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- Джеймс Джойс
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—
Telegram
!
he
said
.
Wonderful
inspiration
!
Telegram
!
A
papal
bull
!
He
sat
on
a
corner
of
the
unlit
desk
,
reading
aloud
joyfully
:
—
The
sentimentalist
is
he
who
would
enjoy
without
incurring
the
immense
debtorship
for
a
thing
done
.
Signed
:
Dedalus
.
Where
did
you
launch
it
from
?
The
kips
?
No
.
College
Green
.
Have
you
drunk
the
four
quid
?
The
aunt
is
going
to
call
on
your
unsubstantial
father
.
Telegram
!
Malachi
Mulligan
,
The
Ship
,
lower
Abbey
street
.
O
,
you
peerless
mummer
!
O
,
you
priestified
Kinchite
!
Joyfully
he
thrust
message
and
envelope
into
a
pocket
but
keened
in
a
querulous
brogue
:
—
It
’
s
what
I
’
m
telling
you
,
mister
honey
,
it
’
s
queer
and
sick
we
were
,
Haines
and
myself
,
the
time
himself
brought
it
in
.
’
Twas
murmur
we
did
for
a
gallus
potion
would
rouse
a
friar
,
I
’
m
thinking
,
and
he
limp
with
leching
.
And
we
one
hour
and
two
hours
and
three
hours
in
Connery
’
s
sitting
civil
waiting
for
pints
apiece
.
He
wailed
:
—
And
we
to
be
there
,
mavrone
,
and
you
to
be
unbeknownst
sending
us
your
conglomerations
the
way
we
to
have
our
tongues
out
a
yard
long
like
the
drouthy
clerics
do
be
fainting
for
a
pussful
.
Stephen
laughed
.
Quickly
,
warningfully
Buck
Mulligan
bent
down
.
—
The
tramper
Synge
is
looking
for
you
,
he
said
,
to
murder
you
.
He
heard
you
pissed
on
his
halldoor
in
Glasthule
.
He
’
s
out
in
pampooties
to
murder
you
.
