Analysis Paralysis

Alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were
powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth,
like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head
to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day and
whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his
way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the
causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as
he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his
footsteps troubled him, the wandering silent figures troubled him; and
at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.

He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the
London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before?
Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember
many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that
Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of
fellows at that time, drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. In
the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money
transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody
denied him talent. There was always a certain ... something in Ignatius
Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out
at elbows and at his wits’ end for money he kept up a bold face. Little
Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of
pride to his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher’s sayings when he was in a
tight corner:

“Half time now, boys,” he used to say light-heartedly. “Where’s my
considering cap?”

That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn’t but
admire him for it.

Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he
felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his
soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no
doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could
do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the
river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They
seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks,
their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama
of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise,
shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem
to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some
London paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not
sure what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic
moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He
stepped onward bravely.

Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober
inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind.
He was not so old—thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just
at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and
impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within
him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet’s soul.
Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it
was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and
simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems
perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He
could not sway the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of
kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one
of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems;
besides that, he would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences
and phrases from the notice which his book would get. _“Mr Chandler has
the gift of easy and graceful verse.” ... “A wistful sadness pervades
these poems.” ... “The Celtic note.”_ It was a pity his name was not
more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother’s
name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T.
Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it.

He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had to
turn back. As he came near Corless’s his former agitation began to
overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he
opened the door and entered.

The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a few
moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining
of many red and green wine-glasses. The bar seemed to him to be full of
people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He
glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand
appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody
had turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius
Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted
far apart.

“Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you
have? I’m taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water.
Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I’m the same. Spoils the flavour.... Here, _garçon_
bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow.... Well, and how
have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, how old
we’re getting! Do you see any signs of aging in me—eh, what? A little
grey and thin on the top—what?”

Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely
cropped head. His face was heavy, pale and clean-shaven. His eyes,
which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and
shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these
rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and
colourless. He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the
thin hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a denial.
Ignatius Galaher put on his hat again.

“It pulls you down,” he said. “Press life. Always hurry and scurry,
looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have
something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few
days. I’m deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country.
Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I
landed again in dear dirty Dublin.... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say
when.”

Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.

“You don’t know what’s good for you, my boy,” said Ignatius Gallaher.
“I drink mine neat.”

“I drink very little as a rule,” said Little Chandler modestly. “An odd
half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that’s all.”

“Ah, well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, “here’s to us and to old
times and old acquaintance.”

They clinked glasses and drank the toast.

“I met some of the old gang today,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “O’Hara
seems to be in a bad way. What’s he doing?”

“Nothing,” said Little Chandler. “He’s gone to the dogs.”

“But Hogan has a good sit, hasn’t he?”

“Yes; he’s in the Land Commission.”

“I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.... Poor
O’Hara! Boose, I suppose?”

“Other things, too,” said Little Chandler shortly.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

“Tommy,” he said, “I see you haven’t changed an atom. You’re the very
same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I
had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You’d want to knock about a
bit in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?”

“I’ve been to the Isle of Man,” said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

“The Isle of Man!” he said. “Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice.
That’d do you good.”

“Have you seen Paris?”

“I should think I have! I’ve knocked about there a little.”

“And is it really so beautiful as they say?” asked Little Chandler.

He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly.

“Beautiful?” said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the
flavour of his drink. “It’s not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it
is beautiful.... But it’s the life of Paris; that’s the thing. Ah, there’s
no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement....”

Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded
in catching the barman’s eye. He ordered the same again.

“I’ve been to the Moulin Rouge,” Ignatius Gallaher continued when the
barman had removed their glasses, “and I’ve been to all the Bohemian
cafés. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.”

Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two
glasses: then he touched his friend’s glass lightly and reciprocated the
former toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher’s
accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was something
vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. But perhaps it was
only the result of living in London amid the bustle and competition of the
Press. The old personal charm was still there under this new gaudy manner.
And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler
looked at his friend enviously.

“Everything in Paris is gay,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “They believe in
enjoying life—and don’t you think they’re right? If you want to enjoy
yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they’ve a great
feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they
were ready to eat me, man.”

Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.

“Tell me,” he said, “is it true that Paris is so ... immoral as they
say?”

Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm.
“Every place is immoral,” he said. “Of course you do find spicy bits in
Paris. Go to one of the students’ balls, for instance. That’s lively, if you li