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Chargement... Portrait de l'artiste en jeune homme (1916)par James Joyce
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...Not for me. I am very split on my review of this book. The themes and soul of it were strong, which I appreciate. The writing? You'd sooner engage me in engineering textbooks. I dragged myself through this book to finish it, which is not something I find regrettable but something which I would not do again. The back of my edition of this book describes Joyce's writing as "vivid" — that's certainly a kinder way to say what my thoughts are. Like many classics, I'm sure this works for some people, but I will be avoiding Joyce's other works from here on now if this is what's being offered. There are simply more engaging reads to spend my time on. "Viver, errar, cair, triunfar, recriar a vida a partir da vida! Tinha-lhe aparecido um anjo rebelde, o anjo da juventude e da beleza mortais, um enviado das belas cortes da vida, para lhe abrir, num instante de êxtase, as portas de todos os caminhos do erro e da glória. Sempre em frente, em frente, em frente!" "- A alma nasce - disse num tom vago - naqueles momentos de que te falei. Foi um parto lento e sombrio, mais misterioso que o nascimento do corpo. Quando a alma de um homem nasce neste país, lançam-lhe logo redes, para a impedir de voar. Fala-me de nacionalidade, de língua, de religião. Eu vou tentar voar para fora dessas redes." "Não serei escravo daquilo em que já não acredito, quer se trate do meu lar, da minha pátria ou da minha Igreja; e tentarei expressar-me numa forma de vida ou de arte tão livremente quanto possa e tão plenamente quanto possa, usando para minha defesa as únicas armas que me permitirei usar: o silêncio, o exílio e a astúcia." "Não receio estar só nem ser trocado por outro, nem deixar aquilo que tiver de deixar. E não receio cometer um erro, nem mesmo um grande erro, um erro com efeitos em toda a minha vida, ou talvez sobre toda a eternidade." "Livre. Alma livre e imaginação livre." "Sê bem-vinda, ó vida! Vou, pela milionésima vez, ao encontro da realidade da experiência, para moldar na forja da minha alma a consciência da minha raça."
"Øynene hennes hadde kalt på ham, og sjelen hans hadde sprunget henne i møte. Å leve, å feile, å falle, å seire, å gjenskape liv av liv! En vill engel hadde vist seg for ham, ungdommens og skjønnhetens - forgjengelighetens engel, et sendebud fra livets fagre hoff som var kommet for i et øyeblikk av ekstase å åpne for ham porten inn til all verdens synd og herlighet. Videre og videre ... " Stephen Dedalus er et portrett av James Joyce som ung mann. Historien om Stephen Dedalus ble påbegynt i 1904, først påtenkt som novelle under tittelen Stephen Hero, etter hvert utviklet til en roman. Deler ble først trykt i tidsskrifter; hele boken utkom i USA i 1916, i England året etter. Appartient à la série éditoriale — 27 plus Gallimard, Folio (570) Keltainen kirjasto (57) Limited Editions Club (S:36.04) Penguin Modern Classics (1477) Project Gutenberg EBook (4217) The Travellers' Library (155) Zephyr Books (18) İthaki Modern (13) Est contenu dansDubliners, A portrait Of The Young Artist, Ulysses (Three Acclaimed Classics In One Volume) par James Joyce Fait l'objet d'une adaptation dansFait l'objet d'une réponse dansPossède un guide de référence avecContient une étude deJames Joyce: Ulysses / Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Icon Reader's Guides to Essential Criticism) par John Coyle Contient un commentaire de texte deContient un guide de lecture pour étudiantListes notables
Une jeune fille se tenait devant lui, debout dans le ruisseau, seule et tranquille, regardant vers le large. On eu t dit un e tre transforme par magie en un oiseau de mer, e trange et beau. Ses jambes nues, longues et fines, e taient de licates comme celles d'un ibis, et immacule es, sauf a l'endroit ou un ruban d'algue couleur d'e meraude s'e tait incruste a la manie re d'un signe sur la chair. Ses cuises plus pleines, nuance es comme l'ivoire, e taient de couvertes presque jusqu'aux hanches, ou les volants blancs du pantalon figuraient le duvet d'un plumage flou et blanc. Ses jupes bleu ardoise, cra nement retrousse s jusqu'a la taille, retombaient par-derrie re en queue de pigeon ; sa poitrine e tait pareille a celle d'un oiseau, tendre et lisse, lisse et tendre comme la gorge de quelque tourterelle aux sombres plumes ; mais ses longs cheveux blonds e taients ceux d'un enfants... Aucune description trouvée dans une bibliothèque |
Discussion en coursAucunCouvertures populaires
Google Books — Chargement... GenresClassification décimale de Melvil (CDD)823.912Literature English & Old English literatures English fiction Modern Period 1901-1999 1901-1945Classification de la Bibliothèque du CongrèsÉvaluationMoyenne:
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Stephen is born and raised in a religious context. He learns to interpret life through religion, through magical thinking, through the process of conforming to god's standards. If he gets some of the numerous rules wrong he will get the ultimate punishment - hell. If he gets all the rules right then he gets the ultimate reward - heaven. But the rule system is obscure, inconsistent with reality, with Stephen and with itself. He tries to twist himself into this weird cruel structure but finds himself turn into a shadow, a husk of a man. He loses interest in reality, he withers. At some point he has a breakthrough and jumps out of his mental jail into a bigger reality. After the release he stumbles around looking for a new mode of being but it's not that easy. Other structures also have their problems and limitations. In the end he attaches himself to art and goes off into the sunset.
To me the ending is inconclusive. We don't know if art is the true vocation for Stephen. What if he loses interest in it as well? But this inconclusiveness is kind of realistic. We never really know. We just live as we are until we are somebody else.
About form:
The writing was so beautiful that at times i just had to read it out loud in the most epic and expressive voices i could produce until my throat went out. The description of hell was actually really really terrifying - made me want to avoid it.
I don't think i've read anything like this novel. The combination of beautiful poetic prose with stream of consciousness with lots of skipping around time and place and vague ponderings on obscure feelings - it's like a dream, a dream of being alive.
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