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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 183/241
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--
We
are
right
,
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
colour
which
are
the
prison
gates
of
our
soul
,
an
image
of
the
beauty
we
have
come
to
understand
--
that
is
art
.
They
had
reached
the
canal
bridge
and
,
turning
from
their
course
,
went
on
by
the
trees
.
A
crude
grey
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
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
?
Cranly
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
.
You
remember
the
pigs
and
forget
that
.
You
are
a
distressing
pair
,
you
and
Cranly
.
Lynch
made
a
grimace
at
the
raw
grey
sky
and
said
:
--
If
I
am
to
listen
to
your
esthetic
philosophy
give
me
at
least
another
cigarette
.
I
do
n't
care
about
it
.
I
do
n't
even
care
about
women
.
Damn
you
and
damn
everything
.
I
want
a
job
of
five
hundred
a
year
.
You
ca
n't
get
me
one
.
Stephen
handed
him
the
packet
of
cigarettes
.
Lynch
took
the
last
one
that
remained
,
saying
simply
:
--
Proceed
!
