1 The thought slid like a cold shining rapier into his tender flesh: confession.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 2 He feared intensely in spirit and in flesh but, raising his head bravely, he strode into the room firmly.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 3 He felt only an ache of soul and body, his whole being, memory, will, understanding, flesh, benumbed and weary.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 4 As the waters of baptism cleanse the soul with the body, so do the fires of punishment torture the spirit with the flesh.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 5 Our flesh shrinks from what it dreads and responds to the stimulus of what it desires by a purely reflex action of the nervous system.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 5 6 He would pass by them calmly waiting for a sudden movement of his own will or a sudden call to his sin-loving soul from their soft perfumed flesh.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 7 Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane's and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 4 8 At the very instant of death the bonds of the flesh are broken asunder and the soul at once flies towards God as towards the centre of her existence.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 9 Her eyes seemed to regard him with mild pity; her holiness, a strange light glowing faintly upon her frail flesh, did not humiliate the sinner who approached her.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 10 They reason thus because, blinded by the gross illusion of the flesh and the darkness of human understanding, they are unable to comprehend the hideous malice of mortal sin.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 11 Yes, it was her body he smelt, a wild and languid smell, the tepid limbs over which his music had flowed desirously and the secret soft linen upon which her flesh distilled odour and a dew.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 5 12 This idea of surrender had a perilous attraction for his mind now that he felt his soul beset once again by the insistent voices of the flesh which began to murmur to him again during his prayers and meditations.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 4 13 The fruitful earth gave them her bounty: beasts and birds were their willing servants: they knew not the ills our flesh is heir to, disease and poverty and death: all that a great and generous God could do for them was done.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 14 A faint click at his heart, a faint throb in his throat told him once more of how his flesh dreaded the cold infrahuman odour of the sea; yet he did not strike across the downs on his left but held straight on along the spine of rocks that pointed against the river's mouth.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 4 15 That was the work of devils, to scatter his thoughts and over-cloud his conscience, assailing him at the gates of the cowardly and sin-corrupted flesh: and, praying God timidly to forgive him his weakness, he crawled up on to the bed and, wrapping the blankets closely about him, covered his face again with his hands.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 16 Every sense of the flesh is tortured and every faculty of the soul therewith: the eyes with impenetrable utter darkness, the nose with noisome odours, the ears with yells and howls and execrations, the taste with foul matter, leprous corruption, nameless suffocating filth, the touch with redhot goads and spikes, with cruel tongues of flame.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3