At the beginning of the last century, Joyce, like several other Modernist writers, underwent the influence of Nietzsche, ‘the strong enchanter’ as Yeats called him, who was then a fresh and intoxicating voice. In 1903-4, ‘he expounded to his friends a neo-paganism that glorified selfishness, licentiousness, and pitilessness, and denounced gratitude and other “domestic virtues”’ (Ellmann, 142). This Nietzschean pose was tinged with self-mockery, shown in the jocose signature ‘James Overman’ to a postcard asking for a loan (ib., 162). In Ulysses, it is Mulligan (Oliver Gogarty) who is flamboyantly and self-mockingly Nietzschean (1:708-9). In ‘Oxen of the Sun’ the style of Thus Spake Zarathustra is parodied as it deserves (14:362-3; 1431-2, 1467).
One text of Nietzsche well known in literary circles is The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music (1872). Its opposition of the Apollonian and Dionysian principles, associated with the arts of sculpture and music respectively (Nietzsche 1969: 21, 38), was a cliché in aesthetic discussion, notably in Mann’s Death in Venice (1913), a Künstlerroman that influenced Joyce in the last stages of composition of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916). Other sources for Joyce’s lore about Dionysus probably included the work of Nietzsche’s friend Erwin Rohde (1845-1898), whose Psyche (1894; translated into English only in 1925) associated the cult of Dionysus with the birth of Greek notions of the soul and its immortality, a viewpoint rejected by scholars since W. F. Otto (1923). Given the elaborate soul-motifs in A Portrait, it is unlikely that Joyce neglected this famous book and its chapter on Dionysus. Jane E. Harrison (1850-1928) is another likely source; Dionysus figures prominently in her Prolegomena (1903) and Themis (1912); see Carpentier.
Joyce and Mann used myth not only to give their narratives depth, but with the ambition of forging a ‘new mythology’ such as the German Romantics envisaged, for the benefit of the individual and the race. Stephen Dedalus confers mythic status on the artist, called to a sacred task of transforming the universe. He would agree with Novalis that ‘poetry is the authentic absolute real’ (Frank, 194), and would seek with Nietzsche (40) ‘the aesthetic justification of life.’ The explicit reference to Daedalus and the labyrinth has provided a structural key to the novel, but the equally important key provided by the implicit allusions to Dionysus has not been noticed.
All the characteristics of the cult of Dionysus occur: dithyrambic verse, abandoned dance, primitive and exciting music, glossolalia, intoxication, carnivalesque misrule, confusion of gender identity, orgies, sexual transgression and perversion, dreams and hallucinations, trance and mystical darkness. These are not merely atmospheric but constitute a phenomenology of the role of the Dionysian in life and art. The Dionysian is championed as the fertile breeding ground of freedom and creativity; but it needs the restraint and balance of the Apollonian to redeem it, to channel its powers for art. The pendular or tidal alternation of the two forces builds the macrostructure of the novel. As Joyce would have learned from Harrison, the two gods are intimately connected (see Otto 202-8); the cult of Dionysus found an honoured place at Apollo’s Delphi; Dionysus is portrayed sitting on the omphalos itself, which he has brought from Delphi to Eleusis, and which is identified as his tomb (Harrison 1962: 556-7).
Note that the Daedalus story has connections with Dionysus. Theseus slew the Minotaur with Ariadne’s help, then abandoned her on the isle of Naxos, where Dionysus, an obvious double of Theseus according to Harrison (1963: 322), made her his own. Kerényi talks of ‘the Cretan core of the Dionysos myth’ (52-125), and Joyce would have found similar information in Harrison (1962: 482; 1963: 50-2), who also tells that ‘the Sun-God of Crete in Bull-form wooed the moon-goddess, herself a cow; their child is the young bull-god, the Minos-Bull, the Minotaur’ (1963:449).
A Portrait effects a neo-pagan transcription of Christianity into Dionysian terms, in a Nietzschean ‘transvaluation of values.’ The association of Christ with Dionysus is suggested by some motifs in the Fourth Gospel; the wine-miracle at Cana (Jn 2: 1-11) may proclaim the superiority of Christ to Dionysus, revered in Sepphoris a short distance away (see Eisele). The German Romantics made much of Dionysus, who is even identified with Christ in Hölderlin’s ‘Bread and Wine.’ Some went so far as to compare the annunciation to Mary and Zeus’s visitation of Semele in the form of a thunderbolt, incinerating her and causing the premature birth of Dionysus (Frank, 15). Such traditions lie behind the way in which A Portrait uses the Annunciation (‘In the virgin womb of the imagination the word was made flesh,’ 236) and the Eucharist (‘a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life,’ 240) as metaphors for the miracle of art. But the play of irony cannot be underestimated in this novel; to some extent Joyce is ‘sending up’ the Apollonian and Dionysian aesthetic poses of his protagonist as well as his neo-pagan enthusiasms. The interplay of the two principles help Joyce to order his material, but he perhaps takes the Nietzschean pattern no more seriously than the Viconian one that orders Finnegans Wake.
The Apollonian Boy (Chapter One)
The boy Stephen`s imagination is structured in Apollonian clarity and symmetry, though troubled by strange words and sexual hints at its margins, foreshadowing his Dionysian puberty. The otherness and diversity of the boys at Clongowes are his first exposure to the foreign. Dionysus was always perceived as an alien, his origins being variously ascribed to Thrace, Phrygia, Syria. As Marcel Détienne observes: ‘The god who comes is a foreigner and remains so, carrying within him the most unwavering strangeness’ (Encyclopedia of Religion, 2nd ed., IV, 2358).
One Dionysian image that may be noted is that of ivy. The celebrant of Dionysian rites carried an ivy-wreathed thyrsus (a staff of giant fennel). A dream of Stephen’s becomes something of a Dionysian riot: ‘There were holly and ivy round the pierglass and holly and ivy, green and red, twined round the chandeliers’ (18). Nietzsche, perhaps over-schematically, correlates dream, in which the sculptor sees superhuman forms, with Apollo, and intoxication with Dionysus. Joyce portrays the young artist swaying from one to the other. Note that the beauty of a word tends to usurp the place of an Apollonian image, while intoxication with words or a sense of their strangeness is the first Dionysian trait in Joyce’s imagination. The ‘ivytwined branches of the chandeliers’ duly appear at the Christmas dinner scene (26).
The other Dionysian plant is the vine. Stephen is awed when the boys whisper about the stolen altar wine; the sacrilegious crime acquires an erotic overtone: ‘But to drink the wine out of the press and to be found out by the smell was a sin too’ (47). ‘The word was beautiful: wine. It made you think of dark purple because the grapes were dark purple that grew in Greece outside houses like white’ (47). Here again Apollonian daydreaming takes on a Dionysian hue.
The chapter ends with a moment of Apollonian attainment, but one senses its fragility and transience in ‘the sound of the cricket bats: pick, pack, pock, puck: like drops of water in a fountain falling softly in the brimming bowl’ (61). The serenely triumphant schoolboy is destined to vanish, replaced by a troubled adolescent.
Dionysian Revels (Chapter Two)
For Stephen the ‘dark avenger’ in The Count of Monte Cristo is the epitome of ‘the strange and terrible’ (64-5) – Dionysian attributes. The earlier reverie about wine and Greece ripens into a warmer Mediterranean romance; he is Dantes spurning Mercedes: ‘Madam, I never eat muscatel grapes’ (65). Gradually, this fantasy becomes more Dionysian: ‘a strange unrest crept into his blood’ (67), and he anticipates an initiation: ‘Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment’ (67). The threatening gender confusion in the Whitsuntide play scene is another Dionysian element: ‘Is this a beautiful young lady or a doll that you have here, Mrs Tallon?’ (78), the castratory surname recalling ‘the eagles will come and pull out his eyes’ (4). Pentheus, in the Bacchae, Euripides’ dramatization of the power of Dionysus, is clothed as a woman and is torn asunder by women, led by his crazed mother, Semele’s sister. (Joseph Valente’s brilliant analysis of homosexual panic in A Portrait uncovers a rich layer of Joyce’s Dionysan imagination.)
Dionysian madness is in the air as well: ‘Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his mind… They streamed upwards before his anguished eyes in dense and maddening fumes’ (91). The verbal repetitions in such passages, like the simpler ones in the preceding chapter, suggest an exercise of style, the ongoing presence of the Apollonian principle; both gods are watching over the formation of the artist’s mind. Of the fantasies that plague him he wonders ‘where they came from, from what den of monstrous images’ (96). The force behind them, the disruption of Dionysus, will finally be accepted and thus partly tamed.
Stephen struggles ‘to build a breakwater of order and elegance against the sordid tide of life without him and to dam up … the powerful recurrence of the tides within him’ (104). Nietzsche (34) also uses the image of damming in connection with the Apollonian. The breakdown of this order, seemingly catastrophic at the time, saves Stephen from sterility. Again and again, when Stephen’s soul has attained Apollonian harmony, the mould is shattered by Dionysian intrusions that bring his soul alive in a new way. His mind feeds on Dionysian ‘secret riots … dark orgiastic riot’ (105). He tries to recover the innocent Mercedes romance: ‘The verses passed from his lips and the inarticulate cries and the unspoken brutal words rushed forth from his brain to force a passage’ (106). The Apollonian verses are overborne by the cries and the still unspoken brutal utterances of Dionysus.
Stephen is moving toward an epiphany of Dionysus: ‘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 ’ (106). Recalling the young Joyce’s cult of ‘epiphanies,’ it is not unlikely that he knew of Dionysus as the Greek god most associated with such manifestations. Like Pentheus, Stephen is mastered, unmanned, by the god, and is forced to speak the language the god dictates: ‘His hands clutched convulsively and his teeth set together as he suffered the agony of its penetration… and the cry that he had strangled for so long in his throat issued from his lips’ (106).
All this builds up to the initiation that follows, as he wanders into ‘a maze of narrow and dirty streets’ (106), perhaps straying ‘into the quarter of the jews’ (107) – the first specifically Oriental foreignness in the book. The scene suggests ancient rites such as those of Eleusis, often associated with a labyrinthine journey to the underworld. The centre of this cult was a symbolic vision of the birth of Dionysus (Harrison 1962: 540-51). ‘Women and girls dressed in long vivid gowns traversed the street from house to house … Before the doors and in the lighted halls groups were gathered arrayed as for some rite. He was in another world: he had awakened from a slumber of centuries’ (107). These ‘centuries’ are those of the Christian era; Stephen is making contact with ancient paganism. The scene recalls the orgia of Dionysus, which became the Roman Bacchanalia, in which at first only women could participate; Livy (Bk. 39.8-19) gives a vivid account of them on the eve of the repression by the Roman Senate in 186 BCE. Harrison has illustrations of the long gowns of the Maenads and mentions their torches. ‘He stood still in the middle of the roadway, his heart clamouring against his bosom in a tumult’ (107). ‘Tumult’ is a Dionysian word, suggesting the cries of the worshippers.
Mystery rituals are occasions of rebirth, and Stephen here attains a new confidence in himself: ‘In her arms he felt that he had suddenly become strong and fearless and sure of himself’ (107). The kiss is a moment of communion: ‘He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind’ (108). Etymologically, ‘mystery’ comes from muein, to close one’s eyes. Stephen’s surrender of body and mind is that of the true devotee.
Dionysius Abased (Chapter Three)
The novel is structured as a labyrinth, and at its centre Stephen encounters ‘if not a Cretan Minotaur, at least “a bovine god”’ (Fortuna, 41; qtd in Calderwood, 5). Disturbed by the first retreat sermons, he sees his sexual life in Dionysian terms: ‘His monstrous dreams, peopled by apelike creatures’ (124). The last sermons fill him with terror. Crossing the threshold of his bedroom becomes a step in a fearful mystery ritual: ‘He waited still at the threshold as at the entrance to some dark cave’ (147). In bed he broods on his sins: ‘He desired with all his will not to hear or see. He desired till the frame shook under the strain of his desire and until the senses of his soul closed. They closed for an instant and then opened. He saw’ (148). Terror is developing the ‘spiritual senses’ celebrated by mystical writers in the wake of Origen.
The vision described in the next two paragraphs seems to be modeled on two episodes in Death in Venice. Egri notes a general influence of Mann on the many dreamlike episodes in A Portrait, but does not identify a direct influence of Mann’s novella on its composition. The final section of Chapter Three, after the Act of Contrition and the three asterisks (146) is ‘a very late piece of writing’ (Gabler 1998:88), belonging to the last stage of composition in 1914-5. Living quite near Venice, in Trieste, Joyce cannot have missed Mann’s story, which enjoyed immediate fame.
Aschenbach’s yearning for travel, at the beginning of the novella, conjures up a hallucinatory Oriental landscape: ‘His desire became seeing. He saw, saw a landscape , a tropical marshy region under a densely vaporous (dickdunstigem) sky,’ with phallic ‘hairy palm-trunks,’ and at the climax the gleam of the tiger’s eye; he ‘felt his heart beat with horror and an enigmatic longing’ (Mann, I, 340). Compare the sentence introducing Stephen’s hallucination: ‘He saw’ (148).
Aschenbach’s more elaborate dream in the last chapter, modelled on a passage in Rohde, is again hallucinatory, ‘a bodily-mental experience that befell him indeed in deep sleep and complete independence and sensible presence’ (Mann, I, 392); Mann probably meant to write ‘from sensible presence.’ The noise of howling and the flute announces ‘the alien god,’ and a lurching dance begins, involving humans and animals, flames, tumult (Mann uses the German word Tumult). Moaning women in long fur garments shake tambourines, brandishing torches and daggers and holding hissing snakes. The snake was an emblem of the Dionysian cult, or an incarnation of Dionysus (Harrison 1962:431); it occurs in Stephen’s meditation after his vision: ‘Does that part of the body understand or what? The serpent, the most subtle beast of the field … His soul sickened at the thought of a torpid snaky life feeding itself out of the tender marrow of his life’ (151). ‘Men with horns above their brows … let brazen cymbals sound and beat wildly on drums, while hairless boys were goading bucks with leafy staffs’ (Mann, 393). Joyce has: ‘Goatish creatures with human faces, hornybrowed’ (148), ‘a hell of lecherous goatish fiends’ (149), based on the Dionysian satyrs, who are goat-men (though Harrison tried unsuccessfully to link them to horses, 1962:387).
‘Vapours (Dünste) pressed the sense, the acrid smell of the bucks, the odour of panting bodies and a stench as of putrid waters’ (Mann, 393). In Joyce, ‘the reeking odour pouring down his throat, clogging and revolting his entrails’ causes Stephen to vomit profusely (149). Aschenbach is not repelled; rather, ‘his soul desired to join the god’s dance. The obscene symbol, gigantic, of wood, was uncovered and lifted up… With frothing lips they were clamoring, inciting each other with lewd gestures…They were himself, as they threw themselves on the beasts, biting and slaying, and swallowed steaming shreds of flesh, and as on the rumpled mossy ground a boundless mixing of bodies began, as a sacrifice to the God. And his soul tasted licentiousness and the frenzy of downfall’ (Mann, 394). The association of the Dionysian rites with the growth, or in this case the degeneration of the soul, comes from Rohde and is found in Joyce too. The clamourous pandemonium is reduced to ‘rattling canisters’ in Joyce, and the feeding on raw flesh (omophagia) is another aspect of Dionysian terror that he does not take up.
As terror subsides, a beautiful paragraph from Newman engineers a swing into Apollonian calm. The chapter ends with a perfect Apollonian moment, like the end of Chapter One: ‘The ciborium had come to him’ (158), contrasting with the Dionysian communion of the kiss that closed the preceding chapter. The systole and diastole movement pervading the entire novel suggests that the next chapter will bring a swing back toward Dionysus.
Dionysus Resurgent (Chapter Four)
When Stephen’s castle of ascetic piety breaks down, and he rejects the invitation to become a Jesuit, he opens himself anew to Dionysian stirrings: ‘He smiled to think that it was this disorder, the misrule and confusion of his father’s house and the stagnation of vegetable life, which was to win the day in his soul’ (176). Simon Dedalus is a lord of misrule, Dionysian in his gregarious inebriation.
Dionysian music springs up in the liberated Stephen’s mind as he strides toward ‘the Bull’ (178) – the Clontarf seawall on the naturalistic level, a form of Dionysus on the symbolic, an even more potent incarnation than snake or goat (see Harrison 1962: 431-6). The music grows wilder, ‘like triplebranching flames leaping fitfully’ (179); note the echo of the Christmas dinner scene with its flaming fire and ‘ivytwined branches’ (25). The auditory illusion takes an animal turn: ‘he seemed to hear from under the boughs and grasses wild creatures racing’ (179). This Dionysian music moves to a surprising Apollonian resolution: ‘Their feet passed in pattering tumult over his mind… the feet of harts and hinds and antelopes, until he heard them no more and remembered only a proud cadence from Newman: Whose feet are as the feet of harts and underneath the everlasting arms’ (179). Newman again functions as a distinctively Apollonian voice.
The voices calling ‘Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Stephaneforos’ (182) suggest a Dionysian metamorphosis or apotheosis of the protagonist. The words means ‘Crowned bull! Garland-bearing bull!’ There is a suggestion of Dionysian revels, recomposed in the fastidious prose of an aesthete, as he observes his fellow-students’ ‘medley of white nakedness,’ while Ennis’s ‘scarlet belt with the snaky clasp’ (182) is a Dionysian accoutrement. The repeated cries of ‘Stephaneforos’ accompany a Dionysian birth or resurrection: ‘His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her graveclothes’ (184). After the epiphany of the birdlike girl, a chthonic note is struck: ‘the earth that had borne him, had taken him to her breast’ (187) – one thinks of Demeter, the goddess of Eleusis – and the moon goddess, consort of the Bull, appears: ‘A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of sky’ (187).
The Apollonian Artist (Chapter Five)
Echoes of childhood occur in Stephen’s mental ditty: ‘The ivy whines upon the wall/And whines and twines upon the wall’ (193), in which we hear the sound ‘wine’ and are reminded of the way ivy and vine grow together. Here is a pervasion of the text by Dionysian elements at the subliminal level of sound and wordplay.
At the physics lecture there is another Dionysian revel, neither mystery (ch. 2), nor nightmare (ch. 3), nor enthusiastic exaltation (ch. 4), but carnivalesque comedy, as the ‘limp priestly vestments’ in Stephen’s mind begin ‘to sway and caper in a sabbath of misrule’ (208). His professors are fantasized cavorting in a Dionysian dance, and one is compared to ‘a giraffe cropping high leafage among a herd of antelopes,’ an echo of the Dionysian music of Chapter Four. The swishing fiends of Chapter Three are replaced by the jolly dance of the professors ‘tumbling and capering, kilting their gowns for leap frog… smacking one another behind and laughing at their rude malice’ (208); contrast, ‘the malice of evil glittered in their hard eyes’ (149), or Mann (394): ‘With frothing lips they were clamoring, inciting each other with lewd gestures and seducing hands.’
Stephen discourses on Apollonian sculpture, in which ‘the mind is arrested and raised above desire and loathing’ (222). The absurdity of this is shown when he denounces ‘unesthetic emotions not only because they are kinetic in character but also because they are not more than physical’ (223). Lynch, a satyr, provides corrective counterpoint. Stephen traces a development from lyrical poetry – which Nietzsche (36) sees as Dionysian and contrasts with Apollonian epic – to the objectivity of dramatic form: ‘The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid and lambent narrative, finally refines itself out of existence’ (233). This triumph of the Apollonian is not the last word of Joyce’s own esthetic vision, either in theory or in practice. Rather he keeps the opposing forces thrusting against one another, following Nietzsche’s formula: ‘The forward development of art is tied to the duality of the Apollonian and the Dionysian, just as procreation depends on the duality of the sexes, in continual battles and only periodically intervening reconciliation’ (Nietzsche, 21).
The Villanelle episode vamps up the atmosphere of mystic ritual, which oscillates between Apollonian dreams of beauty and Dionysian impulses such as the ‘rude brutal anger’ that ‘broke up violently her fair image’ (239). His relationship to Emma has become another mould to break, as is indicated by the verbatim repetition of the passage that marked her first appearance ten years earlier (72), followed by the exclamation, ‘Let be! Let be!’ (241).
Dionysian touches in the final diary include ‘a troubled night of dreams,’ one with ‘pillars of dark vapours,’ another in which ‘strange figures advance from a cave’ (272). The old man with ‘red-rimmed horny eyes’ whom Stephen associates with the theophany to Jacob in Genesis 32:24-30: ‘It is with him I must struggle all through this night’ (274), is identified by Gifford (287) as a Yeatsian peasant, ‘a violently prejudiced bludgeon-man,’ but this does not explain the numinous fear he inspires. Think instead of the uncanny red-haired foreigners in Death in Venice, epiphanies of ‘the alien God.’ Joyce has his own gallery of grotesques: ‘the mad nun’ (189), ‘the consumptive man with the doll’s face and the brimless hat… holding his furled umbrella a span or two from him like a diviningrod’ (191 – evoking Hermes, bearer of a rod with two snakes and protector of the infant Dionysus?), and the dwarfish captain, allegedly the offspring of incest (247-8). Dionysus was the god of masks, and his presence may be detected in the mask-like faces that impinge on Stephen’s imagination, e.g. Cranly as ‘a stern severed head of deathmask’ (270); compare: ‘A skull appeared suspended in the gloom of the doorway’ (71).
This diary has a terrific reality-effect, as a sort of objet trouvé, capturing the grimy quirks and bold spontaneity of youth, with suddenly a breath-taking prose-poem, which owes something to the Apollonian Newman in the way it logically develops the themes of ‘arms’ and ‘voices’: ‘The spell of arms and voices: the white arms of roads… They are held out to say: We are alone. Come. And the voices say with them: We are your kinsmen’ (275). These arms and voices have the Dionysian allure of what is foreign and threatening, ‘shaking the wings of their exultant and terrible youth’ (275). The sustaining power behind the young man’s rebellion is explicitly the ‘old artificer’ Daedalus (276), but the powers on which he draws are also recognizably those of the god Dionysus.
Calderwood, James L. (1997) ‘Joyce’s Portrait: Centered Mazes and Decentered Universe,’ Joyce Studies Annual 8:4-38.
Carpentier, Martha C. (1998). Ritual, Myth, and the Modernist Text: The Influence of Jane Ellen Harrison on Joyce, Eliot, and Woolf, Gordon and Breach Publishers.
Egri, Peter (1967-68) ‘The Function of Dreams and Vision In A Portrait and Death in Venice,’ James Joyce Quarterly 5:86-102.
Eisele, Wilfried (2009) ‘Jesus und Dionysos,’ Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 10:1-28.
Ellmann, Richard (1983) James Joyce, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983.
Fortuna, Diane (1972)‘The Labyrinth as Controlling Image in Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,’ Bulletin of the New York Public Library 76:120-80.
Frank, Manfred (1982) Der kommende Gott, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp.
Gabler, Hans Walter (1998) ‘The Genesis of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,’ in Philip Brady and James F. Carens (eds) Critical Essays on James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, New York: G. K. Hall, 83-112.
Gifford, Don (1982) Joyce Annotated, 2nd ed, Berkeley: University of California Press.
Harrison, Jane E. (1963) Prologomena to the Study of Greek Religion, New York: Dover.
—(1963) Themis, New York: Dover.
Joyce, James (1992) A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, ed. Seamus Deane, London: Penguin.
Kerényi, Carl (1996) Dionysos, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Mann, Thomas (1975) Die Erzählungen, Frankfurt: Fischer.
Nietzsche, Friedrich (1969) Werke I, ed. Karl Schlechta, Frankfurt: Ullstein.
Nilsson, Martin P. (1975) The Dionysiac Mysteries of the Hellenistic and Roman Age, New York: Arno Press.
O’Faolain, Sean (1947) The Irish, West Drayton: Penguin.
Otto, Walter F. (1965) Dionysus, Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
Valente, Joseph (2003) ‘Thrilled by His Touch: The Aesthetizing of Homosexual Panic in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,’ in Mark A. Wollaeger (ed.) James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: A Casebook, Oxford University Press, 245-80.
FROM: JOURNAL OF IRISH STUDIES 24 (2009): 66-74.