Портрет художника в юності

           —Hemustbeafinepoet!saidBoland.

           —Youmaykeepyourmouthshut,saidStephen,turningonhimboldly.Allyouknowaboutpoetryiswhatyouwroteupontheslatesintheyardandweregoingtobesenttotheloftfor.

           Boland,infact,wassaidtohavewrittenontheslatesintheyardacoupletaboutaclassmateofhiswhooftenrodehomefromthecollegeonapony:

           AsTysonwasridingintoJerusalemHefellandhurthisAlecKafoozelum.

           ThisthrustputthetwolieutenantstosilencebutHeronwenton:

           —InanycaseByronwasahereticandimmoraltoo.

           —Idon’tcarewhathewas,criedStephenhotly.

           —Youdon’tcarewhetherhewasahereticornot?saidNash.

           —Whatdoyouknowaboutit?shoutedStephen.Youneverreadalineofanythinginyourlifeexceptatrans,orBolandeither.

           —IknowthatByronwasabadman,saidBoland.

           —Here,catchholdofthisheretic,Heroncalledout.InamomentStephenwasaprisoner.

           —Tatemadeyoubuckuptheotherday,Heronwenton,abouttheheresyinyouressay.

           —I’lltellhimtomorrow,saidBoland.

           —Willyou?saidStephen.You’dbeafraidtoopenyourlips.

           —Afraid?

           —Ay.Afraidofyourlife.

           —Behaveyourself!criedHeron,cuttingatStephen’slegswithhiscane.