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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 518/821
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Howth
.
Bailey
light
.
Two
,
four
,
six
,
eight
,
nine
.
See
.
Has
to
change
or
they
might
think
it
a
house
.
Wreckers
.
Grace
Darling
.
People
afraid
of
the
dark
.
Also
glowworms
,
cyclists
:
lightingup
time
.
Jewels
diamonds
flash
better
.
Women
.
Light
is
a
kind
of
reassuring
.
Not
going
to
hurt
you
.
Better
now
of
course
than
long
ago
.
Country
roads
.
Run
you
through
the
small
guts
for
nothing
.
Still
two
types
there
are
you
bob
against
.
Scowl
or
smile
.
Pardon
!
Not
at
all
.
Best
time
to
spray
plants
too
in
the
shade
after
the
sun
.
Some
light
still
.
Red
rays
are
longest
.
Roygbiv
Vance
taught
us
:
red
,
orange
,
yellow
,
green
,
blue
,
indigo
,
violet
.
A
star
I
see
.
Venus
?
Can
’
t
tell
yet
.
Two
.
When
three
it
’
s
night
.
Were
those
nightclouds
there
all
the
time
?
Looks
like
a
phantom
ship
.
No
.
Wait
.
Trees
are
they
?
An
optical
illusion
.
Mirage
.
Land
of
the
setting
sun
this
.
Homerule
sun
setting
in
the
southeast
.
My
native
land
,
goodnight
.
Dew
falling
.
Bad
for
you
,
dear
,
to
sit
on
that
stone
.
Brings
on
white
fluxions
.
Never
have
little
baby
then
less
he
was
big
strong
fight
his
way
up
through
.
Might
get
piles
myself
.
Sticks
too
like
a
summer
cold
,
sore
on
the
mouth
.
Cut
with
grass
or
paper
worst
.
Friction
of
the
position
.
Like
to
be
that
rock
she
sat
on
.
O
sweet
little
,
you
don
’
t
know
how
nice
you
looked
.
I
begin
to
like
them
at
that
age
.
Green
apples
.
Grab
at
all
that
offer
.
Suppose
it
’
s
the
only
time
we
cross
legs
,
seated
.
Also
the
library
today
:
those
girl
graduates
.
Happy
chairs
under
them
.
But
it
’
s
the
evening
influence
.
They
feel
all
that
.
Open
like
flowers
,
know
their
hours
,
sunflowers
,
Jerusalem
artichokes
,
in
ballrooms
,
chandeliers
,
avenues
under
the
lamps
.
Nightstock
in
Mat
Dillon
’
s
garden
where
I
kissed
her
shoulder
.
Wish
I
had
a
full
length
oilpainting
of
her
then
.
June
that
was
too
I
wooed
.
The
year
returns
.
History
repeats
itself
.
Ye
crags
and
peaks
I
’
m
with
you
once
again
.
Life
,
love
,
voyage
round
your
own
little
world
.
And
now
?
Sad
about
her
lame
of
course
but
must
be
on
your
guard
not
to
feel
too
much
pity
.
They
take
advantage
.
All
quiet
on
Howth
now
.
The
distant
hills
seem
.
Where
we
.
The
rhododendrons
.
I
am
a
fool
perhaps
.
He
gets
the
plums
,
and
I
the
plumstones
.
Where
I
come
in
.
All
that
old
hill
has
seen
.
Names
change
:
that
’
s
all
.
Lovers
:
yum
yum
.
Tired
I
feel
now
.
Will
I
get
up
?
O
wait
.
Drained
all
the
manhood
out
of
me
,
little
wretch
.
She
kissed
me
.
Never
again
.
My
youth
.
Only
once
it
comes
.
Or
hers
.
Take
the
train
there
tomorrow
.
No
.
Returning
not
the
same
.
Like
kids
your
second
visit
to
a
house
.
The
new
I
want
.
Nothing
new
under
the
sun
.
Care
of
P
.
O
.
Dolphin
’
s
Barn
.
Are
you
not
happy
in
your
?
Naughty
darling
.
At
Dolphin
’
s
barn
charades
in
Luke
Doyle
’
s
house
.
Mat
Dillon
and
his
bevy
of
daughters
:
Tiny
,
Atty
,
Floey
,
Maimy
,
Louy
,
Hetty
.
Molly
too
.
Eightyseven
that
was
.
Year
before
we
.
And
the
old
major
,
partial
to
his
drop
of
spirits
.
Curious
she
an
only
child
,
I
an
only
child
.
So
it
returns
.
Think
you
’
re
escaping
and
run
into
yourself
.
Longest
way
round
is
the
shortest
way
home
.
And
just
when
he
and
she
.
Circus
horse
walking
in
a
ring
.
Rip
van
Winkle
we
played
.
Rip
:
tear
in
Henny
Doyle
’
s
overcoat
.
Van
:
breadvan
delivering
.
Winkle
:
cockles
and
periwinkles
.
Then
I
did
Rip
van
Winkle
coming
back
.
She
leaned
on
the
sideboard
watching
.
Moorish
eyes
.
Twenty
years
asleep
in
Sleepy
Hollow
.
All
changed
.
Forgotten
.
The
young
are
old
.
His
gun
rusty
from
the
dew
.
Ba
.
What
is
that
flying
about
?
Swallow
?
Bat
probably
.
Thinks
I
’
m
a
tree
,
so
blind
.
Have
birds
no
smell
?
Metempsychosis
.
They
believed
you
could
be
changed
into
a
tree
from
grief
.
Weeping
willow
.
Ba
.
There
he
goes
.
Funny
little
beggar
.
Wonder
where
he
lives
.
Belfry
up
there
.
Very
likely
.
Hanging
by
his
heels
in
the
odour
of
sanctity
.
Bell
scared
him
out
,
I
suppose
.
Mass
seems
to
be
over
.
Could
hear
them
all
at
it
.
Pray
for
us
.
And
pray
for
us
.
And
pray
for
us
.
Good
idea
the
repetition
.
Same
thing
with
ads
.
Buy
from
us
.
And
buy
from
us
.
Yes
,
there
’
s
the
light
in
the
priest
’
s
house
.
Their
frugal
meal
.
Remember
about
the
mistake
in
the
valuation
when
I
was
in
Thom
’
s
.
Twentyeight
it
is
.
Two
houses
they
have
.
Gabriel
Conroy
’
s
brother
is
curate
.
Ba
.
Again
.
Wonder
why
they
come
out
at
night
like
mice
.
They
’
re
a
mixed
breed
.
Birds
are
like
hopping
mice
.
What
frightens
them
,
light
or
noise
?
Better
sit
still
.
All
instinct
like
the
bird
in
drouth
got
water
out
of
the
end
of
a
jar
by
throwing
in
pebbles
.
Like
a
little
man
in
a
cloak
he
is
with
tiny
hands
.
Weeny
bones
.
Almost
see
them
shimmering
,
kind
of
a
bluey
white
.
Colours
depend
on
the
light
you
see
.
Stare
the
sun
for
example
like
the
eagle
then
look
at
a
shoe
see
a
blotch
blob
yellowish
.
Wants
to
stamp
his
trademark
on
everything
.
Instance
,
that
cat
this
morning
on
the
staircase
.
Colour
of
brown
turf
.
Say
you
never
see
them
with
three
colours
.
Not
true
.
That
half
tabbywhite
tortoiseshell
in
the
City
Arms
with
the
letter
em
on
her
forehead
.
Body
fifty
different
colours
.
Howth
a
while
ago
amethyst
.
Glass
flashing
.
That
’
s
how
that
wise
man
what
’
s
his
name
with
the
burning
glass
.
Then
the
heather
goes
on
fire
.
It
can
’
t
be
tourists
’
matches
.
What
?
Perhaps
the
sticks
dry
rub
together
in
the
wind
and
light
.
Or
broken
bottles
in
the
furze
act
as
a
burning
glass
in
the
sun
.
Archimedes
.
I
have
it
!
My
memory
’
s
not
so
bad
.
Ba
.
Who
knows
what
they
’
re
always
flying
for
.
Insects
?
That
bee
last
week
got
into
the
room
playing
with
his
shadow
on
the
ceiling
.
Might
be
the
one
bit
me
,
come
back
to
see
.
Birds
too
.
Never
find
out
.
Or
what
they
say
.
Like
our
small
talk
.
And
says
she
and
says
he
.
Nerve
they
have
to
fly
over
the
ocean
and
back
.
Lots
must
be
killed
in
storms
,
telegraph
wires
.
Dreadful
life
sailors
have
too
.
Big
brutes
of
oceangoing
steamers
floundering
along
in
the
dark
,
lowing
out
like
seacows
.
Faugh
a
ballagh
!
Out
of
that
,
bloody
curse
to
you
!
Others
in
vessels
,
bit
of
a
handkerchief
sail
,
pitched
about
like
snuff
at
a
wake
when
the
stormy
winds
do
blow
.
Married
too
.
Sometimes
away
for
years
at
the
ends
of
the
earth
somewhere
.
No
ends
really
because
it
’
s
round
.
Wife
in
every
port
they
say
.
She
has
a
good
job
if
she
minds
it
till
Johnny
comes
marching
home
again
.
If
ever
he
does
.
Smelling
the
tail
end
of
ports
.
How
can
they
like
the
sea
?
Yet
they
do
.
The
anchor
’
s
weighed
.
Off
he
sails
with
a
scapular
or
a
medal
on
him
for
luck
.
Well
.
And
the
tephilim
no
what
’
s
this
they
call
it
poor
papa
’
s
father
had
on
his
door
to
touch
.
That
brought
us
out
of
the
land
of
Egypt
and
into
the
house
of
bondage
.
Something
in
all
those
superstitions
because
when
you
go
out
never
know
what
dangers
.
Hanging
on
to
a
plank
or
astride
of
a
beam
for
grim
life
,
lifebelt
round
him
,
gulping
salt
water
,
and
that
’
s
the
last
of
his
nibs
till
the
sharks
catch
hold
of
him
.
Do
fish
ever
get
seasick
?
