Портрет художника в юності

           Thatwastheworkofdevils,toscatterhisthoughtsandover-cloudhisconscience,assailinghimatthegatesofthecowardlyandsin-corruptedflesh:and,prayingGodtimidlytoforgivehimhisweakness,hecrawledupontothebedand,wrappingtheblanketscloselyabouthim,coveredhisfaceagainwithhishands.Hehadsinned.HehadsinnedsodeeplyagainstheavenandbeforeGodthathewasnotworthytobecalledGod’schild.

           Coulditbethathe,StephenDedalus,haddonethosethings?Hisconsciencesighedinanswer.Yes,hehaddonethem,secretly,filthily,timeaftertime,and,hardenedinsinfulimpenitence,hehaddaredtowearthemaskofholinessbeforethetabernacleitselfwhilehissoulwithinwasalivingmassofcorruption.HowcameitthatGodhadnotstruckhimdead?Theleprouscompanyofhissinsclosedabouthim,breathinguponhim,bendingoverhimfromallsides.Hestrovetoforgettheminanactofprayer,huddlinghislimbsclosertogetherandbindingdownhiseyelids:butthesensesofhissoulwouldnotbeboundand,thoughhiseyeswereshutfast,hesawtheplaceswherehehadsinnedand,thoughhisearsweretightlycovered,heheard.Hedesiredwithallhiswillnottohearorsee.Hedesiredtillhisframeshookunderthestrainofhisdesireanduntilthesensesofhissoulclosed.Theyclosedforaninstantandthenopened.Hesaw.

           Afieldofstiffweedsandthistlesandtuftednettle-bunches.