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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 253 pages of information about A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

He turned to appease the fierce longings of his heart before which everything else was idle and alien.  He cared little that he was in mortal sin, that his life had grown to be a tissue of subterfuge and falsehood.  Beside the savage desire within him to realize the enormities which he brooded on nothing was sacred.  He bore cynically with the shameful details of his secret riots in which he exulted to defile with patience whatever image had attracted his eyes.  By day and by night he moved among distorted images of the outer world.  A figure that had seemed to him by day demure and innocent came towards him by night through the winding darkness of sleep, her face transfigured by a lecherous cunning, her eyes bright with brutish joy.  Only the morning pained him with its dim memory of dark orgiastic riot, its keen and humiliating sense of transgression.

He returned to his wanderings.  The veiled autumnal evenings led him from street to street as they had led him years before along the quiet avenues of Blackrock.  But no vision of trim front gardens or of kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence upon him now.  Only at times, in the pauses of his desire, when the luxury that was wasting him gave room to a softer languor, the image of Mercedes traversed the background of his memory.  He saw again the small white house and the garden of rose-bushes on the road that led to the mountains and he remembered the sadly proud gesture of refusal which he was to make there, standing with her in the moonlit garden after years of estrangement and adventure.  At those moments the soft speeches of Claude Melnotte rose to his lips and eased his unrest.  A tender premonition touched him of the tryst he had then looked forward to and, in spite of the horrible reality which lay between his hope of then and now, of the holy encounter he had then imagined at which weakness and timidity and inexperience were to fall from him.

Such moments passed and the wasting fires of lust sprang up again.  The verses passed from his lips and the inarticulate cries and the unspoken brutal words rushed forth from his brain to force a passage.  His blood was in revolt.  He wandered up and down the dark slimy streets peering into the gloom of lanes and doorways, listening eagerly for any sound.  He moaned to himself like some baffled prowling beast.  He wanted to sin with another of his kind, to force another being to sin with him and to exult with her in sin.  He felt some dark presence moving irresistibly upon him from the darkness, a presence subtle and murmurous as a flood filling him wholly with itself.  Its murmur besieged his ears like the murmur of some multitude in sleep; its subtle streams penetrated his being.  His hands clenched convulsively and his teeth set together as he suffered the agony of its penetration.  He stretched out his arms in the street to hold fast the frail swooning form that eluded him and incited him:  and the cry that he had strangled for so long in his throat issued from his lips.  It broke from him like a wail of despair from a hell of sufferers and died in a wail of furious entreaty, a cry for an iniquitous abandonment, a cry which was but the echo of an obscene scrawl which he had read on the oozing wall of a urinal.

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