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- Джеймс Джойс
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—
Do
you
mean
to
fly
in
the
face
of
the
tradition
of
three
centuries
?
John
Eglinton
’
s
carping
voice
asked
.
Her
ghost
at
least
has
been
laid
for
ever
.
She
died
,
for
literature
at
least
,
before
she
was
born
.
—
She
died
,
Stephen
retorted
,
sixtyseven
years
after
she
was
born
.
She
saw
him
into
and
out
of
the
world
.
She
took
his
first
embraces
.
She
bore
his
children
and
she
laid
pennies
on
his
eyes
to
keep
his
eyelids
closed
when
he
lay
on
his
deathbed
.
Mother
’
s
deathbed
.
Candle
.
The
sheeted
mirror
.
Who
brought
me
into
this
world
lies
there
,
bronzelidded
,
under
few
cheap
flowers
.
Liliata
rutilantium
.
I
wept
alone
.
John
Eglinton
looked
in
the
tangled
glowworm
of
his
lamp
.
—
The
world
believes
that
Shakespeare
made
a
mistake
,
he
said
,
and
got
out
of
it
as
quickly
and
as
best
he
could
.
—
Bosh
!
Stephen
said
rudely
.
A
man
of
genius
makes
no
mistakes
.
His
errors
are
volitional
and
are
the
portals
of
discovery
.
Portals
of
discovery
opened
to
let
in
the
quaker
librarian
,
softcreakfooted
,
bald
,
eared
and
assiduous
.
—
A
shrew
,
John
Eglinton
said
shrewdly
,
is
not
a
useful
portal
of
discovery
,
one
should
imagine
.
What
useful
discovery
did
Socrates
learn
from
Xanthippe
?
—
Dialectic
,
Stephen
answered
:
and
from
his
mother
how
to
bring
thoughts
into
the
world
.
What
he
learnt
from
his
other
wife
Myrto
(
absit
nomen
!
)
,
Socratididion
’
s
Epipsychidion
,
no
man
,
not
a
woman
,
will
ever
know
.
But
neither
the
midwife
’
s
lore
nor
the
caudlelectures
saved
him
from
the
archons
of
Sinn
Fein
and
their
naggin
of
hemlock
.
