Being a novel, presumably autobiographical, which attempts to recreate the youth of an aspiring writer. I first read this some fifty years ago, when it was the one of the English teacher's obligatory suggestions for the "sensitive youth". I don't remember whether I liked it at that time, but I did remember, or thought I did, an episode which I wanted to find again if it was there (it was).

As for the book, it begins well, describing the world of family dinnertime quarrels, loopy playfriends, and unpalatable food as seen through the eyes of a youngster, related in Joyce's lyrical, powerful prose. The remaining two-thirds of the book I found less rewarding. A longish middle consists entirely of a prelate from the Church of Rome lovingly and minutely describing the torments of Hell, and an ensuing, even longer, episode consists of university students debating aesthetic theory, and the beautiful prose is gone. Not helping is the author's reliance on schoolboy slang from a foreign land over a century ago--don't bother your dictionary, it's not there. There's no plot, the other characters are but sketches for the protagonist to riff on, so the scattered worth here comes from the occasional lovely prose poem. ( )