A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

With a sudden movement she bowed his head and joined her lips to his and he read the meaning of her movements in her frank uplifted eyes. It was too much for him. He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting lips. They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech; and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odour.

Wow. Isn’t that beautiful? Great stuff, right? I could feel genius pouring out of my fingertips as I typed that. That passage seems really Nabokovian. (Or maybe Nabokov is Joycian since Joyce came first, but I read Nabokov first, so…) Anyway, I was unfortunately only able to comprehend little of the supposed brilliance in this book but liked it anyway. It is the story of Stephen Dedalus, whom we get to see brief moments in his life from when he was three to when he is in university. The plot gets really interesting when he decides to go to a brothel but then instantly wants to repent after hearing a passionate sermon, one that the reader gets the entire 15 pages of. But it is really good. I didn’t instantly recognize that this was intensely good writing because the text became more like a vortex that just sucked me in and I didn’t even realize how drawn in I actually was until the preacher’s fervor stopped overflowing and the monologue ended. It was really cool, moving stuff that could only be rivaled by the very similar church scene in Moby Dick, albeit that one was much more centered, no doubt, on whales. Though I will add that this block of the book could go either way with its readers—I could just as easily see somebody getting distracted during it. For me, though, I was able to follow it as closely as a shadow.

I was reading this book to gear up for Ulysses but after reading Portrait I don’t really feel more prepared; rather I feel pretty despondent so I’m not sure if I’m ready to undergo that great literary endeavor. I want it to be more enjoyment than torture so I don’t think I’m ready, not yet.