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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 235/821
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—
Kiss
me
,
Reggy
!
—
My
boy
!
—
Love
!
His
heart
astir
he
pushed
in
the
door
of
the
Burton
restaurant
.
Stink
gripped
his
trembling
breath
:
pungent
meatjuice
,
slush
of
greens
.
See
the
animals
feed
.
Men
,
men
,
men
.
Perched
on
high
stools
by
the
bar
,
hats
shoved
back
,
at
the
tables
calling
for
more
bread
no
charge
,
swilling
,
wolfing
gobfuls
of
sloppy
food
,
their
eyes
bulging
,
wiping
wetted
moustaches
.
A
pallid
suetfaced
young
man
polished
his
tumbler
knife
fork
and
spoon
with
his
napkin
.
New
set
of
microbes
.
A
man
with
an
infant
’
s
saucestained
napkin
tucked
round
him
shovelled
gurgling
soup
down
his
gullet
.
A
man
spitting
back
on
his
plate
:
halfmasticated
gristle
:
gums
:
no
teeth
to
chewchewchew
it
.
Chump
chop
from
the
grill
.
Bolting
to
get
it
over
.
Sad
booser
’
s
eyes
.
Bitten
off
more
than
he
can
chew
.
Am
I
like
that
?
See
ourselves
as
others
see
us
.
Hungry
man
is
an
angry
man
.
Working
tooth
and
jaw
.
Don
’
t
!
O
!
A
bone
!
That
last
pagan
king
of
Ireland
Cormac
in
the
schoolpoem
choked
himself
at
Sletty
southward
of
the
Boyne
.
Wonder
what
he
was
eating
.
Something
galoptious
.
Saint
Patrick
converted
him
to
Christianity
.
Couldn
’
t
swallow
it
all
however
.
—
Roast
beef
and
cabbage
.
—
One
stew
.
Smells
of
men
.
Spat
-
on
sawdust
,
sweetish
warmish
cigarettesmoke
,
reek
of
plug
,
spilt
beer
,
men
’
s
beery
piss
,
the
stale
of
ferment
.
