-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джеймс Джойс
-
- Улисс
-
- Стр. 460/821
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
So
then
the
citizen
begins
talking
about
the
Irish
language
and
the
corporation
meeting
and
all
to
that
and
the
shoneens
that
can
’
t
speak
their
own
language
and
Joe
chipping
in
because
he
stuck
someone
for
a
quid
and
Bloom
putting
in
his
old
goo
with
his
twopenny
stump
that
he
cadged
off
of
Joe
and
talking
about
the
Gaelic
league
and
the
antitreating
league
and
drink
,
the
curse
of
Ireland
.
Antitreating
is
about
the
size
of
it
.
Gob
,
he
’
d
let
you
pour
all
manner
of
drink
down
his
throat
till
the
Lord
would
call
him
before
you
’
d
ever
see
the
froth
of
his
pint
.
And
one
night
I
went
in
with
a
fellow
into
one
of
their
musical
evenings
,
song
and
dance
about
she
could
get
up
on
a
truss
of
hay
she
could
my
Maureen
Lay
and
there
was
a
fellow
with
a
Ballyhooly
blue
ribbon
badge
spiffing
out
of
him
in
Irish
and
a
lot
of
colleen
bawns
going
about
with
temperance
beverages
and
selling
medals
and
oranges
and
lemonade
and
a
few
old
dry
buns
,
gob
,
flahoolagh
entertainment
,
don
’
t
be
talking
.
Ireland
sober
is
Ireland
free
.
And
then
an
old
fellow
starts
blowing
into
his
bagpipes
and
all
the
gougers
shuffling
their
feet
to
the
tune
the
old
cow
died
of
.
And
one
or
two
sky
pilots
having
an
eye
around
that
there
was
no
goings
on
with
the
females
,
hitting
below
the
belt
.
So
howandever
,
as
I
was
saying
,
the
old
dog
seeing
the
tin
was
empty
starts
mousing
around
by
Joe
and
me
.
I
’
d
train
him
by
kindness
,
so
I
would
,
if
he
was
my
dog
.
Give
him
a
rousing
fine
kick
now
and
again
where
it
wouldn
’
t
blind
him
.
—
Afraid
he
’
ll
bite
you
?
says
the
citizen
,
jeering
.
—
No
,
says
I
.
But
he
might
take
my
leg
for
a
lamppost
.
So
he
calls
the
old
dog
over
.
—
What
’
s
on
you
,
Garry
?
says
he
.
Then
he
starts
hauling
and
mauling
and
talking
to
him
in
Irish
and
the
old
towser
growling
,
letting
on
to
answer
,
like
a
duet
in
the
opera
.
Such
growling
you
never
heard
as
they
let
off
between
them
.
Someone
that
has
nothing
better
to
do
ought
to
write
a
letter
pro
bono
publico
to
the
papers
about
the
muzzling
order
for
a
dog
the
like
of
that
.
Growling
and
grousing
and
his
eye
all
bloodshot
from
the
drouth
is
in
it
and
the
hydrophobia
dropping
out
of
his
jaws
.
All
those
who
are
interested
in
the
spread
of
human
culture
among
the
lower
animals
(
and
their
name
is
legion
)
should
make
a
point
of
not
missing
the
really
marvellous
exhibition
of
cynanthropy
given
by
the
famous
old
Irish
red
setter
wolfdog
formerly
known
by
the
sobriquet
of
Garryowen
and
recently
rechristened
by
his
large
circle
of
friends
and
acquaintances
Owen
Garry
.
The
exhibition
,
which
is
the
result
of
years
of
training
by
kindness
and
a
carefully
thoughtout
dietary
system
,
comprises
,
among
other
achievements
,
the
recitation
of
verse
.
Our
greatest
living
phonetic
expert
(
wild
horses
shall
not
drag
it
from
us
!
)
has
left
no
stone
unturned
in
his
efforts
to
delucidate
and
compare
the
verse
recited
and
has
found
it
bears
a
striking
resemblance
(
the
italics
are
ours
)
to
the
ranns
of
ancient
Celtic
bards
.
We
are
not
speaking
so
much
of
those
delightful
lovesongs
with
which
the
writer
who
conceals
his
identity
under
the
graceful
pseudonym
of
the
Little
Sweet
Branch
has
familiarised
the
bookloving
world
but
rather
(
as
a
contributor
D
.
O
.
C
.
points
out
in
an
interesting
communication
published
by
an
evening
contemporary
)
of
the
harsher
and
more
personal
note
which
is
found
in
the
satirical
effusions
of
the
famous
Raftery
and
of
Donal
MacConsidine
to
say
nothing
of
a
more
modern
lyrist
at
present
very
much
in
the
public
eye
.
