Портрет художника в юности

           FatherDolanwillbeintomorrow.

           Hepokedoneoftheboysinthesidewithhispandybat,saying:

           —You,boy!WhenwillFatherDolanbeinagain?

           —Tomorrow,sir,saidTomFurlong’svoice.

           —Tomorrowandtomorrowandtomorrow,saidtheprefectofstudies.Makeupyourmindsforthat.EverydayFatherDolan.Writeaway.You,boy,whoareyou?

           Stephen’sheartjumpedsuddenly.

           —Dedalus,sir.

           —Whyareyounotwritingliketheothers?

           —Imy

           Hecouldnotspeakwithfright.

           —Whyishenotwriting,FatherArnall?

           —Hebrokehisglasses,saidFatherArnall,andIexemptedhimfromwork.

           —Broke?WhatisthisIhear?Whatisthisyournameis!saidtheprefectofstudies.

           —Dedalus,sir.

           —Outhere,Dedalus.Lazylittleschemer.Iseeschemerinyourface.Wheredidyoubreakyourglasses?

           Stephenstumbledintothemiddleoftheclass,blindedbyfearandhaste.

           —Wheredidyoubreakyourglasses?repeatedtheprefectofstudies.

           —Thecinder-path,sir.

           —Hoho!Thecinder-path!criedtheprefectofstudies.Iknowthattrick.