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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 132/821
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Martin
Cunningham
’
s
large
eyes
.
Looking
away
now
.
Sympathetic
human
man
he
is
.
Intelligent
.
Like
Shakespeare
’
s
face
.
Always
a
good
word
to
say
.
They
have
no
mercy
on
that
here
or
infanticide
.
Refuse
christian
burial
.
They
used
to
drive
a
stake
of
wood
through
his
heart
in
the
grave
.
As
if
it
wasn
’
t
broken
already
.
Yet
sometimes
they
repent
too
late
.
Found
in
the
riverbed
clutching
rushes
.
He
looked
at
me
.
And
that
awful
drunkard
of
a
wife
of
his
.
Setting
up
house
for
her
time
after
time
and
then
pawning
the
furniture
on
him
every
Saturday
almost
.
Leading
him
the
life
of
the
damned
.
Wear
the
heart
out
of
a
stone
,
that
.
Monday
morning
.
Start
afresh
.
Shoulder
to
the
wheel
.
Lord
,
she
must
have
looked
a
sight
that
night
Dedalus
told
me
he
was
in
there
.
Drunk
about
the
place
and
capering
with
Martin
’
s
umbrella
.
And
they
call
me
the
jewel
of
Asia
,
Of
Asia
,
The
geisha
.
He
looked
away
from
me
.
He
knows
.
Rattle
his
bones
.
That
afternoon
of
the
inquest
.
The
redlabelled
bottle
on
the
table
.
The
room
in
the
hotel
with
hunting
pictures
.
Stuffy
it
was
.
Sunlight
through
the
slats
of
the
Venetian
blind
.
The
coroner
’
s
sunlit
ears
,
big
and
hairy
.
Boots
giving
evidence
.
Thought
he
was
asleep
first
.
Then
saw
like
yellow
streaks
on
his
face
.
Had
slipped
down
to
the
foot
of
the
bed
.
Verdict
:
overdose
.
Death
by
misadventure
.
The
letter
.
For
my
son
Leopold
.
No
more
pain
.
Wake
no
more
.
Nobody
owns
.
The
carriage
rattled
swiftly
along
Blessington
street
.
Over
the
stones
.
—
We
are
going
the
pace
,
I
think
,
Martin
Cunningham
said
.
—
God
grant
he
doesn
’
t
upset
us
on
the
road
,
Mr
Power
said
.
