1 He sprang from the bed, the reeking odour pouring down his throat, clogging and revolting his entrails.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 2 The troubling odour of the long corridors of Clongowes came back to him and he heard the discreet murmur of the burning gasflames.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 4 3 At the far end of the shed near the street a speck of pink light showed in the darkness and as he walked towards it he became aware of a faint aromatic odour.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 2 4 The squalid scene composed itself around him; the common accents, the burning gas-jets in the shops, odours of fish and spirits and wet sawdust, moving men and women.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 5 But the trees in Stephen's Green were fragrant of rain and the rain-sodden earth gave forth its mortal odour, a faint incense rising upward through the mould from many hearts.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 5 6 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 7 They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech; and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odour.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 2 8 He found in the end that the only odour against which his sense of smell revolted was a certain stale fishy stink like that of long-standing urine; and whenever it was possible he subjected himself to this unpleasant odour.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 4 9 His own head was unbent for his thoughts wandered abroad and whether he looked around the little class of students or out of the window across the desolate gardens of the green an odour assailed him of cheerless cellar-damp and decay.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 5 10 The brimstone, too, which burns there in such prodigious quantity fills all hell with its intolerable stench; and the bodies of the damned themselves exhale such a pestilential odour that, as saint Bonaventure says, one of them alone would suffice to infect the whole world.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 11 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 12 To mortify his smell was more difficult as he found in himself no instinctive repugnance to bad odours whether they were the odours of the outdoor world, such as those of dung or tar, or the odours of his own person among which he had made many curious comparisons and experiments.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 4 13 The soul of the gallant venal city which his elders had told him of had shrunk with time to a faint mortal odour rising from the earth and he knew that in a moment when he entered the sombre college he would be conscious of a corruption other than that of Buck Egan and Burnchapel Whaley.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 5 14 The gang made forays into the gardens of old maids or went down to the castle and fought a battle on the shaggy weed-grown rocks, coming home after it weary stragglers with the stale odours of the foreshore in their nostrils and the rank oils of the seawrack upon their hands and in their hair.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 2 15 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