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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 83/241
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A
hush
fell
on
the
class
.
Mr
Tate
did
not
break
it
but
dug
with
his
hand
between
his
thighs
while
his
heavily
starched
linen
creaked
about
his
neck
and
wrists
.
Stephen
did
not
look
up
.
It
was
a
raw
spring
morning
and
his
eyes
were
still
smarting
and
weak
.
He
was
conscious
of
failure
and
of
detection
,
of
the
squalor
of
his
own
mind
and
home
,
and
felt
against
his
neck
the
raw
edge
of
his
turned
and
jagged
collar
.
A
short
loud
laugh
from
Mr
Tate
set
the
class
more
at
ease
.
--
Perhaps
you
did
n't
know
that
,
he
said
.
--
Where
?
asked
Stephen
.
Mr
Tate
withdrew
his
delving
hand
and
spread
out
the
essay
.
--
Here
.
It
's
about
the
Creator
and
the
soul
.
Rrmrrm
rrmAh
!
WITHOUT
A
POSSIBILITY
OF
EVER
APPROACHING
NEARER
.
That
's
heresy
.
Stephen
murmured
:
--
I
meant
WITHOUT
A
POSSIBILITY
OF
EVER
REACHING
.
It
was
a
submission
and
Mr
Tate
,
appeased
,
folded
up
the
essay
and
passed
it
across
to
him
,
saying
:
--
OAh
!
EVER
REACHING
.
That
's
another
story
.
