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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
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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 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 thing thought told turned Uncle Charles voice walked weary window words
Page 242 - 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 225 - 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 112 - Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth, — And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?
Page 303 - Away! Away! The spell of arms and voices: the white arms of roads, their promise of close embraces and the black arms of tall ships that stand against the moon, their tale of distant nations. They are held out to say: We are alone. Come.
Page 244 - 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 301 - Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.
Page 133 - Then he shall say to them also that shall be on his left hand: Depart from me, you cursed, into everlasting fire, which was prepared for the devil and his angels.
Page 201 - His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her graveclothes. Yes! Yes! Yes! He would create proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul, as the great artificer whose name he bore, a living thing, new and soaring and beautiful, impalpable, imperishable.
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.
Page 203 - A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane's and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and softhued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips where the white fringes of her drawers were like featherings of soft white down.