Портрет художника в юности

           Histhinkingwasaduskofdoubtandself-mistrust,litupatmomentsbythelightningsofintuition,butlightningsofsoclearasplendourthatinthosemomentstheworldperishedabouthisfeetasifithadbeenfire-consumed;andthereafterhistonguegrewheavyandhemettheeyesofotherswithunansweringeyes,forhefeltthatthespiritofbeautyhadfoldedhimroundlikeamantleandthatinreveryatleasthehadbeenacquaintedwithnobility.Butwhenthisbriefprideofsilenceupheldhimnolongerhewasgladtofindhimselfstillinthemidstofcommonlives,passingonhiswayamidthesqualorandnoiseandslothofthecityfearlesslyandwithalightheart.

           Nearthehoardingsonthecanalhemettheconsumptivemanwiththedoll’sfaceandthebrimlesshatcomingtowardshimdowntheslopeofthebridgewithlittlesteps,tightlybuttonedintohischocolateovercoat,andholdinghisfurledumbrellaaspanortwofromhimlikeadiviningrod.Itmustbeeleven,hethought,andpeeredintoadairytoseethetime.Theclockinthedairytoldhimthatitwasfiveminutestofivebut,asheturnedaway,heheardaclocksomewherenearhim,butunseen,beatingelevenstrokesinswiftprecision.HelaughedashehearditforitmadehimthinkofMcCann,andhesawhimasquatfigureinashootingjacketandbreechesandwithafairgoatee,standinginthewindatHopkins’corner,andheardhimsay:

           —Dedalus,you’reanantisocialbeing,wrappedupinyourself.I’mnot.