In any other hands, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man would have been an embarrassment. After all, it's a bildungsroman—strike one—that ends when the protagonist is still a twentysomething, smug, conceited, individualist, self-consciously-Great artistic type: the kind of person who still has a lot of growing up to do. Strikes two through six, depending on how you count.

The problem with that argument is that this is James fucking Joyce we're talking about. He's not merely writing *about* being or becoming a great artist—he *is* a great artist. I mean that in two senses. Firstly, the novel itself is very, very, very good: easily in the 99th percentile of English novels on technical considerations alone. Secondly, Joyce only gets better from here, so we really have to contextualize Portrait within the trajectory of Joyce's career. The relative immaturity of Portrait's content is a necessary step in that direction, just like your dumb teenage ass brought you to wherever the fuck you are now—so enjoy its many felicities with a clear conscience. Now you may not *like* the kind of person Joyce was, in general, but as long as such people exist (and they don't appear to be going away anytime soon), it's far better, for us, for them to be that kind of person, rather than one of the many, many alternatives. ( )

One of my all-time favorites. ( )

My audible version was marvelously read by Colin Farrell. I am sure I'd have never made it through this reading myself. I enjoyed the first third or so, but the lengthy spell of heavy Catholicism alternately reminded me why I left the church and put me to sleep. Still, between this and The Dead, I have concluded I like Joyce and his wild longwinded style. ( )

One of the most approachable novels of Joyce. ( )

Too Catholic.