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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 83/821
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Dead
:
an
old
woman
’
s
:
the
grey
sunken
cunt
of
the
world
.
Desolation
.
Grey
horror
seared
his
flesh
.
Folding
the
page
into
his
pocket
he
turned
into
Eccles
street
,
hurrying
homeward
.
Cold
oils
slid
along
his
veins
,
chilling
his
blood
:
age
crusting
him
with
a
salt
cloak
.
Well
,
I
am
here
now
.
Yes
,
I
am
here
now
.
Morning
mouth
bad
images
.
Got
up
wrong
side
of
the
bed
.
Must
begin
again
those
Sandow
’
s
exercises
.
On
the
hands
down
.
Blotchy
brown
brick
houses
.
Number
eighty
still
unlet
.
Why
is
that
?
Valuation
is
only
twentyeight
.
Towers
,
Battersby
,
North
,
MacArthur
:
parlour
windows
plastered
with
bills
.
Plasters
on
a
sore
eye
.
To
smell
the
gentle
smoke
of
tea
,
fume
of
the
pan
,
sizzling
butter
.
Be
near
her
ample
bedwarmed
flesh
.
Yes
,
yes
.
Quick
warm
sunlight
came
running
from
Berkeley
road
,
swiftly
,
in
slim
sandals
,
along
the
brightening
footpath
.
Runs
,
she
runs
to
meet
me
,
a
girl
with
gold
hair
on
the
wind
.
Two
letters
and
a
card
lay
on
the
hallfloor
.
He
stooped
and
gathered
them
.
Mrs
Marion
Bloom
.
His
quickened
heart
slowed
at
once
.
Bold
hand
.
Mrs
Marion
.
—
Poldy
!
Entering
the
bedroom
he
halfclosed
his
eyes
and
walked
through
warm
yellow
twilight
towards
her
tousled
head
.
—
Who
are
the
letters
for
?
He
looked
at
them
.
Mullingar
.
Milly
.
—
A
letter
for
me
from
Milly
,
he
said
carefully
,
and
a
card
to
you
.
And
a
letter
for
you
.
