A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
The first novel by James Joyce, this semi-autobiographical narrative depicts the life of Stephen Dedalus, a character created as an allusion to Daedalus, a craftsman in Greek mythology. Beginning by depicting the early stages of Stephen's life, the language of the novel grows with the main character as he awakens sexually and rebels against religion. When he realizes that Ireland is restricting him, he commits to a self-imposed exile and travels elsewhere to grow as an artist-but not before declaring Ireland his homeland.
1116743930
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
The first novel by James Joyce, this semi-autobiographical narrative depicts the life of Stephen Dedalus, a character created as an allusion to Daedalus, a craftsman in Greek mythology. Beginning by depicting the early stages of Stephen's life, the language of the novel grows with the main character as he awakens sexually and rebels against religion. When he realizes that Ireland is restricting him, he commits to a self-imposed exile and travels elsewhere to grow as an artist-but not before declaring Ireland his homeland.
17.99 In Stock
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

by James Joyce

Narrated by Drew Dillon

Unabridged — 8 hours, 20 minutes

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

by James Joyce

Narrated by Drew Dillon

Unabridged — 8 hours, 20 minutes

Audiobook (Digital)

$17.99
FREE With a B&N Audiobooks Subscription | Cancel Anytime
$0.00

Free with a B&N Audiobooks Subscription | Cancel Anytime

START FREE TRIAL

Already Subscribed? 

Sign in to Your BN.com Account


Listen on the free Barnes & Noble NOOK app


Related collections and offers

FREE

with a B&N Audiobooks Subscription

Or Pay $17.99

Overview

The first novel by James Joyce, this semi-autobiographical narrative depicts the life of Stephen Dedalus, a character created as an allusion to Daedalus, a craftsman in Greek mythology. Beginning by depicting the early stages of Stephen's life, the language of the novel grows with the main character as he awakens sexually and rebels against religion. When he realizes that Ireland is restricting him, he commits to a self-imposed exile and travels elsewhere to grow as an artist-but not before declaring Ireland his homeland.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is in fact the gestation of a soul.”–Richard Ellmann

“One believes in Stephen Dedalus as one believes in few characters in fiction.”–H. G. Wells

“[Mr. Joyce is] concerned at all costs to reveal the flickerings of that innermost flame which flashes its myriad message through the brain, he disregards with complete courage whatever seems to him adventitious, though it be probability or coherence or any other of the handrails to which we cling for support when we set our imaginations free.”–Virginia Woolf

“[A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man will] remain a permanent part of English literature.”–Ezra Pound

Herbert Gorman

So profound and beautiful and convincing a book is part of the lasting literature of our age…In it is the promise of that new literature—new both in form and content—that will be the classics of tomorrow.”

Ezra Pound

[A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man will] remain a permanent part of English literature.”

H. G. Wells

By far the most living and convincing picture that exists of an Irish Catholic upbringing. The technique is startling…A most memorable novel.”

NOVEMBER 2008 - AudioFile

With a rough-hewn Irish accent, John Lee narrates this classic novel by Ireland's favorite son. Joyce's first novel, this bildungsroman is nothing like his more daunting ULYSSES, but it still shows the wide range of style and tone he used in his writing. Narrating any Joyce text is a demanding task, but Lee pulls it off expertly, not trying to make unique voices for characters, but melding them into a coherent overall reading. Americans not accustomed to an Irish accent may need some time to get used to this narration, but it’s worth the effort as Lee’s delivery certainly provides the local color of this timeless novel. K.M. © AudioFile 2008, Portland, Maine

Product Details

BN ID: 2940175548175
Publisher: Dreamscape Media
Publication date: 03/05/2019
Edition description: Unabridged
Age Range: 12 - 17 Years

Read an Excerpt

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 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&rsquos 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 apologize.

Dante said:

--O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.--


Pull out his eyes,
Apologize,
Apologize,
Pull out his eyes.

Apologize,
Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes,
Apologize.


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 foot-ballers the greasy leather orb flew like a heavy bird through the gray 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 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.

Then Nasty Roche had said:

--What kind of a name is that?

And when Stephen had not been able to answer Nasty Roche had asked:

--What is your father?

Stephen had answered:

--A gentleman.

Then Nasty Roche had asked:

--Is he a magistrate?

He crept about from point to point on the fringe of his line, making little runs now and then. But his hands were bluish with cold. He kept his hands in the side pockets of his belted gray suit. That was a belt round his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow a belt. One day a fellow had said to Cantwell:

--I'd give you such a belt in a second.

Cantwell had answered:

--Go and fight your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I'd like to see you. He'd give you a toe in the rump for yourself.

That was not a nice expression. His mother had told him not to speak with the rough boys in the college. Nice mother! The first day in the hall of the castle when she had said good-bye she had put up her veil double to her nose to kiss him, and her nose and eyes were red. But he had pretended not to see that she was going to cry. She was a nice mother but she was not so nice when she cried. And his father had given him two five-shilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had told him if he wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow. Then at the door of the castle the rector had shaken hands with his father and mother, his soutane fluttering in the breeze, and the car had driven off with his father and mother on it. They had cried to him from the car, waving their hands:

--Good-bye, Stephen, good-bye!

--Good-bye, Stephen, good-bye!

He was caught in the whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of the flashing eyes and muddy boots, bent down to look through the legs. The fellows were struggling and groaning and their legs were rubbing and kicking and stamping. Then Jack Lawton&rsquos yellow boots dodged out the ball and all the other boots and legs ran after. He ran after them a little way and then stopped. It was useless to run on. Soon they would be going home for the holidays. After supper in the study hall he would change the number pasted up inside his desk from seventy-seven to seventy-six.

It would be better to be in the study hall than out there in the cold. The sky was pale and cold but there were lights in the castle. He wondered from which window Hamilton Rowan had thrown his hat on the haha and had there been flowerbeds at that time under the windows. One day when he had been called to the castle the butler had shown him the marks of the soldiers&rsquo slugs in the wood of the door and had given him a piece of shortbread that the community ate. It was nice and warm to see the lights in the castle. It was like something in a book. Perhaps Leicester Abbey was like that. And there were nice sentences in Doctor Cornwell&rsquos Spelling Book. They were like poetry but they were only sentences to learn the spelling from.


Wolsey died in Leicester Abbey
Where the abbots buried him.
Canker is a disease of plants,
Cancer one of animals.


It would be nice to lie on the hearthrug before the fire, leaning his head upon his hands, and think on those sentences. He shivered as if he had cold slimy water next his skin. That was mean of Wells to shoulder him into the square ditch because he would not swop his little snuffbox for Wells-s seasoned hacking chestnut, the conqueror of forty. How cold and slimy the water had been! A fellow had once seen a big rat jump into the scum. Mother was sitting at the fire with Dante waiting for Brigid to bring in the tea. She had her feet on the fender and her jewelly slippers were so hot and they had such a lovely warm smell! Dante knew a lot of things. She had taught him where the Mozambique Channel was and what was the longest river in America and what was the name of the highest mountain in the moon. Father Arnall knew more than Dante because he was a priest but both his father and Uncle Charles said that Dante was a clever woman and a well-read woman. And when Dante made that noise after dinner and then put up her hand to her mouth, that was heartburn.

From the B&N Reads Blog

Customer Reviews