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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 107/821
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Just
loll
there
:
quiet
dusk
:
let
everything
rip
.
Forget
.
Tell
about
places
you
have
been
,
strange
customs
.
The
other
one
,
jar
on
her
head
,
was
getting
the
supper
:
fruit
,
olives
,
lovely
cool
water
out
of
a
well
,
stonecold
like
the
hole
in
the
wall
at
Ashtown
.
Must
carry
a
paper
goblet
next
time
I
go
to
the
trottingmatches
.
She
listens
with
big
dark
soft
eyes
.
Tell
her
:
more
and
more
:
all
.
Then
a
sigh
:
silence
.
Long
long
long
rest
.
Going
under
the
railway
arch
he
took
out
the
envelope
,
tore
it
swiftly
in
shreds
and
scattered
them
towards
the
road
.
The
shreds
fluttered
away
,
sank
in
the
dank
air
:
a
white
flutter
,
then
all
sank
.
Henry
Flower
.
You
could
tear
up
a
cheque
for
a
hundred
pounds
in
the
same
way
.
Simple
bit
of
paper
.
Lord
Iveagh
once
cashed
a
sevenfigure
cheque
for
a
million
in
the
bank
of
Ireland
.
Shows
you
the
money
to
be
made
out
of
porter
.
Still
the
other
brother
lord
Ardilaun
has
to
change
his
shirt
four
times
a
day
,
they
say
.
Skin
breeds
lice
or
vermin
.
A
million
pounds
,
wait
a
moment
.
Twopence
a
pint
,
fourpence
a
quart
,
eightpence
a
gallon
of
porter
,
no
,
one
and
fourpence
a
gallon
of
porter
.
One
and
four
into
twenty
:
fifteen
about
.
Yes
,
exactly
.
Fifteen
millions
of
barrels
of
porter
.
What
am
I
saying
barrels
?
Gallons
.
About
a
million
barrels
all
the
same
.
An
incoming
train
clanked
heavily
above
his
head
,
coach
after
coach
.
Barrels
bumped
in
his
head
:
dull
porter
slopped
and
churned
inside
.
The
bungholes
sprang
open
and
a
huge
dull
flood
leaked
out
,
flowing
together
,
winding
through
mudflats
all
over
the
level
land
,
a
lazy
pooling
swirl
of
liquor
bearing
along
wideleaved
flowers
of
its
froth
.
He
had
reached
the
open
backdoor
of
All
Hallows
.
Stepping
into
the
porch
he
doffed
his
hat
,
took
the
card
from
his
pocket
and
tucked
it
again
behind
the
leather
headband
.
Damn
it
.
I
might
have
tried
to
work
M
’
Coy
for
a
pass
to
Mullingar
.
Same
notice
on
the
door
.
Sermon
by
the
very
reverend
John
Conmee
S
.
J
.
on
saint
Peter
Claver
S
.
J
.
and
the
African
Mission
.
Prayers
for
the
conversion
of
Gladstone
they
had
too
when
he
was
almost
unconscious
.
The
protestants
are
the
same
.
Convert
Dr
William
J
.
Walsh
D
.
D
.
to
the
true
religion
.
Save
China
’
s
millions
.
Wonder
how
they
explain
it
to
the
heathen
Chinee
.
Prefer
an
ounce
of
opium
.
Celestials
.
Rank
heresy
for
them
.
Buddha
their
god
lying
on
his
side
in
the
museum
.
Taking
it
easy
with
hand
under
his
cheek
.
Josssticks
burning
.
Not
like
Ecce
Homo
.
Crown
of
thorns
and
cross
.
Clever
idea
Saint
Patrick
the
shamrock
.
Chopsticks
?
Conmee
:
Martin
Cunningham
knows
him
:
distinguishedlooking
.
Sorry
I
didn
’
t
work
him
about
getting
Molly
into
the
choir
instead
of
that
Father
Farley
who
looked
a
fool
but
wasn
’
t
.
They
’
re
taught
that
.
He
’
s
not
going
out
in
bluey
specs
with
the
sweat
rolling
off
him
to
baptise
blacks
,
is
he
?
The
glasses
would
take
their
fancy
,
flashing
.
Like
to
see
them
sitting
round
in
a
ring
with
blub
lips
,
entranced
,
listening
.
Still
life
.
Lap
it
up
like
milk
,
I
suppose
.
The
cold
smell
of
sacred
stone
called
him
.
He
trod
the
worn
steps
,
pushed
the
swingdoor
and
entered
softly
by
the
rere
.
Something
going
on
:
some
sodality
.
Pity
so
empty
.
Nice
discreet
place
to
be
next
some
girl
.
Who
is
my
neighbour
?
Jammed
by
the
hour
to
slow
music
.
That
woman
at
midnight
mass
.
Seventh
heaven
.
Women
knelt
in
the
benches
with
crimson
halters
round
their
necks
,
heads
bowed
.
A
batch
knelt
at
the
altarrails
.
The
priest
went
along
by
them
,
murmuring
,
holding
the
thing
in
his
hands
.
He
stopped
at
each
,
took
out
a
communion
,
shook
a
drop
or
two
(
are
they
in
water
?
)
off
it
and
put
it
neatly
into
her
mouth
.
Her
hat
and
head
sank
.
Then
the
next
one
.
Her
hat
sank
at
once
.
Then
the
next
one
:
a
small
old
woman
.
The
priest
bent
down
to
put
it
into
her
mouth
,
murmuring
all
the
time
.
Latin
.
The
next
one
.
Shut
your
eyes
and
open
your
mouth
.
What
?
Corpus
:
body
.
Corpse
.
Good
idea
the
Latin
.
Stupefies
them
first
.
Hospice
for
the
dying
.
They
don
’
t
seem
to
chew
it
:
only
swallow
it
down
.
Rum
idea
:
eating
bits
of
a
corpse
.
Why
the
cannibals
cotton
to
it
.
