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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 59/821
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—
They
sinned
against
the
light
,
Mr
Deasy
said
gravely
.
And
you
can
see
the
darkness
in
their
eyes
.
And
that
is
why
they
are
wanderers
on
the
earth
to
this
day
.
On
the
steps
of
the
Paris
stock
exchange
the
goldskinned
men
quoting
prices
on
their
gemmed
fingers
.
Gabble
of
geese
.
They
swarmed
loud
,
uncouth
about
the
temple
,
their
heads
thickplotting
under
maladroit
silk
hats
.
Not
theirs
:
these
clothes
,
this
speech
,
these
gestures
.
Their
full
slow
eyes
belied
the
words
,
the
gestures
eager
and
unoffending
,
but
knew
the
rancours
massed
about
them
and
knew
their
zeal
was
vain
.
Vain
patience
to
heap
and
hoard
.
Time
surely
would
scatter
all
.
A
hoard
heaped
by
the
roadside
:
plundered
and
passing
on
.
Their
eyes
knew
their
years
of
wandering
and
,
patient
,
knew
the
dishonours
of
their
flesh
.
—
Who
has
not
?
Stephen
said
.
—
What
do
you
mean
?
Mr
Deasy
asked
.
He
came
forward
a
pace
and
stood
by
the
table
.
His
underjaw
fell
sideways
open
uncertainly
.
Is
this
old
wisdom
?
He
waits
to
hear
from
me
.
—
History
,
Stephen
said
,
is
a
nightmare
from
which
I
am
trying
to
awake
.
From
the
playfield
the
boys
raised
a
shout
.
A
whirring
whistle
:
goal
.
What
if
that
nightmare
gave
you
a
back
kick
?
—
The
ways
of
the
Creator
are
not
our
ways
,
Mr
Deasy
said
.
All
human
history
moves
towards
one
great
goal
,
the
manifestation
of
God
.
Stephen
jerked
his
thumb
towards
the
window
,
saying
:
