Портрет художника в юности

           Then,blushingslightly,helaidhishandonLynch’sthicktweedsleeve.

           —Weareright,hesaid,andtheothersarewrong.Tospeakofthesethingsandtotrytounderstandtheirnatureand,havingunderstoodit,totryslowlyandhumblyandconstantlytoexpress,topressoutagain,fromthegrossearthorwhatitbringsforth,fromsoundandshapeandcolourwhicharetheprisongatesofoursoul,animageofthebeautywehavecometounderstand—thatisart.

           Theyhadreachedthecanalbridgeand,turningfromtheircourse,wentonbythetrees.Acrudegreylight,mirroredinthesluggishwaterandasmellofwetbranchesovertheirheadsseemedtowaragainstthecourseofStephen’sthought.

           —Butyouhavenotansweredmyquestion,saidLynch.Whatisart?Whatisthebeautyitexpresses?

           —ThatwasthefirstdefinitionIgaveyou,yousleepy-headedwretch,saidStephen,whenIbegantotrytothinkoutthematterformyself.Doyourememberthenight?CranlylosthistemperandbegantotalkaboutWicklowbacon.

           —Iremember,saidLynch.Hetoldusaboutthemflamingfatdevilsofpigs.

           —Art,saidStephen,isthehumandispositionofsensibleorintelligiblematterforanestheticend.Yourememberthepigsandforgetthat.Youareadistressingpair,youandCranly.