portraitoftheartistasayoungman.pdf

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
A Portrait of the Artist
as a Young Man
Joyce, James, 1882-1941
Release date: 2003-07-01
Source: Bebook
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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

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