But no sort of smell offends him like that. He tells at several points how his hero Stephen is swayed and shocked and disgusted by harsh and loud sounds, and how he is stirred to intense emotion by music and the rhythms of beautiful words. And even upon this unsavory aspect of Swift and himself, Mr. If the reader is squeamish upon these matters, then there is nothing for it but to shun this book, but if he will pick his way, as one has to do at times on the outskirts of some picturesque Italian village with a view and a church and all sorts of things of that sort to tempt one, then it is quite worth while. Coarse, unfamiliar words are scattered about the book unpleasantly, and it may seem to many, needlessly. He would bring back into the general picture of life aspects which modern drainage and modern decorum have taken out of ordinary intercourse and conversation. Like Swift and another living Irish writer, Mr. It is no good trying to minimize a characteristic that seems to be deliberately obtruded. Its claim to be literature is as good as the claim of the last book of Gulliver’s Travels. is a book to buy and read and lock up, but it is not a book to miss. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce.
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