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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 353/821
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Dust
darkened
the
toiling
fingers
with
their
vulture
nails
.
Dust
slept
on
dull
coils
of
bronze
and
silver
,
lozenges
of
cinnabar
,
on
rubies
,
leprous
and
winedark
stones
.
Born
all
in
the
dark
wormy
earth
,
cold
specks
of
fire
,
evil
,
lights
shining
in
the
darkness
.
Where
fallen
archangels
flung
the
stars
of
their
brows
.
Muddy
swinesnouts
,
hands
,
root
and
root
,
gripe
and
wrest
them
.
She
dances
in
a
foul
gloom
where
gum
bums
with
garlic
.
A
sailorman
,
rustbearded
,
sips
from
a
beaker
rum
and
eyes
her
.
A
long
and
seafed
silent
rut
.
She
dances
,
capers
,
wagging
her
sowish
haunches
and
her
hips
,
on
her
gross
belly
flapping
a
ruby
egg
.
Old
Russell
with
a
smeared
shammy
rag
burnished
again
his
gem
,
turned
it
and
held
it
at
the
point
of
his
Moses
’
beard
.
Grandfather
ape
gloating
on
a
stolen
hoard
.
And
you
who
wrest
old
images
from
the
burial
earth
?
The
brainsick
words
of
sophists
:
Antisthenes
.
A
lore
of
drugs
.
Orient
and
immortal
wheat
standing
from
everlasting
to
everlasting
.
Two
old
women
fresh
from
their
whiff
of
the
briny
trudged
through
Irishtown
along
London
bridge
road
,
one
with
a
sanded
tired
umbrella
,
one
with
a
midwife
’
s
bag
in
which
eleven
cockles
rolled
.
The
whirr
of
flapping
leathern
bands
and
hum
of
dynamos
from
the
powerhouse
urged
Stephen
to
be
on
.
Beingless
beings
.
Stop
!
Throb
always
without
you
and
the
throb
always
within
.
Your
heart
you
sing
of
.
I
between
them
.
Where
?
Between
two
roaring
worlds
where
they
swirl
,
I
.
Shatter
them
,
one
and
both
.
But
stun
myself
too
in
the
blow
.
Shatter
me
you
who
can
.
Bawd
and
butcher
were
the
words
.
I
say
!
Not
yet
awhile
.
A
look
around
.
Yes
,
quite
true
.
Very
large
and
wonderful
and
keeps
famous
time
.
You
say
right
,
sir
.
A
Monday
morning
,
’
twas
so
,
indeed
.
Stephen
went
down
Bedford
row
,
the
handle
of
the
ash
clacking
against
his
shoulderblade
.
In
Clohissey
’
s
window
a
faded
1860
print
of
Heenan
boxing
Sayers
held
his
eye
.
Staring
backers
with
square
hats
stood
round
the
roped
prizering
.
The
heavyweights
in
tight
loincloths
proposed
gently
each
to
other
his
bulbous
fists
.
And
they
are
throbbing
:
heroes
’
hearts
.
