The
woman feels important to the memory we are glimpsing.
It is interesting that the woman is a ‘thing’ here.

Such berries and such cream as I

remember I never had seen before, and
never see
Today, you know- This is a very vivid moment where
there is a feeling that not only goes back far, but seems
also to come forward in truth to the present time. Are
there things we remember from our childhood, that still
seem important now?

That is the farthest thing I can remember.

It won’t mean much to you. It does to me- I wonder
if there are moments we remember that are hard to
articulate, yet feel meaningful? Does it matter that we
cannot explain it to others?

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We’ve left this page blank for you to make notes,
draw a picture, have a go at writing yourself or jot
down something you’d like to tell us…

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As well as reading materials, we’ve also included a
puzzle for you to have a go at while you’re having a
cuppa.

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