Oops. I don't have to be finished with James Joyce's Portrait until Wednesday the 19th. The date got changed, but I failed to mark the change on my calendar.
The book has brought back memories of a Catholic boyhood. It goes into excruciating detail of the hellfire and damnation side of old fashioned Catholic spiritual meditation.
I'm up to the point where our hero is admitting to himself that he is not cut out to be a man of the cloth, that his piety is fragile, and that his quest for celibacy is doomed to failure.
I agree with Joyce on this at least:
It's good that he didn't become a priest.
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