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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 74/821
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Here
.
Put
a
pin
in
that
chap
,
will
you
?
My
tablets
.
Mouth
to
her
kiss
.
No
.
Must
be
two
of
em
.
Glue
em
well
.
Mouth
to
her
mouth
’
s
kiss
.
His
lips
lipped
and
mouthed
fleshless
lips
of
air
:
mouth
to
her
moomb
.
Oomb
,
allwombing
tomb
.
His
mouth
moulded
issuing
breath
,
unspeeched
:
ooeeehah
:
roar
of
cataractic
planets
,
globed
,
blazing
,
roaring
wayawayawayawayaway
.
Paper
.
The
banknotes
,
blast
them
.
Old
Deasy
’
s
letter
.
Here
.
Thanking
you
for
the
hospitality
tear
the
blank
end
off
.
Turning
his
back
to
the
sun
he
bent
over
far
to
a
table
of
rock
and
scribbled
words
.
That
’
s
twice
I
forgot
to
take
slips
from
the
library
counter
.
His
shadow
lay
over
the
rocks
as
he
bent
,
ending
.
Why
not
endless
till
the
farthest
star
?
Darkly
they
are
there
behind
this
light
,
darkness
shining
in
the
brightness
,
delta
of
Cassiopeia
,
worlds
.
Me
sits
there
with
his
augur
’
s
rod
of
ash
,
in
borrowed
sandals
,
by
day
beside
a
livid
sea
,
unbeheld
,
in
violet
night
walking
beneath
a
reign
of
uncouth
stars
.
I
throw
this
ended
shadow
from
me
,
manshape
ineluctable
,
call
it
back
.
Endless
,
would
it
be
mine
,
form
of
my
form
?
Who
watches
me
here
?
Who
ever
anywhere
will
read
these
written
words
?
Signs
on
a
white
field
.
Somewhere
to
someone
in
your
flutiest
voice
.
The
good
bishop
of
Cloyne
took
the
veil
of
the
temple
out
of
his
shovel
hat
:
veil
of
space
with
coloured
emblems
hatched
on
its
field
.
Hold
hard
.
Coloured
on
a
flat
:
yes
,
that
’
s
right
.
Flat
I
see
,
then
think
distance
,
near
,
far
,
flat
I
see
,
east
,
back
.
Ah
,
see
now
!
Falls
back
suddenly
,
frozen
in
stereoscope
.
Click
does
the
trick
.
You
find
my
words
dark
.
Darkness
is
in
our
souls
do
you
not
think
?
Flutier
.
Our
souls
,
shamewounded
by
our
sins
,
cling
to
us
yet
more
,
a
woman
to
her
lover
clinging
,
the
more
the
more
.
She
trusts
me
,
her
hand
gentle
,
the
longlashed
eyes
.
Now
where
the
blue
hell
am
I
bringing
her
beyond
the
veil
?
Into
the
ineluctable
modality
of
the
ineluctable
visuality
.
She
,
she
,
she
.
What
she
?
The
virgin
at
Hodges
Figgis
’
window
on
Monday
looking
in
for
one
of
the
alphabet
books
you
were
going
to
write
.
Keen
glance
you
gave
her
.
Wrist
through
the
braided
jesse
of
her
sunshade
.
She
lives
in
Leeson
park
with
a
grief
and
kickshaws
,
a
lady
of
letters
.
Talk
that
to
someone
else
,
Stevie
:
a
pickmeup
.
Bet
she
wears
those
curse
of
God
stays
suspenders
and
yellow
stockings
,
darned
with
lumpy
wool
.
Talk
about
apple
dumplings
,
piuttosto
.
Where
are
your
wits
?
Touch
me
.
Soft
eyes
.
Soft
soft
soft
hand
.
I
am
lonely
here
.
O
,
touch
me
soon
,
now
.
What
is
that
word
known
to
all
men
?
I
am
quiet
here
alone
.
Sad
too
.
Touch
,
touch
me
.
He
lay
back
at
full
stretch
over
the
sharp
rocks
,
cramming
the
scribbled
note
and
pencil
into
a
pocket
,
his
hat
tilted
down
on
his
eyes
.
That
is
Kevin
Egan
’
s
movement
I
made
,
nodding
for
his
nap
,
sabbath
sleep
.
Et
vidit
Deus
.
Et
erant
valde
bona
.
Alo
!
Bonjour
.
Welcome
as
the
flowers
in
May
.
Under
its
leaf
he
watched
through
peacocktwittering
lashes
the
southing
sun
.
I
am
caught
in
this
burning
scene
.
Pan
’
s
hour
,
the
faunal
noon
.
Among
gumheavy
serpentplants
,
milkoozing
fruits
,
where
on
the
tawny
waters
leaves
lie
wide
.
Pain
is
far
.
And
no
more
turn
aside
and
brood
.
His
gaze
brooded
on
his
broadtoed
boots
,
a
buck
’
s
castoffs
,
nebeneinander
.
