An semi-autobiographic novel, featuring a fictionalized character as Joyce's alter-ego, it traces his formative childhood years that led him ambivalently away from a vocation in the clergy and into that of literature.

There are sections which appealed to me (a priestly sermon on the damnation of ones soul into hell is particularly vivid), but by and large the plot line was too disjointed for me to engage with. Uncertain of exactly where I had been or what path the novel was taking me, I found myself struggling through long pages in search of moments of clarity.

There were moments where Joyce's deft handling of the english language carried me away from my confusion over the plot line, but unfortunately these were not frequent enough for me to forgive the novel as a whole. There were few, if any, characters that were developed well enough to carry my interest and advance the plot.

As I neared the end of Portrait I felt cheated. One of the reasons I had selected this novel was the desire to read a classic of modern literature (it is ranked #3 on the modern language's top novels of the 20th century), and ultimately I was left questioning my ability to grasp the depths of this novel.

For a well written review espousing a contrary opinion refer to Mohsen, 17Dec07.

Birds in Flight

n  "For ages, men [have] gazed upward as [they've been] gazing at birds in flight."n

Not surprisingly for a novel whose principal character is "Dedalus", its core theme is flight, in two senses: departure (or escape from captivity) and ascent (if not ascension).

When we meet Stephen Dedalus, he is an infant, a "baby tuckoo", a bird whose wings have not yet grown or become functional.

Over the course of five chapters, we witness him flee family, church, politics, country and pedestrian life, in favour of a life of creative individualism. Creativity, n  the pursuit of beauty,n constitutes Stephen’s second flight. In Religion, there is only one Creator, God. "Sin, be it in thought or deed, is a transgression of His Law..."

A sin is a flight from God and God’s Law. It elevates the individual over their God. A sin is "an instant of rebellious pride of the intellect."

The desire to create is an act of rebellion. This pride "made Lucifer and a third part of the cohort of angels fall from their glory. A sin, an instant of folly and weakness, drove Adam and Eve out of Eden..."

Hence, the challenge for Stephen is n  how to aspire, how to fly, but not fall from glory.n

We don’t get to see Stephen’s ascent. The novel finishes at the point of his departure. However, there is a sense in which, to the extent that Stephen is Joyce, his ascent is realised in the novel itself, in which the author, in the words of Ovid, "turns his mind to unknown arts."

These arts are the craft of Daedalus, the "clever worker," "the skilled craftsman and artist," the artificer, the father of Icarus, who, also given a pair of wings fabricated by Daedalus, flew too close to the sun and fell to Earth.

It’s no coincidence that Thoth, the Egyptian god of scribes and writers, is depicted with the head of an ibis. As perfect as this novel is, it would n  preempt, but only hint at, the mythic potential of "Ulysses",n in which Joyce's ambition and talent would really take off and soar.




"Daedalus and Icarus", by Frederick Leighton, ca 1869



VERSE:


Cricket Practice
[In the Words of Joyce]

In the soft grey silence,
He could hear the bump of balls,
And from here and there,
Through the quiet air,
The sound of cricket bats:
Pick, pack, pock, puck:
Like drops of water
In a fountain falling
Softly in the brimming bowl.


Aubrey's Gang
[In the Words of Joyce]

Aubrey's gang made forays
Into old maids' gardens
Or went down, castle-bound,
To fight their battles on
Shaggy weed-grown rocks.
They came home afterwards,
Weary stragglers all,
With the stale odours
Of the foreshore still
In their youthful nostrils.
Meanwhile, with all their
Derring done, the rank oils
Of the seawrack remained
Upon their weary hands
And in their lank dark hair.


Removal Men
[In the Words of Joyce]

The front garden was strewn
With wisps of straw and rope ends,
While two men hustled furniture
Into the huge vans at the gate.


Without Companion, Wandering
[In the Words of Joyce]

His mind shone
Coldly on their
Regrets and strifes
And happiness,
Like a moon upon
A younger earth.
No life or youth
Stirred inside him,
Nor had he known
The pleasure of
Companionship
Nor the vigour
Of rude male health.
An abyss of fortune
Sundered him
Apart from them.
Nothing stirred
Within his soul,
But a cold and cruel
And loveless lust.
His soul incapable
Of simple joys.


Wandering Onward
[In the Words of Joyce]

And so he wandered
Onward, undismayed,
Wondering whither
He had strayed.
Women and girls,
Leisurely, young
And perfumed,
In long vivid gowns
Awakened him
From the slumber
Of countless centuries.
He read the meaning
Of one girl's movements
In her frank uplifted eyes,
And, duely seduced,
Surrendered himself
To the dark pressure
Of her softly parting lips.
Darker than the swoon of sin,
Softer than any sound
Or odour of enticement.
No part of body or soul
Was maimed by excess,
But peace between them
Constituted.


Sacred Rapture
[In the Words of Joyce]

His eyes shunned
Every encounter
With the eyes of women,
Seeking only the art
Of sacred rapture,
In which parted hands
And lips and eyes
Were as of one
About to swoon
And faint before
God Himself,
Her glorious
Creator.


No Priestly Office
[In the Words of Joyce]

His destiny
Was to elude
Religious and
Social orders.
The priest's appeal
Did not touch him
Near to his quick.
He was destined
To learn wisdom
Apart from others,
Wandering through
The sinful snares
Of the fallen
And wayward world.


The Phrase and Day and Scene
[In the Words of Joyce]

Upon a day of
Dappled seabourne clouds,
As it seemed to him,
Along the course of
The slowflowing Liffey,
Slender masts flecked the sky
And, more distant still,
Avowed by his gaze,
The dim fabric of
The timeless city
Lay prone in haze.


Without Shame or Wantonness
[In the Words of Joyce]

Long, long,
Alone and still,
She suffered
The worship
Of his gaze
On her flesh,
Soft-hued like
Ivory,
An emerald
Trail of seaweed
Upon her
Slender legs.



SOUNDTRACK:

Buffalo Springfield - "Expecting to Fly"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzMl0-...

Stephen Dedalus - "Goin' Out West"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IQNLa8...

Enjoyed finally reading this, also very much liked Joyce's style.

**** 2021 reread

“Have read little and understood less.”

Joyce’s first published novel is a cacophony, a fireworks display of words, language, ideas, thoughts and expression. A bildungsroman about his alter-ego, Stephen Dedalus, who moves with his unfortunate family from a comfortable rural home to Dublin. We follow Stephen on a journey of discovery, internal and external, through religion, philosophy and identity, as a spiritual and physical individual as well as a member of a family, especially an Irish family, and in extension a citizen of the world.

“You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too.”

This time I took my time and paid close attention to Joyce’s language and the narrative techniques he uses to convey often complicated ideas. This relatively short book is thick with provocation, it is a fecundity of conflicting ideas. I loved the way, sometimes in the same sentence, he blends classical references with every day, mundane observation.

“Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid preasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor.”

A quietly confident, intricately adorned brilliant work. A must read for students of modernist literature.

129th book of 2021.

2nd reading. 4.5. Reading this post-Ellmann was pretty illuminating and helped me see the novel in a different light. This essentially is a memoir-like being from Joyce, right down to him having to cut out his brother mostly to make his 'hero' more alone and down to deciding where to end this novel, eventually settling on Joyce's own choice to exile himself in Dantean fashion. I got more (terror?) out of the fire sermon this time, which made it oddly more annoying, distracting from the main narrative but also being interesting in itself. Nothing beats the whimsical opening with Stephen as a child or the bits later in the novel as they ramble around Dublin and argue about Byron or whatever else. At the end of the day the novel is beautifully written, internal, mythical. Woolf's stream-of-consciousness might be better but there's something so charming about Joyce's too. Maybe his humour. My loved-up juvenile review from first reading lurks below. A perfect novel for one's 20s.
______________________________

100th book of 2020.

My journey through Joyce is completed, albeit, in the wrong order. I began with Dubliners, then last year read Ulysses, earlier this year I read Finnegans Wake and here I am closing A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. And, I have travelled through time, reversing time, to find Stephen a young boy again, and not the man I knew from that day: June 16th, 1904.

Stephen is young, in fact, he’s a child, but he grows older as the book transpires, as we grow older. How can we not adore him? His foolishness? His naivety? His love of literature? How can I not see elements of myself reflected back at me. He strolls Dublin, and it is so real – the street names, the colleges, the buildings, they emerge from the narrative, textured, and there goes our hero! Dedalus, wandering along. He is thinking about the girl he likes, but he will not talk to her. He is reciting poems in his head, Dublin rain falls on his stooped head. I wish to jump from a side-street and cry, “Dedalus, my friend!” and he will smile at me. We can then walk in the rain discusses whatever we choose to discuss; the rain does not bother us, or disturb our conversation. O Icarus!

This book filled me with great happiness to read. That Dedalus is a kindred soul. I understand him and I get the impression he understands me. And though Joyce tests us at times, with the religious debates within, he paces the novel exceptionally. Chapter III tested me the most, the incredibly long speech about Hell and sin… But when we feel as if we have had enough, Joyce sweeps us away again with Dedalus and his friends arguing about Byron, talking pig-Latin – their conversations are funny, Joyce had me smiling, even. And after the tricky terrain of Finnegans Wake, I was reminded once more how well and how beautifully Joyce can write: In the wide land under a tender lucid evening sky, a cloud drifting westward amid a pale green sea of heaven, they stood together, children that had erred. A chapel flooded by the dull scarlet light and the rain! It would rain for ever, noiselessly.

But listen. Stephen is kindred because he is drifting, he is hurt, he wonders if there is more in life for him. He is an artist. His father shouts, –Is your lazy bitch of a brother gone out yet? to his sister, and Stephen says to her, –He has a curious idea of genders if he thinks a bitch is masculine. Even now, in 2020, Stephen Dedalus is relatable. His mother says to him, –Well it’s a poor case, she said, when a university student is so dirty that his mother has to wash him. And I thought, O, when I took a bag of washing home with me to see my parents. Boys stand outside the university and claim –Our end is our acquisition of knowledge when asked about women… Joyce makes me smile, he makes me remember walking across rainy car parks myself, or arguing (about Joyce even!) late into the night about literature, quoting books… And my mother saying exactly as she says to Stephen (sans the “queer mind”, admittedly) - Said I have a queer mind and have read too much. Not true. Have read little and understood less. All the while, the final paragraph of the first chapter continues to echo through my head, as if I share the memory with Stephen – The fellows were practising long shies and bowling lobs and slow twisters. In the soft grey silence he could hear the bump of the balls: and from here and from there through the quiet air the sound of cricket bats: pick, pack, pock, puck: like drops of water in a fountain falling softly into the brimming bowl. – I can hear and taste this day, this sweet summer’s day, in someone else’s memory.
n  

–And were you happier then? Cranly asked softly. Happier than you are now, for instance?
–Often happy, Stephen said, and often unhappy. I am someone else then.
–How someone else? What do you mean by that statement?
–I mean, said Stephen, that I was not myself as I am now, as I had to become.

n
I think I must shave. I didn’t sleep last night, but I caught the sunrise. Lunch calls. I wonder, where does one go from here, how can one leave Stephen? But of course, I do know where to go from here. I have been.

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

And here, alas, is our companion, Dedalus, once more, older, different, but the same.

Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak…

NOW:

Completed in its completeness back in the handsome daze of 2007 and partially re-read (up to p160) on Dec 5 2012. I emerged battered from the fiery pulpit chapter, hell licking at my wary eyeballs as Dedalus blubbers his sins in the confessional, hankering for some sin-making and utterly, totally and completely ready to never read this again. I wrote a very detailed review on September 7th 2007 at the moist age of twenty. Excuse the cute naivety of my prose.

THEN:

The Very Essence of Adolescence

“The next day brought death and judgement, stirring his soul slowly from its listless despair… he felt the death chill touch the extremities and creep onwards towards the heart, the film of death veiling the eyes . . . ” (p85)

And that’s just Monday.

It is interesting how this landmark novel—once so empowering, audacious and revolutionary—has slipped under the same shroud of popular indifference as the present day Catholic Church. It is depressing to imagine battered copies of A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man gathering dust among the wonky catechisms of tired old priests, bound to the Bible as punishment and the process of life as the continual absolution from sin. Dust it down from these lonely shelves, I say! Blast away the dust with a triple-speed Hoover and go swim in its transcendent prosaic beauty!

Unlike the hair-pulling hypocrisy of the Bible, this transitional novel from James Joyce remains the finest Kunstlerroman ever composed, a pompous word show-offs use to indicate their insecurities and prove their subscription to “Thesaurus Rex,” a publication for dinosaur and big word enthusiasts. It is a coming-of-age tale which converts the ludicrous process of adolescence into a tapestry of wonderful music, gentler than Bach, mellower than Handel and more rocking than The Brian Jonestown Massacre.

Stephen Dedalus, who would resurface in the literary titan Ulysses in the subsequent decade, is the fictional embodiment of James Joyce in many respects. Given Joyce was an author concerned with the human mind and body as an instrument of precious wonderment in relation to the fleeting ephemerality of man’s existence (yeah, one of those bastards) Joyce is the heart, souls and guts of Stephen Dedalus and this autobiographical account of his own upbringing in Dublin proves this hook, line and sinker.

We begin the novel with a famously impressionistic and experimental sentence, one which read aloud sounds almost parodical; almost like a nursery rhyme in places and then part jabberwocky. This opening is used to establish the novel’s dichotomy between the sensuality and the emotional luminescence of his experience, set against and the moments of fire-and-brimstone whenever he is in the twisted grip of the Catholic Church, or indeed trapped in his own uncertain mind. The novel places itself on the more romantic side of his development, interspersing the experience with the hell of his surroundings, and the reader is allowed to glide through the humanity and natural flow of this aging process as he turns into The Artist As A Young Man.

In a literary mammoth of this nature, there is much to discuss and so little time. I could expand this humble nugget of consumer experience into a free-wheeling dissertation with footnotes and scholarly quotations, but there is no grade in it for me nor a hug from Dr. May Wilmot. This being the case, and at the risk of rambling like a crazed shepherd on E—here is what I took from the text.

The biggest area of interest for me was indeed the religious intrigue, and Steven’s own frustrations with the Catholic Church. Joyce was keen for Steven to embody the progression of a new Ireland, eschewing the retrograde notions of a land defined by unrealistic historical conventions established by the Normans, and to make his protagonist into someone who helped facilitate this vision of a New Ireland. The Catholic Church in the novel is unappealing to Dedalus through its attempts to seize the freedom of his artistic awakenings. Most subsequent generations will empathise with this struggle between old and new values, religious or otherwise, and Joyce accepts that soon Ireland will become a place free from the vicelike grip of one particular dogma.

The most pressing reason A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man is adored to this current date is due to the fact it contains the most accessible prose approach from Joyce. There are those souls such as myself who fall at the hurdle of Ulysses, and his mind-boggling final work Finnegans Wake, since often these texts seems nothing more than academic exercises of titanic proportions from which no real vicarious pleasure can be derived. This novel however, throws out visceral, skin-crawling little sentences and moments of rich poetic pulchritude—universal and beautiful—which bottle the very essence of adolescence.

It makes for a wonderful perfume.

Oh my god guys JOYCE. This is genuinely one of the best books I've read so far this year. Not really a plot driven novel but more a character study of the young Stephen Dedalus and his journey through his teen years. While some aspects of this novel may be difficult to understand if you don't have just a little knowledge of Irish history (names like Charles Stewart Parnell, Michael Davitt, and Wolfe Tone are mentioned quite a lot), I feel like that doesn't effect the enjoyment you can get from this novel. I particularly enjoyed the parts where Stephen and his father travelled to Cork (my local city) because I knew of all the places described and at one point Joyce even mentions my local train station (he also mentions a small village that is literally a ten minute drive from my house so that was odd but exciting) so those were fun little perks for me.

Joyce has this image of being some sort of monolithic, literary genius, which he is, but that image may put some people off his work. This isn't "Ulysses" or (thankfully) "Finnegans Wake", the prose of this novel is modernist but understandable and beautiful in every way. I feel the Joyce spark has been lit within me, I must read more! *eyes Ulysses on bookshelf* Hmmm, maybe some day my friend.

First thoughts:

Novel - executed in the fine tradition of the autobiographical novels of the European romantic movement.

Artist - an Epicurean with a studied bookish air and an affected intellectual confidence; narcissistic, if endearingly earnest; frightened away from his equals and home; looking for a worthy platform, to place the burden of the blame. An ‘artist’ only by self-definition who concludes too grandly and too futilely and too prematurely. Definitely no Künstlerroman. Can’t wait for the proto-artist to grow up into one (if he ever does).

Both - Means towards an end? Early steps down a long winding path?

Full review once second thoughts take shape…


Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

This started rather weak, as an ordinary college novel, but from Chapter 2 on it got very intriguing through the use of another narrative register (you see Joyce for the first time really playing with language). The main character - the young Joyce - is very unsympathetic, arrogant, frustrated and complex. As could be expected in catholic Ireland of those days, there are a lot of references to religious and biblical elements. The thunderous sermon in the third chapter, for instance, is a sublime piece of literature, almost dantesk. All in all this as beautiful as an alternative coming of age story, but not quite the mature Joyce, though. Rating 3.5 stars.

n  Non Serviamn:بندگی نخواهم نمود

گفتم دین بیمارستان نیست که آدم تویش بستری بشود. مادر گذشت کرد. می گفت تو ذهن عجیبی داری و زیاد چیز خوانده ای. درست نیست. کم خوانده ام و کمتر فهمیده ام. بعد گفت تو بالاخره یک روزی به دین برمی گردی چون ذهن بیقراری داری. این یعنی کلیسا را از در عقب گناه ترک کردن و دوباره از پنجره سقفی توبه به آن وارد شدن. نمی توانم توبه کنم

این کتاب تصویری است از اسارت نوجوانی ایرلندی در چنگ افکار سنتی؛ خانواده و مذهب و ملی گرایی
و رهایی اش از آنها و آشنا شدن با دنیای بزرگ هنر و پیدا کردن من ِ واقعی خود
او حتی تا کشیش شدن پیش می رود اما نیرویی درونی به کمکش می آید و او را نجات می دهد

غریزه ای که نیرومندتر از تعلیم و تربیت و دینداری بود در هر قدم که به آن زندگی(رهبانیت) نزدیکتر می شد بیشتر در درون او به جنب و جوش می افتاد، غریزه ای تند و تیز و خصمانه که او را بر ضد تمکین مسلح می ساخت. یخ زدگی و نظم آن زندگی او را می رماند...از این متحیر شد که روح او از آنچه تا آن زمان پناهگاه خود می دانست تا چه اندازه دور است، از این متحیر شد که وقتی قرار باشد یک عمل قطعی و برگشت ناپذیر آزادی او را به خطر نابودی ابدی، در هردو عالم با زمان و بی زمان، در اندازد، آن بندی که سالیان دراز نظم و اطاعت بر او نهاده بود تا چه اندازه سست است. سرنوشت او آن بود که حکمت خود را جدا از دیگران بیاموزد یا حکمت دیگران را بخود با سرگردانی در گیرودار عالم بیاموزد


:رهایی اش از ملی گرایی

.دیوین: تو آدم وحشتناکی هستی، استیوی. همیشه تنهایی
استیون: این ملت و این مملکت و این زندگی مرا پرورانده است. من باید خودم را همانطور که هستم ظاهر کنم. اجداد من زبان خودشان را دور انداختند و زبان دیگری را برگزیدند. به یک مشت خارجی اجازه دادند روی سرشان سوار شوند. تو خیال می کنی من حاضرم قرضهایی را که آنها بالا آورده اند با جان و تن خود ادا کنم؟ برای چه؟
.دیوین: برای آزادی خودمان
استیون: از زمان "تون" تا زمان "پارنل" هیچ آدم شرافتمند و صادقی نبوده است که زندگی و جوانی و محبت خود را در کف شما بگذارد و شما او را ��ه دشمن نفروخته باشید یا در وقت احتیاج رهایش نکرده باشید یا به او ناسزا نگفته باشید یا ولش نکرده باشید و دنبال کس دیگری بروید...وقتی که روح کسی در این مملکت به دنیا می آید تورها را روی آن پرتاب می کنند تا جلو پرواز آن را بگیرند. تو درباره ی ملیت و زبان و دین با من سخن می گویی. من کوشش می کنم از میان این تورها فرار کنم


او از عشق هم رهایی می یابد. با اینکه می توانست دختر مورد علاقه اش را بدست آورد اما در نهایت از ابراز عشق خودداری می کند و او را به فراموشی می سپارد. و تنهایی و با خود بودن را به چنان عشقی ترجیح می دهد. چون شاید این عشق او را از شکوفایی استعدادهایش باز می داشت
آری بگذار مردگان با مردگان زناشویی کنند
من از تنها بودن یا به خاطر دیگری عقب رانده شدن یا رها کردن آنچه باید رها کنم نمی ترسم. از اشتباه کردن هم نمی ترسم حتی اگر اشتباهی که یک عمر طول بکشد و شاید تا ابد ادامه داشته باشد


:شیفته هنر شدن

هنر عبارت است از کار انسان در نسق دادن به امر محسوس یا معقول با غایت زیباشناختی. درباره این جور چیزها حرف زدن و سعی در فهمیدن ماهیت آنها کردن و پس از فهمیدن آن آهسته و با فروتنی و تدام کوشیدن بر اینکه از دل خاک تیره یا هرچه از آن سر می زند، از صدا و شکل و رنگ که دروازه های زندان روح ما هستند، صورتی از زیبایی را که به فهم آن رسیده ایم پدید آوردن، یعنی از نو بیرون کشیدن – این یعنی هنر

اکویناس می گوید: چیزی زیباست که درک آن لذتبخش باشد. سه چیز برای زیبایی لازم است، تمامیت، هماهنگی و درخشندگی


:سرود پیروزی

حنجره اش از هوس آنکه فریاد بلندی بکشد به درد افتاده بود، فریادی چون فریاد شاهین یا عقابی از فراز آسمان، فریادی نافذ تا از تسلیم خویشتن به بادها خبر دهد. این ندای زندگانی بود خطاب به روح او نه آن صدای زمخت عالم تکلیف و نومیدی، نه آن صدای غیرانسانی که او را به خدمت بی فروغ محراب فرا می خواند. یک دم پرواز بی تابانه او را نجات داده بود و فریاد پیروزی که لبهایش جلو آن را گرفته بود مغزش را می شکافت

با حرکتی عصبی از روی تخته سنگ بالا پرید چون دیگر نمی توانست شعله ای را که در خونش بود خاموش کند. احساس کرد که گونه هایش گر گرفته است و حنجره اش از ترانه در تپش است. در پاهایش چنان هوس سیر و سفری بود که از شوق عزیمت به انتهای کره ی زمین می سوخت. گویی دلش فریاد برداشته بود که به پیش! به پیش! شامگاه بر فراز دریا تیره تر می شد، شب به دشتها فرا می رسید، سپیده ی صبح پیش پای مسافر را روشن می کرد و کشتزارها و تپه ها و چهره های بیگانه را به او نشان می داد. کجا؟

نقش آن دختر(این دختر دیگری است که اتفاقی او را در ساحل می بیند و تحت تاثیرش قرار می گیرد) تا ابد در روح او جای گرفت و هیچ کلامی سکوت قدسی سرمستی اش را برهم نزده بود. چشمان آن دختر او را ندا داده بود و روح او با این ندا از جا جسته بود. زیستن، خطا کردن، سقوط کردن، پیروز شدن، زندگانی را از دل زندگانی از نو آفریدن! فرشته ای وحشی بر او ظاهر شده بود، فرشته ی جوانی و زیبایی فانی، سفیر دربار باشکوه زندگی تا در یک آن جذبه ی دروازه های همه ی راههای خطا و افتخار را به روی او بگشاید. به پیش و به پیش و به پیش


:و رهایی

من چیزی را بندگی نخواهم نمود که دیگر به آن اعتقاد ندارم چه اسمش خانواده باشد چه وطنم و چه کلیسایم: و سعی خواهم کرد با نوعی شیوه ی زندگی یا شیوه ی هنری هرقدر که می توانم به آزادی و به تمامی ضمیر خود را بیان کنم و برای دفاع از خود فقط سلاحهایی را به کار برم که خود در استفاده از آنها مجاز می دانم – سکوت، جلای وطن و زیرکی

!برو!برو
طلسم بازوان و صداها: بازوان سفید جاده ها، نویدشان که تنگ در آغوش می گیرند و بازوان سیاه کشتیهای بلند که در جلو ماه می ایستند، افسانه ی آنها درباره ی مردمان دوردست. بازوان برافراشته اند تا بگویند: ما تنها هستیم. بیا. و صداها همراه آنها می گویند: ما خویشان تو هستیم. و هوا سرشار است از حضور آنان که مرا، خویش خود را، فرا می خوانند، آماده ی رفتن می شوند، بالهای جوانی با نشاط و سهمگین خود را تکان می دهند

First read back in High School – 2 Stars

Reread as an adult – 4 Stars

This is a Bildungsroman – that is a word I always think sounds fun but I always forget what it means. I only realized this book is one because of my followup review of it on Wikipedia for extra facts. For those who are like me and think it is a fun word but can’t always place how to use it, it is “a literary genre that focuses on the psychological and moral growth of the protagonist from youth to adulthood . . . . in which character change is important.” Basically, a coming of age story.

I didn’t remember a lot about this book from the first time I read it, but I remember that I didn’t like it. And, in rereading it I can definitely tell why I didn’t like it. While my most recent experience with this book is 4 stars, it does get a bit wordy, long winded, repetitive, and maybe even a bit boring at times. I think teenage me was probably needing something a bit more exciting to keep his attention and interest.

Two things I think helped me appreciate this book more this time around:

-tMore life experience to reflect on - much like the main character and author are reflecting on their coming of age
-tListening to it made the experience very enjoyable. Colin Farrell did a great job!

I have read one other Joyce (Finnegans Wake) and that one is complete nonsense. I know someone is going to see that and want to preach at me why it is not, but . . . sorry, it is incomprehensible nonsense. This one was much more pleasant and easy to follow and I really did enjoy watching the protagonist’s journey from boy to man as he struggles with school, authority, religion, sex, relationships, and “What is Art?” It is worth the read and its classic status.

Just terrible. Disjointed. Wordy. Dated. The religious rant I just listened to was too much for me, I am dumping this.

B-O-R-I-N-G!!!!!!

Most serious of all is that the central character, Stephen, has no depth.

IF you choose to try the audiobook, do NOT pick the one narrated by Michael Orenstein. The narration is also terrible. I did listen to the sample before purchasing it; I certainly made a mistake. Too fast. Words pour out of his mouth. All the intonations - for kids, women, men, teachers, clergy - are off.

I do not dump that many books, but this I just cannot stand.

جویس معتقده زندگی رو همون‌طور که جریان داره می‌نویسه، من گمان می‌کنم جویس جریان رو به منزله و به مثابه‌ی زندگی می‌نویسه. اگر رمان رو متنی داستانی و پرداخته از جریانات بدونیم، جویس نه تنها قهارانه داستان می‌نویسه، که درک-دریافت و تاثیرپذیریش از زندگی و شیوه‌ی ایرادِ سوبژکتیویته و حضورش درجریانِ حیات مستقلا یک رمانِ زنده‌ست. جویس نمی‌نویسه. خودش قلم می‌شه و روی کاغذ می‌آد. با ترجمه‌ی منوچهر بدیعی بخونیدش.