19 February 2026
Re-reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man right now in small increments before I go to sleep each night. About halfway through right now. I think the rugged realism of Joyce's language and the malleability of Stephen's conscience is having a particular (but ineffable) effect on my dreams. Last night I had one in which I walked through a kind of clearing and reached a beach. From the sky to the ground, half of the beach was covered in shadow and the other half in blindingly bright light. In the light some people played volleyball, and in the shadow my father was sitting in a black hoodie with his back to me. I walked over to him, helped him up, and together we walked into the light to join the game.