James Joyce

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

    Jovana Slobodahar citeretfor 7 måneder siden
    A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

    by
    James Joyce
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    Asked me was I writing poems? About whom? I asked her.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    Read what I wrote last night. Vague words for a vague emotion. Would she like it? I think so. Then I should have to like it also.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    The past is consumed in the present and the present is living only because it brings forth the future.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    Said I have a queer mind and have read too much. Not true. Have read little and understood less. Then she said I would come back to faith because I had a restless mind. This means to leave church by back door of sin and re-enter through the skylight of repentance. Cannot repent.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake, and perhaps as long as eternity too.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    To discover the mode of life or of art whereby your spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    The God of the Roman catholics could do that now, Stephen said. I fear more than that the chemical action which would be set up in my soul by a false homage to a symbol behind which are massed twenty centuries of authority and veneration.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    It is a curious thing, do you know, Cranly said dispassionately, how your mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    I gaze upon them as the swallow gazes
    Upon the nest under the eave before
    He wander the loud waters.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    Then he was to go away for they were birds ever going and coming, building ever an unlasting home under the eaves of men's houses and ever leaving the homes they had built to wander.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    how the creatures of the air have their knowledge and know their times and seasons because they, unlike man, are in the order of their life and have not perverted that order by reason.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    To him she would unveil her soul's shy nakedness, to one who was but schooled in the discharging of a formal rite rather than to him, a priest of the eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    a bat-like soul waking to the consciousness of itself in darkness and secrecy and loneliness, tarrying awhile, loveless and sinless, with her mild lover and leaving him to whisper of innocent transgressions in the latticed ear of a priest.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    And yet he felt that, however he might revile and mock her image, his anger was also a form of homage
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    The heart's cry was broken.
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze
    And you have had your will of him.
    Are you not weary of ardent ways?
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and wilful as a bird's heart?
    Enya Almanzahar citeretfor 8 måneder siden
    The esthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of esthetic, like that of material creation, is accomplished. The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
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