Status Updates From A Portrait of the Artist as...

It shocked him to find in the outer world a trace of what he had deemed till then a brutish and individual malady of his own mind. His monstrous reveries came thronging into his memory. They too had sprung up before him, suddenly and furiously, out of mere words. He had soon given in to them and allowed them to sweep across and abase his intellect, wondering always where they came from, from what den of monstrous ...

i pray i finish this by monday before my lit tutor hangs draws and quarters me

Probably the best prose I’ve ever read in a book. I’m in awe of it. This is my first Joyce.

Re. Joyce’s stream of consciousness - more flood than stream.

He hardly knew where he was walking. Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his mind. He strode down the hill amid the tumult of
suddenrisen vapours of wounded pride and fallen hope and baffled desire. They streamed upwards before his anguished eyes in dense and maddening fumes and passed away above him till at last the air was clear and cold