A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) by James Joyce

Penguin's beautiful Deluxe Edition of Portrait. Perhaps my favorite paperback on my shelves.

Joyce's prose is unbelievably, otherworldly gorgeous.

It's the primary reason I love his work so much. There's the stuff you've got to carve through if you're as basic a reader as myself—the late 19th century Irish politics, the nearly untranslatable contemporary slang that requires reference for a modern reader to understand, transitions into changes in voice and mode that often make it a bit difficult to follow the narrative. But then Joyce hits you with a paragraph of some of the most beautiful prose you've ever read, and it's instantly your favorite thing again:

As he brooded upon her image, a strange unrest crept into his blood. Sometimes a fever gathered within him and led him to rove alone in the evening along the quiet avenue. The peace of the gardens and the kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence into his restless heart. The noise of children at play annoyed him and their silly voices made him feel, even more keenly than he had felt at Clongowes, that he was different from others. He did not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. He did not know where to seek it or how, but a premonition which led him on told him that this image would, without any overt act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment. 

His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.

His unrest issued from him like a wave of sound: and on the tide of flowing music the ark was journeying, trailing her cables of lanterns in her wake. Then a noise like dwarf artillery broke the movement.

Joyce as a young man

I read recently that a reviewer whom I respect refuses to consider any prose 'purple'. Perhaps I'm learning why this is, firsthand, as I read through Portrait. A lot of Joyce's work here could be considered purple. It's incredibly ornate, and it's lavishness is possibly overdone. The more I read, the more I considered that this was deliberate. Perhaps Joyce was attempting to depict a young, talented thinker's tendency to try too hard, and maybe the protagonist and titular Young Man, Stephen Dedalus, lacks reservation in the earlier chapters and Joyce's prose strives to depict this overzealousness. If so, then more the fool I, because I greatly enjoyed it nonetheless and did not find it to be too fatty or too flashy for my tastes, which are actually typically more reserved.

One of my favorite early episodes had to do with the timidity with which Stephen approached his infatuation with his muse. As I was reading along I suddenly realized Stephen's internal monologue was now focused on an object of affection. I didn't recall said object being introduced, so I backtracked to see if I had somehow missed something. But I hadn't—Dedalus first approaches the thought of romantic love via his admiration of Dumas' famous novel The Count of Monte Cristo, and the titular count's undying love for Mercedes. This soon morphs into Stephen's infatuation with an unnamed character—something he touches on regularly in the following pages throughout the first half, but rarely ever outright, or in a concrete way. I found it a novel way of displaying the protagonist's fear of confronting his own emotions in any way other than a roundabout one. He looms on the periphery of his feelings and touches them briefly, but rarely indulges in them directly. It's a bit of tantalization by Joyce, the impact of which is helped strongly along by Joyce's sheer, beautiful prose, which imparts his character's strong feelings in a way with which we are able to viscerally empathize.

Such instances of Joyce's artful, beautiful prose carry the book. It's probably, page by page, the single most beautiful book I've ever read. I've got dozens of highlights proving that statement. But as always with Joyce, you've got to take the good with the bad. I understand Catholic guilt occupies a huge chunk of Joyce's character, but do I really need dozens of detailed pages describing, in depth, the tortures of hell?

The ebb and flow between Irish politics, drop-dead gorgeous inner monologue, and Catholic dogma seems paced fairly well, though. The things that didn't appeal to me didn't drag down my overall experience of the book, and I expect as time passes I'll think more and more highly of it—something similar as to what happened with my memory of Dubliners. The drier, more specific portions of the text seem smaller and smaller in the rearview, and the examples of memorable, songlike prose grow all the larger with each recollection.

I didn't find Portrait to be a difficult read, per se, but it is a substantially different read than many other books—even those of the same era by Joyce contemporaries such as Hemingway and Fitzgerald. Joyce switches gears quite frequently and often without warning, but the quick cuts often feel more smooth than abrupt. I'm not sure why this is... Probably it has something to do with how surreal, introspective, and dreamlike the narrative tends to turn towards while Joyce narrates for us Dedalus' inner thoughts and feels. Thus reading Portrait feels more like experiencing various vignettes into the life of Dedalus, which jump forwards through time without any prefacing or preparation, and change smoothly into different styles. Joyce takes us from a cloudy, ambiguous outpouring of pure emotion and religious epiphany on the part of Dedalus' inner narrative, into an actual concrete, religious sermon delivered by a priest, and then the narrative changes to follow him in a more direct, traditional manner as he seeks to confess his sins. Normally this is not something I'd find interesting, but the way in which Joyce proceeds through different modes keeps it altogether fresh. And, as always, it's all beautifully written in his enveloping, affecting prose.

There were parts of the novel that seemed to drone on about an intensely philosophical topic—something common to earlier, 19th century literature, which undoubtedly inspired Joyce—and I found certain portions of this more difficult to trudge through. The aforementioned treatise on hell is guilty of this, and later on as Joyce dives headfirst into describing in specific terms the result of Stephen's gorgeously written aesthetic epiphany on the shore. Stephen goes into painstaking detail, depicted in dialogue with his friend Cranly, as to exactly what he considers to be beauty and art, and how he'd like to pursue it. It was all a bit deep and detailed for my common noggin, but this thorough examination gives way to a later discussion in which Stephen comes as close as he does in the entire book to renouncing his religion altogether. He states to Cranly that he has lost his religion, but is not sure that religion itself is not worthwhile—something I have struggled with myself as I've read more and more Christian scripture and literature and dedicated more and more time to understanding the religion and why it moves its followers so. And the ending few pages in which Joyce completely changes his style to first person, stream-of-consciousness, imparted to me that his character, Stephen Dedalus, had finally found his own voice and succeeded in developing into the artist he decided he wished to be.

Perhaps what this book is best at is moving its reader in a subconscious fashion. Joyce's prose somehow instills into you exactly what he's trying to say, without having to say it outright. I've been to some of the most amazing Catholic churches in the world—the colossal St. Peter's, the gracefully aged Santa Maria del Fiore, the famous Notre Dame (before she burned last year), Cordoba's stunning Mosque-Cathedral—but the religion has never resonated particularly strongly with me despite these memorable encounters with its architectural wonders. And though I'm American, I have been to Dublin—it's a fine city. I'd probably go back. But I have no strong love for the place, nor any substantial attachment. And clearly I'm not old enough to have been in school in the late 19th century.

Point being: I have no real understanding of what it is to be an Irish Catholic young man coming of age at the turn of the 20th century, I've never been particularly artistic or concerned with aesthetic beauty. So I have no reason for any of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man to resonate with me as strongly as it does. Somehow, regardless of any of that, Joyce has imparted not only the depth of what that entails, but what it feels like on an emotional, spiritual level, through the sheer power of such viscerally affecting prose. I wasn't just told what it was like for Stephen to have a crisis of faith, but was made to feel it through every fiber of my being. Me—a postmodern American atheist. And I grew to love every bit of it, despite never really caring about the subject matter. It was a pretty memorable experience sliding through this novel, swooning at nearly every page, just bathing in the sheer beauty Joyce's prose provides. What a wonderful book.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

The Qur'an (632) by Anonymous

I'm reviewing this in a flippant, irreverent manner similar to the tone in which I examined the King James Bible from cover to cover last year. I realize that this may be offensive to some, and I preemptively apologize for any offense caused, but I find it dishonest to examine this text in any other manner or to soften my own opinions. Feel free to exit the review now if you think such a tone would upset you.

The most noteworthy characteristic, and indeed the downfall of the Qur'an to me personally—an ignorant unbeliever reading for purposes of personal education—is the sheer amount of fatty repetitiveness within.

I expected a religious treatise and instead got what seemed to be an unrehearsed and unedited yet carefully transcribed rant. Nearly every single surah ("book", in biblical terms) within includes similar diversions into rants on hypocrites, unbelievers, the mercy of god, etc. I suppose perhaps this sort of commonly shared content between surahs reads far more poetically in its original Arabic, but for my reading purposes it served only to wear me out and force my eyes to glaze over. With each surah it became more and more tiresome. I was ever ready for this book to sell me on the beauty its followers constantly profess that it contains, but it never came close. There are, of course, countless moments in the latter half of the Qur'an in which it threatened to dip into poetic verse, only instead to revert back to its comfortable, constantly repeated diatribe against unbelievers, those who don't listen, the hypocrites, and the blasphemers.

I fully believe that were you to rip out everything that...

- has already been told in the Bible
- has already been mentioned once in the Qur'an
- qualifies as a rant and amounts to little more than filler

...that all of the original thoughts and commentary contained in the Qur'an would only add up to about 50 pages. I have no hard metrics or data to confirm this hyperbolic statement, of course, as such a project would require an effort equal to that which created the Jefferson Bible, and I thought about this not until I had actually completed my read of the text and so had no opportunity to do so without rereading the book (which I'm not willing to do at this point). Such would make an interesting project—perhaps something for the future.

It's my belief that there's a significant problem with religious texts taken as the word of god in that every word of them must be taken as sacrosanct. If you accept that the Qur'an was dictated to Muhammad by god, you're powerless to disagree with any of it. You may genuinely feel that a part of it is wrong, but your own internally guiding logic will always be overruled by the call to instead be faithful, and you'll dismiss your own reasoning to instead adopt a view which clashes with your own beliefs. Perhaps this is why religion never appealed to me—I find it impossible not to value logical thinking over all else; something I view as a luxury of being raised in a liberal Western 21st century society.

This isn't something unique to the Qur'an, as the Bible suffers from this problem as well. There are many portions of both the New and Old Testament that are genuinely worthwhile; as spiritual guidance for the construction of personal morals, as parables of wisdom, as intriguing storytelling, or just as sheer prosaic beauty (with specific regards to its King James version, which I find quite aesthetically pleasing). But during my read of the Bible these positives were often polluted by instances of lengthy archaic rules of worship, calls to genocidal violence, and extreme punishment for what unbelievers would view as rather minor offenses.

I began reading the Qur'an with the honest intent of allowing it to surprise me (as I did with the Bible), but thus far I (an atheist without a clear bias for either religion) have found fewer redeeming qualities in the Qur'an than I did with my cover-to-cover read of the Bible last year.

Most surprising, perhaps, is that the Qur'an's god is the same as the one found in the Bible. Thus much of the Qur'an ends up being a retelling and a commentary on the events of the Bible, rather than its own independent religious text. I find it amusing to consider the Qur'an somewhat like The Aeneid to the Old and New Testament's Iliad and Odyssey. I was surprised to learn just how much of the Bible is not only mentioned in the Qur'an, but reaffirmed. Adam and the Garden of Eden, Moses, Abraham, Lot, and even Jesus as Mary's son and his status as a prophet are all retold in the Qur'an, which was written 600 years after the New Testament. A key point of the Qur'an is the failure of the people of the book to properly heed the words of god. The Qur'an very early takes shape as more of an admonishment than its own holy book. I found it similar to the Old Testament in this manner, as god spends quite a bit of time being cross with the Jews for failing to adequately follow his laws. Perhaps the largest difference in belief between the Bible and the Qur'an is the level of holiness of Jesus of Nazareth—the Bible, of course, touts him as the son of the Judaeo-Christian god. The Qur'an disagrees, but still considers him a holy figure and a prophet. Aside from that, the Qur'an is actually shockingly similar (in a purely mythological manner) to the Bible.

Noteworthy to me in these early books are just how harsh the Qur'an is against "unbelievers", regularly referring to us as evildoers and constantly reminding us we're destined to burn in hell: "Beware the Fire whose fuel is mankind and stones, made ready for the unbelievers".

These kinds of calls to violence are often quite blatant throughout the Qur'an:

Women 4:87: "Do you wish to guide one whom God had led astray? Whoso Good leads astray, you shall find no path. They long for you to blaspheme as they have blasphemed, thus becoming like them. Do not take them for friends until they emigrate in the cause of God. If they refuse, seize them and kill them wherever you find them..."

Man 76:3: "For the unbelievers We have readied chains, collars and a raging fire"

The Qur'an is often not kind to the modern notion of egalitarianism across genders, either:

"Your women are your sowing field: approach your field whenever you please"

But, of course, the Old Testament isn't much better. Both clash with classic liberal notions of liberty, and perhaps this is where the Qur'an drew its influence from.

What is the deal, with unbelievers and hypocrites!?

There's an ever-present tone of combativeness throughout that I found off-putting. I often found my Tarif Khalidi translation wanting, as it includes odd anachronisms such as "What is it with these people?" (a phrase which, each time I read it, would call to mind the voice of Jerry Seinfeld), and lacks any historical annotations, preferring instead to let the text stand on its own. This is a mistake for my purposes, as the book has thus far come off as more of an impatient rant than anything else, and I found myself craving additional historicity the further I got through the book.

The Muslim god does seem to be far more forgiving to his followers than to unbelievers, something more akin to the tone of the New Testament than the god of the Old Testament. It's constantly stressed that he is forgiving so long as his followers repent, and I recall the Old Testament god being far more vengeful and punishing in contrast. This warmth and magnanimity doesn't seem to extend to unbelievers, though, rendering a lot of what is said with an unfortunate air of intolerance.

It's tough to review the Qur'an without comparing it to the Bible. I didn't particularly care for the Bible as a whole, but it's so long and includes so much varied content that it's almost impossible to read through and not find something to like. While the Bible is at times every bit as intolerant, violent, and archaic in its morals as is the Qur'an, there are things that I liked when I read it: I enjoyed analyzing in-depth the morals of Jesus, I enjoyed some of its storytelling, and the King James version in particular features some passages of stunning prose—I'd go as far as to say that I genuinely enjoyed the book of Revelation. Unfortunately, I've found comparably little in the Qur'an to enjoy. There's so much repetition, so much sheer fat in the content included here that I found it rather difficult to bludgeon through the recycled biblical tales and the constant rants against unbelievers and those who feign piousness. It made for a monotonous read in which I constantly found myself to be skimming full chapters, eyes fully glazed over. And that's a problem, because this is an incredibly influential book that deserves a serious, focused analysis. As a non-religious person I'm admittedly a child with swimmies being tossed into the deep end of the pool whenever reading and attempting to analyze religion, and I fear I'm altogether incapable of a quality analysis of this book.

That said, the book makes it exceedingly difficult for readers such as myself to pick it up and gain an understanding of its religion. Take the excerpt to the left, for example. Sure, it's stylized—I get that. And sure, I can see how it'd come off as poetic, maybe, in the original Arabic. Or how it'd be rendered rather lyrical when read aloud at a mosque. But for my reading purposes, carving through an entire surah of this is an absolute chore. And this portion is topped by the final, closing surahs, which read like little more than an intoxicated man's ramblings with little substance therein. These types of things are not something I enjoy. They give me little of the insight into Islam that I crave. Reading them—either shallowly or with depth—not a fruitful endeavor for me. Perhaps that's not true for you—and more power to you. But I personally can't stand it.

So I think this stuff just really isn't for me, and thus I found little to enjoy here. Maybe this renders my thoughts on the Qur'an worth comparatively little, but I'm glad I read it nonetheless, and I will share my thoughts anyway, if for no other reason than to prove I did, at one point in my life, read these kinds of books that are supposedly so deserving of being read.

⭐