Always so strange to return to a book that we revered in earlier days.

In my twenties Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Kafka’s Amerika and Sartre’s Nausea were my literary touchstones. The latter I reread annually but I was warier of Portrait. Did I make the error of injecting too much of myself into my original reading?

I quoted a couple of beautiful words, and right now add no further commentary. The book is stunning.