-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джеймс Джойс
-
- Портрет художника в юности
-
- Стр. 140/241
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
--
Good
man
,
Towser
!
Duck
him
!
--
Come
along
,
Dedalus
!
Bous
Stephanoumenos
!
Bous
Stephaneforos
!
--
Duck
him
!
Guzzle
him
now
,
Towser
!
--
Help
!
Help
!
Ao
!
He
recognized
their
speech
collectively
before
he
distinguished
their
faces
.
The
mere
sight
of
that
medley
of
wet
nakedness
chilled
him
to
the
bone
.
Their
bodies
,
corpse-white
or
suffused
with
a
pallid
golden
light
or
rawly
tanned
by
the
sun
,
gleamed
with
the
wet
of
the
sea
.
Their
diving-stone
,
poised
on
its
rude
supports
and
rocking
under
their
plunges
,
and
the
rough-hewn
stones
of
the
sloping
breakwater
over
which
they
scrambled
in
their
horseplay
gleamed
with
cold
wet
lustre
.
The
towels
with
which
they
smacked
their
bodies
were
heavy
with
cold
seawater
;
and
drenched
with
cold
brine
was
their
matted
hair
.
He
stood
still
in
deference
to
their
calls
and
parried
their
banter
with
easy
words
.
How
characterless
they
looked
:
Shuley
without
his
deep
unbuttoned
collar
,
Ennis
without
his
scarlet
belt
with
the
snaky
clasp
,
and
Connolly
without
his
Norfolk
coat
with
the
flapless
side-pockets
!
It
was
a
pain
to
see
them
,
and
a
sword-like
pain
to
see
the
signs
of
adolescence
that
made
repellent
their
pitiable
nakedness
.
Perhaps
they
had
taken
refuge
in
number
and
noise
from
the
secret
dread
in
their
souls
.
But
he
,
apart
from
them
and
in
silence
,
remembered
in
what
dread
he
stood
of
the
mystery
of
his
own
body
.
--
Stephanos
Dedalos
!
Bous
Stephanoumenos
!
Bous
Stephaneforos
!
Their
banter
was
not
new
to
him
and
now
it
flattered
his
mild
proud
sovereignty
.
Now
,
as
never
before
,
his
strange
name
seemed
to
him
a
prophecy
.
So
timeless
seemed
the
grey
warm
air
,
so
fluid
and
impersonal
his
own
mood
,
that
all
ages
were
as
one
to
him
.
A
moment
before
the
ghost
of
the
ancient
kingdom
of
the
Danes
had
looked
forth
through
the
vesture
of
the
hazewrapped
City
.
Now
,
at
the
name
of
the
fabulous
artificer
,
he
seemed
to
hear
the
noise
of
dim
waves
and
to
see
a
winged
form
flying
above
the
waves
and
slowly
climbing
the
air
.
What
did
it
mean
?
Was
it
a
quaint
device
opening
a
page
of
some
medieval
book
of
prophecies
and
symbols
,
a
hawk-like
man
flying
sunward
above
the
sea
,
a
prophecy
of
the
end
he
had
been
born
to
serve
and
had
been
following
through
the
mists
of
childhood
and
boyhood
,
a
symbol
of
the
artist
forging
anew
in
his
workshop
out
of
the
sluggish
matter
of
the
earth
a
new
soaring
impalpable
imperishable
being
?
