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Available
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Publication
Wordsworth Editions (1992), Edition: New Ed, 272 pages
Description
Classic Literature. Fiction. HTML: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is semi-autobiographical, following Joyce's fictional alter-ego through his artistic awakening. The young artist Steven Dedelus begins to rebel against the Irish Catholic dogma of his childhood and discover the great philosophers and artists. He follows his artistic calling to the continent..
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"Øynene hennes hadde kalt på ham, og sjelen hans hadde sprunget henne i møte. Å leve, å feile, å falle, å seire, å gjenskape liv av liv! En vill engel hadde vist seg for ham, ungdommens og skjønnhetens - forgjengelighetens engel, et sendebud fra livets fagre hoff som var kommet for i et
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øyeblikk av ekstase å åpne for ham porten inn til all verdens synd og herlighet. Videre og videre ... "
Stephen Dedalus er et portrett av James Joyce som ung mann. Historien om Stephen Dedalus ble påbegynt i 1904, først påtenkt som novelle under tittelen Stephen Hero, etter hvert utviklet til en roman. Deler ble først trykt i tidsskrifter; hele boken utkom i USA i 1916, i England året etter. Show Less
User reviews
LibraryThing member MeditationesMartini
Overweening bastard that he is, Stephen Dedalus goes to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of his soul the uncreated conscience of his race. And I think: Wow, now I finally understand what Ulysses was all about. It was Joyce's great thesis and his
But it's so much more. It's an incredible invocation of the fears and fancies of childhood in a dark and brutal island off the coast of civilization, for we scattered generations of the Commonwealth a shivering memory of the disciplinary yoke of the imperial world-system out of which we came, its origin on another small cold island and its combination, in enchanted Ireland, with an ancient tyranny of soulmongers--Church and Charter, Christ and King. Joyce teases out the stunted schoolboy resistance that persists furtively under that hideous weight and, in the first section, makes it stand tall and proud and relate one small victory in a way that makes it an exemplar, a rebel ballad which will echo and shift, with none of the unavoidable self-neutering fascism of Another Brick in the Wall. When the dean offers to chastise the priest that paddled young Stephen, I want to throw my cap in the air, clutch my rock candy and shout "Haroo!"
It is also, and here I see how Riddley Walker is the Dedalus of his culture, an ecstatic linguistic myth. Stephen languishes in phantasmagoria, transfixed by the Church's imagery even as its language leads him down scholastic and aesthetic rabbit holes. No site of resistance in thee, O Lord. He breaks free, but languishes too in sex and jealousy and a sense of his sex as sin that keeps him yoked to Sweet Baby Jay as much as he was when he thought he had a vocation--more, since there is now no intellectual tradition for him to inhabit and hone to a rapier point. And like Wittgenstein, this is what brings him back to language--the emptiness of any Irish emancipatory project that is not reflexive, that doesn't come to terms with rape and pillage of a people's speech and culture. The fact that the ghosts of Eire are now strangers, hostile and hungry ghosts. English priests will come and run your parish schools and be rebelled 'gainst in a mummer's show, but there ain't no English firbolg. The fact that the working and peasant classes are as estranged, slouched low inside the Celtic soul, and Stephen/young Joyce is so transfixed and compromised as to attack the people on one side with the class attitudes of the oppressor while still grasping after the deep insights and magic words with which the house Irish or say the native boy can convincingly and with the heart of a believer--one that no matter how effete and Anglified, hates righteously the foreign muck that encrusts him--can fight back as comfortable in his weapons as the car-bomber or the Gaelic association athlete or the balladeer. "Oh tell me Sean O'Farrell" is an anti-colonial weapon too, no doubt about it, but it's not the right one for Joyce/Dedalus, the freaky eyepatch, the adept who feels and the aesthete who believes and the fart-sniffing genius who moves away to Paris and unsettles the whole non-Celtic and imperial world with the queerness of his offerings.
Meaning: Joyce's Sean O'Farrell is "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 coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo". Dedalus's pikes hidden under haystacks and gleaming together at the rising of the moooooon are "The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea" and "Come forth Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job" and "If others have their will Ann hath a way" and perhaps even "End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousandsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs". Speaking English like a foreign language, like not only your Irish politics and desires and fears but indeed your Irish lips and mouth and brain are different. The extraordinary final third of Portrait of the Artist is where a callow young smartass engages intensively with others of his ilk in words, words, words, leavened with occasional fists; learns to quit yammering about what needs to be done and think about how to just maybe start to do it; and understand that the first step for the poor tongueless Irishman is to make words strange. This book reveals Ulysses and Finnegans Wake as, at least in part, a great project of national liberation. It is their prospectus and methodology.
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canticle of canticles, his attempt to speak of Irish ghosts in their own language. And Portrait needs to come first, set the scene. Ye Artificer his Remarkable Historie.But it's so much more. It's an incredible invocation of the fears and fancies of childhood in a dark and brutal island off the coast of civilization, for we scattered generations of the Commonwealth a shivering memory of the disciplinary yoke of the imperial world-system out of which we came, its origin on another small cold island and its combination, in enchanted Ireland, with an ancient tyranny of soulmongers--Church and Charter, Christ and King. Joyce teases out the stunted schoolboy resistance that persists furtively under that hideous weight and, in the first section, makes it stand tall and proud and relate one small victory in a way that makes it an exemplar, a rebel ballad which will echo and shift, with none of the unavoidable self-neutering fascism of Another Brick in the Wall. When the dean offers to chastise the priest that paddled young Stephen, I want to throw my cap in the air, clutch my rock candy and shout "Haroo!"
It is also, and here I see how Riddley Walker is the Dedalus of his culture, an ecstatic linguistic myth. Stephen languishes in phantasmagoria, transfixed by the Church's imagery even as its language leads him down scholastic and aesthetic rabbit holes. No site of resistance in thee, O Lord. He breaks free, but languishes too in sex and jealousy and a sense of his sex as sin that keeps him yoked to Sweet Baby Jay as much as he was when he thought he had a vocation--more, since there is now no intellectual tradition for him to inhabit and hone to a rapier point. And like Wittgenstein, this is what brings him back to language--the emptiness of any Irish emancipatory project that is not reflexive, that doesn't come to terms with rape and pillage of a people's speech and culture. The fact that the ghosts of Eire are now strangers, hostile and hungry ghosts. English priests will come and run your parish schools and be rebelled 'gainst in a mummer's show, but there ain't no English firbolg. The fact that the working and peasant classes are as estranged, slouched low inside the Celtic soul, and Stephen/young Joyce is so transfixed and compromised as to attack the people on one side with the class attitudes of the oppressor while still grasping after the deep insights and magic words with which the house Irish or say the native boy can convincingly and with the heart of a believer--one that no matter how effete and Anglified, hates righteously the foreign muck that encrusts him--can fight back as comfortable in his weapons as the car-bomber or the Gaelic association athlete or the balladeer. "Oh tell me Sean O'Farrell" is an anti-colonial weapon too, no doubt about it, but it's not the right one for Joyce/Dedalus, the freaky eyepatch, the adept who feels and the aesthete who believes and the fart-sniffing genius who moves away to Paris and unsettles the whole non-Celtic and imperial world with the queerness of his offerings.
Meaning: Joyce's Sean O'Farrell is "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 coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo". Dedalus's pikes hidden under haystacks and gleaming together at the rising of the moooooon are "The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea" and "Come forth Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job" and "If others have their will Ann hath a way" and perhaps even "End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousandsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs". Speaking English like a foreign language, like not only your Irish politics and desires and fears but indeed your Irish lips and mouth and brain are different. The extraordinary final third of Portrait of the Artist is where a callow young smartass engages intensively with others of his ilk in words, words, words, leavened with occasional fists; learns to quit yammering about what needs to be done and think about how to just maybe start to do it; and understand that the first step for the poor tongueless Irishman is to make words strange. This book reveals Ulysses and Finnegans Wake as, at least in part, a great project of national liberation. It is their prospectus and methodology.
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LibraryThing member Pummzie
I read this as a precursor to attacking Ulysses and was not sure what to expect. It was not a difficult read but it does demand your attention -it certainly wasn't the book I picked up when I was tired.
It follows the development of a young Irish boy, Stephen (closely modelled on Joyce's own life)
What I loved about it was Joyce's grasp of language, his use of his erudition and the sheer daring of some of its passages in dealing with its subject matter- particularly with respect to Catholicism and the political and religious tussles in Ireland at that time as well as the temptations that both test young Stephen and inform his choices.
Each of the five chapters follows its own arc and I found that I felt quite differently about each of them. As Stephen ages, the complexity of the langauge and ideas evolve with him and by the final chapter, having been to hell and back, I was completely convinced by the mental development of Stephen and his mastery over his own conscience.
If you are interested in originality, style and economy of words to convey a plethora of connections and ideas, then don't let it languish on the shelf any longer!
It follows the development of a young Irish boy, Stephen (closely modelled on Joyce's own life)
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to adulthood.What I loved about it was Joyce's grasp of language, his use of his erudition and the sheer daring of some of its passages in dealing with its subject matter- particularly with respect to Catholicism and the political and religious tussles in Ireland at that time as well as the temptations that both test young Stephen and inform his choices.
Each of the five chapters follows its own arc and I found that I felt quite differently about each of them. As Stephen ages, the complexity of the langauge and ideas evolve with him and by the final chapter, having been to hell and back, I was completely convinced by the mental development of Stephen and his mastery over his own conscience.
If you are interested in originality, style and economy of words to convey a plethora of connections and ideas, then don't let it languish on the shelf any longer!
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LibraryThing member danconsiglio
While I recognize that this book had some new ideas for narrative structures, it really is just a series of scenes in which an arrogant little prick of a teenager jerks off and then feels guilty about it. Not at all entertaining.
LibraryThing member Cecrow
This novel took me three times as long to read as it might have. A third of my time I spent reading it, a third reading about it, and another third lost in daydreaming and memories as time after time Joyce hit something from my experience so squarely on the nose that it sent me reeling.
It didn't
The boy ages and the same truth shines from the page with each passing year and event, as how he perceives and what he perceives alter with time. He discovers the world is not black-and-white, that not all arguments have tidy resolutions, that the opposite sex is only human too, that religion cannot provide definitive answers, that destiny calls from within. He's still got his blind spots, though: he's stubborn about letting the world in, about taking responsibility for anyone or caring about his roots, and he's far too full of himself and his accumulated learning. But what's an artist without a surfeit of pride?
I took the title to be self-referential to Joyce, but it's meant more generically; this is the development of a fictional artist's mind from childhood to self-identity as such, although with biographical elements borrowed from Joyce's own life. Surprisingly accessible (if not so much as "Dubliners"), the only sticking part for me were the big long diatribes about hell and damnation which don't really get examined but pull no punches as an example of what was being knocked into Catholic Irish boys' heads, and maybe still are in some dark corners of the world. I'm bound to deeply admire this book, one I'm stunned by for how well it got inside my head and toured me through episodes from my own life, like a tourist guide who remembers me better than I do.
It didn't
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begin at all well. A title that reads like a subtitle, an opening line about a moocow, a stream-of-consciousness narrative with glimpses of scenes in fits and starts ... I feared the whole novel would be like this, until I understood it was a child's apprehension of the world. Confusion swiftly gave way to respect. James Joyce had a great talent for recapturing not only the events of childhood but also the much more difficult to remember perceptions, how a young boy takes in and processes what he learns about the world. I would never have recalled it quite this way, and yet it echoes with truth. The boy ages and the same truth shines from the page with each passing year and event, as how he perceives and what he perceives alter with time. He discovers the world is not black-and-white, that not all arguments have tidy resolutions, that the opposite sex is only human too, that religion cannot provide definitive answers, that destiny calls from within. He's still got his blind spots, though: he's stubborn about letting the world in, about taking responsibility for anyone or caring about his roots, and he's far too full of himself and his accumulated learning. But what's an artist without a surfeit of pride?
I took the title to be self-referential to Joyce, but it's meant more generically; this is the development of a fictional artist's mind from childhood to self-identity as such, although with biographical elements borrowed from Joyce's own life. Surprisingly accessible (if not so much as "Dubliners"), the only sticking part for me were the big long diatribes about hell and damnation which don't really get examined but pull no punches as an example of what was being knocked into Catholic Irish boys' heads, and maybe still are in some dark corners of the world. I'm bound to deeply admire this book, one I'm stunned by for how well it got inside my head and toured me through episodes from my own life, like a tourist guide who remembers me better than I do.
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LibraryThing member verenka
I read most of the book on the plane to Dublin, but it went over my head a bit. I see how Joyce's work is different from anything else that was written in Irland at the time and I see how he must have influenced a lot of writers.
Still I can't say I "like" the book, or I understood it. It was worth
Still I can't say I "like" the book, or I understood it. It was worth
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the try although I left out the detailed descriptions of the fires of hell that expect us sinners and skipped other parts too. I liked the bits about Dedalus' time in the boarding school, but most of what happened at university went over my head. Show Less
LibraryThing member ffortsa
I found this classic Joyce debut novel, or the character of the young artist, or Ireland in the years portrayed here frustrating. The very beginning is an alternately lovely and horrifying account of a very young boy at home and at school, and as his family slips down the economic and social
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ladder. But I found the Irish Catholic emphasis oppressing, and the artist himself more than a little overwrought with adolescent bravado. Time to set this old Viking Press paperback free. Show Less
LibraryThing member littlebookworm
I can’t say I’m hugely fond of this one. The book starts out decently when Stephen Dedalus is a child, with a narrative style suited to a child. He grows up throughout the novel, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Under normal circumstances, that sounds like something I’d enjoy. Not with
The prose, admittedly, is very beautiful, and if I were to read this book slowly and attempt to extract all the nuances of meaning, I may enjoy it more. I’m not that type of reader, though. I don’t really enjoy when sentence structure reflects the narrator and has meaning itself; I vastly prefer the meaning to be in the story.
I read this book for a class entitled “The Modern British and Irish Novel”, and as I understand it is a precursor to many modern works. I am hoping that the other authors can do what Joyce does with a more interesting plot. Overall I think I prefer my literature to be of the 19th century variety, but if you are looking for a work laden with meaning, symbolism, and intricacies, this is probably for you.
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this book, though. Stephen internalizes every external event, making it hard to keep track of what’s actually happening and what’s in Stephen’s head. There isn’t much of a plot as Joyce is just tracking Stephen’s growth. Other characters aren’t given much attention. Moreover, in the middle of the book there is a pages-long Catholic sermon which rings over dramatic and false, ripping the reader out of the story. It’s very hard to get into this book since every word requires attention.The prose, admittedly, is very beautiful, and if I were to read this book slowly and attempt to extract all the nuances of meaning, I may enjoy it more. I’m not that type of reader, though. I don’t really enjoy when sentence structure reflects the narrator and has meaning itself; I vastly prefer the meaning to be in the story.
I read this book for a class entitled “The Modern British and Irish Novel”, and as I understand it is a precursor to many modern works. I am hoping that the other authors can do what Joyce does with a more interesting plot. Overall I think I prefer my literature to be of the 19th century variety, but if you are looking for a work laden with meaning, symbolism, and intricacies, this is probably for you.
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LibraryThing member ithilwyn
Sorry everybody. I know that Joyce is one of the quintessential authors of the twentieth century, but I just couldn't stand this book. And it's not that I don't like stream-of-consciousness...it's just the story--rather pathetic and rambling.
LibraryThing member iayork
remarkable: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man relates the mental growth of Stephen Dedalus, who represents the author James Joyce. Very little actually happens in this book. It is almost completely a reference to the changes that occur in Dedalus as he grows from an innocent, somewhat
The notes at the end by Seamus Deane do present points of clarification and interest, but for anyone who can't pass on a footnote without reading it (ahem), it does interrupt the flow of the narrative a great deal.
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oblivious boy, to the psychologically restless young man all too aware of the forces that buffet the Ireland of his day. It is a remarkable work that should not be missed by the serious reader. The notes at the end by Seamus Deane do present points of clarification and interest, but for anyone who can't pass on a footnote without reading it (ahem), it does interrupt the flow of the narrative a great deal.
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LibraryThing member ctpress
"To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life”
This is Joyce’s semi-autobiographical account of his formation into an artist - from childhood to adolescence.
It’s the story of a young man, Stephen, who tries to grow out of the bondance and restraint of Irish nationalism,
It’s formed as a series of small episodes or “epiphanies” - with several flashbacks - it is quite hard to follow as a story - as it is more a dreamlike, state of conscience Joyce is describing. There are episodes of great beauty in this novel, great horrors of the mind, great sadness and despair and great “liberation" of the mind in the end.
One can understand his need to free himself of the version of Catholic faith that is presented here - the hellfire-and-brimstone preaching of Father Arnall, the fear of death and hell, the total rejection of Stephen's bodily senses in his extreme self-mortification and asceticism. It doesn’t produce the freedom he aches for.
The last part of the book is a philosophical formulation of Joyces own aesthetic theories - and I kind of lost the interest after his anguished and dramatic clash with the Catholic Church. This quote from Stephen's diary at the end of the novel kind of describes where we are - rather pompous, methinks.
“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 unreated conscience of my race"
This is Joyce’s semi-autobiographical account of his formation into an artist - from childhood to adolescence.
It’s the story of a young man, Stephen, who tries to grow out of the bondance and restraint of Irish nationalism,
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politics and Catholic faith - and into the freedom of the artistic senses which he embraces.It’s formed as a series of small episodes or “epiphanies” - with several flashbacks - it is quite hard to follow as a story - as it is more a dreamlike, state of conscience Joyce is describing. There are episodes of great beauty in this novel, great horrors of the mind, great sadness and despair and great “liberation" of the mind in the end.
One can understand his need to free himself of the version of Catholic faith that is presented here - the hellfire-and-brimstone preaching of Father Arnall, the fear of death and hell, the total rejection of Stephen's bodily senses in his extreme self-mortification and asceticism. It doesn’t produce the freedom he aches for.
The last part of the book is a philosophical formulation of Joyces own aesthetic theories - and I kind of lost the interest after his anguished and dramatic clash with the Catholic Church. This quote from Stephen's diary at the end of the novel kind of describes where we are - rather pompous, methinks.
“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 unreated conscience of my race"
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LibraryThing member poetontheone
Joyce's Portrait is a Kunstlerroman (a novel depicting the maturation of the artist), comparable in some basic ways to Hesse's Demian, released a few years later. We see Stephen Dedalus rise from the mysterious ether of childhood into worldliness, soon caught up in a crisis of Soul, and one of a
Joyce though, with good humor, does not leave all at this. He is not only tracing the profound development of the artist, but holding up a mirror of mockery to this development, accentuating maudlin emotion, pedantry, and conceit. Both aims work well most of the time, The latter when the text oozes absurdities. Latin as the preferred tongue of schoolyard talk, the college dean's ignorance of metaphor, the long and detailed hellfire sermon. Stephen's reactions to all of these. The whole last section, at the university, illustrates well his conceit and pedantry, though it is in part sincere and true, maybe to a fault insofar as it is not wholly effective.
All that is sincere in this work about the artist is best conveyed, as it usually is, in moments of profound revelation. Joyce, a real craftsmen of language, executes these moments beautifully. The language makes the story, literally. Joyce's use of voice and language evolves along with the character. The concise sentences of the child and his internal, often confused, thought processes. The rambling explication and wisecracking of the adult artist, at the other end. Stephen Dedalus, transcends the bounds of country, religion, and language in his quest. Joyce, just as well, excavates what lays within those bounds of identity through all three components, especially the last.
This book is a ripe peach. Bloated in the best ways and often sweetly rewarding, though it does have its hard and sour moments. No doubt I am stuck on Hesse's dark and pungent berries of Jungian transcendence. If I had come to this work first, I might have put it on a pedestal above all others, or given up on it, or worst of all, thought myself a prick. We are all Stephen Dedalus, us mad artificers.
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particularly Catholic nature. His transformation into "the artist", really, is a late point in the work, though its brewing all the while before, a more subtle and altogether more implicitly tense period of development than of Hesse's Demian Sinclair.Joyce though, with good humor, does not leave all at this. He is not only tracing the profound development of the artist, but holding up a mirror of mockery to this development, accentuating maudlin emotion, pedantry, and conceit. Both aims work well most of the time, The latter when the text oozes absurdities. Latin as the preferred tongue of schoolyard talk, the college dean's ignorance of metaphor, the long and detailed hellfire sermon. Stephen's reactions to all of these. The whole last section, at the university, illustrates well his conceit and pedantry, though it is in part sincere and true, maybe to a fault insofar as it is not wholly effective.
All that is sincere in this work about the artist is best conveyed, as it usually is, in moments of profound revelation. Joyce, a real craftsmen of language, executes these moments beautifully. The language makes the story, literally. Joyce's use of voice and language evolves along with the character. The concise sentences of the child and his internal, often confused, thought processes. The rambling explication and wisecracking of the adult artist, at the other end. Stephen Dedalus, transcends the bounds of country, religion, and language in his quest. Joyce, just as well, excavates what lays within those bounds of identity through all three components, especially the last.
This book is a ripe peach. Bloated in the best ways and often sweetly rewarding, though it does have its hard and sour moments. No doubt I am stuck on Hesse's dark and pungent berries of Jungian transcendence. If I had come to this work first, I might have put it on a pedestal above all others, or given up on it, or worst of all, thought myself a prick. We are all Stephen Dedalus, us mad artificers.
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LibraryThing member Carmenere
I would consider this novel a semi-autographical account of Joyce’s teen years. As Stephen Dedalus he struggles with becoming a man and questioning all that has been taught to him by his father and teachers regarding love, beauty and religion. Their voices telling him to be a good Catholic and a
Other than my favorite line in the story, ”To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life!”, I found the book contained only brief moments of brilliance. At times I could not follow Joyce’s train of thought and his peculiar way of changing scenes was unsettling. Perhaps a reread is necessary to fully appreciate this book.
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gentleman have become hollow sounds in his ears. In thought and deed, women have become his main source of sin and though the thought of eternal damnation frightens him, it is so difficult to walk a straight and narrow path.Other than my favorite line in the story, ”To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life!”, I found the book contained only brief moments of brilliance. At times I could not follow Joyce’s train of thought and his peculiar way of changing scenes was unsettling. Perhaps a reread is necessary to fully appreciate this book.
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LibraryThing member Kayla-Marie
I started this book in June and just finished it. I was really hoping to love this book. I don't know why, but ever since middle school I believed that James Joyce would become one of my all time favorite authors. I felt an unexplainable pull towards him, but I decided to wait until I was in
I have to take some blame for not enjoying this book that much. I turned my reading of it into work rather than pleasure. Since I didn't have an annotated copy, I had to look up all the Irish slang and Latin phrases. I made sure that I always had a pen and highlighter with me, and for the first half of the book I always had to have my laptop available too until I decided to print out the glossary I was constantly referring to.
I put so much effort into it because I knew that I would reread it one day, and I wanted to make sure that I would be able to focus on the story rather than the academics of it. I'm a bit too turned off from it right now to begin rereading it right away, but maybe after a few months I can prepare myself to pick it up again. And hopefully I'll enjoy it much more.
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college to read him because I heard that he was difficult. Boy, is he ever! I enjoyed a few of the passages in this book, particularly the priest's sermon on Hell (which will haunt me until my dying day) and Stephen's monologue on beauty and aesthetics. So much of the novel just went straight over my head, though. The interaction between the boys completely eluded me. At times, Cranly came off as bipolar to me. I couldn't understand their extreme reactions to things and how they would pick a fight over nothing (Cranly being the worst of all of them about this), but I guess that's how boys are? I also didn't like how they would always use Latin in their everyday conversation. It made them seem very pretentious. Perhaps that was the point of it. I have to take some blame for not enjoying this book that much. I turned my reading of it into work rather than pleasure. Since I didn't have an annotated copy, I had to look up all the Irish slang and Latin phrases. I made sure that I always had a pen and highlighter with me, and for the first half of the book I always had to have my laptop available too until I decided to print out the glossary I was constantly referring to.
I put so much effort into it because I knew that I would reread it one day, and I wanted to make sure that I would be able to focus on the story rather than the academics of it. I'm a bit too turned off from it right now to begin rereading it right away, but maybe after a few months I can prepare myself to pick it up again. And hopefully I'll enjoy it much more.
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LibraryThing member LisaMaria_C
James Joyce's Ulysses from what I can gather is Ground Zero for all I detest in modern literature: the stream of consciousness technique with its confusing nonsequitors, the lack of quotation marks, and often crudeness. On the other hand, I do remember very much liking his short story collection,
Portrait does have those hallmarks of modern literature I feel so much distaste for. Quotation marks are replaced with dashes--I read that James Joyce found them "eyesores." So now I know who to curse for all those wannabe artistes utilizing a practice that makes dialogue much, much harder to parse. Thanks ever so much Joyce! Although it was less confusing I admit than with a lot of faux Joyces--Joyce has a way with the rhythm and structure that did make things flow well. And stream of consciousness? Yes, it's there--although with a lighter touch than in say Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway, and I never found myself going "Huh???" And there are the occasional crudities--prostitutes, lice, fart jokes. We're not in Victoria's Britain anymore!
For all that, yes, I did like this a lot more than I expected. I have to admit it--a lot of the prose really was beautiful and called out to my magpie soul transfixed by the shiny. The title is a misnomer for we don't start with a young man, but with an infant and two-thirds of the book are taken up with childhood and adolescence. And that stream of consciousness technique worked beautifully in the beginning in evoking the mind of a child. Starting with a "once upon a time" fairy tale beginning and ending with the diary entries of the emerging artist, Joyce brilliantly depicts the different stages of a maturing psyche from small boy to devout teen to angry and estranged (and inspired) young man. There were times I wanted to cheer for and hug Stephen--such as when he as a small boy dared to go to the Rector to complain about the brutality of a teacher. And times when I surprisingly could recognize myself in him.
I rather admire aspects of Joyce's writing rather than loving it here enough to call this a true favorite. Among other things, Joyce does go on and on at times. Such as one really, really long drawn-out discussion between Stephen and a friend about aesthetics that made my eyes glaze over. And I still don't much like the modernist touches in Joyce's style. Give me Austen or Forster--or Chabon or Byatt or Atwood for that matter. The brother to William Faulkner and Virginia Woolf and father of Don Delillo, E. L. Doctorow, and Cormac McCarthy? Not so much. But even I can admire the psychological richness and the pretty, pretty prose in this one.
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Dubliners. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is midway between Dubliners and Ulysses. In fact, I read it because I decided I wanted to give Ulysses a fair chance and was told reading Portrait first is a must, since it's something of a prequel. It's the coming of age story of Stephen Daedalus, one of three central characters in Ulysses.Portrait does have those hallmarks of modern literature I feel so much distaste for. Quotation marks are replaced with dashes--I read that James Joyce found them "eyesores." So now I know who to curse for all those wannabe artistes utilizing a practice that makes dialogue much, much harder to parse. Thanks ever so much Joyce! Although it was less confusing I admit than with a lot of faux Joyces--Joyce has a way with the rhythm and structure that did make things flow well. And stream of consciousness? Yes, it's there--although with a lighter touch than in say Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway, and I never found myself going "Huh???" And there are the occasional crudities--prostitutes, lice, fart jokes. We're not in Victoria's Britain anymore!
For all that, yes, I did like this a lot more than I expected. I have to admit it--a lot of the prose really was beautiful and called out to my magpie soul transfixed by the shiny. The title is a misnomer for we don't start with a young man, but with an infant and two-thirds of the book are taken up with childhood and adolescence. And that stream of consciousness technique worked beautifully in the beginning in evoking the mind of a child. Starting with a "once upon a time" fairy tale beginning and ending with the diary entries of the emerging artist, Joyce brilliantly depicts the different stages of a maturing psyche from small boy to devout teen to angry and estranged (and inspired) young man. There were times I wanted to cheer for and hug Stephen--such as when he as a small boy dared to go to the Rector to complain about the brutality of a teacher. And times when I surprisingly could recognize myself in him.
I rather admire aspects of Joyce's writing rather than loving it here enough to call this a true favorite. Among other things, Joyce does go on and on at times. Such as one really, really long drawn-out discussion between Stephen and a friend about aesthetics that made my eyes glaze over. And I still don't much like the modernist touches in Joyce's style. Give me Austen or Forster--or Chabon or Byatt or Atwood for that matter. The brother to William Faulkner and Virginia Woolf and father of Don Delillo, E. L. Doctorow, and Cormac McCarthy? Not so much. But even I can admire the psychological richness and the pretty, pretty prose in this one.
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LibraryThing member Cariola
Despite having been a professor of literature, I haven't read much by James Joyce. I loved his story collection, Dubliners, but I've never tackled what are considered his great novels--and I'm not really sure that I want to. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is a short novel that showcases
I listened to the book on audio, wonderfully read by Colin Farrell, an actor of whom I'm not usually fond. One rather funny note: When I originally downloaded the book, the cover title appears as 'A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman"! I see that someone must have reported the error and a correction has been made. I usually delete books once I've read them, but this one will stay on my iTunes for the novelty factor.
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Joyce's stream-of-consciousness style in an accessible way. It's the story of his later hero, Stephen Daedalus, from childhood through his university years. I would agree with those who say that it's tied to a particular time and place (Ireland in the early 20th century); note, for example, Stephen's idolization of Parnell and the overwhelming influence of the Catholic church. Yet many of the struggles young Stephen goes through, such as breaking out from under his parents' wings and finding his own place in the world, are still prevalent for the youth of today. There's a lot of humor in the novel that helps it to rise above the usual coming of age story.I listened to the book on audio, wonderfully read by Colin Farrell, an actor of whom I'm not usually fond. One rather funny note: When I originally downloaded the book, the cover title appears as 'A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman"! I see that someone must have reported the error and a correction has been made. I usually delete books once I've read them, but this one will stay on my iTunes for the novelty factor.
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LibraryThing member mnlohman
I know it's a great classic, and I love things Irish, but I couldn't make it through this book. Autobiographical story of james Joyce's youth. The Thomas Wolfe of Ireland; doesn't know when to quit writing description. Pages upon pages about how the Catholic church laid plenty of guilt on and
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caused major political rifts among families. Give me Angela's Ashes anyday! Show Less
LibraryThing member Petroglyph
In Portrait, James Joyce dramatises incidents and periods from his own childhood and adolescence, and I don’t really know what to feel about this book. Parts of this were brilliant: the writing, the rhythm, the selection of words and images. This book is excellent at expressing the unscratchable
On the other hand, well, there were numerous occasions where I felt like rolling my eyes at the text, because I’ve read too many books about sensitive, intelligent, precious little main characters who struggle mightily against their schoolboy tormentors and an understimulating environment. I know that I can’t really hold that against this book -- the century of intervening literature that makes this kind of story feel so trite is not this book’s fault. But still: the story feels so trite in many places.
This book left me feeling very ambiguous. For example: a very large section of this book is taken up by a series of fire-and-brimstone sermons delivered by a Jesuit hell-bent on frightening children into good old Catholic obedience through extensive and lascivious descriptions of torture. I can appreciate what Joyce was going for here, and it’s well done indeed: I can really taste the hunger for power, the emotional manipulation, the all-encompassing prison that this kind of mentality wants to enforce. But these sermons take up 12% of the text. 12%! That is way, way too long, and spoils the effect. Then there are later bits, where the main character expounds his views on beauty and artwhich serve as a replacement for his earlier religiosity , and which are intellectually impressive, but they are shoehorned in in the clumsiest of ways. Again, the effect is spoiled.
Both of these -- the fire-and-brimstone, and the intellectualizing theories -- overstay their welcome and tip the balance from “Impressive, well done” into “Man, Joyce really loves hearing himself talk”. And self-important smugness is a sin I find hard to forgive. So yeah. Three stars?
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ache that is growing pains: the death of a child’s naïve belief in Justice when unfair punishment is handed out; the intensity of adolescent frustrations, both sexual and religious; and the search for fundamental meaning in life. On the other hand, well, there were numerous occasions where I felt like rolling my eyes at the text, because I’ve read too many books about sensitive, intelligent, precious little main characters who struggle mightily against their schoolboy tormentors and an understimulating environment. I know that I can’t really hold that against this book -- the century of intervening literature that makes this kind of story feel so trite is not this book’s fault. But still: the story feels so trite in many places.
This book left me feeling very ambiguous. For example: a very large section of this book is taken up by a series of fire-and-brimstone sermons delivered by a Jesuit hell-bent on frightening children into good old Catholic obedience through extensive and lascivious descriptions of torture. I can appreciate what Joyce was going for here, and it’s well done indeed: I can really taste the hunger for power, the emotional manipulation, the all-encompassing prison that this kind of mentality wants to enforce. But these sermons take up 12% of the text. 12%! That is way, way too long, and spoils the effect. Then there are later bits, where the main character expounds his views on beauty and art
Both of these -- the fire-and-brimstone, and the intellectualizing theories -- overstay their welcome and tip the balance from “Impressive, well done” into “Man, Joyce really loves hearing himself talk”. And self-important smugness is a sin I find hard to forgive. So yeah. Three stars?
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LibraryThing member nmhale
My reactions to this novel were very mixed. The book is not a conventional novel, and this was Joyce's intention, as you can glean from his conversation about aesthetics in the last chapter. A strange blend of semi-autobiographical material and fiction, with a voice that mimics the age and maturity
Is the book well written? Yes. Does it follow standard forms of plot and character development? No. Does it complete its own mission of becoming something new and original, breaking away from tradition? Yes. Did it always hold my attention? No.
I enjoyed the first chapter, which chronicles Stephen at his youngest age in the book, and is told with a childish perspective, straight forward and yet often fragmentary. I've read that some people have a hard time understanding this section, but I found it easy to interpret, maybe because of the copious notes in my Penguin edition. Chapter 2 waned in interest for me, and yet I was engrossed by Chapter 3 (the infamous hell chapter, which turns many people off), although I wouldn't say that I enjoyed it. It was just very interesting. Then I found Chapter 4 mediocre but with a fantastic ending, and I had to slog my way through most of Chapter 5, which consists of long philosophic debates.
In the end, this is one of those books that I am glad I read because it is masterfully written, and because it rightly occupies an honored position in western literature for its innovation. Also, I hope to read [Ulysses] soon, and this book is its precursor, of sorts. Some of the passages were simply stellar in the imagery and metaphor. The end of Chapter 4, where Stephen experiences his own 'rebirth', was beautiful.
This is also one of those books, though, that took a bit of work to finish, and was not always an enjoyable read. I can appreciate Joyce's skill without agreeing to his life philosophy. In fact, I'm sure that he would despise mine. Stephen is a judgmental young man. (In one section, after he has abandoned his Catholic faith, a friend asks him if he will become a Protestant. His response? "I may have abandoned my faith, but not my self respect." Heh. Thanks for that, Joyce.) I feel accomplished having finished it, but don't plan on a reread.
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of the main character, Stephen, and thus changes as he changes. I got the impression that Joyce was writing himself into a story that was a bit different from his true story, in an attempt to reinvent himself through words. Indeed, Stephen dwells on the power of words extensively throughout the novel. Is the book well written? Yes. Does it follow standard forms of plot and character development? No. Does it complete its own mission of becoming something new and original, breaking away from tradition? Yes. Did it always hold my attention? No.
I enjoyed the first chapter, which chronicles Stephen at his youngest age in the book, and is told with a childish perspective, straight forward and yet often fragmentary. I've read that some people have a hard time understanding this section, but I found it easy to interpret, maybe because of the copious notes in my Penguin edition. Chapter 2 waned in interest for me, and yet I was engrossed by Chapter 3 (the infamous hell chapter, which turns many people off), although I wouldn't say that I enjoyed it. It was just very interesting. Then I found Chapter 4 mediocre but with a fantastic ending, and I had to slog my way through most of Chapter 5, which consists of long philosophic debates.
In the end, this is one of those books that I am glad I read because it is masterfully written, and because it rightly occupies an honored position in western literature for its innovation. Also, I hope to read [Ulysses] soon, and this book is its precursor, of sorts. Some of the passages were simply stellar in the imagery and metaphor. The end of Chapter 4, where Stephen experiences his own 'rebirth', was beautiful.
This is also one of those books, though, that took a bit of work to finish, and was not always an enjoyable read. I can appreciate Joyce's skill without agreeing to his life philosophy. In fact, I'm sure that he would despise mine. Stephen is a judgmental young man. (In one section, after he has abandoned his Catholic faith, a friend asks him if he will become a Protestant. His response? "I may have abandoned my faith, but not my self respect." Heh. Thanks for that, Joyce.) I feel accomplished having finished it, but don't plan on a reread.
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LibraryThing member KendraRenee
Definitely a disappointment, after the glowing reports I'd gotten from reviews and from friends' recommendations who've read the book. There were some inspiring passages that I really resonated with, like Stephen Dedaelus's conversion experience, eventually disinherited.. or his walk along the
Note to editors: please don't put footnotes in your novels, it's incredible annoying no matter how much you might think it illuminates the text. Repeatedly suggesting that the reader isn't understanding something in a book SO vague that, clearly, NOTHING should be understood, and then only citing irrelevant history, dates & all, behind the song or the building or the person just mentioned, is infuriating. I mean, I take all this trouble to page ALL the way to the back of the book for an explanation that may somehow transform this whole tiresome reading experience for me, and you're giving me a 3-paragraph long HISTORY LESSON? How about making your first and only footnote about the elusive point of this book?
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coast where he describes the scene in such detail that you know James Joyce is speaking out of personal experience... But if you don't identify with the author at any point, how can you even want to suffer through it? In general, this book is a rambling exercise in pointless intellectual thoughts, which is anticlimactic enough to feel entirely purposeless. What IS the story, anyway? Ok, a boy grows up... and fantasizes about girls and sex a lot. Where's the story there? I've rarely been this hard on a proven "classic" before, but I'll make an exception. Note to editors: please don't put footnotes in your novels, it's incredible annoying no matter how much you might think it illuminates the text. Repeatedly suggesting that the reader isn't understanding something in a book SO vague that, clearly, NOTHING should be understood, and then only citing irrelevant history, dates & all, behind the song or the building or the person just mentioned, is infuriating. I mean, I take all this trouble to page ALL the way to the back of the book for an explanation that may somehow transform this whole tiresome reading experience for me, and you're giving me a 3-paragraph long HISTORY LESSON? How about making your first and only footnote about the elusive point of this book?
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LibraryThing member Smiler69
I know it’s a great classic, which is why I read it. But can I just say that I could barely understand what was going on through the whole book without sounding like a complete idiot? I had been planning on reading Ulysses but maybe not.
LibraryThing member fuzzy_patters
Joyce uses beautifully poetic language, and his portrayal of Catholic guilt was magnificent. However, the frequent jumps between the present and the thoughts in Dedalus's head made this a frustrating read.
LibraryThing member andyjb
Got to be honest, really struggled with this one. Well written but I thought rather dull.
LibraryThing member soylentgreen23
This is as far as my Joyce adventure will go, I think. I've looked at "Ulysses" and "Finnegan's Wake", and I doubt I will make it any further. "A Portrait..." was interesting, if not exactly world-changing; perhaps I approached it in the wrong frame of mind, and wasn't open to the possibilities it
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suggests and has suggested in others. Show Less
LibraryThing member Salmondaze
Alright, I’m not going to lie: it’s probably best that you not go into these books unprepared. The journey from Dubliners to Finnegans Wake (which includes Portrait and Ulysses) is studded with hardship and probable failure. Let’s take a good hard evaluation of where you are: you’ve just
Many a reader ends up fallen on the road of Ulysses, but don’t let that lead you to rashness when you read Portrait. In fact, I would argue that most of the people who failed to read all of Ulysses would have just as soon failed at Portrait. It contains in essence early versions of techniques that would appear in Ulysses. That being said, is A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man a lesser work of James Joyce’s? That is to say, is it one of those works of art that just so happens to get eclipsed by a later piece by the same artist?
Probably the best example I can think of outside of this would be Reservoir Dogs to Pulp Fiction. To me, Reservoir Dogs showed many of the things that would make Pulp Fiction great, but what makes Pulp Fiction the superior movie can pretty much be summed up in the character of Jules Winfield, who has an epiphany and decides to change directions in his life- much like a story out of Dubliners, albeit highly stylized and exaggerated.
That being said, does this mean that Leopold Bloom is Ulysses’s Jules Winfield? I will discuss further when the topic comes up. For now, I can only tell you positively that A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is no Reservoir Dogs. It is, in fact a masterpiece in its own right, and any supposed inferiorities it must contain only appear as such because it pales in comparison to Ulysses, the greatest novel of the 20th century- and that by a good length of head and shoulders. How can I say this? Simple. All you have to do is compare this relatively small book (Joyce’s smallest novel) to anything William Faulkner ever wrote and you shall quickly see not only where Faulkner derives his technique, but who achieves that technique to a greater degree and with more skill. Yes, it’s that good.
Also, we can note that there are quite a few properties that differentiate this incredibly interesting small novel from its younger, bigger, more well-known brother. First, the text has been touted as being outright autobiographical by James Joyce. Naturally, it covers a lot more time than the diurnal Ulysses or the nocturnal Finnegans Wake. It gives the reader an excellent start on Ulysses by introducing the characters of Stephen Dedalus (who is James Joyce) and Simon Dedalus (who is John Joyce), both playing large characters in that work. It also shows itself to different in its themes from Ulysses. While the latter can be said to be variously about father-son relationships, the love between man and woman, and Shakespeare (amongst others), the former is about the roles country, religion, and family play in life, the development of the artist as such, and Aristotle and Aquinas (amongst others).
To discuss further the plot, the novel traces the life of Stephen Dedalus as he goes through childhood and adolescence and chronicles his personal journey to become an artist. True to habit, James Joyce loved to use real life for his fiction and used it extensively not only for this book but for all of his books and all of his other work. There’s not much in terms of science fiction or invention here, although I have read an unconvincing argument Cliff’s Notes tried to rally that Stephen Dedalus was not James Joyce at all. It really pointed to what are ultimately minor differences between the character and the person.
The book chronicles an accident Stephen had where he broke his glasses, was forced to read without them despite the fact that his doctor told him not to, had a stand with a prostitute in Dublin, and experienced a fiery sermon (or catechism) by a priest and felt subsequent guilt about his stand, and then explained his complex philosophy to his peers which derived from Aristotle and Aquinas. These events are important enough on their own, but the real draw is in having Stephen’s thoughts presented on the events throughout. Once again, not light reading by any stretch, but something akin to reading The Sound and the Fury if you need a point of reference.
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finished Dubliners. I know you have, because if you haven’t, then you need to re-evaluate your position and realize that you’re going to get nowhere and fast. It’s said that a number of people fail to finish Ulysses. This is true because a lot of people don’t do their homework and read Dubliners first. It’s also true because Ulysses is James Joyce’s most famous book, and readers often like to think they’re hot shit and can start with that.Many a reader ends up fallen on the road of Ulysses, but don’t let that lead you to rashness when you read Portrait. In fact, I would argue that most of the people who failed to read all of Ulysses would have just as soon failed at Portrait. It contains in essence early versions of techniques that would appear in Ulysses. That being said, is A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man a lesser work of James Joyce’s? That is to say, is it one of those works of art that just so happens to get eclipsed by a later piece by the same artist?
Probably the best example I can think of outside of this would be Reservoir Dogs to Pulp Fiction. To me, Reservoir Dogs showed many of the things that would make Pulp Fiction great, but what makes Pulp Fiction the superior movie can pretty much be summed up in the character of Jules Winfield, who has an epiphany and decides to change directions in his life- much like a story out of Dubliners, albeit highly stylized and exaggerated.
That being said, does this mean that Leopold Bloom is Ulysses’s Jules Winfield? I will discuss further when the topic comes up. For now, I can only tell you positively that A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is no Reservoir Dogs. It is, in fact a masterpiece in its own right, and any supposed inferiorities it must contain only appear as such because it pales in comparison to Ulysses, the greatest novel of the 20th century- and that by a good length of head and shoulders. How can I say this? Simple. All you have to do is compare this relatively small book (Joyce’s smallest novel) to anything William Faulkner ever wrote and you shall quickly see not only where Faulkner derives his technique, but who achieves that technique to a greater degree and with more skill. Yes, it’s that good.
Also, we can note that there are quite a few properties that differentiate this incredibly interesting small novel from its younger, bigger, more well-known brother. First, the text has been touted as being outright autobiographical by James Joyce. Naturally, it covers a lot more time than the diurnal Ulysses or the nocturnal Finnegans Wake. It gives the reader an excellent start on Ulysses by introducing the characters of Stephen Dedalus (who is James Joyce) and Simon Dedalus (who is John Joyce), both playing large characters in that work. It also shows itself to different in its themes from Ulysses. While the latter can be said to be variously about father-son relationships, the love between man and woman, and Shakespeare (amongst others), the former is about the roles country, religion, and family play in life, the development of the artist as such, and Aristotle and Aquinas (amongst others).
To discuss further the plot, the novel traces the life of Stephen Dedalus as he goes through childhood and adolescence and chronicles his personal journey to become an artist. True to habit, James Joyce loved to use real life for his fiction and used it extensively not only for this book but for all of his books and all of his other work. There’s not much in terms of science fiction or invention here, although I have read an unconvincing argument Cliff’s Notes tried to rally that Stephen Dedalus was not James Joyce at all. It really pointed to what are ultimately minor differences between the character and the person.
The book chronicles an accident Stephen had where he broke his glasses, was forced to read without them despite the fact that his doctor told him not to, had a stand with a prostitute in Dublin, and experienced a fiery sermon (or catechism) by a priest and felt subsequent guilt about his stand, and then explained his complex philosophy to his peers which derived from Aristotle and Aquinas. These events are important enough on their own, but the real draw is in having Stephen’s thoughts presented on the events throughout. Once again, not light reading by any stretch, but something akin to reading The Sound and the Fury if you need a point of reference.
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LibraryThing member DarkWater
Beginning biographically, the novel orbits a young Stephen Daedalus, born to one Simon Daedalus, baptized in Christ, and a son of Ireland no less. Stephen is not only a one-time product of these institutions, but finds himself constantly immersed in the imperialist miasma of their expectations and
“The soul has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. 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.”
Stephen’s transcendence comes in the form of a psychological revolution, a mutilation of the old self and a willful, deliberate creation of the new. Asserting that man is (or at least can be) his own creation, he struggles to create his own father, supplanting his biological father (and other fathers) for a spiritual father of his own formation - what can be read as a miraculous self-begetting.
For Ireland, Stephen’s story holds the key to spiritual freedom. With their victimization and oppression a national legacy, the Irish identity became strongly conflated with their role as victims. It became their destiny to be slaves, a people grown to love their enslavement and to fear freedom and its responsibilities, a people whose tradition had unconsciously become oppressing themselves.
In Ulysses, Joyce later wrote, “History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.” In contrast to most schools of thought which presume that the wisdom needed today can be found in the past, Joyce confronts the dangers that come with its blind inheritance and concession to the conventional life that it creates and encourages.
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responsibilities. As he comes of age and begins to ponder his identity, he precociously questions the dramatic effects that these parental, political, religious, sexual, and literary internalizations have had on its (his) construction. As he finds his own voice (non serviam), the form of the book changes with it and the once narrated Stephen becomes the narrator Stephen.“The soul has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. 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.”
Stephen’s transcendence comes in the form of a psychological revolution, a mutilation of the old self and a willful, deliberate creation of the new. Asserting that man is (or at least can be) his own creation, he struggles to create his own father, supplanting his biological father (and other fathers) for a spiritual father of his own formation - what can be read as a miraculous self-begetting.
For Ireland, Stephen’s story holds the key to spiritual freedom. With their victimization and oppression a national legacy, the Irish identity became strongly conflated with their role as victims. It became their destiny to be slaves, a people grown to love their enslavement and to fear freedom and its responsibilities, a people whose tradition had unconsciously become oppressing themselves.
In Ulysses, Joyce later wrote, “History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.” In contrast to most schools of thought which presume that the wisdom needed today can be found in the past, Joyce confronts the dangers that come with its blind inheritance and concession to the conventional life that it creates and encourages.
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Subjects
Awards
Language
Original language
English
Original publication date
1916
Physical description
272 p.; 4.9 inches
ISBN
1853260061 / 9781853260063
UPC
001853260061