A Portrait of the Artist as a Young ManJoyce, James
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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Joyce, James
Artists -- Fiction; Autobiographical fiction; Bildungsromans; Dublin (Ireland) -- Fiction; Young men -- Fiction
—Last and crowning torture of all the tortures of that awful place is
the eternity of hell. Eternity! O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What
mind of man can understand it? And remember, it is an eternity of pain.
Even though the pains of hell were not so terrible as they are, yet
they would become infinite, as they are destined to last for ever. But
while they are everlasting they are at the same time, as you know,
intolerably intense, unbearably extensive. To bear even the sting of an
insect for all eternity would be a dreadful torment. What must it be,
then, to bear the manifold tortures of hell for ever? For ever! For all
eternity! Not for a year or for an age but for ever. Try to imagine the
awful meaning of this. You have often seen the sand on the seashore.
How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny little grains
go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play. Now
imagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from
the earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending
to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness; and imagine such
an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multiplied as often as
there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean,
feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on animals, atoms in the vast
expanse of the air: and imagine that at the end of every million years
a little bird came to that mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny
grain of that sand. How many millions upon millions of centuries would
pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of that
mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away
all? Yet at the end of that immense stretch of time not even one
instant of eternity could be said to have ended. At the end of all
those billions and trillions of years eternity would have scarcely
begun. And if that mountain rose again after it had been all carried
away, and if the bird came again and carried it all away again grain by
grain, and if it so rose and sank as many times as there are stars in
the sky, atoms in the air, drops of water in the sea, leaves on the
trees, feathers upon birds, scales upon fish, hairs upon animals, at
the end of all those innumerable risings and sinkings of that
immeasurably vast mountain not one single instant of eternity could be
said to have ended; even then, at the end of such a period, after that
eon of time the mere thought of which makes our very brain reel
dizzily, eternity would scarcely have begun.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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