The image that engulfed my mind from James Joyce's semi-autobiographical A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is that of a droplet of water plopping onto a still pond; that sound, so pointed and specific you can hear it clear as day, so quiet, subtle. Or the light crinkle of a page when turned in a silent room, the fickle tear through a cloak of invisible fabric.
As a reader I felt I was repeatedly dropped beneath the surface tension of the protagonist's life, a boy named Stephen Dedalus. I popped in and out of his childhood to observe his actions, follow his thoughts, see him grow. The novel is a remarkable piece of self-analysis, a delicate and intimate look that feels nearly intrusive at times.
The narrative is layers of implied context, symbolism, and imagery hidden between the lines. Near everything is hinted at rather than explicit. There is tranquil depth to this novel.
I found it to be quite daring as well. Especially in the opacity of time, and the manner in which Joyce toys with the English language like its his clay to mold. At certain points I literally had to stop reading for a moment, in awe at the crafting of a sentence, re-reading it for further appreciation. The vocabulary and tone, often rhythmic like a rap, experimental even a century after publish.
The story is ultimately about the creation of a young man under heavy influence of the Catholic Church, late-19th century aristocratic Ireland, industrialization, social masculinity, nationalism, and all the other domestic, interpersonal, and internal chaos we all live with regardless of setting. I found the role of religion in Joyce's life similar to its place in James Baldwin's life as detailed in Go Tell It on the Mountain: a deeply rooted pillar with divine proportion, an icon that must inevitably be confronted in a process that will fundamentally change life.
They both tell their stories, swarming with the details of a life now gone, yet still universal at its core.
It's also beyond impressive when a writer can encapsulate the viewpoint of a child in their work. To build a cohesive narrative and transfer it, convincingly and accurately, via a child's eyes to an older reader without either side getting lost, that takes a special understanding. Like Faulkner in The Sound and the Fury.
The copy I have is a jacket-less blue hardback printed in the 90s. Its pages are sharp white and fresh, and the smooth front cover has a black rectangle with the following centered between its borders:
James Joyce
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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
I felt like this book, more than probably anything I've read, touches down like a landing spacecraft in another person's life. It's like opening a portal to a soul.
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