What people are saying - Write a review
Amazing style and prose, as well as substance. - Goodreads
He is not easy to read. - Goodreads
He's a great writer. - Goodreads
Good portrayal of what Catholic indoctrination does. - Goodreads
The writing was amazing. - Goodreads
It works better as poetry and not prose. - Goodreads
Review: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young ManUser Review - Scott Freeman - Goodreads
I struggle between 3 and 4 stars for this one. I had to work hard at this but it will stick with me for a while. Chapters 3-4 alone are worth the read. Read full review
All 297 reviews »
Review: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young ManUser Review - Ms. Manal - Goodreads
Reading it was a torture Read full review
altar altar wine amid answered Athy beauty began body boys Brother Michael called Casey chapel Clongowes cold confession Cranly asked Cranly's cried damned Dante dark Davin Dedalus door Dublin esthetic eternity eyes face faint Father Arnall Father Dolan feel fell fellows felt fingers fire flame Fleming flyleaf gazed grey hand head hear heard heart hell Heron holy instant Ireland jesuit Jesus Jimmy Magee Kitty O'Shea knelt knew laugh Leicester Abbey light lips listening looked Lynch MacCann Mike Flynn mind morning mortal sin mother murmur night pain passed prayed prayer prefect of studies priest rector remember repeated round Saint seemed shame side silence sin after sin sinner sins slowly smell smiling soft soul soutane Stephen Stephen Dedalus stood strange student tell Temple thought told turned Uncle Charles voice walked weary window words
Page 299 - Welcome, O life ! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
Page 221 - The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words home, Christ, ale, master, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language.
Page 240 - The feelings excited by improper art are kinetic, desire or loathing. Desire urges us to possess, to go to something; loathing urges us to abandon, to go from something. These are kinetic emotions. The arts which excite them, pornographical or didactic, are therefore improper arts. The esthetic emotion (I use the general term) is therefore static. The mind is arrested and raised above desire and loathing.
Page 194 - No, it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose.
Page 238 - When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.
Page 287 - Cranly, you do not intend to become a protestant? —I said that I had lost the faith, Stephen answered, but not that I had lost selfrespect. What kind of liberation would that be to forsake an absurdity which is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is illogical and incoherent?
Page 1 - When you wet the bed, first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on the oilsheet. That had the queer smell. His mother had a nicer smell than his father.
Page 198 - He was alone. He was unheeded, happy and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the sea-harvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight and gaydad lightclad figures of children and girls and voiceğ childish and girlish in the air.
Page 1 - ONCE upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo. . . . His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face.