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3.43 AVERAGE
3.43 AVERAGE
I don’t think I currently have the mental energy to really give this book the reading it deserves. However, as a first reading of Joyce, I feel like it served as a great introduction. Some of the most beautiful prose I have ever read.
challenging
There is a germ of things and thoughts that determines flight/fall of one’s being … If Hamlet had it on his sleeve, albeit disinclinedly, then Stephen has it in his shadows, which threaten himself to pass by from a mere distance.
The germ here very much breathes in the ‘vagueness of his wonder’, as Stephen would call it; in the stillness of the stare he would elicit when the most important moments of his being’s life are discussed or dished out by others but not himself. In this sense of wonderment, which would easily eventually be seen as bewilderment of sorts, Stephen lets the germ to grow.
The style of Joyce’s writing here determines quick and fast the slow dropping of words from a certain order, one by one, and persist longer; so that words, as they re-appear, in the parallel tributary of more words and more thoughts, appear in the crystal form of the piece.
Nonetheless for Joyce, the meaning of the tale does not lie in explicating the essential, but it hovers around in the symbolism of the immanent.
Is ‘vagueness’ then the point of departure through which Stephen initiates himself in the world; “Was that boyish love? Was that chivalry? Was that poetry?” Is it the very “dross of earth” that eventually evokes a splitting stinging pain of ‘conscience’. And isn’t it in the quagmire of a peculiar setting which Stephen claims to reject in imbibing that his disinterested “soul is born”?
If there is a so called epiphanic moment for the reader of Stephen’s account, it certainly gets enmeshed within the stylistic-structural ‘fall’ and ‘flight’ the protagonist’s henceforth constitution of a ‘soul’ whose aesthetic consciousness unfolds in the saudadic manifestation of memory enabling him to render art:
“And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird’s life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird’s heart?”
The shadowy vagueness and the disinterested disposition of the son or the student begins to take up something on his own -- ‘paper’ beckons the ‘pencil’ beckons the words that are winged by memories that Stephen endears his life with.
‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’ is the kind of a book which attempts to resist valuation; what could be termed as epiphanic moments of being, may not readily match the reader’s impulse, for the latter would have to partake in it as an experience for its own accord.
The germ here very much breathes in the ‘vagueness of his wonder’, as Stephen would call it; in the stillness of the stare he would elicit when the most important moments of his being’s life are discussed or dished out by others but not himself. In this sense of wonderment, which would easily eventually be seen as bewilderment of sorts, Stephen lets the germ to grow.
The style of Joyce’s writing here determines quick and fast the slow dropping of words from a certain order, one by one, and persist longer; so that words, as they re-appear, in the parallel tributary of more words and more thoughts, appear in the crystal form of the piece.
Nonetheless for Joyce, the meaning of the tale does not lie in explicating the essential, but it hovers around in the symbolism of the immanent.
Is ‘vagueness’ then the point of departure through which Stephen initiates himself in the world; “Was that boyish love? Was that chivalry? Was that poetry?” Is it the very “dross of earth” that eventually evokes a splitting stinging pain of ‘conscience’. And isn’t it in the quagmire of a peculiar setting which Stephen claims to reject in imbibing that his disinterested “soul is born”?
If there is a so called epiphanic moment for the reader of Stephen’s account, it certainly gets enmeshed within the stylistic-structural ‘fall’ and ‘flight’ the protagonist’s henceforth constitution of a ‘soul’ whose aesthetic consciousness unfolds in the saudadic manifestation of memory enabling him to render art:
“And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird’s life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird’s heart?”
The shadowy vagueness and the disinterested disposition of the son or the student begins to take up something on his own -- ‘paper’ beckons the ‘pencil’ beckons the words that are winged by memories that Stephen endears his life with.
‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’ is the kind of a book which attempts to resist valuation; what could be termed as epiphanic moments of being, may not readily match the reader’s impulse, for the latter would have to partake in it as an experience for its own accord.
Enjoyed parts of this books immensely, disliked others. But I could actually finish it as this isn't "Ulysses". I liked the coming of age story, the depth of the character's emotions, thoughts, doubts, and motivations. It felt very very life-like and could draw me in. However, sometimes the book had too much detail, too many passages and unnecessary dialogues for my liking. Yes, it's stream of consciousness stuff, but I like it in small doses. I also found the ending somewhat lacking but poetic. I also liked the discussions concerning Ireland, nationhood, languages, and religion. Really interesting, deep, beautiufl. This novel also went over my head in some respects, but it's James Joyce, so yeah.
4 Stars
4 Stars
Parts of this story resonated deeply with me, but I concluded with mixed feelings. The author is a deft craftsman - there is no lacking in his mastery of language. But as with other Joyce novels I found his method sometimes overwhelming, as he uncovers the internal world of his characters in impressionistic sketches signifying depths never to be revealed. Nonetheless: a hallmark of modernist literature and a worthy read.
My relationship with this book is a private one, it can't produce a worthwhile review, thus I will simply reference the following excerpt:
To discover the mode of life or of art whereby your spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.
only gave this book 2 stars because it was okay at the beginning. it just got worse and worse as it went on
dark
emotional
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
James Joyce is not an easy read. Let's just get that out there. He is difficult to handle at times, but is absolutely worth every page. Once you allow yourself to float along on the imagery you find yourself lost in the story (in a good way) and wanting more. Not everyone will like Joyce, but I think those that do will love him.
3.5*** I just know the is book went crazy 1916s Ireland oh the scandal!
Very different book than I was expecting from the title tbh
Very different book than I was expecting from the title tbh