A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Wisehouse Classics Edition). James Joyce

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       A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

       A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

       by

      James Joyce

       W

       Wisehouse Classics

      James Joyce

       A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

       Executive Editor Sam Vaseghi

      Published by Wisehouse Classics – Sweden

      ISBN 978-91-7637-160-2

      Wisehouse Classics is a Wisehouse Imprint.

      © Wisehouse 2016 – Sweden

       www.wisehouse-classics.com

      © Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photographing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.

       Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

Chapter 1

      ONCE UPON A TIME AND A VERY GOOD TIME IT WAS THERE WAS A MOOCOW coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo . . .

      His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face.

      He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt.

       O, the wild rose blossoms

       On the little green place.

      He sang that song. That was his song.

       O, the green wothe botheth.

      When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on the oilsheet. That had the queer smell.

      His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano the sailor’s hornpipe for him to dance. He danced:

       Tralala lala,

       Tralala tralaladdy,

       Tralala lala,

       Tralala lala.

      Uncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father and mother but uncle Charles was older than Dante.

      Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back was for Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her a piece of tissue paper.

      The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different father and mother. They were Eileen’s father and mother. When they were grown up he was going to marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said:

      — O, Stephen will apologize.

      Dante said:

      — O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.

       Pull out his eyes,

       Apologize,

       Apologize,

       Pull out his eyes.

       Apologize,

       Pull out his eyes,

       Pull out his eyes,

       Apologize.

      ,

      The wide playgrounds were swarming with boys. All were shouting and the prefects urged them on with strong cries. The evening air was pale and chilly and after every charge and thud of the footballers the greasy leather orb flew like a heavy bird through the grey light. He kept on the fringe of his line, out of sight of his prefect, out of the reach of the rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body small and weak amid the throng of the players and his eyes were weak and watery. Rody Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of the third line all the fellows said.

      Rody Kickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody Kickham had greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big hands. He called the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket. And one day he had asked:

      — What is your name?

      Stephen had answered: Stephen Dedalus.

      Then Nasty Roche had said:

      — What kind of a name is that?

      And when Stephen had not been able to answer Nasty Roche had asked:

      — What is your father?

      Stephen had answered:

      — A gentleman.

      Then Nasty Roche had asked:

      — Is he a magistrate?

      He crept about from point to point on the fringe of his line, making little runs now and then. But his hands were bluish with cold. He kept his hands in the side pockets of his belted grey suit. That was a belt round his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow a belt. One day a fellow said to Cantwell:

      — I’d give you such a belt in a second.

      Cantwell had answered:

      — Go and fight your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I’d like to see you. He’d give you a toe in the rump for yourself.

      That was not a nice expression. His mother had told him not to speak with the rough boys in the college. Nice mother! The first day in the hall of the castle when she had said goodbye she had put up her veil double to her nose to kiss him: and her nose and eyes were red. СКАЧАТЬ