
Public-domain ebook
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
by James Joyce
Language: en11,733 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Novels·Classics of Literature·British Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #4217.

Public-domain ebook
by James Joyce
Language: en11,733 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Novels·Classics of Literature·British Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #4217.
The novel is an autobiographical fiction that follows the early life of Stephen Dedalus, a young Dublin boy whose world is populated by schoolmates, teachers, and family members who speak in a mix of colloquial banter and lyrical recollection. The opening chapter plunges the reader into a stream of memory that weaves together childhood games, a mother’s piano playing, the chatter of classmates, and the ritual of school life, football scrimmages, spelling lessons, and the occasional teasing about personal habits. The narrative is anchored in Dublin’s streets and the boarding school’s corridors, offering a vivid portrait of a boy navigating the ordinary and the absurd, from the “moocow” story his father tells to the relentless chatter about names, fathers, and the colour of rose badges.
Joyce’s voice is unmistakably modernist: the prose is dense, rhythmically repetitive, and peppered with interior monologue that captures the sensory overload of a child’s mind. The style reflects early twentieth‑century Irish life while experimenting with language, making the text both a product of its period and a forward‑looking exploration of consciousness. Readers who enjoy richly textured, introspective works that blend the mundane with the poetic, particularly those interested in bildungsroman narratives and the cultural texture of Dublin, will find this opening both challenging and rewarding.
The opening · free to read
Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo....
His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face.
He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt.
O, the wild rose blossoms On the little green place.
He sang that song. That was his song.
O, the green wothe botheth.
When you wet the bed, first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on the oilsheet. That had the queer smell.
His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano the sailor’s hornpipe for him to dance. He danced:
Tralala lala, Tralala tralaladdy, Tralala lala, Tralala lala.
Uncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father and mother but uncle Charles was older than Dante.
Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back was for Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her a piece of tissue paper.
The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different father and mother. They were Eileen’s father and mother. When they were grown up he was going to marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said:
—O, Stephen will apologise.
The wide playgrounds were swarming with boys. All were shouting and the prefects urged them on with strong cries. The evening air was pale and chilly and after every charge and thud of the footballers the greasy leather orb flew like a heavy bird through the grey light. He kept on the fringe of his line, out of sight of his prefect, out of the reach of the rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body small and weak amid the throng of the players and his eyes were weak and watery. Rody Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of the third line all the fellows said.
Rody Kickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody Kickham had greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big hands. He called the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket. And one day he had asked:
—What is your name?
Stephen had answered: Stephen Dedalus.
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