Genre Fiction
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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Penguin Classics)
James Joyce's coming-of-age story, a tour de force of style and technique
The first, shortest, and most approachable of James Joyce's novels, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man portrays the Dublin upbringing of Stephen Dedalus, from his youthful days at Clongowes Wood College to his radical questioning of all convention. In doing so, it provides an oblique self-portrait of the young Joyce himself. At its center lie questions of origin and source, authority and authorship, and the relationship of an artist to his family, culture, and race. Exuberantly inventive in style, the novel subtly and beautifully orchestrates the patterns of quotation and repetition instrumental in its hero's quest to create his own character, his own language, life, and art: "to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race."
This Penguin Classics edition is the definitive text, authorized by the Joyce estate and collated from all known proofs, manuscripts, and impressions to reflect the author's original wishes.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
The first, shortest, and most approachable of James Joyce's novels, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man portrays the Dublin upbringing of Stephen Dedalus, from his youthful days at Clongowes Wood College to his radical questioning of all convention. In doing so, it provides an oblique self-portrait of the young Joyce himself. At its center lie questions of origin and source, authority and authorship, and the relationship of an artist to his family, culture, and race. Exuberantly inventive in style, the novel subtly and beautifully orchestrates the patterns of quotation and repetition instrumental in its hero's quest to create his own character, his own language, life, and art: "to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race."
This Penguin Classics edition is the definitive text, authorized by the Joyce estate and collated from all known proofs, manuscripts, and impressions to reflect the author's original wishes.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
Editorial Reviews
"A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is in fact the gestation of a soul." –Richard Ellmann
"One believes in Stephen Dedalus as one believes in few characters in fiction." –H. G. Wells
"[Mr. Joyce is] concerned at all costs to reveal the flickerings of that innermost flame which flashes its myriad message through the brain, he disregards with complete courage whatever seems to him adventitious, though it be probability or coherence or any other of the handrails to which we cling for support when we set our imaginations free." –Virginia Woolf
"[A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man will] remain a permanent part of English literature." –Ezra Pound
With an Introduction by Richard Brown
"One believes in Stephen Dedalus as one believes in few characters in fiction." –H. G. Wells
"[Mr. Joyce is] concerned at all costs to reveal the flickerings of that innermost flame which flashes its myriad message through the brain, he disregards with complete courage whatever seems to him adventitious, though it be probability or coherence or any other of the handrails to which we cling for support when we set our imaginations free." –Virginia Woolf
"[A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man will] remain a permanent part of English literature." –Ezra Pound
With an Introduction by Richard Brown
Readers Top Reviews
morehumanthanhumanMa
One of the ways I justified getting a Kindle was all the free books (of the "classics") variety I could read. I remembered starting this as a teenager and giving up on it, but I decided to give it another try. I'm glad I did, as I was finally ready for it. As far as "plot" goes, it can be summarized fairly quickly. You probably won't be turning the pages to see "what happens." But you could be drawn in to find out how Stephen's mind progresses -- to me, the most appealing part of the book. As Stephen progresses from childhood to adulthood, you can see each chapter become more complex -- it's one of the best portrayals of intellectual maturing that I've ever read. Some great portions include the dinner table argument about Parnell, the hell sermon, and the conversation about the nature of art. It feels really presumptous to write a review of what is widely considered to be one of the greatest novels of all time, but I guess that is what reviews on Amazon are for. If you have a Kindle, you can get it for free -- why not? While all Kindle free books seem to have some typos, the ones in this book are very minimal.
Robert PeliniMike
James Joyce is one of those authors beloved by literature professors but very difficult to read for pleasure. His sentences are long and often seem to go nowhere, he doesn't tell the story in any clear way, and you never feel like you really know the characters. He uses elaborate, almost poetic language. Maybe some poetry lovers like to linger over the words and savor each incomprehensible line. If you're not of that mind, you might struggle with this book. The story itself is indirectly told, and sometimes feels like work to read. Still, Joyce stirred up just enough interest in the protagonist to make me persevere to the end. I enjoyed Joyce's presentation of Irish attitudes on religion, nationalism, etc. Not being knowledgeable of Irish cultural history, I don't know if his portrayal is accurate or just his own creation, but it was the main interest for me in this novel. Some say "A Portrait of the Artist..." is a preliminary reading for being able to handle Joyce's Ulysses. If so, the much shorter "...Portrait..." at least has the virtue of letting you sample Joyce to see whether you belong among the crowd of admirers.
Kentucky Reviewer
James Joyce's novel is difficult to review because it would take multiple reads and analyses to understand where he is coming from and where he is going to in his stream of consciousness style. I was advised to read this book by an Irishwoman if I wanted to understand Ireland and the Irish.I'm not sure if I do after struggling through this maze of words. But I did finish it so I accomplished something. Good luck to you.
Tom Quinn
Joyce is a favourite writer who reconciled me, as a troubled teenager, to being Irish. The early 20th-century Irish-Catholic soul is here revealed as perhaps in no other work, as the path of Joyce's alter-ego, Stephen Dedelus, is traced from childhood to maturity. One marvellous set-piece after another is presented, the family home, the fierce Christmas argument over Parnell, the playing fields of Clongowes, the Hellfire sermon, the epiphany of the transcendent girl on the strand, the creation of a poem, the worshipful encounter with the nighttown prostitute... Until finally Stephen is ready to flee the nets that trammel the Soul, and forge the "uncreated conscience of his Race"... It is of course beautifully written as only Joyce can with the total beauty of language held in his mind and heart and hands. As his genius first shines then glows then bursts into flame... Here is his flight to the Sun. While not normally enamoured of the "Preface" I did find Seamus Deane's to be insightful and of interest... But read this for a vision of early 20th-century Catholic Ireland, the unique account of the growth of the artistic mind, and the beauty of Joyce's language shimmering across the veil of the world.
T. Smith
Who am to judge James Joyce? Like many, I put off reading this book until retirement. I should have read it earlier. It is at or near the top of all the thousands of books I have read in over 75 years of reading. I followed it "Dubliners" which is, if possible, even more brilliant. I am halfway through "Ulysses" and have learned to let it wash over my mind and not to fret about every word's meaning. Joyce is unique in 20th century literature for a very good reason.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One
"Et ignotas animum dimittit in artes."
ovid, metamorphoses, viii., 18.
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 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 apologise.
Dante said:
-O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes-
Pull out his eyes,
Apologise,
Apologise,
Pull out his eyes.
Apologise,
Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes,
Apologise.
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 foot-ballers 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 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 had 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. But he had pretended not to see that she was going to cry. She was a nice mother but she was not so nice when she cried. And his father had given him two five-shilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had told him if he wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow. Then at the door of the castle the rector had shaken hands with his father and mother, his soutane fluttering in the breeze, and the car had driven off with his father and mother on it. They had cried to him from the car, waving their hands:
-Good-bye, Stephen, goodbye!
-Good-bye, Stephen, goodbye!
He was caught in the whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of the flashing eyes and muddy boots, bent down to look through the legs. The fellows were struggling and groaning and their legs were rubbing and kicking and stamping. Then Jack Lawton's yellow boots dodged out the ball and all the other boots and legs ran...
"Et ignotas animum dimittit in artes."
ovid, metamorphoses, viii., 18.
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 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 apologise.
Dante said:
-O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes-
Pull out his eyes,
Apologise,
Apologise,
Pull out his eyes.
Apologise,
Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes,
Apologise.
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 foot-ballers 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 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 had 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. But he had pretended not to see that she was going to cry. She was a nice mother but she was not so nice when she cried. And his father had given him two five-shilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had told him if he wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow. Then at the door of the castle the rector had shaken hands with his father and mother, his soutane fluttering in the breeze, and the car had driven off with his father and mother on it. They had cried to him from the car, waving their hands:
-Good-bye, Stephen, goodbye!
-Good-bye, Stephen, goodbye!
He was caught in the whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of the flashing eyes and muddy boots, bent down to look through the legs. The fellows were struggling and groaning and their legs were rubbing and kicking and stamping. Then Jack Lawton's yellow boots dodged out the ball and all the other boots and legs ran...
