Улисс
Chapter 6
Throughspacessmallerthanredglobulesofman’sbloodtheycreepycrawlafterBlake’sbuttocksintoeternityofwhichthisvegetableworldisbutashadow.Holdtothenow,thehere,throughwhichallfutureplungestothepast.
MrBestcameforward,amiable,towardshiscolleague.
—Hainesisgone,hesaid.
—Ishe?
—IwasshowinghimJubainville’sbook.He’squiteenthusiastic,don’tyouknow,aboutHyde’sLovesongsofConnacht.Icouldn’tbringhimintohearthediscussion.He’sgonetoGill’stobuyit.
Boundtheeforth,mybooklet,quick
Togreetthecallouspublic.
Writ,Iween,’twasnotmywish
InleanunlovelyEnglish.
—Thepeatsmokeisgoingtohishead,JohnEglintonopined.
WefeelinEngland.Penitentthief.Gone.Ismokedhisbaccy.Greentwinklingstone.Anemeraldsetintheringofthesea.
—Peopledonotknowhowdangerouslovesongscanbe,theauriceggofRussellwarnedoccultly.Themovementswhichworkrevolutionsintheworldarebornoutofthedreamsandvisionsinapeasant’sheartonthehillside.Forthemtheearthisnotanexploitablegroundbutthelivingmother.Therarefiedairoftheacademyandthearenaproducethesixshillingnovel,themusichallsong.FranceproducesthefinestflowerofcorruptioninMallarmébutthedesirablelifeisrevealedonlytothepoorofheart,thelifeofHomer’sPhæacians.
FromthesewordsMrBestturnedanunoffendingfacetoStephen.
—Mallarmé,don’tyouknow,hesaid,haswrittenthosewonderfulprosepoemsStephenMacKennausedtoreadtomeinParis.TheoneaboutHamlet.
