James Joyce is undeniably one of the greatest literary minds of the modern world. His mastery of language is exceptional as he meticulously places words with a rare sensitivity, shaping them into something poetic, intricate, and deeply evocative. Though A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man follows a protagonist who often appears emotionally distant, Joyce’s prose is anything but. But as the novel progresses, it becomes harder to stay engaged—what starts as sharp and immersive gradually turns self-indulgent and tedious.
I was drawn to the early chapters, especially Stephen’s religious awakening after the priest’s sermon on hell. The fear, devotion, and desperate need for purity felt real. Then, just as suddenly, he abandons it all, throwing himself into art and intellect with the same extreme intensity. That all-or-nothing mindset resonated with me. I’ve always felt the urge to reset my life completely, as if a radical shift could erase contradictions in my mind.
I know I'm not the only one—this reminds me of Johatsu (蒸発), a phenomenon in Japan where people disappear to escape failure or societal pressure. Some even hire yonige-ya (夜逃げ屋), “night-moving” companies that help them vanish. It’s the same impulse: believing that starting over will bring freedom. But Joyce shows that’s a mere illusion. Stephen keeps thinking he’s reached a revelation—about faith, art, or himself—only to unravel in the next chapter. He’s not evolving; he’s just cycling through different versions of self-deception.
That’s what frustrated me most. The novel isn’t just about a character struggling with identity—it’s about someone endlessly circling the same thoughts, convinced each time that he’s escaped them. And Joyce makes us sit through all of it. Nabokov called the novel "garrulous," and I couldn’t agree more. Stephen’s introspection, instead of deepening the story, makes it harder to connect.
Stephen is like Icarus, always convinced he’s ascending, only to fall again. His supposed breakthroughs feel like moments of flight, but they never last. By Ulysses, he’s still stuck (apparently... I’ll read it next...). This work isn’t a triumphant story of self-creation; it’s a frustrating loop. I see what Joyce was doing, and at times, I even related. But as the novel drags on, it becomes harder to care.
“He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.”
“Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.”
“To discover the mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.”
“To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life. A wild angel appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory. On and on and on and on!”
“His eyes were dimmed with tears, and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.”