By James Joyce
James Joyce's coming-of-age tale, a travel de strength of favor and technique
The first, shortest, and so much approachable of James Joyce’s novels, A Portrait of the Artist as a tender Man portrays the Dublin upbringing of Stephen Dedalus, from his younger days at Clongowes wooden collage to his radical wondering of all conference. In doing so, it offers an indirect self-portrait of the younger Joyce himself. At its heart lie questions of beginning and resource, authority and authorship, and the connection of an artist to his family members, tradition, and race. Exuberantly creative standard, the radical subtly and fantastically orchestrates the styles of citation and repetition instrumental in its hero’s quest to create his personal personality, his personal language, existence, and artwork: “to forge within the smithy of my soul the uncreated moral sense of my race.”
This Penguin Classics version is the definitive textual content, licensed by way of the Joyce property and collated from all recognized proofs, manuscripts, and impressions to mirror the author’s unique wishes.
For greater than seventy years, Penguin has been the major writer of vintage literature within the English-speaking international. With greater than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a world bookshelf of the easiest works all through heritage and throughout genres and disciplines. Readers belief the sequence to supply authoritative texts superior by means of introductions and notes via exotic students and modern authors, in addition to updated translations via award-winning translators.
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Extra resources for A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Penguin Classics)
Then he said: —Poor old Christy, he's nearly lopsided now with roguery. —Simon, said Mrs Dedalus, you haven't given Mrs Riordan any sauce. Mr Dedalus seized the sauceboat. —Haven't I? he cried. Mrs Riordan, pity the poor blind. Dante covered her plate with her hands and said: —No, thanks. Mr Dedalus turned to uncle Charles. —How are you off, sir? —Right as the mail, Simon. —You, John? —I'm all right. Go on yourself. —Mary? Here, Stephen, here's something to make your hair curl. He poured sauce freely over Stephen's plate and set the boat again on the table.
But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began? It could not be a wall; but there could be a thin thin line there all round everything. It was very big to think about everything and everywhere. Only God could do that. He tried to think what a big thought that must be; but he could only think of God. God was God's name just as his name was Stephen. DIEU was the French for God and that was God's name too; and when anyone prayed to God and said DIEU then God knew at once that it was a French person that was praying.
Hayfoot! Strawfoot! They went together down the staircase and along the corridor and past the bath. As he passed the door he remembered with a vague fear the warm turf-coloured bogwater, the warm moist air, the noise of plunges, the smell of the towels, like medicine. Brother Michael was standing at the door of the infirmary and from the door of the dark cabinet on his right came a smell like medicine. That came from the bottles on the shelves. The prefect spoke to Brother Michael and Brother Michael answered and called the prefect sir.