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- Джеймс Джойс
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Cousin
Stephen
,
you
will
never
be
a
saint
.
Isle
of
saints
.
You
were
awfully
holy
,
weren
’
t
you
?
You
prayed
to
the
Blessed
Virgin
that
you
might
not
have
a
red
nose
.
You
prayed
to
the
devil
in
Serpentine
avenue
that
the
fubsy
widow
in
front
might
lift
her
clothes
still
more
from
the
wet
street
.
O
si
,
certo
!
Sell
your
soul
for
that
,
do
,
dyed
rags
pinned
round
a
squaw
.
More
tell
me
,
more
still
!
On
the
top
of
the
Howth
tram
alone
crying
to
the
rain
:
Naked
women
!
Naked
women
!
What
about
that
,
eh
?
What
about
what
?
What
else
were
they
invented
for
?
Reading
two
pages
apiece
of
seven
books
every
night
,
eh
?
I
was
young
.
You
bowed
to
yourself
in
the
mirror
,
stepping
forward
to
applause
earnestly
,
striking
face
.
Hurray
for
the
Goddamned
idiot
!
Hray
!
No
-
one
saw
:
tell
no
-
one
.
Books
you
were
going
to
write
with
letters
for
titles
.
Have
you
read
his
F
?
O
yes
,
but
I
prefer
Q
.
Yes
,
but
W
is
wonderful
.
O
yes
,
W
.
Remember
your
epiphanies
written
on
green
oval
leaves
,
deeply
deep
,
copies
to
be
sent
if
you
died
to
all
the
great
libraries
of
the
world
,
including
Alexandria
?
Someone
was
to
read
them
there
after
a
few
thousand
years
,
a
mahamanvantara
.
Pico
della
Mirandola
like
.
Ay
,
very
like
a
whale
.
When
one
reads
these
strange
pages
of
one
long
gone
one
feels
that
one
is
at
one
with
one
who
once
.
.
.
The
grainy
sand
had
gone
from
under
his
feet
.
His
boots
trod
again
a
damp
crackling
mast
,
razorshells
,
squeaking
pebbles
,
that
on
the
unnumbered
pebbles
beats
,
wood
sieved
by
the
shipworm
,
lost
Armada
.
Unwholesome
sandflats
waited
to
suck
his
treading
soles
,
breathing
upward
sewage
breath
,
a
pocket
of
seaweed
smouldered
in
seafire
under
a
midden
of
man
’
s
ashes
.
He
coasted
them
,
walking
warily
.
A
porterbottle
stood
up
,
stogged
to
its
waist
,
in
the
cakey
sand
dough
.
A
sentinel
:
isle
of
dreadful
thirst
.
Broken
hoops
on
the
shore
;
at
the
land
a
maze
of
dark
cunning
nets
;
farther
away
chalkscrawled
backdoors
and
on
the
higher
beach
a
dryingline
with
two
crucified
shirts
.
Ringsend
:
wigwams
of
brown
steersmen
and
master
mariners
.
Human
shells
.
He
halted
.
I
have
passed
the
way
to
aunt
Sara
’
s
.
Am
I
not
going
there
?
Seems
not
.
No
-
one
about
.
He
turned
northeast
and
crossed
the
firmer
sand
towards
the
Pigeonhouse
.
—
Qui
vous
a
mis
dans
cette
fichue
position
?
—
C
’
est
le
pigeon
,
Joseph
.
Patrice
,
home
on
furlough
,
lapped
warm
milk
with
me
in
the
bar
MacMahon
.
Son
of
the
wild
goose
,
Kevin
Egan
of
Paris
.
My
father
’
s
a
bird
,
he
lapped
the
sweet
lait
chaud
with
pink
young
tongue
,
plump
bunny
’
s
face
.
Lap
,
lapin
.
He
hopes
to
win
in
the
gros
lots
.
About
the
nature
of
women
he
read
in
Michelet
.
But
he
must
send
me
La
Vie
de
Jésus
by
M
.
Léo
Taxil
.
Lent
it
to
his
friend
.
