Take a photo of a barcode or cover
3.43 AVERAGE
3.43 AVERAGE
Joyce is an excellent writer but this (did not read "portrait of the artist..." Or poems at end) was a little too ordinary and drab for me. I did like the last few pages of "the dead," very much.
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 [b:Dubliners|11012|Dubliners|James Joyce|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1334138184l/11012._SX50_.jpg|260248], then last year read [b:Ulysses|338798|Ulysses|James Joyce|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1428891345l/338798._SY75_.jpg|2368224], earlier this year I read [b:Finnegans Wake|11013|Finnegans Wake|James Joyce|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1336408055l/11013._SX50_.jpg|322098] and here I am closing [b:A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man|7588|A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man|James Joyce|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1646339380l/7588._SY75_.jpg|3298883]. 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 [b:Finnegans Wake|11013|Finnegans Wake|James Joyce|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1336408055l/11013._SX50_.jpg|322098], 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.
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…
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 [b:Dubliners|11012|Dubliners|James Joyce|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1334138184l/11012._SX50_.jpg|260248], then last year read [b:Ulysses|338798|Ulysses|James Joyce|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1428891345l/338798._SY75_.jpg|2368224], earlier this year I read [b:Finnegans Wake|11013|Finnegans Wake|James Joyce|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1336408055l/11013._SX50_.jpg|322098] and here I am closing [b:A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man|7588|A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man|James Joyce|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1646339380l/7588._SY75_.jpg|3298883]. 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 [b:Finnegans Wake|11013|Finnegans Wake|James Joyce|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1336408055l/11013._SX50_.jpg|322098], 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.
–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.
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…
3.5. A lit of great stuff about coming of age, wrestling with your inner demons, and artistic development. But a lot of it went over my head.
Read it in Ireland on the train rides between Dublin and Belfast/ Dublin and Galway! Very much enjoyed Stephen's stream of consciousness. He has a lot of thoughts and questions, but not enough answers. Wish him the best of luck.
slow-paced
challenging
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
A Great Narration with Singing
Review of the Naxos Audiobook Edition (2005) narrated by Jim Norton, of the B.W. Huebsch hardcover original (1916)
I'm trying something new for me with listening to Irish narrators read James Joyce and this audiobook edition of his "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" performed by actor Jim Norton was a terrific start to this. Norton's performance of the narration along with his singing of all the musical rhymes and lyric sections bumps this up to a 5/5 rating with the 1 hour long section of 'hell and damnation' sermons delivered at Stephen Dedalus's Belvedere College alone worth the price of admission and quite chilling to boot.
Joyce's stream-of-consciousness style may be a bit hard to follow aurally though and I did find myself referring to my old paperback copy frequently and still looking up some of the more obscure Irish and Latin references (easy to do on-line these days) but those are minor quibbles. 2012 is a big year for Joyce fans with his works entering the public domain and already one test case (google "The Cats of Copenhagen") of someone breaking grandson Stephen Joyce's previous publishing embargoes, so if you've been intimidated by Joyce previously, consider trying out an audiobook version.
Review of the Naxos Audiobook Edition (2005) narrated by Jim Norton, of the B.W. Huebsch hardcover original (1916)
I'm trying something new for me with listening to Irish narrators read James Joyce and this audiobook edition of his "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" performed by actor Jim Norton was a terrific start to this. Norton's performance of the narration along with his singing of all the musical rhymes and lyric sections bumps this up to a 5/5 rating with the 1 hour long section of 'hell and damnation' sermons delivered at Stephen Dedalus's Belvedere College alone worth the price of admission and quite chilling to boot.
Joyce's stream-of-consciousness style may be a bit hard to follow aurally though and I did find myself referring to my old paperback copy frequently and still looking up some of the more obscure Irish and Latin references (easy to do on-line these days) but those are minor quibbles. 2012 is a big year for Joyce fans with his works entering the public domain and already one test case (google "The Cats of Copenhagen") of someone breaking grandson Stephen Joyce's previous publishing embargoes, so if you've been intimidated by Joyce previously, consider trying out an audiobook version.
I never was able to really enjoy Portrait of the Artist. True, one is able to see the author's genius that will explode in Ulysses, but the story drags. I think its major drawback is its protagonist Stephen Dedalus. I was never able to care about what happens to him.
In which, James Joyce describes life growing up as a Catholic schoolboy. A book of uneven quality and readability - one or two chapters of personal anecdotes about how gloomy he is, followed by a lengthy sermon on the nature of Hell, followed by some more personal stories, apparently from the POV of him as 'no longer a young man'. Overall, more an exploration of Catholicism than of James Joyce's life. And, as a sidenote, that's a bit of a false title - more like 'A portrait of the Artist, who used to be a young man'.