Портрет художника в юности
Chapter 4
Theywerevoyagingacrossthedesertsofthesky,ahostofnomadsonthemarch,voyaginghighoverIreland,westwardbound.TheEuropetheyhadcomefromlayouttherebeyondtheIrishSea,Europeofstrangetonguesandvalleyedandwoodbegirtandcitadelledandofentrenchedandmarshalledraces.Heheardaconfusedmusicwithinhimasofmemoriesandnameswhichhewasalmostconsciousofbutcouldnotcaptureevenforaninstant;thenthemusicseemedtorecede,torecede,torecede,andfromeachrecedingtrailofnebulousmusictherefellalwaysonelongdrawncallingnote,piercinglikeastartheduskofsilence.Again!Again!Again!Avoicefrombeyondtheworldwascalling.
—Hello,Stephanos!
—HerecomesTheDedalus!
—Ao!Eh,giveitover,Dwyer,I’mtellingyou,orI’llgiveyouastuffinthekisserforyourself.Ao!
—Goodman,Towser!Duckhim!
—Comealong,Dedalus!BousStephanoumenos!BousStephaneforos!
—Duckhim!Guzzlehimnow,Towser!
—Help!Help!Ao!
Herecognizedtheirspeechcollectivelybeforehedistinguishedtheirfaces.Themeresightofthatmedleyofwetnakednesschilledhimtothebone.Theirbodies,corpse-whiteorsuffusedwithapallidgoldenlightorrawlytannedbythesun,gleamedwiththewetofthesea.
