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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 368/821
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—
They
drove
his
wits
astray
,
he
said
,
by
visions
of
hell
.
He
will
never
capture
the
Attic
note
.
The
note
of
Swinburne
,
of
all
poets
,
the
white
death
and
the
ruddy
birth
.
That
is
his
tragedy
.
He
can
never
be
a
poet
.
The
joy
of
creation
.
.
.
—
Eternal
punishment
,
Haines
said
,
nodding
curtly
.
I
see
.
I
tackled
him
this
morning
on
belief
.
There
was
something
on
his
mind
,
I
saw
.
It
’
s
rather
interesting
because
professor
Pokorny
of
Vienna
makes
an
interesting
point
out
of
that
.
Buck
Mulligan
’
s
watchful
eyes
saw
the
waitress
come
.
He
helped
her
to
unload
her
tray
.
—
He
can
find
no
trace
of
hell
in
ancient
Irish
myth
,
Haines
said
,
amid
the
cheerful
cups
.
The
moral
idea
seems
lacking
,
the
sense
of
destiny
,
of
retribution
.
Rather
strange
he
should
have
just
that
fixed
idea
.
Does
he
write
anything
for
your
movement
?
He
sank
two
lumps
of
sugar
deftly
longwise
through
the
whipped
cream
.
Buck
Mulligan
slit
a
steaming
scone
in
two
and
plastered
butter
over
its
smoking
pith
.
He
bit
off
a
soft
piece
hungrily
.
—
Ten
years
,
he
said
,
chewing
and
laughing
.
He
is
going
to
write
something
in
ten
years
.
—
Seems
a
long
way
off
,
Haines
said
,
thoughtfully
lifting
his
spoon
.
Still
,
I
shouldn
’
t
wonder
if
he
did
after
all
.
He
tasted
a
spoonful
from
the
creamy
cone
of
his
cup
.
—
This
is
real
Irish
cream
I
take
it
,
he
said
with
forbearance
.
I
don
’
t
want
to
be
imposed
on
.
Elijah
,
skiff
,
light
crumpled
throwaway
,
sailed
eastward
by
flanks
of
ships
and
trawlers
,
amid
an
archipelago
of
corks
,
beyond
new
Wapping
street
past
Benson
’
s
ferry
,
and
by
the
threemasted
schooner
Rosevean
from
Bridgwater
with
bricks
.
