Портрет художника в юності

           Itshockedhimtofindintheouterworldatraceofwhathehaddeemedtillthenabrutishandindividualmaladyofhisownmind.Hismonstrousreveriescamethrongingintohismemory.Theytoohadsprungupbeforehim,suddenlyandfuriously,outofmerewords.Hehadsoongivenintothemandallowedthemtosweepacrossandabasehisintellect,wonderingalwayswheretheycamefrom,fromwhatdenofmonstrousimages,andalwaysweakandhumbletowardsothers,restlessandsickenedofhimselfwhentheyhadsweptoverhim.

           —Ay,bedad!Andthere’stheGroceriessureenough!criedMrDedalus.YouoftenheardmespeakoftheGroceries,didn’tyou,Stephen.Many’sthetimewewentdowntherewhenournameshadbeenmarked,acrowdofus,HarryPeardandlittleJackMountainandBobDyasandMauriceMoriarty,theFrenchman,andTomO’GradyandMickLacythatItoldyouofthismorningandJoeyCorbetandpoorlittlegood-heartedJohnnyKeeversoftheTantiles.

           TheleavesofthetreesalongtheMardykewereastirandwhisperinginthesunlight.Ateamofcricketerspassed,agileyoungmeninflannelsandblazers,oneofthemcarryingthelonggreenwicket-bag.InaquietbystreetaGermanbandoffiveplayersinfadeduniformsandwithbatteredbrassinstrumentswasplayingtoanaudienceofstreetarabsandleisurelymessengerboys.Amaidinawhitecapandapronwaswateringaboxofplantsonasillwhichshonelikeaslaboflimestoneinthewarmglare.