Page 172 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

having wished first to see. Then in an instant it happens.
But does that part of the body understand or what? The ser-
pent, the most subtle beast of the field. It must understand
when it desires in one instant and then prolongs its own de-
sire instant after instant, sinfully. It feels and understands
and desires. What a horrible thing! Who made it to be like
that, a bestial part of the body able to understand bestially
and desire bestially? Was that then he or an inhuman thing
moved by a lower soul? His soul sickened at the thought of
a torpid snaky life feeding itself out of the tender marrow of
his life and fattening upon the slime of lust. O why was that
so? O why?
He cowered in the shadow of the thought, abasing him-
self in the awe of God Who had made all things and all men.
Madness. Who could think such a thought? And, cowering
in darkness and abject, he prayed mutely to his guardian
angel to drive away with his sword the demon that was
whispering to his brain.
The whisper ceased and he knew then clearly that his
own soul had sinned in thought and word and deed wilful-
ly through his own body. Confess! He had to confess every
sin. How could he utter in words to the priest what he had
done? Must, must. Or how could he explain without dying
of shame? Or how could he have done such things without
shame? A madman! Confess! O he would indeed to be free
and sinless again! Perhaps the priest would know. O dear
God!
He walked on and on through ill-lit streets, fearing to
stand still for a moment lest it might seem that he held back

172 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man