By James Joyce
James Joyce's coming-of-age tale, a travel de strength of fashion and technique
The first, shortest, and so much approachable of James Joyce’s novels, A Portrait of the Artist as a tender Man portrays the Dublin upbringing of Stephen Dedalus, from his younger days at Clongowes wooden collage to his radical wondering of all conference. In doing so, it offers an indirect self-portrait of the younger Joyce himself. At its middle lie questions of starting place and resource, authority and authorship, and the connection of an artist to his relatives, tradition, and race. Exuberantly artistic widespread, the radical subtly and fantastically orchestrates the styles of citation and repetition instrumental in its hero’s quest to create his personal personality, his personal language, lifestyles, and paintings: “to forge within the smithy of my soul the uncreated judgment of right and wrong of my race.”
This Penguin Classics version is the definitive textual content, licensed via the Joyce property and collated from all identified proofs, manuscripts, and impressions to mirror the author’s unique wishes.
For greater than seventy years, Penguin has been the best writer of vintage literature within the English-speaking global. With greater than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a world bookshelf of the simplest works all through historical past and throughout genres and disciplines. Readers belief the sequence to supply authoritative texts more suitable via introductions and notes by means of exclusive students and modern authors, in addition to updated translations by way of award-winning translators.
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Extra resources for A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Penguin Classics)
Every rat had two eyes to look out of. Sleek slimy coats, little little feet tucked up to jump, black slimy eyes to look out of. They could understand how to jump. But the minds of rats could not understand trigonometry. When they were dead they lay on their sides. Their coats dried then. They were only dead things. The prefect was there again and it was his voice that was saying that he was to get up, that Father Minister had said he was to get up and dress and go to the infirmary. And while he was dressing himself as quickly as he could the prefect said: —We must pack off to Brother Michael because we have the collywobbles!
He winked at Stephen and, replacing the dish-cover, began to eat again. There was a silence while he ate. Then he said: —Well now, the day kept up fine after all. There were plenty of strangers down too. Nobody spoke. He said again: —I think there were more strangers down than last Christmas. He looked round at the others whose faces were bent towards their plates and, receiving no reply, waited for a moment and said bitterly: —Well, my Christmas dinner has been spoiled anyhow. —There could be neither luck nor grace, Dante said, in a house where there is no respect for the pastors of the church.
O, go on, Wells, all said. You might tell us. We won't let it out. Stephen bent forward his head to hear. Wells looked round to see if anyone was coming. Then he said secretly: —You know the altar wine they keep in the press in the sacristy? —Yes. —Well, they drank that and it was found out who did it by the smell. And that's why they ran away, if you want to know. And the fellow who had spoken first said: —Yes, that's what I heard too from the fellow in the higher line. The fellows all were silent.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Penguin Classics) by James Joyce