paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a great ham, stripped of its outer skin and
peppered over with crust crumbs, a neat paper frill round its shin and beside this was a
round of spiced beef. Between these rival ends ran parallel lines of side-dishes: two little
minsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallow dish full of blocks of blancmange and red jam,
a large green leaf-shaped dish with a stalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunches of purple
raisins and peeled almonds, a companion dish on which lay a solid rectangle of Smyrna
figs, a dish of custard topped with grated nutmeg, a small bowl full of chocolates and
sweets wrapped in gold and silver papers and a glass vase in which stood some tall celery
stalks. In the centre of the table there stood, as sentries to a fruit-stand which upheld a
pyramid of oranges and American apples, two squat old-fashioned decanters of cut glass,
one containing port and the other dark sherry. On the closed square piano a pudding in a
huge yellow dish lay in waiting and behind it were three squads of bottles of stout and ale
and minerals, drawn up according to the colours of their uniforms, the first two black, with
brown and red labels, the third and smallest squad white, with transverse green sashes.
No writer ever took such care about food and drink, so marshaled his forces to create a military
effect of armies drawn up as if for battle: ranks, files, “rival ends,” sentries, squads, sashes. Such a
paragraph would not be created without having some purpose, some ulterior motive. Now, Joyce
being Joyce, he has about five different purposes, one not being enough for genius. His main goal,
though, is to draw us into that moment, to pull our chairs up to that table so that we are utterly
convinced of the reality of the meal. At the same time, he wants to convey the sense of tension and
conflict that has been running through the evening—there are a host of us-against-them and you-
against-me moments earlier and even during the meal—and this tension will stand at odds with the
sharing of this sumptuous and, given the holiday, unifying meal. He does this for a very simple, very
profound reason: we need to be part of that communion. It would be easy for us simply to laugh at
Freddy Malins, the resident drunkard, and his dotty mother, to shrug off the table talk about operas
and singers we’ve never heard of, merely to snicker at the flirtations among the younger people, to
discount the tension Gabriel feels over the speech of gratitude he’s obliged to make at meal’s end. But
we can’t maintain our distance because the elaborate setting of this scene makes us feel as if we’re
seated at that table. So we notice, a little before Gabriel does, since he’s lost in his own reality, that
we’re all in this together, that in fact we share something.
The thing we share is our death. Everyone in that room, from old and frail Aunt Julia to the
youngest music student, will die. Not tonight, but someday. Once you recognize that fact (and we’ve
been given a head start by the title, whereas Gabriel doesn’t know his evening has a title), it’s smooth
sledding. Next to our mortality, which comes to great and small equally, all the differences in our
lives are mere surface details. When the snow comes at the end of the story, in a beautiful and moving
passage, it covers, equally, “all the living and the dead.” Of course it does, we think, the snow is just
like death. We’re already prepared, having shared in the communion meal Joyce has laid out for us, a
communion not of death, but of what comes before. Of life.
3
Nice to Eat You:
Acts of Vampires
W
HAT A DIFFERENCE A PREPOSITION MAKES
! If you take the “with” out of “Nice to eat with you,” it
begins to mean something quite different. Less wholesome. More creepy. It just goes to show that not
all eating that happens in literature is friendly. Not only that, it doesn’t even always look like eating.
Beyond here there be monsters.
Vampires in literature, you say. Big deal. I’ve read Dracula. And Anne Rice.
Good for you. Everyone deserves a good scare. But actual vampires are only the beginning; not
only that, they’re not even necessarily the most alarming type. After all, you can at least recognize
them. Let’s start with Dracula himself, and we’ll eventually see why this is true. You know how in all
those Dracula movies, or almost all, the count always has this weird attractiveness to him?
Sometimes he’s downright sexy. Always, he’s alluring, dangerous, mysterious, and he tends to focus
on beautiful, unmarried (which in the social vision of nineteenth-century England meant virginal)
women. And when he gets them, he grows younger, more alive (if we can say this of the undead),
more virile even. Meanwhile, his victims become like him and begin to seek out their own victims.
Van Helsing, the count’s ultimate nemesis, and his lot, then, are really protecting young people, and
especially young women, from this menace when they hunt him down. Most of this, in one form or
another, can be found in Bram Stoker’s novel (1897), although it gets more hysterical in the movie
versions. Now let’s think about this for a moment. A nasty old man, attractive but evil, violates young
women, leaves his mark on them, steals their innocence—and coincidentally their “usefulness” (if you
think “marriageability,” you’ll be about right) to young men—and leaves them helpless followers in
his sin. I think we’d be reasonable to conclude that the whole Count Dracula saga has an agenda to it
beyond merely scaring us out of our wits, although scaring readers out of their wits is a noble
enterprise and one that Stoker’s novel accomplishes very nicely. In fact, we might conclude it has
something to do with sex.
Well, of course it has to do with sex. Evil has had to do with sex since the serpent seduced Eve.
What was the upshot there? Body shame and unwholesome lust, seduction, temptation, danger, among
other ills.
So vampirism isn’t about vampires?
Oh, it is. It is. But it’s also about things other than literal vampirism: selfishness, exploitation, a
refusal to respect the autonomy of other people, just for starters. We’ll return to this list a bit later on.
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