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

And all over the playgrounds they were playing rounders and bowling twisters and lobs. And from here and from there came the sounds of the cricket bats through the soft grey air. They said: pick, pack, pock, puck: little drops of water in a fountain slowly falling in the brimming bowl.

A faint sickness of awe made him feel weak.

—Devil out of hell! We won! We crushed him to death! Fiend!
The door slammed behind her.
Mr. Casey, freeing his arms from his holders, suddenly bowed his head on his hands with a sob of pain.
—Poor Parnell! he cried loudly. My dead king!
He sobbed loudly and bitterly.
Stephen, raising his terrorstricken face, saw his father’s eyes were full of tears.

There was a cold night smell in the chapel. But it was a holy smell. It was not like the smell of the old peasants who knelt at the back of the chapel at Sunday mass. That was a smell of air and rain and Turk and corduroy. But they were very holy peasants. They breathed on the back of his neck and sighed as they prayed.

“In the silence their dark fire kindled the dusk into a tawny glow. Stephen's heart had withered up like a flower of the desert that feels the simoom coming from afar” 🤌

What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything around the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began?

Soon they would be going home for the holidays. After supper in the studyhall he would change the number pasted up inside his desk from seventyseven to seventysix.

finding parallels between proust and joyce both wanting a kiss from their mamas in their semi-autobiographical works…