Ch5 Pt2

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Chapter five, Part two of A Portrait of the Artist
as a young Man by James Joyce. This is a
LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.
Recording by Peter Bobby. A Portrait of the Artist as

(00:23):
a young Man by James Joyce, Chapter five, Part two.
The entrance hall was crowded and loud with talk. On
a table near the door were two photographs in frames,
and between them a long roll of paper bearing an
irregular tale of signatures. Mc cann went briskly to and
fro among the students, talking rapidly, answering rebuffs, and leading

(00:46):
one after another to the table. In the inner hall,
the Dean of Studies stood talking to a young professor,
stroking his chin gravely and nodding his head. Stephen, checked
by the crowd at the door, halted irresolutely from under
the wide falling leaf of a soft hat. Cranley's dark
eyes were watching him. Have you signed, Stephen asked. Cranley

(01:09):
closed his long, thin lipped mouth, commune with himself an instant,
and answered, egohabio, what is it for? Quad? What is
it for? Cranley turned his pale face to Stephen and said,
blandly and bitterly pere pax uniwersalis. Stephen pointed to the

(01:29):
Tsar's photograph and said he has the face of a
besotted Christ. The scorn and anger in his voice brought
Cranley's eyes back from a calm survey of the walls
of the hall. Are you annoyed? He asked? No, answered Stephen.
Are you in a bad humor? No credo utwo sanguinarius

(01:52):
mandax estys, said Cranley. Quiephassius wolstromonstrat u wolsindmno malo humore estes. Moynihan,
on his way to the table, said, in Stephen's ear
mc cann is in tip top form, ready to shed
the last drop, brand new world, No stimulants and votes
for the bitches. Stephen smiled at the manner of this confidence,

(02:16):
and when moynihan had passed, turned again to meet Cranley's eyes.
Perhaps you can tell me, he said, why he pours
his soul so freely into my ear? Can you? A
dull scowl appeared on Cranley's forehead. He stared at the
table where moynihan had bent to write his name on
the roll, and then said, flatly, A sugar quisees din

(02:40):
mallow humorey said Stephen, ago otwos. Cranley did not take
up the taunt. He brooded sourly on his judgment, and repeated,
with the same flat force, A flaming bloody sugar, that's
what he is. It was his epitaph for all dead friendships,
and Stephen wondered whether it would ever be spoken in

(03:00):
the same tone over his memory. The heavy, lumpish phrase
sank slowly out of hearing, like a stone through a quagmire.
Stephen saw it sink as he had seen many another,
feeling its heaviness depress his heart. Cranleigh's speech, unlike that
of Davin, had neither rare phrases of Elizabethan English nor

(03:20):
quaintly turned versions of Irish idioms. Its drawl was an
echo of the keys of Dublin, given back by oblique,
decaying seaport, its energy and echo of the sacred eloquence
of Dublin, given back flatly by a wicklow pulpit. The
heavy scowl faded from Cranley's face as Machann marched briskly
towards them from the other side of the hall. Here

(03:43):
you are, said ma cann cheerily. Here I am, said Stephen,
late as usual. Can you not combine the progressive tendency
with a respect for punctuality? That question is out of order,
said Stephen. Next business. His smiling eyes were fixed on
a silver wrapped tablet of milk chocolate, which peeped out

(04:03):
of the propagandist's breast pocket. A little ring of listeners
closed round to hear the war of wits. A lean
student with olive skin and lank black hair thrust his
face between the two, glancing from one to the other
at each phrase, and seeming to try to catch each
flying phrase in his open, moist mouth. Granly took a
small gray handball from his pocket and began to examine it, closely,

(04:27):
turning it over and over. Next business, said mc cann.
Hum He gave a loud cough of laughter, smiled broadly,
and tugged twice at the straw colored goateee which hung
from his blunt chin. The next business is to sign
the testimonial. Will you pay me anything if I sign?
Asked Stephen. I thought you were an idealist, said mac cann.

(04:52):
The gipsy like student looked about him and addressed the
onlookers in an indistinct, bleating voice. My hell, that's a
queerm notion. I consider that notion to be a mercenary notion.
His voice faded into silence. No heed was paid to
his words. He turned his olive face equine in expression,
towards Stephen, inviting him to speak again. Mican began to

(05:16):
speak with fluent energy, of the Tsar's rescript of stead
of general disarmament, arbitration in cases of international disputes, of
the signs of the times, of the New Humanity and
the New Gospel of Life, which would make it the
business of the community to secure as cheaply as possible,
the greatest possible happiness of the greatest possible number. The

(05:36):
gipsy student responded to the close of the period by
crying three cheers for universal brotherhood. Go on, Temple, said
a stout, ruddy student near him. I'll stand you a
pint after. I am a believer in universal brotherhood, said Temple,
glancing about him out of his dark oval eyes marks
is only a bloody cod cranly gripped his arm tightly

(05:59):
to check his tongue, smiling uneasily, and repeated Easy, Easy, Easy.
Temple struggled to free his arm, but continued, his mouth
flecked by a thin foam. Socialism was founded by an Irishman,
and the first man in Europe who preached the freedom
of thought was Collins. Two hundred years ago he denounced Priestcraft,
the philosopher of the middlesex Three cheers for John Anthony Collins.

(06:24):
A thin voice from the verge of the ring replied Pip. Pip.
Moynihan murmured, beside Stephen's ear, and what about John Anthony's
poor little sister, Lottie Collins lost her drawers? Won't you
kindly lend her yours? Stephen laughed, and moynihan, pleased with
the result, murmured again, we'll have five bob each way
on John Anthony Collins. I am waiting for your answer,

(06:48):
said mc cann briefly. The affair doesn't interest me in
the least, said Stephen wearily. You know that, well, why
do you make a scene about it? Good, said mac cann's,
mocking his lips. You are a reactionary, then, do you
think you impress me? Stephen asked, when you flourish your
wooden sword metaphors, said macchann bluntly, come to facts. Stephen

(07:13):
blushed and turned aside. Mac Cann stood his ground and said,
with hostile humor, minor poets, I suppose are above such
trivial questions as the question of universal peace. Cranly raised
his head and held the handball between the two students
by way of a peace offering, saying Pax supertotum songwinarium globum. Stephen,

(07:37):
moving away the bystanders, jerked his shoulder angrily in the
direction of the Tsar's image, saying, keep your eyeicon. If
we must have a Jesus, let us have a legitimate Jesus.
My hell, that's a good one, said the gipsy student
to those about him. That's a fine expression. I like
that expression immensely. He gulped down the spittle in his

(07:58):
throat as if he were gulping down the phrase, and
fumbling at the peak of his tweed cap, turned to Stephen, saying,
excuse me, sir, what do you mean by that expression
you utter? Just now, Feeling himself jostled by the students
near him, he said to them, I am curious to
know now what he meant by that expression. He turned
again to Stephen and said, in a whisper do you

(08:20):
believe in Jesus? I believe in Man, of course, I
don't know if you believe in Man. I admire you, sir,
I admire the mind of man independent of all religions.
Is that your opinion about the mind of Jesus? Go on, Temple,
said the stout, ruddy student, returning as was his wont
to his first idea that Pint is waiting for you.

(08:42):
He thinks I'm an imbecile, Temple explained to Stephen, because
I'm a believer in the power of mind. Granly linked
his arms into those of Stephen and his admirer and
said nos odd manum balum yokobimus. Stephen, in the act
of being led away, caught sight of me Makann's flushed,
blunt featured face. My signature is of no account, he

(09:05):
said politely. You are right to go your way, leave
me to go mine. Daedalus said mc cann crisply. I
believe you're a good fellow, but you have yet to
learn the dignity of altruism and the responsibility of the
human individual. A voice said, intellectual crankery is better out
of this movement than in it. Stephen, recognizing the harsh

(09:27):
tone of mc allister's voice, did not turn in the
direction of the voice. Cranly pushed solemnly through the throng
of students, linking Stephen and Temple like a celebrant attended
by his ministers on his way to the altar. Temple
bent eagerly across Cranley's breast and said, did you hear
mc allister what he said? That youth is jealous of you?
Did you see that? I bet Cranley didn't see that,

(09:49):
By hell, I saw that at once. As they crossed
the inner hall, the Dean of Studies was in the
act of escaping from the student with whom he had
been conversing. He stood at the of the staircase, a
foot on the lowest step, His threadbare soutaine gathered about
him for the ascent with womanish care, nodding his head
often and repeating, not a doubt of it, mister Hackett,

(10:10):
very fine, not a doubt of it. In the middle
of the hall, the prefect of the college's sodality was
speaking earnestly in a soft, querulous voice with a border.
As he spoke, he wrinkled a little his freckled brow
and bit between his phrases at a tiny bone pencil.
I hope them a trick man will all come. The

(10:31):
first art's men are pretty sure. Second arts do. We
must make sure of the newcomers. Temple bent again across
Cranleigh as they were passing through the doorway, and said,
in a swift whisper, do you know that he is
a married man. He was a married man before they
converted him. He has a wife and children somewhere by hell.
I think that's the queerest notion I ever heard. Eh.

(10:53):
His whisper trailed off into sly, cackling laughter. The moment
they were through the doorway, Cranley seized him rudely by
the neck and shook him, saying, you flaming, floundering fool,
I'll take my dying bible. There isn't a bigger bloody
ape do you know than you in the whole flaming
bloody world. Temple wriggled in his grip, laughing still with

(11:13):
sly content, while Cranley repeated flatly at every rude shake,
a flaming flaring, bloody idiot. They crossed the weedy garden together.
The President, wrapped in a heavy loose cloak, was coming
towards them along one of the walks, reading his office.
At the end of the walk. He halted before turning
and raised his eyes. The students saluted Temple, fumbling as

(11:35):
before at the peak of his cap. They walked forward
in silence. As they neared the alley, Stephen could hear
the thuds of the player's hands and the wet smacks
of the ball, and Davin's voice crying out excitedly at
each stroke. The three students halted round the box on
which Davin sat to follow the game. Temple, after a
few moments, sidled across to Stephen and said, excuse me,

(11:57):
I wanted to ask you. Do you believe that Jean
Jacques Rousseau was a sincere man? Stephen laughed outright, cranly,
picking up the broken stave of a cask from the
grass at his foot, turned swiftly and said sternly, Temple,
I declare to the living God. If you say another
word do you know to anybody on any subject, I'll
kill you, super spotum. He was like you, I fancy,

(12:21):
said Stephen, an emotional man. Blast him, curse him, said
Cranley broadly. Don't talk to him at all. Sure you
might as well be talking to you know, to a
flaming chamber pot as talking to Temple. Go home, Temple,
for God's sake, go home. I don't care a damn
about you, Cranley answered Temple, moving out of reach of
the uplifted stave and pointing at Stephen. He's the only

(12:44):
man I see in this institution that has an individual mind.
Institution individual, cried Cranlely, go home. Blast you, for you're
a hopeless, bloody man. I'm an emotional man, said Temple.
That's quite rightly expressed, and I'm proud that I'm an
emotionlest He sidled out of the alley, smiling slyly. Cranley

(13:04):
watched him with a blank, expressionless face. Look at him,
he said, did you ever see such a go by
the wall? His phrase was greeted by a strange laugh
from a student who lounged against the wall, his peaked
cap down on his eyes. The laugh, pitched in a
high key and coming from a so muscular frame, seemed
like the whinnie of an elephant. The student's body shook

(13:26):
all over, and to ease his mirth, he rubbed both
his hands delightedly over his groins. Lynch is awake, said Cranly. Lynch,
for answer, straightened himself and thrust forward his chest. Lynch
puts out his chest, said Stephen, as a criticism of life.
Lynch smote himself sonorously on the chest and said, who

(13:49):
has anything to say about my girth? Cranly took him
at the word, and the two began to tossle. When
their faces had flushed with the struggle, they drew apart, panting.
Stephen bent down towards Davin, who, intent on the game,
had paid no heed to the talk of the others.
And how is my little tame goose? He asked? Did

(14:09):
he sign too? Davin nodded and said, and you, Stevie.
Stephen shook his head. You're a terrible man, Stevie, said Davin,
taking the short pipe from his mouth. Always alone. Now
that you have signed the petition for universal peace, said Stephen,
I suppose you will burn that little copy book I

(14:29):
saw in your room. As Davin did not answer, Stephen
began to quote long pace Fiana right incline Fiana Fiana
by numbers, Salute one two. That's a different question, said Davin.
I'm an Irish nationalist first and foremost. But that's you
all out. You're a born sneerer, Stevie. When you make

(14:52):
the next rebellion with hurley sticks, said Stephen, and want
the indispensable informer, tell me I can find you a
few in this college. I can't understand you, said Davin.
One time I hear you talk against English literature. Now
you talk against the Irish informers. What with your name
and your ideas? Are you Irish at all? Come with

(15:12):
me now to the Office of Arms, and I will
show you the tree of my family, said Stephen. Then
be one of us, said Davin. Why don't you learn Irish?
Why did you drop out of the league class after
the first lesson? You know one reason why, answered Stephen.
Davin tossed his head and laughed. Oh come now, he said,

(15:33):
is it on account of that certain young lady and
father moron? But that's all in your own mind, Stevie.
They were only talking and laughing. Stephen paused and laid
a friendly hand upon Davin's shoulder. Do you remember, he said?
When we knew each other first. The first morning we met,
you asked me to show you the way to the
matriculation class, putting a very strong stress on the first syllable.

(15:56):
You remember then you used to address the Jesuits as
far you remember, I ask myself about you. Is he
as innocent as his speech? I'm a simple person, said Davin.
You know that when you told me that night in
Harcourt Street those things about your private life, Honest to God, Stevie,
I was not able to eat my dinner. I was

(16:17):
quite bad. I was awake a long time that night.
Why did you tell me those things? Thanks, said Stephen.
You mean I am a monster? No, said Davin, But
I wish you had not told me. A tide began
to surge beneath the calm surface of Stephen's friendliness. This race,
and this country and this life produced me. He said,

(16:39):
I shall express myself as I am. Try to be
one of us, repeated Davin. In your heart you are
an irishman, but your pride is too powerful. My ancestors
threw off their language and took another. Stephen said, they
allowed a handful of foreigners to subject them. Do you
fancy I'm going to pay in my own life and
person debts they made what for for our freedom? Said Davin. No,

(17:05):
honorable and sincere man said, Stephen has given up to
you his life and his youth, and his affections from
the days of Tone to those of Parnell. But you
sold him to the enemy, or failed him in need,
or reviled him and left him for another. And you
invite me to be one of you. I'd see you.
Damned First they died for their ideals, Stevie, said Davin.

(17:26):
Our day will come yet, believe me. Stephen, following his
own thought, was silent for an instant. The soul is born,
he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you
of It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious
than the birth of the body. When the soul of

(17:46):
a man is born in this country, there are nets
flung at it to hold it back from flight. You
talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try
to fly by those nets. Devon knocked the ashes from
his pipe. Too deep for me, Stevie, he said, But
a man's country comes first, Ireland first. Stevie, you can

(18:08):
be a poet or mystic after do you know what
Ireland is, asked Stephen with cold violence. Ireland is the
old sow that eats her farrow. Devon rose from his
box and went towards the players, shaking his head sadly.
But in a moment his sadness left him, and he
was hotly disputing with Cranleigh and the two players who

(18:29):
had finished their game. A match of four was arranged,
Cranley insisting, however, that his ball should be used. He
let it rebound twice or thrice to his hand and
struck it strongly and swiftly towards the base of the alley,
exclaiming in answer to its thud your soul. Stephen stood
with Lynch till the score began to rise. Then he

(18:50):
plucked him by the sleeve to come away. Lynch obeyed, saying,
let us eke go as Cranley has it. Stephen smiled
at this side thrut. They passed back through the garden
and out through the hall, where the doddering porter was
pinning up a notice in the frame at the foot
of the steps. They halted, and Stephen took a packet
of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to his companion.

(19:13):
I know you are poor, he said, damn your yellow insolence,
answered Lynch. This second proof of Lynch's culture made Stephen
smile again. It was a great day for European culture,
he said, when you made up your mind to swear
in yellow. They lit their cigarettes and turned to the right.

(19:34):
After a pause, Stephen began, Aristotle has not defined pity
and terror. I have, I say. Lynch halted and said
bluntly stop. I won't listen. I am sick. I was
out last night on a yellow drunk with horn and goggins.
Stephen went on. Pity is the feeling which arrests the

(19:54):
mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant
in human sufferings, and unites it with the human sufferer.
Terror is the feeling which arrests the mind in the
presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings,
and unites it with the secret cause. Repeat, said Lynch.
Stephen repeated the definitions slowly. A girl got into a

(20:19):
hansom a few days ago, he went on, in London.
She was on her way to meet her mother, whom
she had not seen for many years. At the corner
of a street, the shaft of a lorry shivered the
window of the hansom in the shape of a star.
A long, fine needle of the shivered glass pierced her heart.
She died on the instant. The reporter called it a

(20:40):
tragic death. It is not. It is remote from terror
and pity. According to the terms of my definitions. The
tragic emotion, in fact, is a face looking two ways,
towards terror and towards pity, both of which are phases
of it. You see, I use the word arrest. I
mean that the tragic emotion is static, or rather, the

(21:01):
dramatic emotion is. The feelings excited by improper art are
kinetic desire or loathing. Desire urges us to possess, to
go to something. Loathing urges us to abandon to go
from something. These are kinetic emotions. The arts which excite them,
pornographical or didactic, are therefore improper arts. The esthetic emotion,

(21:24):
I use the general term, is therefore static. The mind
is arrested and raised above desire and loathing. You say
that art must not excite desire, said Lynch. I told
you that one day I wrote my name in pencil
on the backside of the venus of praxidiles in the museum.
Was that not desire? I speak of normal natures, said Stephen.

(21:47):
You also told me that when you were a boy
in that charming carmelite school, you ate pieces of dried
cow dung. Lynch broke again into a whinnie of laughter,
and again rubbed both his hands over his groins, but
without taking them from his pockets. Oh I did, I did,
he cried. Stephen turned towards his companion and looked at

(22:08):
him for a moment, boldly in the eyes. Lynch, recovering
from his laughter, answered his look from his humbled eyes.
The long, slender, flattened skull beneath the long pointed cap
brought before Stephen's mind the image of a hooded reptile.
The eyes, too were reptile like in glint and gaze,
yet at that instant, humbled and alert in their look,

(22:30):
they were lit by one tiny human point, the window
of a shriveled soul, poignant and self embittered. As for that,
Stephen said, in polite parenthesis, we are all animals. I
also am an animal. You are, said Lynch, But we
are just now in a mental world. Stephen continued, the
desire and loathing excited by improper esthetic means are really

(22:54):
unesthetic emotions, not only because they are kinetic in character,
but also because they are not more than physical. Our
flesh shrinks from what it dreads and responds to the
stimulus of what it desires by a purely reflex action
of the nervous system. Our eyelid closes before we are
aware that the fly is about to enter our eye.
Not always, said Lynch critically. In the same way, said Stephen,

(23:18):
your flesh responded to the stimulus of a naked statue.
But it was, I say, simply a reflex action of
the nerves. Beauty expressed by the artist cannot awaken in
us an emotion which is kinetic, or a sensation which
is purely physical. It awakens, or ought to awaken, or induces,
or ought to induce an esthetic stasis, an ideal pity,

(23:41):
or an ideal terror, a stasis called forth, prolonged and
at last dissolved by what I call the rhythm of beauty.
What is that, exactly, asked Lynch. Rhythm, said Stephen, is
the first formal esthetic relation of part to part in
any esthetic whole, or of an esthetic hole to its part,
or parts, or of any part, to the esthetic whole

(24:03):
of which it is a part. If that is rhythm,
said Lynch, let me hear what you call beauty, And
please remember, though I did eat a cake of cow
dung once, that I admire only beauty. Stephen raised his
cap as if in greeting, Then, blushing slightly, he laid
his hand on Lynch's thick tweed sleeve. We are right,

(24:24):
he said, and the others are wrong to speak of
these things, and to try to understand their nature, and
having understood it, to try slowly and humbly and constantly
to express, to press out again from the gross earth,
or what it brings forth from sound and shape and color,
which are the prison gates of our soul, an image
of the beauty we have come to understand that is art.

(24:48):
They had reached the canal bridge, and, turning from their course,
went on by the trees. A crude gray light mirrored
in the sluggish water, and a smell of wet branches
over their heads seemed to war against the course of
Stephen's thought. But you have not answered my question, said Lynch.
What is art? What is the beauty it expresses? That

(25:10):
was the first definition I gave you you, sleepy headed wretch,
said Stephen, when I began to try to think out
the matter for myself. Do you remember the night Cranley
lost his temper and began to talk about Wicklow Bacon.
I remember, said Lynch. He told us about them flaming
fat devils of pigs, art, said Stephen, is the human
disposition of sensible or intelligible matter for an esthetic end.

(25:35):
You remember the pigs, and forget that you are a
distressing pair, you and Cranley. Lynch made a grimace at
the raw gray sky and said, if I am to
listen to your esthetic philosophy, give me at least another cigarette.
I don't care about it. I don't even care about women.
Damn you, and damn everything. I want a job of
five hundred a year. You can't get me one. Stephen

(25:58):
handed him the packet of cigarettes. Lynch took the last
one that remained, saying, simply proceed a quynas said Stephen
says that is beautiful, the apprehension of which pleases. Lynch nodded.
I remember that, he said, pull cross sunt que weisa placint.
He uses the word wesa, said Stephen, to cover esthetic

(26:21):
apprehensions of all kinds, whether through sight or hearing, or
through any other avenue of apprehension. This word, though it
is vague, is clear enough to keep away good and evil,
which excite desire and loathing. It means certainly a stasis,
and not a kinesis. How about the true It produces
also a stasis of the mind. You would not write

(26:43):
your name in pencil across the hypotenuse of a right
angled triangle, no, said Lynch, Give me the hypotenuse of
the venus of praxidiles static. Therefore, said Stephen Plato, I
believe said that beauty is the splendor of truth. I
don't think that it has him meaning. But the true
and the beautiful are akin. Truth is beheld by the intellect,

(27:05):
which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the intelligible.
Beauty is beheld by the imagination, which is appeased by
the most satisfying relations of the sensible. The first step
in the direction of truth is to understand the frame
and scope of the intellect itself, to comprehend the act
itself of intellection. Aristotle's entire system of philosophy rests upon

(27:28):
his Book of Psychology, and that I think rests on
his statement that the same attribute cannot, at the same
time and in the same connection belong to and not
belong to the same subject. The first step in the
direction of beauty is to understand the frame and scope
of the imagination, to comprehend the act itself of esthetic apprehension.
Is that clear? But what is beauty? Asked Lynch, impatiently

(27:52):
out with another definition. Something we see and like? Is
that the best you and Aquinas can do. Let us
take woman, said Stephen. Let us take her, said Lynch, fervently.
The Greek, the Turk, the Chinese, the copt the Huttentot,
said Stephen. All admire a different type of female beauty
that seems to be a maze out of which we

(28:13):
cannot escape. I see, however, two ways out. One is
this hypothesis that every physical quality admired by men in
women is in direct connection with the manifold functions of
women for the propagation of the species. It may be so,
the world, it seems, is drearier than even you Lynch imagined.
For my part, I dislike that way out. It leads

(28:36):
to eugenics rather than to esthetic. It leads you out
of the maze into a new, gaudy lecture room, where Macan,
with one hand on the origin of species and the
other hand on the New Testament, tells you that you
admired the great flanks of Venus because you felt that
she would bear you burly offspring, and admired her great
breasts because you felt that she would give good milk

(28:57):
to her children and yours. Then Macan, as a sulfur
yellow liar, said Lynch, energetically, there remains another way out,
said Stephen, laughing to wit, said Lynch, this hypothesis Stephen began.
A long dray laden with old iron, came round the
corner of Sir Patrick Dunn's hospital, covering the end of

(29:18):
Stephen's speech with the harsh roar of jangled and rattling metal.
Lynch closed his ears and gave out oath after oath
till the dray had passed. Then he turned on his
heel rudely. Stephen turned also and waited for a few
moments till his companion's ill humor had had its vent.
This hypothesis, Stephen repeated, is the other way out. That

(29:41):
though the same object may not seem beautiful to all people.
All people who admire a beautiful object find in it
certain relations which satisfy and coincide with the stages themselves
of all esthetic apprehension. These relations of the sensible, visible
to you through one form and to me through another,
must be therefore than necessary qualities of beauty. Now we

(30:03):
can return to our old friend Saint Thomas for another
pennyworth of wisdom. Lynch laughed. It amuses me vastly, he said,
to hear you quoting him time after time, like a
jolly round friar. Are you laughing in your sleeve? Mc
allister answered, Stephen, would call my esthetic theory applied a quinnas.
So far as this side of esthetic philosophy extends, a

(30:26):
quinnas will carry me all along the line. When we
come to the phenomena of artistic conception, artistic gestation, and
artistic reproduction, I require a new terminology and a new
personal experience, of course, said Lynch. After all a quyinnas,
in spite of his intellect, was exactly a good round friar.
But you will tell me about the new personal experience

(30:48):
and new terminology some other day. Hurry up and finish
the first part. Who knows, said Stephen, smiling. Perhaps a
Quinnas would understand me better than you. He was a
poet himself. He wrote a hymn for Maundy Thursday. It
begins with the words pangae linguis gloriosi. They say it
is the highest glory of the hymno. It is an

(31:10):
intricate and soothing hymn. I like it, But there is
no hymn that can be put beside that mournful and
majestic processional song. The Wexilla regis of Venantius Fortunatus. Lynch
began to sing softly and solemnly in a deep bass voice.
Im plata sunt quei conquinit dauweed fidele carminee dicendo nacio

(31:36):
neibus regnaud a lignodeus. That's great, he said, Well pleased,
great music. They turned into Lower Mount Street. A few
steps from the corner, a fat young man wearing a
silk neckcloth saluted them and stopped. Did ye hear the
results of the exams, he asked. Griffin was plucked halpennen

(31:58):
O'Flynn are through the home. Sivil Moonin got fifth place
in the Indian oh Chanzy got fourteenth. The Irish fellows
in Clarks gave them a feed last night. They all ate. Curry,
his pallid, bloated face expressed benevolent malice, and as he
had advanced through his tidings of success, his small, fat
en circled eyes vanished out of sight, and his weak

(32:20):
wheezing voice out of hearing. In reply to a question
of Stephen's, his eyes and his voice came forth again
from their lurking places. Yes, maccullaugh and I, he said.
He's taking pure mathematics, and I'm taking constitutional history. There
are twenty subjects. I'm taking botany too. You know I'm
a member of the Field Club. He drew back from

(32:42):
the other two in a stately fashion and placed a plump,
woolen gloved hand on his breast, from which muttered wheezing laughter.
At once broke forth. Bring us a few turnips and
onions the next time you go out, said Stephen dryly,
to make a stew. The fat student laughed indulgent and said,
we are all highly respectable people in the field Club.

(33:04):
Last Saturday we went out to glen Mallure, seven of
us with women Donovan, said Lynch. Donovan again laid his
hand on his chest and said, our end is the
acquisition of knowledge. Then he said quickly, I hear you
are writing some essay about esthetics. Stephen made a vague
gesture of denial. Gerta and Lessing said, Donovan have written

(33:27):
a lot on that subject, the classical school and the
Romantic school and all that. The Lawocohen interested me very
much when I read it. Of course, it is idealistic, German,
ultra profound. Neither of the others spoke. Donovan took leave
of them urbanely. I must go, he said, softly and benevolently.
I have a strong suspicion amounting almost to a conviction

(33:51):
that my sister intended to make pancakes to day for
the dinner of the Donovan family. Good Bye, Stephen said
in his wake. Don't forget the turnips for me and
my mate. Lynch gazed after him, his lip curling in
slow scorn till his face resembled a devil's mask. To
think that that yellow pancake eating excrement can get a

(34:11):
good job, he said at length, And I have to
smoke cheap cigarettes. They turned their faces towards Marian Square,
and went on for a little in silence. To finish
what I was saying about beauty, said Stephen. The most
satisfying relations of the sensible must therefore correspond to the
necessary phases of artistic apprehension. Find these, and you find

(34:32):
the qualities of universal beauty. Aquinnas says odd polcratudinem tria
requiruntur integritas consonantia claritas I translated, So three things are
needed for beauty, wholeness, harmony, and radiance. Do these correspond
to the phases of apprehension? Are you following? Of course

(34:54):
I am, said Lynch. If you think I have an
excrementitious intelligence, run after Donovan and ask Keime to listen
to you. Stephen pointed to a basket which a butcher's
boy had slung inverted on his head. Look at that basket,
he said, I see it, said Lynch. In order to
see that basket, said Stephen, your mind, first of all,

(35:15):
separates the basket from the rest of the visible universe,
which is not the basket. The first phase of apprehension
is a bounding line drawn about the object to be apprehended.
An esthetic image is presented to us, either in space
or in time. What is audible is presented in time.
What is visible is presented in space, But temporal or spatial,

(35:38):
the esthetic image is first luminously apprehended as self bounded
and self contained upon the immeasurable background of space or time,
which is not it. You apprehend it as one thing.
You see it as one whole. You apprehend its wholeness,
that is integritas bull's eye, said Lynch, laughing. Go On, then,

(36:01):
said Stephen. You pass from point to point, led by
its formal lines. You apprehend it as balanced, part against part,
within its limits. You feel the rhythm of its structure.
In other words, the synthesis of immediate perception is followed
by the analysis of apprehension. Having first felt that it
is one thing, you feel now that it is a thing.

(36:23):
You apprehend it as complex, multiple, divisible, separable, made up
of its parts, the result of its parts and their
sum harmonious. That is consonantia bulsye, again, said Lynch, wittily.
Tell me now what is claritas, and you win the cigar.
The connotation of the word, Stephen said, is rather vague.

(36:45):
Aquinnas uses a term which seems to be inexact. It
baffled me for a long time. It would lead you
to believe that he had in mind symbolism or idealism,
the supreme quality of beauty being a light from some
other world, the the idea of which the matter is
but the shadow, the reality of which it is but
the symbol. I thought he might mean that claritas is

(37:08):
the artistic discovery and representation of the divine purpose in anything,
or a force of generalization which would make the esthetic
image a universal one, make it outshine its proper conditions.
But that is literary talk, I understand it. So when
you have apprehended that basket as one thing, and have
then analyzed it according to its form, and apprehended it

(37:30):
as a thing, you make the only synthesis which is
logically and esthetically permissible. You see that it is that
thing which it is, and no other thing. The radiance
of which he speaks is the scholastic quiditas, the whatness
of a thing. This supreme quality is felt by the
artist when the esthetic image is first conceived in his

(37:51):
imagination the mind. In that mysterious instant, Shelley likened beautifully
to a fading coal the instant, wherein that supreme cour
quality of beauty, the clear radiance of the esthetic image
is apprehended luminously by the mind, which has been arrested
by its wholeness and fascinated by its harmony, is the luminous,
silent stasis of esthetic pleasure, a spiritual state very like

(38:15):
to that cardiac condition which the Italian physiologist Luigi Galvani,
using a phrase almost as beautiful as Shelley's, called the
enchantment of the heart. Stephen paused, and, though his companion
did not speak, felt that his words had called up
around them a thought enchanted silence. What I have said,

(38:35):
he began again, refers to beauty in the wider sense
of the word, in the sense which the word has
in the literary tradition. In the market place, it has
another sense when we speak of beauty in the second
sense of the term. Our judgment is influenced in the
first place by the art itself and by the form
of that art. The image, it is clear, must be

(38:55):
set between the mind or senses of the artist himself
and the mind or sense of others. If you bear
this in memory, you will see that art necessarily divides
itself into three forms, progressing from one to the next.
These forms are the lyrical form, the form wherein the
artist presents his image in immediate relation to himself. The

(39:16):
epical form, the form wherein he presents his image immediate
relation to himself and to others. The dramatic form, the
form wherein he presents his image in immediate relation to others.
That you told me a few nights ago, said Lynch,
and we began the famous discussion. I have a book
at home, said Stephen, in which I have written down

(39:38):
questions which are more amusing than yours were. In finding
the answers to them, I found the theory of esthetic,
which I am trying to explain. Here are some questions
I set myself. Is a chair finally made tragic or comic?
Is the portrait of Mona Lisa Good if I desire
to see it? Is the bust of Sir Philip Crampton? Lyrical,

(39:59):
epical or dramatic? Can excrement or a child or a
louse be a work of art? If not? Why not?
Why not? Indeed, said Lynch, laughing, If a man hacking
in fury at a block of wood, Stephen continued, make
there an image of a cow. Is that image a
work of art? If not, why not, that's a lovely one,

(40:21):
said Lynch, laughing again. That has the true scholastic stink lessing,
said Stephen. Should not have taken a group of statues
to write of, the art being inferior. Does not present
the forms I spoke of distinguished clearly one from another.
Even in literature, the highest and most spiritual art, the
forms are often confused. The lyrical form is in fact

(40:44):
the simplest verbal vesture of an instant of emotion. A
rhythmical cry, such as ages ago cheered on the man
who pulled at the oar or dragged stones up a slope.
He who utters it is more conscious of the instant
of emotion than of himself as feeling emotion. The simplest
epical form is seen emerging out of lyrical literature when

(41:05):
the artist prolongs and broods upon himself as the center
of an epical event. And this form progresses till the
center of emotional gravity is equidistant from the artist himself
and from others. The narrative is no longer purely personal.
The personality of the artist passes into the narration itself,
flowing round and round the persons and the action like

(41:28):
a vital sea. This progress you will see easily in
that old English ballad Urpinhiro, which begins in the first
person and ends in the third person. The dramatic form
is reached when the vitality, which has flowed and eddied
round each person, fills every person with such vital force
that he or she assumes a proper and intangible esthetic life.

(41:51):
The personality of the artist, at first a cry or
a cadence or a mood, and then a fluid and
lambent narrative, finely refines itself out of existence, impersonalizes itself,
so to speak. The esthetic image in the dramatic form
is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination.

(42:13):
The mystery of esthetic, like that of material creation, is accomplished.
The artist, like the god of the creation, remains within
or behind, or beyond or above his handiwork invisible, refined,
out of existence, indifferent, paring his finger nails, trying to
refine them also out of existence, said Lynch. A fine

(42:36):
rain began to fall from the high veiled sky, and
they turned into the Duke's lawn to reach the National
library before the shower came. What do you mean, Lynch
asked surlily, By praying about beauty and the imagination in
this miserable, god forsaken island, no wonder the artist retired
within or behind his handiwork, after having perpetrated this country.

(42:59):
The rain faster. When they passed through the passage beside
the Royal Irish Academy, they found many students sheltering under
the arcade of the library. Cranleigh, leaning against a pillar,
was picking his teeth with a sharpened match, listening to
some companions. Some girls stood near the entrance door. Lynch
whispered to Stephen, your beloved is here. Stephen took his

(43:24):
place silently on the step below the group of students,
heedless of the rain which fell fast, turning his eyes
towards her from time to time, She too, stood silently
among her companions. She has no priest to flirt with,
he thought, with conscious bitterness, remembering how he had seen
her last. Lynch was right. His mind, emptied of theory

(43:46):
and courage, lapsed back into a listless peace. He heard
the students talking among themselves. They spoke of two friends
who had passed the final medical examination of the chances
of getting places on ocean liners of poor and rich practices.
That's all a bubble. An Irish country practice is better.

(44:06):
Hines was two years in Liverpool and he says the same,
A frightful wholly said it was nothing but mid whiffery
cases half a crown cases. Do you mean to say
it is better to have a job here in the
country than in a rich city like that? I know
a Fellahines has no brains. He got through by stewing,
pure stewing. Don't mind him. There's plenty of money to

(44:27):
be made in a big commercial city. Depends on the practice.
Ego credo ututa pauperum est simplicitaire atrox simplicitaire sanguinariusatroks in Liverpoolio.
Their voices reached his ears, as if from a distance
in interrupted pulsation. She was preparing to go away with
her companions. The quick light shower had drawn off, tarrying

(44:51):
in clusters of diamonds among the shrubs of the quadrangle,
where an exhalation was breathed forth by the blackened earth.
Their trim boots sprattled as they stood on the steps
of the colonnade, talking quietly and gaily, glancing at the clouds,
holding their umbrellas at cunning angles against the few last raindrops,
closing them again, holding their skirts demurely. And if he

(45:15):
had judged her harshly, if her life were a simple
rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a
bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired
at sundown. Her heart's simple and wilful as a bird's heart.

(45:36):
End of Chapter five, Part two,