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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 45/821
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For
Lycidas
,
your
sorrow
,
is
not
dead
,
Sunk
though
he
be
beneath
the
watery
floor
.
.
.
It
must
be
a
movement
then
,
an
actuality
of
the
possible
as
possible
.
Aristotle
’
s
phrase
formed
itself
within
the
gabbled
verses
and
floated
out
into
the
studious
silence
of
the
library
of
Saint
Genevieve
where
he
had
read
,
sheltered
from
the
sin
of
Paris
,
night
by
night
.
By
his
elbow
a
delicate
Siamese
conned
a
handbook
of
strategy
.
Fed
and
feeding
brains
about
me
:
under
glowlamps
,
impaled
,
with
faintly
beating
feelers
:
and
in
my
mind
’
s
darkness
a
sloth
of
the
underworld
,
reluctant
,
shy
of
brightness
,
shifting
her
dragon
scaly
folds
.
Thought
is
the
thought
of
thought
.
Tranquil
brightness
.
The
soul
is
in
a
manner
all
that
is
:
the
soul
is
the
form
of
forms
.
Tranquility
sudden
,
vast
,
candescent
:
form
of
forms
.
Talbot
repeated
:
—
Through
the
dear
might
of
Him
that
walked
the
waves
,
Through
the
dear
might
.
.
.
—
Turn
over
,
Stephen
said
quietly
.
I
don
’
t
see
anything
.
—
What
,
sir
?
Talbot
asked
simply
,
bending
forward
.
His
hand
turned
the
page
over
.
He
leaned
back
and
went
on
again
,
having
just
remembered
.
Of
him
that
walked
the
waves
.
Here
also
over
these
craven
hearts
his
shadow
lies
and
on
the
scoffer
’
s
heart
and
lips
and
on
mine
.
It
lies
upon
their
eager
faces
who
offered
him
a
coin
of
the
tribute
.
To
Caesar
what
is
Caesar
’
s
,
to
God
what
is
God
’
s
.
A
long
look
from
dark
eyes
,
a
riddling
sentence
to
be
woven
and
woven
on
the
church
’
s
looms
.
Ay
.
Riddle
me
,
riddle
me
,
randy
ro
.
