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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 173/821
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Practice
dwindling
.
A
mighthavebeen
.
Losing
heart
.
Gambling
.
Debts
of
honour
.
Reaping
the
whirlwind
.
Used
to
get
good
retainers
from
D
.
and
T
.
Fitzgerald
.
Their
wigs
to
show
the
grey
matter
.
Brains
on
their
sleeve
like
the
statue
in
Glasnevin
.
Believe
he
does
some
literary
work
for
the
Express
with
Gabriel
Conroy
.
Wellread
fellow
.
Myles
Crawford
began
on
the
Independent
.
Funny
the
way
those
newspaper
men
veer
about
when
they
get
wind
of
a
new
opening
.
Weathercocks
.
Hot
and
cold
in
the
same
breath
.
Wouldn
’
t
know
which
to
believe
.
One
story
good
till
you
hear
the
next
.
Go
for
one
another
baldheaded
in
the
papers
and
then
all
blows
over
.
Hail
fellow
well
met
the
next
moment
.
—
Ah
,
listen
to
this
for
God
’
sake
,
Ned
Lambert
pleaded
.
Or
again
if
we
but
climb
the
serried
mountain
peaks
.
.
.
—
Bombast
!
the
professor
broke
in
testily
.
Enough
of
the
inflated
windbag
!
—
Peaks
,
Ned
Lambert
went
on
,
towering
high
on
high
,
to
bathe
our
souls
,
as
it
were
.
.
.
—
Bathe
his
lips
,
Mr
Dedalus
said
.
Blessed
and
eternal
God
!
Yes
?
Is
he
taking
anything
for
it
?
—
As
’
twere
,
in
the
peerless
panorama
of
Ireland
’
s
portfolio
,
unmatched
,
despite
their
wellpraised
prototypes
in
other
vaunted
prize
regions
,
for
very
beauty
,
of
bosky
grove
and
undulating
plain
and
luscious
pastureland
of
vernal
green
,
steeped
in
the
transcendent
translucent
glow
of
our
mild
mysterious
Irish
twilight
.
.
.
HIS
NATIVE
DORIC
—
The
moon
,
professor
MacHugh
said
.
He
forgot
Hamlet
.
—
That
mantles
the
vista
far
and
wide
and
wait
till
the
glowing
orb
of
the
moon
shine
forth
to
irradiate
her
silver
effulgence
.
.
.
