Joyce does not sketch Stephen in bright, trivial, flat colors, his caricature evokes autumn and spring rather than winter and summer. In feeling the pulse of a character, the Joycean artist has a perfect sense of his subject's temperament. The millions of routines and cliches we live in gather together, falling like leaves in soft, whispering layers, to constitute our lives.
Drops of water fall into our brimming bowl with soft picks and pucks.
Our lives are shaped in this soft, subtle, secretive way. It's more like seeing a bunch of your friends swimming and understanding your relation to them, or watching your siblings at tea and realizing how alone you are. I just feel sort of ridiculous talking about this, but I think that must be because it's true.