Портрет художника в юності

           Cranlylaughed,tighteninghisgriponStephen’sarm,andsaid:

           —Thedistilleryisdamngood.

           —Isthereanythingelseyouwanttoknow?Stephenasked.

           —Areyouingoodcircumstancesatpresent?

           —Do,lookit?Stephenaskedbluntly.

           —Sothen,Cranlywentonmusingly,youwereborninthelapofluxury.

           Heusedthephrasebroadlyandloudlyasheoftenusedtechnicalexpressions,asifhewishedhishearertounderstandthattheywereusedbyhimwithoutconviction.

           —Yourmothermusthavegonethroughagooddealofsuffering,hesaidthen.Wouldyounottrytosaveherfromsufferingmoreeveniforwouldyou?

           —IfIcould,Stephensaid,thatwouldcostmeverylittle.

           —Thendoso,Cranlysaid.Doasshewishesyoutodo.Whatisitforyou?Youdisbelieveinit.Itisaform:nothingelse.Andyouwillsethermindatrest.

           Heceasedand,asStephendidnotreply,remainedsilent.Then,asifgivingutterancetotheprocessofhisownthought,hesaid:

           —Whateverelseisunsureinthisstinkingdunghillofaworldamother’sloveisnot.Yourmotherbringsyouintotheworld,carriesyoufirstinherbody.Whatdoweknowaboutwhatshefeels?Butwhatevershefeels,it,atleast,mustbereal.Itmustbe.Whatareourideasorambitions?Play.Ideas!Why,thatbloodybleatinggoatTemplehasideas.MacCannhasideastoo.