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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 72/821
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Galleys
of
the
Lochlanns
ran
here
to
beach
,
in
quest
of
prey
,
their
bloodbeaked
prows
riding
low
on
a
molten
pewter
surf
.
Dane
vikings
,
torcs
of
tomahawks
aglitter
on
their
breasts
when
Malachi
wore
the
collar
of
gold
.
A
school
of
turlehide
whales
stranded
in
hot
noon
,
spouting
,
hobbling
in
the
shallows
.
Then
from
the
starving
cagework
city
a
horde
of
jerkined
dwarfs
,
my
people
,
with
flayers
’
knives
,
running
,
scaling
,
hacking
in
green
blubbery
whalemeat
.
Famine
,
plague
and
slaughters
.
Their
blood
is
in
me
,
their
lusts
my
waves
.
I
moved
among
them
on
the
frozen
Liffey
,
that
I
,
a
changeling
,
among
the
spluttering
resin
fires
.
I
spoke
to
no
-
one
:
none
to
me
.
The
dog
’
s
bark
ran
towards
him
,
stopped
,
ran
back
.
Dog
of
my
enemy
.
I
just
simply
stood
pale
,
silent
,
bayed
about
.
Terribilia
meditans
.
A
primrose
doublet
,
fortune
’
s
knave
,
smiled
on
my
fear
.
For
that
are
you
pining
,
the
bark
of
their
applause
?
Pretenders
:
live
their
lives
.
The
Bruce
’
s
brother
,
Thomas
Fitzgerald
,
silken
knight
,
Perkin
Warbeck
,
York
’
s
false
scion
,
in
breeches
of
silk
of
whiterose
ivory
,
wonder
of
a
day
,
and
Lambert
Simnel
,
with
a
tail
of
nans
and
sutlers
,
a
scullion
crowned
.
All
kings
’
sons
.
Paradise
of
pretenders
then
and
now
.
He
saved
men
from
drowning
and
you
shake
at
a
cur
’
s
yelping
.
But
the
courtiers
who
mocked
Guido
in
Or
san
Michele
were
in
their
own
house
.
House
of
.
.
.
We
don
’
t
want
any
of
your
medieval
abstrusiosities
.
Would
you
do
what
he
did
?
A
boat
would
be
near
,
a
lifebuoy
.
Natürlich
,
put
there
for
you
.
Would
you
or
would
you
not
?
The
man
that
was
drowned
nine
days
ago
off
Maiden
’
s
rock
.
They
are
waiting
for
him
now
.
The
truth
,
spit
it
out
.
I
would
want
to
.
I
would
try
.
I
am
not
a
strong
swimmer
.
Water
cold
soft
.
When
I
put
my
face
into
it
in
the
basin
at
Clongowes
.
Can
’
t
see
!
Who
’
s
behind
me
?
Out
quickly
,
quickly
!
Do
you
see
the
tide
flowing
quickly
in
on
all
sides
,
sheeting
the
lows
of
sand
quickly
,
shellcocoacoloured
?
If
I
had
land
under
my
feet
.
I
want
his
life
still
to
be
his
,
mine
to
be
mine
.
A
drowning
man
.
His
human
eyes
scream
to
me
out
of
horror
of
his
death
.
I
.
.
.
With
him
together
down
.
.
.
I
could
not
save
her
.
Waters
:
bitter
death
:
lost
.
A
woman
and
a
man
.
I
see
her
skirties
.
Pinned
up
,
I
bet
.
Their
dog
ambled
about
a
bank
of
dwindling
sand
,
trotting
,
sniffing
on
all
sides
.
Looking
for
something
lost
in
a
past
life
.
Suddenly
he
made
off
like
a
bounding
hare
,
ears
flung
back
,
chasing
the
shadow
of
a
lowskimming
gull
.
The
man
’
s
shrieked
whistle
struck
his
limp
ears
.
He
turned
,
bounded
back
,
came
nearer
,
trotted
on
twinkling
shanks
.
On
a
field
tenney
a
buck
,
trippant
,
proper
,
unattired
.
At
the
lacefringe
of
the
tide
he
halted
with
stiff
forehoofs
,
seawardpointed
ears
.
His
snout
lifted
barked
at
the
wavenoise
,
herds
of
seamorse
.
They
serpented
towards
his
feet
,
curling
,
unfurling
many
crests
,
every
ninth
,
breaking
,
plashing
,
from
far
,
from
farther
out
,
waves
and
waves
.
Cocklepickers
.
They
waded
a
little
way
in
the
water
and
,
stooping
,
soused
their
bags
and
,
lifting
them
again
,
waded
out
.
The
dog
yelped
running
to
them
,
reared
up
and
pawed
them
,
dropping
on
all
fours
,
again
reared
up
at
them
with
mute
bearish
fawning
.
Unheeded
he
kept
by
them
as
they
came
towards
the
drier
sand
,
a
rag
of
wolf
’
s
tongue
redpanting
from
his
jaws
.
His
speckled
body
ambled
ahead
of
them
and
then
loped
off
at
a
calf
’
s
gallop
.
The
carcass
lay
on
his
path
.
He
stopped
,
sniffed
,
stalked
round
it
,
brother
,
nosing
closer
,
went
round
it
,
sniffling
rapidly
like
a
dog
all
over
the
dead
dog
’
s
bedraggled
fell
.
Dogskull
,
dogsniff
,
eyes
on
the
ground
,
moves
to
one
great
goal
.
Ah
,
poor
dogsbody
!
Here
lies
poor
dogsbody
’
s
body
.
—
Tatters
!
Out
of
that
,
you
mongrel
!
The
cry
brought
him
skulking
back
to
his
master
and
a
blunt
bootless
kick
sent
him
unscathed
across
a
spit
of
sand
,
crouched
in
flight
.
He
slunk
back
in
a
curve
.
Doesn
’
t
see
me
.
Along
by
the
edge
of
the
mole
he
lolloped
,
dawdled
,
smelt
a
rock
and
from
under
a
cocked
hindleg
pissed
against
it
.
He
trotted
forward
and
,
lifting
again
his
hindleg
,
pissed
quick
short
at
an
unsmelt
rock
.
The
simple
pleasures
of
the
poor
.
His
hindpaws
then
scattered
the
sand
:
then
his
forepaws
dabbled
and
delved
.
Something
he
buried
there
,
his
grandmother
.
He
rooted
in
the
sand
,
dabbling
,
delving
and
stopped
to
listen
to
the
air
,
scraped
up
the
sand
again
with
a
fury
of
his
claws
,
soon
ceasing
,
a
pard
,
a
panther
,
got
in
spousebreach
,
vulturing
the
dead
.
