Page 257 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

their course, went on by the trees. A crude grey light, mir-
rored in the sluggish water and a smell of wet branches over
their heads seemed to war against the course of Stephen’s
thought.
—But you have not answered my question, said Lynch.
What is art? What is the beauty it expresses?
—That was the first definition I gave you, you sleepy-
headed wretch, said Stephen, when I began to try to think
out the matter for myself. Do you remember the night?
Cranly lost his temper and began to talk about Wicklow ba-
con.
—I remember, said Lynch. He told us about them flam-
ing fat devils of pigs.
—Art, said Stephen, is the human disposition of sensi-
ble or intelligible matter for an esthetic end. You remember
the pigs and forget that. You are a distressing pair, you and
Cranly.
Lynch made a grimace at the raw grey sky and said:
—If I am to listen to your esthetic philosophy give me at
least another cigarette. I don’t care about it. I don’t even care
about women. Damn you and damn everything. I want a
job of five hundred a year. You can’t get me one.
Stephen handed him the packet of cigarettes. Lynch took
the last one that remained, saying simply:
—Proceed!
—Aquinas, said Stephen, says that is beautiful the appre-
hension of which pleases.
Lynch nodded.
—I remember that, he said, PULCRA SUNT QUAE

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