Портрет художника в юності

           Stephensatonafootstoolbesidehisfatherlisteningtoalongandincoherentmonologue.Heunderstoodlittleornothingofitatfirstbuthebecameslowlyawarethathisfatherhadenemiesandthatsomefightwasgoingtotakeplace.Hefelt,too,thathewasbeingenlistedforthefight,thatsomedutywasbeinglaiduponhisshoulders.ThesuddenflightfromthecomfortandreveryofBlackrock,thepassagethroughthegloomyfoggycity,thethoughtofthebarecheerlesshouseinwhichtheywerenowtolivemadehisheartheavy,andagainanintuition,aforeknowledgeofthefuturecametohim.Heunderstoodalsowhytheservantshadoftenwhisperedtogetherinthehallandwhyhisfatherhadoftenstoodonthehearthrugwithhisbacktothefire,talkingloudlytouncleCharleswhourgedhimtositdownandeathisdinner.

           —There’sacrackofthewhipleftinmeyet,Stephen,oldchap,saidMrDedalus,pokingatthedullfirewithfierceenergy.We’renotdeadyet,sonny.No,bytheLordJesus(Godforgiveme)nothalfdead.

           Dublinwasanewandcomplexsensation.UncleCharleshadgrownsowitlessthathecouldnolongerbesentoutonerrandsandthedisorderinsettlinginthenewhouseleftStephenfreerthanhehadbeeninBlackrock.Inthebeginninghecontentedhimselfwithcirclingtimidlyroundtheneighbouringsquareor,atmost,goinghalfwaydownoneofthesidestreetsbutwhenhehadmadeaskeletonmapofthecityinhismindhefollowedboldlyoneofitscentrallinesuntilhereachedthecustomhouse.