-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джеймс Джойс
-
- Портрет художника в юности
-
- Стр. 103/241
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
--
Give
me
a
kiss
,
she
said
.
His
lips
would
not
bend
to
kiss
her
.
He
wanted
to
be
held
firmly
in
her
arms
,
to
be
caressed
slowly
,
slowly
,
slowly
.
In
her
arms
he
felt
that
he
had
suddenly
become
strong
and
fearless
and
sure
of
himself
.
But
his
lips
would
not
bend
to
kiss
her
.
With
a
sudden
movement
she
bowed
his
head
and
joined
her
lips
to
his
and
he
read
the
meaning
of
her
movements
in
her
frank
uplifted
eyes
.
It
was
too
much
for
him
.
He
closed
his
eyes
,
surrendering
himself
to
her
,
body
and
mind
,
conscious
of
nothing
in
the
world
but
the
dark
pressure
of
her
softly
parting
lips
.
They
pressed
upon
his
brain
as
upon
his
lips
as
though
they
were
the
vehicle
of
a
vague
speech
;
and
between
them
he
felt
an
unknown
and
timid
pressure
,
darker
than
the
swoon
of
sin
,
softer
than
sound
or
odour
.
The
swift
December
dusk
had
come
tumbling
clownishly
after
its
dull
day
and
,
as
he
stared
through
the
dull
square
of
the
window
of
the
schoolroom
,
he
felt
his
belly
crave
for
its
food
.
He
hoped
there
would
be
stew
for
dinner
,
turnips
and
carrots
and
bruised
potatoes
and
fat
mutton
pieces
to
be
ladled
out
in
thick
peppered
flour-fattened
sauce
.
Stuff
it
into
you
,
his
belly
counselled
him
.
It
would
be
a
gloomy
secret
night
.
After
early
nightfall
the
yellow
lamps
would
light
up
,
here
and
there
,
the
squalid
quarter
of
the
brothels
.
He
would
follow
a
devious
course
up
and
down
the
streets
,
circling
always
nearer
and
nearer
in
a
tremor
of
fear
and
joy
,
until
his
feet
led
him
suddenly
round
a
dark
corner
.
The
whores
would
be
just
coming
out
of
their
houses
making
ready
for
the
night
,
yawning
lazily
after
their
sleep
and
settling
the
hairpins
in
their
clusters
of
hair
.
He
would
pass
by
them
calmly
waiting
for
a
sudden
movement
of
his
own
will
or
a
sudden
call
to
his
sin-loving
soul
from
their
soft
perfumed
flesh
.
Yet
as
he
prowled
in
quest
of
that
call
,
his
senses
,
stultified
only
by
his
desire
,
would
note
keenly
all
that
wounded
or
shamed
them
;
his
eyes
,
a
ring
of
porter
froth
on
a
clothless
table
or
a
photograph
of
two
soldiers
standing
to
attention
or
a
gaudy
playbill
;
his
ears
,
the
drawling
jargon
of
greeting
:
--
Hello
,
Bertie
,
any
good
in
your
mind
?
--
Is
that
you
,
pigeon
?
--
Number
ten
.
Fresh
Nelly
is
waiting
on
you
.
--
Good
night
,
husband
!
Coming
in
to
have
a
short
time
?
The
equation
on
the
page
of
his
scribbler
began
to
spread
out
a
widening
tail
,
eyed
and
starred
like
a
peacock
's
;
and
,
when
the
eyes
and
stars
of
its
indices
had
been
eliminated
,
began
slowly
to
fold
itself
together
again
.
The
indices
appearing
and
disappearing
were
eyes
opening
and
closing
;
the
eyes
opening
and
closing
were
stars
being
born
and
being
quenched
.
The
vast
cycle
of
starry
life
bore
his
weary
mind
outward
to
its
verge
and
inward
to
its
centre
,
a
distant
music
accompanying
him
outward
and
inward
.
What
music
?
The
music
came
nearer
and
he
recalled
the
words
,
the
words
of
Shelley
's
fragment
upon
the
moon
wandering
companionless
,
pale
for
weariness
.
The
stars
began
to
crumble
and
a
cloud
of
fine
stardust
fell
through
space
.
