Портрет художника в юності

           Imusthavelookedlikeafellowthrowingahandfulofpeasintotheair.Peoplebegantolookatus.Sheshookhandsamomentafterand,ingoingaway,saidshehopedIwoulddowhatIsaid.

           NowIcallthatfriendly,don’tyou?

           Yes,Ilikedhertoday.Alittleormuch?Don’tknow.Ilikedheranditseemsanewfeelingtome.Then,inthatcase,alltherest,allthatIthoughtIthoughtandallthatIfeltIfelt,alltherestbeforenow,infact.O,giveitup,oldchap!Sleepitoff!

           APRIL16.Away!Away!

           Thespellofarmsandvoices:thewhitearmsofroads,theirpromiseofcloseembracesandtheblackarmsoftallshipsthatstandagainstthemoon,theirtaleofdistantnations.Theyareheldouttosay:Wearealone—come.Andthevoicessaywiththem:Weareyourkinsmen.Andtheairisthickwiththeircompanyastheycalltome,theirkinsman,makingreadytogo,shakingthewingsoftheirexultantandterribleyouth.

           APRIL26.Motherisputtingmynewsecondhandclothesinorder.Shepraysnow,shesays,thatImaylearninmyownlifeandawayfromhomeandfriendswhattheheartisandwhatitfeels.Amen.Sobeit.Welcome,Olife,Igotoencounterforthemillionthtimetherealityofexperienceandtoforgeinthesmithyofmysoultheuncreatedconscienceofmyrace.

           APRIL27.Oldfather,oldartificer,standmenowandeveringoodstead.

           Dublin,1904Trieste,1914

           byJamesJoyce