The snares of the world were its ways of sin. He would fall. He had not yet fallen but he would fall silently, in an instant. Not to fall was too hard, too hard: and he felt the silent lapse of his soul, as it would be at some instant to come, falling, falling but not yet fallen, still unfallen but about to fall.
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Oxford University Press, 2000.
Mostrar mensagens com a etiqueta A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Mostrar todas as mensagens
Mostrar mensagens com a etiqueta A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Mostrar todas as mensagens
terça-feira, 5 de julho de 2011
segunda-feira, 13 de junho de 2011
Chalaça
And behind the door of one of the closets there was a drawing in red pencil of a bearded man in a Roman dress with a brick in each hand and underneath was the name of the drawing:
Balbus was building a wall.
Some fellows had drawn it there for cod. It had a funny face but it was very like a man with a beard. And on the wall of another closet there was written in backhand in beautiful writing:
Julius Cæsar wrote The Calico Belly.
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Oxford University Press, 2000.
Balbus was building a wall.
Some fellows had drawn it there for cod. It had a funny face but it was very like a man with a beard. And on the wall of another closet there was written in backhand in beautiful writing:
Julius Cæsar wrote The Calico Belly.
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Oxford University Press, 2000.
sexta-feira, 10 de junho de 2011
Sem nome #3
— You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too.
Cranly, now grave again, said, still gaily.
— Alone, quite alone. You have no fear of that. And you know what that word means? Not only to be separate from all others but to have not even one friend.
— I will take the risk, said Stephen.
— And not to have any one person, Cranly said, who would be more than a friend, more even than the noblest and truest friend a man ever had.
His words seemed to have struck some deep chord in his own nature. Had he spoken of himself, of himself as he was or wished to be? Stephen watched his face for some moments in silence. A cold sadness was there. He had spoken of himself, of his own loneliness which he feared.
— Of whom are you speaking?
Cranly did not answer.
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Oxford University Press, 2000.
Cranly, now grave again, said, still gaily.
— Alone, quite alone. You have no fear of that. And you know what that word means? Not only to be separate from all others but to have not even one friend.
— I will take the risk, said Stephen.
— And not to have any one person, Cranly said, who would be more than a friend, more even than the noblest and truest friend a man ever had.
His words seemed to have struck some deep chord in his own nature. Had he spoken of himself, of himself as he was or wished to be? Stephen watched his face for some moments in silence. A cold sadness was there. He had spoken of himself, of his own loneliness which he feared.
— Of whom are you speaking?
Cranly did not answer.
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Oxford University Press, 2000.
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