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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 274/821
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—
Where
there
is
a
reconciliation
,
Stephen
said
,
there
must
have
been
first
a
sundering
.
—
Yes
.
Christfox
in
leather
trews
,
hiding
,
a
runaway
in
blighted
treeforks
,
from
hue
and
cry
.
Knowing
no
vixen
,
walking
lonely
in
the
chase
.
Women
he
won
to
him
,
tender
people
,
a
whore
of
Babylon
,
ladies
of
justices
,
bully
tapsters
’
wives
.
Fox
and
geese
.
And
in
New
Place
a
slack
dishonoured
body
that
once
was
comely
,
once
as
sweet
,
as
fresh
as
cinnamon
,
now
her
leaves
falling
,
all
,
bare
,
frighted
of
the
narrow
grave
and
unforgiven
.
—
Yes
.
So
you
think
.
.
.
The
door
closed
behind
the
outgoer
.
Rest
suddenly
possessed
the
discreet
vaulted
cell
,
rest
of
warm
and
brooding
air
.
A
vestal
’
s
lamp
.
Here
he
ponders
things
that
were
not
:
what
Cæsar
would
have
lived
to
do
had
he
believed
the
soothsayer
:
what
might
have
been
:
possibilities
of
the
possible
as
possible
:
things
not
known
:
what
name
Achilles
bore
when
he
lived
among
women
.
Coffined
thoughts
around
me
,
in
mummycases
,
embalmed
in
spice
of
words
.
Thoth
,
god
of
libraries
,
a
birdgod
,
moonycrowned
.
And
I
heard
the
voice
of
that
Egyptian
highpriest
.
In
painted
chambers
loaded
with
tilebooks
.
