A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Portrait of the Artist was good; good at putting me to sleep! Actually that's only partially true. The beginning, when Daedalus was a child just wasn't particularly compelling to me to me. My long-time suspicion that I'm not a fan of coming-of-age books (Bildungsroman's according to Wikipedia) was confirmed as I read in detail of incidents on the playground and discussions between 10 year old's. I slept through my bus stop during one such discussion. I ended up having to take another bus (the 44) and got home 30 minutes late, but I digress.

As Stephen grew older, the book became more interesting. Quite a bit of the plot is centered around his feelings (and actions) in regard to truth, religion and women. The writing, as I fully expected from an author as celebrated as Joyce, is great. There are some interesting philosophical dialogs on art and beauty. Stephen's internal dialogs also often sounded familiar. Thoughts on guilt. On change. On family, etc.

Really though, it's just not my kind of book. It's too internal, too dreary and depressing. I occasionally I enjoy that in a book, but this time I don't feel like I am coming away with any major insights into human nature. I'm glad I read it, but mostly just because now I know.