Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid pleasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor.
from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
Showing posts with label A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Show all posts
Jul 8, 2012
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