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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 284/821
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—
Me
!
Stephen
exclaimed
.
That
was
your
contribution
to
literature
.
Buck
Mulligan
gleefully
bent
back
,
laughing
to
the
dark
eavesdropping
ceiling
.
—
Murder
you
!
he
laughed
.
Harsh
gargoyle
face
that
warred
against
me
over
our
mess
of
hash
of
lights
in
rue
Saint
-
André
-
des
-
Arts
.
In
words
of
words
for
words
,
palabras
.
Oisin
with
Patrick
.
Faunman
he
met
in
Clamart
woods
,
brandishing
a
winebottle
.
C
’
est
vendredi
saint
!
Murthering
Irish
.
His
image
,
wandering
,
he
met
.
I
mine
.
I
met
a
fool
i
’
the
forest
.
—
Mr
Lyster
,
an
attendant
said
from
the
door
ajar
.
—
.
.
.
in
which
everyone
can
find
his
own
.
So
Mr
Justice
Madden
in
his
Diary
of
Master
William
Silence
has
found
the
hunting
terms
.
.
.
Yes
?
What
is
it
?
—
There
’
s
a
gentleman
here
,
sir
,
the
attendant
said
,
coming
forward
and
offering
a
card
.
From
the
Freeman
.
He
wants
to
see
the
files
of
the
Kilkenny
People
for
last
year
.
—
Certainly
,
certainly
,
certainly
.
Is
the
gentleman
?
.
.
.
He
took
the
eager
card
,
glanced
,
not
saw
,
laid
down
unglanced
,
looked
,
asked
,
creaked
,
asked
:
—
Is
he
?
.
.
.
O
,
there
!
