Портрет художника в юності

           —Yourfather,saidthelittleoldmantoStephen,wastheboldestflirtintheCityofCorkinhisday.Doyouknowthat?

           Stephenlookeddownandstudiedthetiledfloorofthebarintowhichtheyhaddrifted.

           —Nowdon’tbeputtingideasintohishead,saidMrDedalusLeavehimtohisMaker.

           —Yerra,sureIwouldn’tputanyideasintohishead.I’moldenoughtobehisgrandfather.AndIamagrandfather,saidthelittleoldmantoStephen.Doyouknowthat?

           —Areyou?askedStephen.

           —BedadIam,saidthelittleoldman.IhavetwobouncinggrandchildrenoutatSunday’sWell.Now,then!WhatagedoyouthinkIam?AndIrememberseeingyourgrandfatherinhisredcoatridingouttohounds.Thatwasbeforeyouwereborn.

           —Ay,orthoughtof,saidMrDedalus.

           —BedadIdid,repeatedthelittleoldman.And,morethanthat,Icanrememberevenyourgreat-grandfather,oldJohnStephenDedalus,andafierceoldfire-eaterhewas.Now,then!There’samemoryforyou!

           —That’sthreegenerations—fourgenerations,saidanotherofthecompany.Why,JohnnyCashman,youmustbenearingthecentury.

           —Well,I’lltellyouthetruth,saidthelittleoldman.I’mjusttwenty-sevenyearsofage.

           —We’reasoldaswefeel,Johnny,saidMrDedalus.Andjustfinishwhatyouhavethereandwe’llhaveanother.