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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 149/821
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—
And
,
after
blinking
up
at
the
sacred
figure
,
Not
a
bloody
bit
like
the
man
,
says
he
.
That
’
s
not
Mulcahy
,
says
he
,
whoever
done
it
.
Rewarded
by
smiles
he
fell
back
and
spoke
with
Corny
Kelleher
,
accepting
the
dockets
given
him
,
turning
them
over
and
scanning
them
as
he
walked
.
—
That
’
s
all
done
with
a
purpose
,
Martin
Cunningham
explained
to
Hynes
.
—
I
know
,
Hynes
said
.
I
know
that
.
—
To
cheer
a
fellow
up
,
Martin
Cunningham
said
.
It
’
s
pure
goodheartedness
:
damn
the
thing
else
.
Mr
Bloom
admired
the
caretaker
’
s
prosperous
bulk
.
All
want
to
be
on
good
terms
with
him
.
Decent
fellow
,
John
O
’
Connell
,
real
good
sort
.
Keys
:
like
Keyes
’
s
ad
:
no
fear
of
anyone
getting
out
.
No
passout
checks
.
Habeas
corpus
.
I
must
see
about
that
ad
after
the
funeral
.
Did
I
write
Ballsbridge
on
the
envelope
I
took
to
cover
when
she
disturbed
me
writing
to
Martha
?
Hope
it
’
s
not
chucked
in
the
dead
letter
office
.
Be
the
better
of
a
shave
.
Grey
sprouting
beard
.
That
’
s
the
first
sign
when
the
hairs
come
out
grey
.
And
temper
getting
cross
.
Silver
threads
among
the
grey
.
Fancy
being
his
wife
.
Wonder
he
had
the
gumption
to
propose
to
any
girl
.
Come
out
and
live
in
the
graveyard
.
Dangle
that
before
her
.
It
might
thrill
her
first
.
Courting
death
.
Shades
of
night
hovering
here
with
all
the
dead
stretched
about
.
The
shadows
of
the
tombs
when
churchyards
yawn
and
Daniel
O
’
Connell
must
be
a
descendant
I
suppose
who
is
this
used
to
say
he
was
a
queer
breedy
man
great
catholic
all
the
same
like
a
big
giant
in
the
dark
.
Will
o
’
the
wisp
.
Gas
of
graves
.
Want
to
keep
her
mind
off
it
to
conceive
at
all
.
Women
especially
are
so
touchy
.
Tell
her
a
ghost
story
in
bed
to
make
her
sleep
.
Have
you
ever
seen
a
ghost
?
Well
,
I
have
.
It
was
a
pitchdark
night
.
The
clock
was
on
the
stroke
of
twelve
.
Still
they
’
d
kiss
all
right
if
properly
keyed
up
.
Whores
in
Turkish
graveyards
.
Learn
anything
if
taken
young
.
You
might
pick
up
a
young
widow
here
.
Men
like
that
.
Love
among
the
tombstones
.
Romeo
.
Spice
of
pleasure
.
In
the
midst
of
death
we
are
in
life
.
Both
ends
meet
.
Tantalising
for
the
poor
dead
.
Smell
of
grilled
beefsteaks
to
the
starving
.
Gnawing
their
vitals
.
Desire
to
grig
people
.
Molly
wanting
to
do
it
at
the
window
.
Eight
children
he
has
anyway
.
He
has
seen
a
fair
share
go
under
in
his
time
,
lying
around
him
field
after
field
.
Holy
fields
.
More
room
if
they
buried
them
standing
.
Sitting
or
kneeling
you
couldn
’
t
.
Standing
?
His
head
might
come
up
some
day
above
ground
in
a
landslip
with
his
hand
pointing
.
All
honeycombed
the
ground
must
be
:
oblong
cells
.
And
very
neat
he
keeps
it
too
:
trim
grass
and
edgings
.
His
garden
Major
Gamble
calls
Mount
Jerome
.
Well
,
so
it
is
.
Ought
to
be
flowers
of
sleep
.
Chinese
cemeteries
with
giant
poppies
growing
produce
the
best
opium
Mastiansky
told
me
.
The
Botanic
Gardens
are
just
over
there
.
It
’
s
the
blood
sinking
in
the
earth
gives
new
life
.
Same
idea
those
jews
they
said
killed
the
christian
boy
.
Every
man
his
price
.
Well
preserved
fat
corpse
,
gentleman
,
epicure
,
invaluable
for
fruit
garden
.
A
bargain
.
By
carcass
of
William
Wilkinson
,
auditor
and
accountant
,
lately
deceased
,
three
pounds
thirteen
and
six
.
With
thanks
.
I
daresay
the
soil
would
be
quite
fat
with
corpsemanure
,
bones
,
flesh
,
nails
.
Charnelhouses
.
Dreadful
.
Turning
green
and
pink
decomposing
.
Rot
quick
in
damp
earth
.
The
lean
old
ones
tougher
.
Then
a
kind
of
a
tallowy
kind
of
a
cheesy
.
Then
begin
to
get
black
,
black
treacle
oozing
out
of
them
.
Then
dried
up
.
Deathmoths
.
Of
course
the
cells
or
whatever
they
are
go
on
living
.
Changing
about
.
Live
for
ever
practically
.
Nothing
to
feed
on
feed
on
themselves
.
