APortraitoftheArtistasaYoungMan - (EPUB全文下载)

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
 
by
James
Joyce
Chapter 1
Once upon a time and a
very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this
moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens
little boy named baby tuckoo...
His father told him
that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face.
He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne
lived: she sold lemon platt.
O, the wild
rose blossoms
On the little green place.
He sang that song. That
was his song.
O, the green
wothe botheth.
When you wet the bed
first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on the oilsheet.
That had the queer smell.
His mother had a nicer
smell than his father. She played on the piano the sailor's hornpipe for him to
dance. He danced:
Tralala lala,Tralala tralaladdy,Tralala lala,Tralala lala.
Uncle Charles and Dante
clapped. They were older than his father and mother but uncle Charles was older
than Dante.
Dante had two brushes
in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back was for
Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her a piece of tissue
paper.
The Vances
lived in number seven. They had a different father and mother. They were
Eileen's father and mother. When they were grown up he was going to marry
Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said:
—O, Stephen will
apologize.
Dante said:
—O, if not, the eagles
will come and pull out his eyes.—
Pull out his
eyes,
Apologize,
Apologize,
Pull out his eyes.
Apologize,
Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes,
Apologize.
 
 
The wide playgrounds
were swarming with boys. All were shouting and the prefects urged them on with
strong cries. The evening air was pale and chilly and after every charge and thud
of the footballers the greasy leather orb flew like a heavy bird through the
grey light. He kept on the fringe of his line, out of sight of his prefect, out
of the reach of the rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body
small and weak amid the throng of the players and his eyes were weak and
watery. Rody Kickham was
not like that: he would be captain of the third line all the fellows said.
Rody Kickham was a decent fellow but
Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody Kickham
had greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big
hands. He called the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket. And one day he had
asked:
—What is your name?
Steph ............

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