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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 258/821
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—
And
we
have
,
have
we
not
,
those
priceless
pages
of
Wilhelm
Meister
.
A
great
poet
on
a
great
brother
poet
.
A
hesitating
soul
taking
arms
against
a
sea
of
troubles
,
torn
by
conflicting
doubts
,
as
one
sees
in
real
life
.
He
came
a
step
a
sinkapace
forward
on
neatsleather
creaking
and
a
step
backward
a
sinkapace
on
the
solemn
floor
.
A
noiseless
attendant
setting
open
the
door
but
slightly
made
him
a
noiseless
beck
.
—
Directly
,
said
he
,
creaking
to
go
,
albeit
lingering
.
The
beautiful
ineffectual
dreamer
who
comes
to
grief
against
hard
facts
.
One
always
feels
that
Goethe
’
s
judgments
are
so
true
.
True
in
the
larger
analysis
.
Twicreakingly
analysis
he
corantoed
off
.
Bald
,
most
zealous
by
the
door
he
gave
his
large
ear
all
to
the
attendant
’
s
words
:
heard
them
:
and
was
gone
.
Two
left
.
—
Monsieur
de
la
Palice
,
Stephen
sneered
,
was
alive
fifteen
minutes
before
his
death
.
—
Have
you
found
those
six
brave
medicals
,
John
Eglinton
asked
with
elder
’
s
gall
,
to
write
Paradise
Lost
at
your
dictation
?
The
Sorrows
of
Satan
he
calls
it
.
Smile
.
Smile
Cranly
’
s
smile
.
First
he
tickled
her
